CHAPTER NINE
FINNERTY apparently found plenty to entertain himself with in the Ilium Works. He didn’t appear in Paul’s office until late in the afternoon. When he did arrive, Katharine Finch gave a small cry of surprise. He’d let himself in through two locked doors with keys he’d presumably failed to turn in when he left the plant for Washington years before. Paul’s door was ajar, and he heard the conversation. “Don’t go for your rod, lady. The name’s Finnerty.” Katharine did have a gun somewhere in her desk, though no ammunition. That secretaries should be armed was a regulation held over from the old days, too; one Kroner thought well enough of to revive in a directive. “You’re not authorized to have those keys,” she said coldly. “Have you been crying?” said Finnerty. “I’ll see if Doctor Proteus can see you.” “What is there to cry about? See – none of the red lights are on, no buzzers going off, so all’s well with the world.” “Send him in, Katharine,” called Paul. Finnerty walked in and sat on the edge of Paul’s desk. “What’s the matter with Miss Policy out there?” “Broken engagement. What’s on your mind?” “Thought we’d have a couple of drinks – if you feel like listening.” “All right. Let me call Anita and tell her we’ll be late for supper.” Katharine got Anita on the line, and Paul told his wife what he was up to. “Have you thought out what you’d say to Kroner if he told you Pittsburgh was still open?” “No – it’s been a hell of a day.” “Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and -” “Anita, I’ve got to go.” “All right. I love you.” “I love you, Anita. Goodbye.” He looked up at Finnerty. “O.K., let’s go.” He felt somehow conspiratorial, and got a small lift from the feeling. Being with Finnerty had often had that effect. Finnerty had an air of mysteriousness about him, an implication that he knew of worlds unsuspected by anyone else – a man of unexplained absences and shadowy friends. Actually, Finnerty let Paul in on very little that was surprising, and only gave him the illusion of sharing in mysteries – if, indeed, there were any. The illusion was enough. It filled a need in Paul’s life, and he went gladly for a drink with the odd man. “Is there somewhere I can reach you?” said Katharine. “No, I’m afraid not,” said Paul. He planned to go to the Country Club, where he could be reached easily enough. But, on an impulse, he indulged his appetite for secretiveness. Finnerty had come over in Paul’s station wagon. They left it at the Works and took Paul’s old car. “Across the bridge,” said Finnerty. “I thought we’d go to the club.” “This is Thursday, isn’t it? Do the civic managers still have their big dinner there on Thursdays?” The civic managers were the career administrators who ran the city. They lived on the same side of the river as the managers and engineers of the Ilium Works, but the contact between the two groups was little more than perfunctory and, traditionally, suspicious. The schism, like so many things, dated back to the war, when the economy had, for efficiency’s sake, become monolithic. The question had arisen: who was to run it, the bureaucrats, the heads of business and industry, or the military? Business and bureaucracy had stuck together long enough to overwhelm the military and had since then worked side by side, abusively and suspiciously, but, like Kroner and Baer, each unable to do a whole job without the other. “Not much changes in Ilium,” said Paul. “The civic managers will be there all right. But if we get over there this early, we can get a booth in the bar.” “I’d rather share a bed in a leprosarium.” “All right; over the bridge it is. Let me put on something more comfortable.” Paul stopped his car just short of the bridge, and traded his coat for the jacket in the trunk. “I wondered if you still did that. That’s even the same jacket, isn’t it?” “Habit.” “What would a psychiatrist say about it?” “He’d say it was a swat at my old man, who never went anywhere without a Homburg and a double-breasted suit.” “Think he was a bastard?” “How do I know what my father was? The editor of Who’s Who knows about as much as I do. The guy was hardly ever home.” They were driving through Homestead now. Paul suddenly snapped his fingers in recollection and turned down a side street. “I’ve got to stop by police headquarters for a minute. Mind waiting?” “What’s the trouble?” “Almost slipped my mind. Somebody swiped the gun from the glove compartment, or it fell out, or something.” “Keep driving.” “It’ll just take a minute, I hope.” “I took it.” “You? Why?” “Had an idea I might want to shoot myself.” He said it matter-of-factly. “Even had the barrel in my mouth for a while, and the hammer back – for maybe ten minutes.” “Where is it now?” “Bottom of the Iroquois somewhere.” He licked his lips. “Tasted oil and metal all through dinner. Turn left.” Paul had learned to listen with outward calm when Finnerty spoke of his morbid moments. When he was with Finnerty he liked to pretend that he shared the man’s fantastic and alternately brilliant or black inner thoughts – almost as though he were discontent with his own relative tranquility. Finnerty had spoken dispassionately of suicide often; but, seemingly, he did it because he got pleasure from savoring the idea. If he’d felt driven to kill himself, he would have been dead long ago. “You think I’m insane?” said Finnerty. Apparently he wanted more of a reaction than Paul had given him. “You’re still in touch. I guess that’s the test.” “Barely – barely.” “A psychiatrist could help. There’s a good man in Albany.” Finnerty shook his head. “He’d pull me back into the center, and I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” He nodded. “Big, undreamed-of things – the people on the edge see them first.” He laid