“Couldn’t you, this very moment,” said Beatrice, “give me stock-market tips that would enable me to gain back everything I lost and more? If you had one shred of concern for me, couldn’t you tell me exactly how Malachi Constant of Hollywood is going to try to trick me into going to Mars, so I could outwit him?”
“Look,” said Rumfoord, “life for a punctual person is like a roller coaster.” He turned to shiver his hands in her face. “All kinds of things are going to happen to you! Sure,” he said, “I can see the whole roller coaster you’re on. And sure – I could give you a piece of paper that would tell you about every dip and turn, warn you about every bogeyman that was going to pop out at you in the tunnels. But that wouldn’t help you any.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Beatrice.
“Because you’d still have to take the roller-coaster ride,” said Rumford. “I didn’t design the roller coaster, I don’t own it, and I don’t say who rides and who doesn’t. I just know what it’s shaped like.”
“And Malachi Constant is part of the roller coaster?” said Beatrice.
“Yes,” said Rumfoord.
“And there’s no avoiding him?” said Beatrice.
“No,” said Rumfoord.
“Well – suppose you tell me then, just what steps bring us together,” said Beatrice, “and let me do what little I can.”
Rumfoord shrugged. “All right – if you wish,” he said. “If it would make you feel better –
“At this very moment,” he said, “the President of the United States is announcing a New Age of Space to relieve unemployment. Billions of dollars are going to be spent on unmanned space ships, just to make work. The opening episode in this New Age of Space will be the firing of The Whale next Tuesday. The Whale will be renamed The Rumfoord in my honor, will be loaded with organ-grinder monkeys, and will be fired in the general direction of Mars. You and Constant will both take part in the ceremonies. You will go on board for a ceremonial inspection, and a faulty switch will send you on your way with the monkeys.”
It is worth stopping the narrative at this point to say that this cock-and-bull story told to Beatrice is one of the few known instances of Winston Niles Rumfoord’s having told a lie.
This much of Rumfoord’s story was true: The Whale was going to be renamed and fired on Tuesday, and the President of the United States was announcing a New Age of Space.
Some of the President’s comments at the time bear repeating – and it should be remembered that the President gave the word “progress” a special flavor by pronouncing it progerse. He also flavored the words “chair” and “warehouse,” pronouncing them cheer and wirehouse.
“Now, some people are going around saying the American economy is old and sick,” said the President, “and I frankly can’t understand how they can say such a thing, because there is now more opportunity for progerse on all fronts than at any time in human history.
“And there is one frontier we can make particular progerse on and that is the great frontier of space. We have been turned back by space once, but it isn’t the American way to take no for an answer where progerse is concerned.
“Now, people of faint heart come to see me every day at the White House,” said the President, “and they weep and wail and say, ‘Oh, Mr. President, the wirehouses are all full of automobiles and airplanes and kitchen appliances and various other products,’ and they say, ‘Oh, Mr. President, there is nothing more that anybody wants the factories to make because everybody already has two, three, and four of everything.’
“One man in particular, I remember, was a cheer manufacturer, and he had way overproduced, and all he could think about was all those cheers in the wirehouse. And I said to him, ‘In the next twenty years, the population of the world is going to double, and all those billions of new people are going to need things to sit down on, so you just hang on to those cheers. Meanwhile, why don’t you forget about those cheers in the wirehouse and think about progerse in space?’
“I said to him and I say to you and I say to everybody, ‘Space can absorb the productivity of a trillion planets the size of earth. We could build and fire rockets forever, and never fill up space and never learn all there is to know about it.
“Now, these same people who like to weep and wail so much say, ‘Oh, but Mr. President, what about the chrono-synclastic infundibula and what about this and what about that?’ And I say to them, ‘If people listened to people like you, there wouldn’t ever be any progerse. There wouldn’t be the telephone or anything. And besides,’ I tell them and I tell you and I tell everybody, ‘we don’t have to put people in the rocket ships. We will use the lower animals only.’”
There was more to the speech.
Malachi Constant of Hollywood, California, came out of the rhinestone phone booth cold sober. His eyes felt like cinders. His mouth tasted like horseblanket pur�e.
He was positive that he had never seen the beautiful blond woman before.
He asked her one of the standard questions for times of violent change. “Where is everybody?” he said.
“You threw ‘em all out,” said the woman.
“I did?” said Constant
“Yah,” said the woman. “You mean you drew a blank?”
Constant nodded weakly. During the fifty-six-day party he had reached a point where he could draw almost nothing else. His aim had been to make himself unworthy of any destiny – incapable of any mission – far too ill to travel. He had succeeded to a shocking degree.
“Oh, it was quite a show,” said the woman. “You were having as good a time as anybody, helping shove the piano in the pool. Then, when it finally went in, you got this big crying jag.”
“Crying jag,” echoed Constant. That was something new.
“Yah,” said the woman. “You said you had a very unhappy childhood, and made everybody listen to how unhappy it was. How your father never even threw a ball to you once – any kind of ball. Half the time nobody could understand you, but every time somebody could understand you, it was about how there never was any kind of ball.
“Then you talked about your mother,” said the woman, “and you said if she was a whore, then you were proud to be a son of a whore, if that’s what a whore was. Then you said you’d give an oil well to any woman who’d come up to you and shake your hand and say real loud, so everybody could hear, ‘I’m a whore, just like your mother was.’”
“What happened then?” said Constant.
“You gave an oil well to every woman at the party,” said the woman. “And then you started crying worse than ever, and you picked me out, and you told everybody I was the only person in the whole Solar System you could trust. You said everybody else was just waiting for you to fall asleep, so they could put you on a rocket ship and shoot you at Mars. Then you made everybody go home but me. Servants and everybody.
“Then we flew down to Mexico and got married, and then we came back here,” she said. “Now I find out you haven’t got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. You better go down to the office and find out what the hell is going on, on account of my boyfriend is a gangster, and he’ll kill you if I tell him you aren’t providing for me right.
“Hell,” she said, “I had an unhappier childhood than you did. My mother was a whore and my father never came home, either – but we were poor besides. At least you had billions of dollars.”
In Newport, Beatrice Rumfoord turned her back to her husband. She stood on the threshold of Skip’s Museum, facing the corridor. Down the corridor came the sound of the butler’s voice. The butler was standing in the front doorway, calling to Kazak, the hound of space.
“I know a little something about roller coasters, too,” Beatrice said.
“That’s good,” said Rumfoord emptily.
“When I was ten years old,” said Beatrice, “my father got it into his head that it would be fun for me to ride a roller coaster. We were summering on Cape Cod, and we drove over to an amusement park outside of Fall River.
“He bought two tickets on the roller coaster. He was going to ride with me.
“I took one look at the roller coaster,” said Beatrice, “and it looked silly and dirty and dangerous, and I simply refused to get on. My own father couldn’t make me get on,” said Beatrice, “even though he was Chairman of the Board of the New York Central Railroad.