CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EDGAR R. B. HAGSTROHM, thirty-seven, R&R – 131313, Undercoater First Class, 22nd Surface Preserving Battalion, 58th Maintenance Regiment, 110th Building and Grounds Division, Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps, had been named after his father’s favorite author, the creator of Tarzan – Tarzan, who, far away from the soot and biting winter of the Hagstrohms’ home town, Chicago, made friends with lions and elephants and apes, and swung through trees on vines, and was built like a brick outhouse with square wheels and Venetian blinds, and took what he wanted of civilization’s beautiful women in tree houses, and left the rest of civilization alone. E. R. B. Hagstrohm liked Tarzan as much as his father had, and hated being a little man and being in Chicago ten times as much. And Edgar was reading about Tarzan in the bedroom when his fat wife, Wanda, called to him from her station before the picture window in the front room of their prefabricated home in Proteus Park, Chicago, a postwar development of three thousand dream houses for three thousand families with presumably identical dreams. “Gosh, here he comes, Edgar!” “All right, all right, all right,” said Edgar. “So he’s coming! So what am I supposed to do, holler bloody murder, kiss his feet, and faint?” He took his time about getting off the bed, and he didn’t smooth out the dent he’d made in the bedding. He laid his book open on the bedside table, so the visitors would see that he was a reader, and started for the living room. “What’s he look like, Wan?” “You gotta see, Ed – like a Chinese bird cage or something, all gold and fancy.” The Shah of Bratpuhr had asked his guide, Doctor Ewing J. Halyard, if he might see the home of a typical Takaru, freely translated, from one culture to another, as “average man.” The request had been made as they were passing through Chicago from Carlsbad Caverns, and Halyard had stopped off at the local personnel office for the name of a representative American in the neighborhood. The personnel machines had considered the problem and ejected the card of Edgar R. B. Hagstrohm, who was statistically average in every respect save for the number of his initials: his age (36), his height (5’7″), his weight (148 lbs.), his years of marriage (11), his I.Q. (83), the number of his children (2: 1 m., 9; 1 f., 6), the number of his bedrooms (2), his car (3 yr. old Chev. 2 dr. sed.), his education (h.s. grad, 117th in class of 233; maj. in business practice; 2nd string f’ball, b’k’tb’l; soc. comm., sen’r play; no coll.) his vocation (R&R), his avocations (spec’r sports, TV, softb’l, f’sh’g), and his war record (5 yrs., 3 ov’sea; T-4 radioman; 157th Inf. Div.; battle stars: Hjoring, Elbesan, Kabul, Kaifen, Ust Kyakhta; wounded 4 times; P’ple H’t, 3 cl.; Silv. Star; Br’ze Star, 2 cl.; G’d Cond. Med.). And the machines could have made an educated guess that, since Hagstrohm had gone that far in being average, he had probably been arrested once, had had sexual experience with five girls before marrying Wanda (only moderately satisfying), and had had two extramarital adventures since (one fleeting and foolish, the other rather long and disturbing), and that he would die at the age of 76.2 of a heart attack. What the machines couldn’t guess was that Edgar’s second extramarital affair, the deep one, was with a widow named Marion Frascati, that it was still going on, and that Marion’s deceased husband had been Lou Frascati, a second-coater first class, Edgar’s best friend. To their own profound shock, Edgar and Marion had found themselves in each other’s arms a scant month after good old Lou’s death. And again, and again, and again – and they’d tried to bring it to an end, honest-to-God they had. But it was like a bright, fat cherry on the gray mush of their lives. And they thought, wistfully, weakly, that maybe it wouldn’t really matter as long as no one was hurt – the kids; sweet, loyal Wanda. And that Lou wouldn’t have wanted anything more, now that he had another variety of bliss, than that good old Edgar and good old Marion make the most of life while they had the use of their flesh. But they hadn’t believed it. And the kids noticed something screwy was going on, and Wanda’d cried a couple of times lately and refused to tell him why, and probably Lou, wherever he was. . . . Anyway, Edgar was going to go on seeing Marion, but he was going to tell Wanda, God bless her and God help her – tell her, and – Who was banging on the Hagstrohm door but the goddam Shah of Bratpuhr, for chrissakes. “Come in, come in,” said Edgar, and he added under his breath, “your majesty, your highness, emperor of the universe and all the ships at sea, you nosy son-of-a-bitch.” When Halyard had phoned him about the visit, Hagstrohm had made a point of not being impressed by the Shah’s title, or by Halyard’s rank. It was rare that he got the opportunity to show what he thought of rank – that a man was a man for all that. He was going to behave perfectly naturally, just as he would if the callers had been fellow Reeks and Wrecks. Wanda had taken a different view, and had started frantically to clean the place from top to bottom, and to make lemonade and send Edgar, Jr., out for little cookies, but big Edgar had put a stop