But he would do it-if the man who gave him his start in business insisted. Felix insisted.
Felix telephoned him next. “Hello, Jack,”
“Howdy, Felix.”
“Do you have any more for me?”
“I’ve a stock of spools shoulder high.”
“Good. Tube them over, will you?”
“Sure. Say, Felix, this stuff is awful, most of it.”
“I don’t doubt it. But think how much ore must be refined to produce a gram of native radium. Well, I’ll clear now.”
“Wait a minute, Felix. I got into a jam last night. I wonder if you could give me some advice.”
“Certainly. Give.” It appeared that Smith, who, in spite of his financial success, was a brassarded man and technically a control natural, had inadvertently given offense to an armed citizen by refusing to give way automatically in a public place. The citizen had lectured Smith on etiquette. Smith had never fully adjusted himself to the customs of a different culture; he had done a most urbane thing-he had struck the citizen with his closed fist, knocking him down and bloodying his nose. Naturally, there was the deuce to pay, and all big bills.
The citizen’s next friend had called the following morning and presented Smith with a formal challenge. Smith must either accept and shoot it out, apologize acceptably, or be evicted from the city bodily by the citizen and his friends, with monitors looking on to see that the customs were maintained.
“What ought I to do?”
“I would advise you to apologize.” Hamilton saw no way out of it; to advise him to fight was to suggest suicide. Hamilton had no scruples about suicide, but he judged correctly that Smith preferred to live.
“But I can’t do that-what do you think I am, a nigger?”
“I don’t understand what you mean. What has your color to do with it?”
“Oh, never mind. But I can’t apologize, Felix. I was ahead of him in line. Honest I was.”
“But you were brassarded.”
“But…Look, Felix, I want to shoot it out with him. Will you act for me?”
“I will if you request it. He’ll kill you, you know.”
“Maybe not. I might happen to beat him to the draw.”
“Not in a set duel you won’t. The guns are cross-connected. Your gun won’t burn until the referee flashes the signal.”
“I’m fairly fast.”
“You’re outclassed. You don’t play feetball yourself you know. And you know why.”
Smith knew. He had planned to play, as well as manage and coach, when the enterprise was started. A few encounters with the men he had hired soon convinced him that an athlete of his own period was below average in this present period. In particular his reflexes were late. He bit his lip and said nothing.
“You sit tight,” said Felix, “and don’t go out of your apartment. I’ll do a little calling and see what can be worked out.”
The next friend was polite but regretful. Awfully sorry not to oblige Master Hamilton but he was acting under instructions. Could Master Hamilton speak with his principal? Now, really, that was hardly procedure. But he admitted that the circumstances were unusual-give him a few minutes, then he would phone back.
Hamilton received permission to speak to the principal; called him. No, the challenge could not be lifted-and the conversation was strictly under the rose. Procedure, you know. He was willing to accept a formal apology; he did not really wish to kill the man.
Hamilton explained that Smith would not accept the humiliation-could not, because of his psychological background. He was a barbarian and simply could not see things from a gentleman’s point of view. Hamilton identified Smith as the Man from the Past.
The principal nodded. “I know that now. Had I known that before, I would have ignored his rudeness-treated him as a child. But I didn’t know. And now, in view of what he did-well, my dear sir, I can hardly ignore it, can I?”
Hamilton conceded that he was entitled to satisfaction, but suggested it would make him publicly unpopular to kill Smith. “He is rather a public darling, you know. I am inclined to think that many will regard it as murder to force him to fight.”