And where was Norb Steiner right now? No doubt ensconced in some bar or restaurant or some woman’s cheery living room, prattling his line, handing over tins of smoked salmon and getting in return–
“Screw them all,” Otto mumbled, getting up to pace back and forth. “If that’s what they want, let ’em have it. Bunch of animals.”
Those Israeli girls . . . that’s where Steiner was, with a kibbutzful of them, those hot, black-eyed, heavy-lipped, bigbreasted, sexy ones who got tanned working out in the fields in shorts and cotton shirts clinging to them, no bras, just those big solid breasts–you could actually see their nipples, because the damp fabric stuck to them.
That’s why he wouldn’t let me go with him, Otto decided.
The only women he ever saw out here in the F.D.R. range were those stunted, black, dried-out Bleekman women, not even human, at least not to him. He wasn’t taken in by those anthropologists saying that the Bleekmen were from the same stock as homo sapiens, that probably both planets were colonized a million years ago from one interplanetary race. Those toads, human? Sleep with one of those? Christ, better to chop it off, first.
As a matter of fact, here came a party of Bleekmen right now, stepping gingerly with bare feet down the irregular rock surface of a northern hill. On their way here, Otto observed. As usual.
He opened the door of the shed, waiting until they had reached him. Four bucks, two of them elderly, one elderly woman, several skinny kids, carrying their bows, their pounding blocks, their paka eggshells.
Halting, they regarded him silently, and then one of the bucks said, “Rains are falling from me onto your valuable person.”
“Likewise,” Otto said, leaning against the shed and feeling dull, weighed down with hopelessness. “What do you want?”
The Bleekman buck held out a small bit of paper, and Otto, taking it, saw that it was a label from a can of turtle soup. The Bleekmen had eaten the soup, retaining the label for this purpose; they could not tell him what they wanted because they did not know what it was called.
“O.K. ,” he said. “How many?” He held up fingers. At five they nodded. Five cans. “Whatcha got?” Otto demanded, not stirring.
One of the young Bleekman women stepped forward and pointed to that part of herself which had been so much in Otto’s thoughts for so long.
“Oh Christ,” Otto said in despair. “No, go on. Beat it. Not any more; I don’t want any more.” He turned his back on them, made his way into the storage shed and slammed the door so hard that the shed walls trembled; he threw himself down on a packing crate, his head in his hands. “I’m going crazy,” he said to himself, his jaw stiff, his tongue swelling up so that he could hardly talk. His chest ached; And then, to his amazement, he began to cry. Jesus, he thought in fright, I really am going crazy; I’m breaking down. Why? Tears rolled down his cheeks. He hadn’t cried in years. What’s this all about? he wondered. His mind had no concept in it; it was only his body bawling away, and he was a spectator to it.
But it brought him relief. With his handkerchief he wiped his eyes, his face, and cursed as he saw that his hands were clawlike with rigidity, the fingers writhing.
Outside the window of the shed the Bleekmen remained, perhaps seeing him; he could not tell. Their faces showed no expression, but he felt sure they must have seen, and probably were as perplexed as he. It sure is a mystery, he thought. I agree with you.
The Bleekmen gathered together in a huddle and conferred, and then one of them detached himself from the group and approached the shed. Otto heard a rap on the door. Going over to it and opening it, he found the young Bleekman standing there holding out something.
“This, then,” the young Bleekman said.
Otto took it, but for the life of him he could not make out what it was. It had glass and metal to it, and calibrations. And then he realized that it was an instrument used in surveying. On its side was stamped: UN PROPERTY.
“I don’t want it,” he said irritably, turning it over and over. The Bleekmen must have stolen it, he realized. He handed it back; the young buck accepted it stoically and returned to his group. Otto shut the door.
This time they went off; he watched them through the window as they trailed away up the side of the hill. Steal you blind, he said to himself. Anyhow, what was a UN survey company doing in the F.D.R. range?
To cheer himself up he rummaged around until he found a can of smoked frogs’ legs; opening it, he sat eating morosely, not getting from the dainty anything at all, and yet methodically finishing the can.
Into the microphone Jack Bohlen said, “Don’t send me, Mr. Yee–I already ran into Kott today and offended him.” Weariness settled over him. Naturally I ran into Kott, for the first time in my life, and naturally I insulted him, he thought to himself. And just as naturally, because that’s how my life works, it’s the same day that Arnie Kott decides to call up Yee Company and ask for service. It’s typical of the little game I play with the powerful, inanimate forces of life.
“Mr. Kott mentioned meeting you on the desert,” Mr. Yee said. “In fact, his decision to call us was based on that meeting.”
“The hell you say.” He was dumbfounded.
“I do not know what the issue was, Jack, but no harm has been done. Direct your ship to Lewistown. If you run over beyond five o’clock you will be paid time and a half. And Mr. Kott, who is known as a generous man, is so anxious to have his encoder working that he promises to see that you receive a bountiful meal.”
“All right,” Jack said. It was too much for him to dope out. After all, he knew nothing of what went on in Arnie Kott’s mind.
Not long thereafter, he was lowering his ‘copter to the roof parking lot of the Water Workers’ Union Hall at Lewistown.
A slavey sauntered out and regarded him suspiciously.
“Yee Company repairman,” Jack said. “Call put in by Arnie Kott.”
“O.K., buddy,” the slavey said, and led him to the elevator.
He found Arnie Kott in a well-furnished, Earth-type living room; the big, bald-headed man was on the telephone, and he nodded his head at Jack’s appearance. The nod indicated the desk, on which a portable encoding dictation machine sat. Jack walked over to it, removed the lid, turned it on. Meanwhile, Arnie Kott continued his phone conversation.
“Sure I know it’s a tricky talent. Sure, there’s a good reason why nobody’s been able to make use of it–but what am I supposed to do, give up and pretend it don’t exist just because people have been too damn dumb for fifty thousand years to take it seriously? I still want to try it.” A long pause. “O.K., Doctor. Thanks.” Arnie hung up. To Jack he said, “You ever been to Camp B-G?”
“No,” Jack said. He was busy opening up the encoder.
Arnie strolled over and stood beside him. As he worked, Jack could feel the astute gaze fixed on him; it made him nervous, but there was nothing he could do except try to ignore the man and go on. A little like the master circuit, he thought to himself. And then he wondered, as he often did, if he was going to have another one of his spells; true, it had been a long time, but here was a powerful figure looming close to him, scrutinizing him, and it did feel somewhat like that old interview with Corona’s personnel manager.
“That was Glaub on the phone,” Arnie Kott said. “The psychiatrist. You ever heard of him?”
“No,” Jack said.
“What do you do, live your life entirely with your head stuck in the back of machines?”
Jack looked up, met the man’s gaze. “I’ve got a wife and son. That’s my life. What I’m doing right now is a means of keeping my family going.” He spoke calmly. Arnie did not seem to take offense; he even smiled.
“Something to drink?” Arnie asked.
“Coffee, if you have it.”
“I’ve got authentic Home coffee,” Arnie said. “Black?”
“Black.”
“Yeah, you look like a black coffee man. You think you can fix that machine right here and now, or are you going to have to take it with you?”
“I can fix it here.”
Arnie beamed. “That’s swell! I really depend on that machine.”
“Where’s the coffee?”
Turning, Arnie went off dutifully; he rustled about in another room and then returned with a ceramic coffee mug, which he set down on the desk near Jack. “Listen, Bohlen. I have a person coming here any minute now. A girl. It won’t interfere with your work, will it?”