to all that. He put the kids out, and that was the only cleaning up that was to be done. The door opened, and in came the Shah, followed by Khashdrahr, Halyard, and Doctor Ned Dodge, the manager of Proteus Park. “Aha!” said the Shah, gingerly touching the enameled steel wall of the living room. “Mmmmm.” Edgar held out his hand, and the parade brushed past it, heedless. “Well, kiss mine,” he muttered. “Eh?” said Doctor Dodge. “You heard me.” “You’re not in a saloon now, Hagstrohm,” whispered Dodge. “Watch yourself; this is international relations.” “All right if I go to a saloon?” “What’s eating you, anyway?” “The guy walks into my house and won’t even shake my hand.” “It’s not the custom in his country.” “Is it in yours?” Dodge turned his back and grinned hospitably at the Shah. “Two bedrooms, living room with dining alcove, bath, and kitchen,” he said. “This is the M-17 house. Radiant heating in the floor. The furniture was designed after an exhaustive national survey of furniture likes and dislikes. The house, the furniture, and the lot are sold as a package. Simplified planning and production all the way round.” “Lakki-ti, Takaru?” piped the Shah, looking at Edgar closely for the first time. “What’s he say?” “He wants to know if you like it here,” said Khashdrahr. “Sure – I guess. It’s all right. I suppose. Yeah.” “It’s nice,” said Wanda. “Now, if you’ll follow me into the kitchen,” said Doctor Dodge, leaving Wanda and Edgar behind, “you’ll see the radar range. Cooks by high frequency, and cooks the inside of whatever’s being cooked as fast as the outside. Cooks anything in a matter of seconds, with perfect control. Make bread without a crust, if you want to.” “What is the matter with crust on bread?” asked Khashdrahr politely. “And this is the ultrasonic dishwasher and clothes-washer,” said Dodge. “High-frequency sound passing through the water strips dirt and grease off anything in a matter of seconds. Dip in, take out, bingo!” “And then what does the woman do?” asked Khashdrahr. “Then she puts the clothes or dishes in this drier, which dries them out in a matter of seconds, and – here’s a nifty trick, I think – gives the clothes a spanking-clean outdoors odor, like they were dried in the sun, see, with this little ozone lamp in here.” “And then what?” asked Khashdrahr. “She feeds the clothes through this ironer, which can do what was an hour’s ironing before the war in three minutes. Bing!” “And then what does she do?” asked Khashdrahr. “And then she’s done.” “And then what?” Doctor Dodge reddened perceptibly. “Is this a joke?” “No,” said Khashdrahr. “The Shah would like to know what it is that the woman Takaru -” “What’s a Takaru?” said Wanda suspiciously. “Citizen,” said Halyard. “Yes,” said Khashdrahr, smiling at her oddly, “citizen. The Shah would like to know why she has to do everything so quickly – this in a matter of seconds, that in a matter of seconds. What is it she is in such a hurry to get at? What is it she has to do, that she mustn’t waste any time on these things?” “Live!” said Doctor Dodge expansively. “Live! Get a little fun out of life.” He laughed, and clapped Khashdrahr on the back, as though to jar him into feeling some of the jollity in this average American man’s home. The effect on Khashdrahr and the Shah was a poor one. “I see,” said the interpreter coldly. He turned to Wanda. “And how is it you live and get so much fun out of life?” Wanda blushed and looked down at the floor, and worried the carpet edge with her toe. “Oh, television,” she murmured. “Watch that a lot, don’t we, Ed? And I spend a lot of time with the kids, little Delores and young Edgar, Jr. You know. Things.” “Where are the children now?” asked Khashdrahr. “Over at the neighbors’ place, the Glocks, watching television, I expect.” “Would you like to see the ultrasonic washer work?” said Doctor Dodge. “Right before your eyes, bing! Takes off egg, lipstick, bloodstains -” “The transducer’s shot again,” said Edgar, “so the washer’s out of commission. Wanda’s been doing the washing in a tub for a month now, waiting for a new transducer.” “Oh, I don’t mind,” said Wanda. “Really, I like doin’ ’em that way. It’s kind of a relief. A body needs a change. I don’t mind. Gives me something to do.” Halyard ended the silence that followed her statement with a brisk suggestion that they leave these good people alone and have a look at the central recreation pavilion down the street. “If we hurry,” said Doctor Dodge, “we’ll probably catch the leathercraft class still in session.” The Shah patted the radar stove, the laundry console, and peered for a moment at the television screen, which showed five persons seated around a conference table, arguing earnestly. “Brahouna!” he chuckled. Khashdrahr nodded. “Brahouna! Live!” As the party left, Halyard was explaining that the house and contents and car were all paid for by regular deductions from Edgar’s R&RC pay check, along with premiums on his combination health, life, and old age security insurance, and that the furnishings and equipment were replaced from time to time with newer models as Edgar – or the payroll machines, rather – completed payments on the old ones. “He has a complete security package,” said Halyard. “His standard of living is constantly rising, and he and the country at large are