“What are you going to do?”
“Defend myself, naturally. Luddy was a hard worker, competent, with a good sense of organization. But he wasn’t original. He could take somebody else’s idea—my idea—and milk a great deal from it. He used to build up whole packets from the smallest grain. But I have him on the creativity. So I can still run rings around Blake-Moffet, assuming I’m in the field a year from now.”
“You sound almost—cheerful.”
“Why not?” He shrugged. “It merely makes a bad situation worse. Blake-Moffet have always been the inertial stone dragging us into the grave. Every time they project a boy-gets-good-girl packet they blow the breath of age on us. We have to struggle out from under the dust before we can move.” He pointed. “Like that house.”
The opulent twentieth century house, with its Ford and Bendix washer, had reappeared. The cycle had returned to its source.
“How they lived,” Allen quoted. “And died. That could be us. We’re living now, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“What happened at the Resort?”
“Nothing. I saw the Analyst; I recalled; I got up and left. Next Monday I go back.”
“Can they help you?”
“Sure, given time.”
Janet asked: “What are you going to do?”
“Take the job. Go to work as Director of Telemedia.”
“I see.” Then she asked: “Why?”
“Several reasons. First, because I can do a good job.”
“What about the statue?”
“The statue isn’t going away. Someday I’ll find out why I japed it, but not by Saturday morning. Meanwhile, I’ll have to live. And make decisions. By the way . . . the salary’s about what I’m making now.”
“If you’re at T-M can Luddy hurt you more?”
“He can hurt the Agency more, because I’ll be gone.” He reflected. “Maybe I’ll dismember it. I’ll wait and see; it depends on how I do at T-M. In six months I may want to go back.”
“What about you?”
Truthfully, he said: “He can hurt me more, too. I’ll be fair game for everybody. Look at Mavis. Four giants in the field, and all of them trying to get into T-M. And I’ll have one giant with a gnat stinging it.”
“I suppose,” Janet said, “that’s another of the several reasons. You want to tangle with Luddy head-on.”
“I want to meet him, yes. And I wouldn’t mind hitting up against Blake-Moffet from that position. They’re moribund; they’re calcified. As Director of Telemedia I’ll do my best to put them out of business.”
“They probably expect that.”
“Of course they do. One of their packets is enough for a year; I told Mrs. Frost that. As a competitor of Blake-Moffet I could run alongside them for years, hitting them now and then, getting hit in return. But as Director of T-M we’ll have a grandiose showdown. Once I’m in, there’s no other way.”
Janet studied an exhibit of extinct flowers: poppies and lilies and gladioli and roses. “When are you going to tell Mrs. Frost?”
“I’ll go over to her office tomorrow. She’ll probably be expecting me . . . it’s the last working day. Apparently she agrees with me on Blake-Moffet; this should please her. But that’s another thing only time will tell.”
The next morning he rented a little Getabout from a dealer and drove from his housing unit to the Committee building.
Myron Mavis, he reflected, would be giving up his within-walking-distance apartment. Protocol required that a man lease close to his job; in the next week or so it behooved him to ask for Mavis’ setup. As Director of T-M he would need to live the role. There was slight latitude, and he was already resigned to the strictures. It was the price paid for public service in the higher brackets.
As soon as he entered the Committee building, the front secretary passed him through. There was no waiting, and, within five minutes, he was being ushered into Mrs. Frost’s private office.
She rose graciously. “Mr. Purcell. How nice.”
“You’re looking well.” They shook hands. “Is this a good time to talk to you?”
“Excellent,” Mrs. Frost said, smiling. Today she wore a trim brown suit of some crisp fabric, unknown to him. “Sit down.”
“Thank you.” He seated himself facing her. “I see no point in waiting until the last moment.”
“You’ve decided?”
Allen said: “I’ll accept the job. And I apologize for stringing it out.”
Waving her hand, Mrs. Frost dismissed his apology. “You should have time.” And then her face glowed in a swift, beaming warmth of delight. “I’m so glad.”
Touched, he said: “So am I.” And he really meant it.
“When will you be ready to start?” She laughed and held up her hands. “Look at me; I’m as nervous as you.”
“I want to start as soon as possible.” He consulted with himself; it would take at least a week to wind up affairs at the Agency. “What about a week from Monday?”
She was disappointed, but she suppressed it. “Yes, you should have that much time for the transfer. And—perhaps we can get together socially. For dinner some evening. And for Juggle. I’m quite a demon; I play every chance I get. And I’d like very much to meet your wife.”
“Fine,” Allen said, sharing her enthusiasm. “We’ll arrange that.”
CHAPTER 11
The dream, large and gray, hanging like the tatters of a web, gathered itself around him and hugged him greedily. He screamed, but instead of sounds there drifted out of him stars. The stars rose until they reached the panoply of web, and there they struck fast, and were extinguished.
He screamed again, and this time the force of his voice rolled him downhill. Crashing through dripping vines he came to rest in a muddy trough, a furrow half-clogged with water. The water, brackish, stung his nostrils, choking him. He gasped, floundered, crept against roots.
It was a moist jungle of growing things in which he lay. The steaming hulks of plants pressed and shoved for water. They drank noisily, grew and expanded, split with a showering burst of particles. Around him the jungle altered through centuries of life. Moonlight, strained through bulging leaves, drizzled gummy and yellow around him, as thick as syrup.
And, in the midst of the creeping plant-pulp, was an artificial structure.
Toward it he struggled, reaching. The structure was flat, thin, with a brittle hardness. It was opaque. It was made of boards.
Joy submerged him as he touched its side. He screamed, and this time the sound carried his body upward. He floated, drifted, clutched at the wood surface. His nails scrabbled, and splinters pierced his flesh. With a metal wheel he sawed through the wood and stripped it away, husk-like, dropping it and stamping on it. The wood broke loudly, echoing in the dream-silence.
Behind the wood was stone.
Gazing at the stone he felt awe. It had endured; it had not been carried away or destroyed. The stone loomed as he remembered it. No change had occurred, and that was very good. He felt the emotion all through him.
He reached out, and, bracing himself, plucked from the stone a round part of itself. Weighed down, he staggered off, and plunged head-first into the oozing warmth of plant-pulp.
For a time he lay gasping, his face pressed against slime. Once, an insect walked across his cheek. Far off, something stirred mournfully. At last, with great effort, he roused himself and began searching. The round stone lay half-buried in silt, at the edge of water. He found the metal wheel and cut away the groping roots. Then, bracing his knees, he lifted the stone and dragged it away, across a grassy hill so vast that it faded into infinity.
At the end of the hill he dropped the stone crashing into a little parked Getabout. Nobody saw him. It was almost dawn. The sky, streaked with yellow, would soon be drained, would soon become a hazy gray through which the sun could beat.
Getting into the front seat, he started up the steam pressure and drove carefully up the lane. The lane stretched out ahead of him, faintly damp, faintly luminous. On both sides housing units were jutting lumps of coal: oddly hardened organic substances. No light showed within them and nothing stirred.
When he reached his own housing unit he parked the car—making no sound—and began lugging the stone up the rear ramp. It took a long time, and he was trembling and perspiring when he reached his own floor. And still nobody saw him. He unlocked his door and dragged the stone inside.
Unhinged with relief, he sank down on the edge of the bed. It was over: he had done it. In her bed his wife stirred fretfully, sighed, turned over on her face. Janet did not wake up; nobody woke up. The city, the society, slept.
Presently he removed his clothes and climbed into bed. He fell asleep almost at once, his mind and body free of all tension, every trouble.