protected from the old economic ups and downs by the orderly, predictable consumer habits the payroll machines give him. Used to be he’d buy on impulse, illogically, and industry would go nutty trying to figure out what he was going to buy next. Why, I remember when I was a little boy, we had a crazy neighbor who blew all his money on an electric organ, while he still had an old-fashioned icebox and kerosene stove in his kitchen!” Edgar closed the door and leaned against it, against the door of his M-17 castle. Wanda sank to the couch. “The place looked nice, I think,” she said. She said it whenever a visitor – Amy Glock, Gladys Pelrine, the Shah of Bratpuhr, anybody – left. “Yep,” said Edgar. And he felt evil and damned as he looked at Wanda, good, good soul, who’d never done anything to offend him, whose love for him was as big as all outdoors. He fingered the three ten-dollar bills in his pocket, his take-home pay – cigarette money, recreation money, small luxury money the machines let him have. This tiny atom of the economy under his control he was going to spend, not on himself or Wanda or the kids, but on Marion. Edgar’s troubled heart had gone out to the crazy man in Halyard’s story, the guy who’d bought himself an electric organ. Expensive, impractical, strictly personal – above and beyond the goddamned package. But deceit was another thing. “Wanda,” said Edgar, “I’m no good.” She knew what he was talking about, all right. She wasn’t in the least surprised. “Yes, you are, Edgar,” she said lamely. “You’re a fine man. I understand.” “About Marion?” “Yes. She’s very beautiful and charming. And I’m not exactly a girl any more, and I expect I’m pretty dull.” She started to cry, and, good soul that she was, she tried to keep him from seeing it. She hurried into the kitchen, took four suppers from the deep freeze, and thrust them into the radar range. “Call the children, will you please, Edgar?” she said in a small, high voice. “Supper will be ready in twenty-eight seconds.” Edgar shouted the children’s names into the twilight, and returned to Wanda. “Listen, Wan – it isn’t you. The Lord knows it isn’t your fault.” He hugged her from behind, and she twisted away and pretended to adjust dials on the range, though there was no adjusting to be done. Clockwork was doing everything. Chimes rang, the clockwork clicked, and the range’s humming stopped. “Call the children before everything gets cold,” she said. “They’re coming.” Edgar tried to hug her again, and she let him this time. “Listen,” he said passionately, “it’s the world, Wan – me and the world. I’m no good to anybody, not in this world. Nothing but a Reek and Wreck, and that’s all my kids’ll be, and a guy’s got to have kicks or he doesn’t want to live – and the only kicks left for a dumb bastard like me are the bad ones. I’m no good, Wan, no good!” “It’s me that’s no good to anybody,” said Wanda wearily. “Nobody needs me. You or even little old Delores could run the house and all, it’s so easy. And now I’m too fat for anybody but the kids to love me. My mother got fat, and my grandmother got fat, and guess it’s in the blood; but somebody needed them, they were still some good. But you don’t need me, Ed, and you can’t help it if you don’t love me any more. Just the way men are, and you can’t help it if you’re the way God made you.” She looked at him lovingly, pityingly. “Poor man.” Delores and Edgar, Jr., bustled in, and Edgar and Wanda composed themselves and told their children all about the Shah. The subject was soon exhausted, and at dinner only the children spoke and touched their food. “Somebody sick?” said Edgar, Jr. “Your mother isn’t well. She has a headache,” said Edgar. “Yeah? That’s too bad, Mom.” “Just a little thing,” said Wanda. “It’ll pass.” “How about you, Pop?” said Edgar, Jr. “You well enough to take in the basketball game at the pavilion tonight?” Edgar kept his eyes on his plate. “Like to,” he mumbled. “Promised Joe I’d go bowling with him tonight.” “Joe Prince?” “Yeah, Joe Prince.” “Why, Daddy,” said Delores, “we saw Mr. Prince over to the Glocks’, and he said he was going to the basketball game.” “He did not!” said Edgar, Jr., fiercely. “Just be quiet. You don’t know what you’re talking about. He didn’t say that at all.” “He did, too!” said Delores stubbornly. “He said -” “Delores, honey,” said Wanda, “I’m sure you misunderstood Mr. Prince.” “Yes,” said Edgar, Jr., “I remember now he said he was going bowling with Pop. Sis got it all wrong, Mom.” His hands were trembling, and, clumsily, he knocked over his milk glass. Both he and his father jumped to their feet to catch it before it toppled all the way. Young Edgar caught it, and when his eyes met old Edgar’s they were full of hate. “Guess I’m too tired to go to the ball game after all,” he said. “Guess I’ll stay home and watch television with Mom.” “Don’t miss any good times on my account,” said Wanda. “I get along just fine by myself.” There was a series of sharp taps on the picture window, and the Hagstrohms looked up to see the Shah of Bratpuhr rattling his ringed fingers against the glass. He had just returned from the pavilion to the limousine, which had been left in front of the Hagstrohm’s M-17 home. “Brahouna!” cried the Shah cheerfully. He waved. “Brahouna, Takaru.” ” ‘Live!’ ” translated Krashdrahr.