his hand on Paul’s shoulder, and Paul fought a reflex that suddenly made him want to get as far away as possible. “Here’s the place we want,” said Finnerty. “Park here.” They had circled several blocks and were back at the head of the bridge, by the same saloon Paul had visited for the whisky. Paul, with uncomfortable memories of the place, wanted to go somewhere else, but Finnerty was already out of the car and on his way in. Gratefully, Paul saw that the street and saloon were almost deserted, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t see any of the people who’d watched his confusion the day before. No hydrants were going, but from far away, from the direction of Edison Park, came faint band music – a clue as to where everyone might be. “Hey, your headlamp’s busted,” said a man, peering through the doorway of the saloon. Paul passed him quickly, without getting a good look at him. “Thanks.” Only when he’d overtaken Finnerty in the damp twilight of the inside did he turn for another look at the man – at his short, broad back. The man’s neck was thick and red, and glinting behind his ears were the hooks of steel spectacles. It was the same man, Paul realized, the same man who had been sitting by Rudy Hertz – the man whose son had just turned eighteen. Paul remembered that he had promised this man, in the panic of the moment, to speak to Matheson, the placement director, about the son. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized Paul. Paul slid into a booth with Finnerty, in the darkest corner of the room. The man turned and smiled, his eyes lost behind the milky, thick lenses of his glasses. “You’re entirely welcome, Doctor Proteus,” he called. “It isn’t often that anyone can do a favor for anyone in your position.” Paul pretended he hadn’t heard, and turned his attention to Finnerty, who dug a spoon around and around and around in a sugar bowl. Some of the white grains spilled over, and Finnerty absently drew the mathematical symbol for infinity in them with the tip of his finger. “Funny what I expected from this reunion, what I guess everybody expects from affectionate reunions. I thought seeing you would somehow clear up all sorts of problems, get me thinking straight,” said Finnerty. He had a candor about his few emotional attachments that Paul found disquieting. He used words to describe his feelings that Paul could never bring himself to use when speaking of a friend: love, affection, and other words generally consigned to young and inexperienced lovers. It wasn’t homosexual; it was an archaic expression of friendship by an undisciplined man in an age when most men seemed in mortal fear of being mistaken for pansies for even a split second. “I guess I looked forward to some sort of rebirth too,” said Paul. “But you find out quick enough that old friends are old friends, and nothing more – no wiser, no more help than anyone else. Well, what the hell, that doesn’t mean I’m not damned pleased to see you again.” “No booth service until eight,” called the bartender. “I’ll get them,” said Finnerty. “What’ll it be?” “Bourbon – plain water. Make it a weak one. Anita’s expecting us in an hour.” Finnerty came back with two strong highballs. “Is there any water in it?” said Paul. “There was enough water in it as it was.” Finnerty swept the sugar from the table with his palm. “It’s the loneliness,” he said, as though picking up the thread of a conversation that had been interrupted. “It’s the loneliness, the not belonging anywhere. I just about went crazy with loneliness here in the old days, and I figured things would be better in Washington, that I’d find a lot of people I admired and belonged with. Washington is worse, Paul – Ilium to the tenth power. Stupid, arrogant, self-congratulatory, unimaginative, humorless men. And the women, Paul – the dull wives feeding on the power and glory of their husbands.” “Oh, now listen, Ed,” said Paul, smiling, “they’re good-hearted people.” “Who isn’t? I’m not, I guess. Their superiority is what gets me, this damn hierarchy that measures men against machines. It’s a pretty unimpressive kind of man that comes out on top.” “Here come some more!” called the man with the thick glasses from the door. From far off came the sound of marching, and the thump of a bass drum. The noise came closer, a whistle blew, and a brass band exploded with music. Paul and Finnerty hurried to the door. “Who are they?” shouted Finnerty at the man in thick glasses. The man smiled. “Don’t think they want anybody to know. Secret.” At the head of the procession, surrounded by four trumpeters dressed as Arabs, was a florid, serious old man in a turban and pantaloons, carefully cradling in his arms an elephant tusk inscribed with mysterious symbols. Behind him came an enormous square banner, held aloft by a staggering giant, and steadied in the wind, maypole fashion, by a dozen Arabs tugging at colored ropes. The banner, which from a distance had given promise of explaining all, was embroidered with four lines of long-forgotten – or perhaps recently invented – script, and with four green owls against a field of apricot. After it came the band, which carried out the Arabian motif. There were owl-bearing pennants hung from the brasses, and the banner’s message was repeated, in case anyone had missed it, on a cart-borne bass drum perhaps twelve feet in diameter. “Hooray,” said the man in thick glasses mildly. “Why are you cheering?” said Finnerty. “Don’t you think something’s called for? Cheering Luke Lubbock mostly. He’s the one with the tusk.” “Doing a swell job,” said Finnerty. “What’s he represent?” “Secret. He couldn’t be it any more, if he told.” “Looks like he’s about the most important thing.” “Next to the tusk.” The parade turned a corner, the whistle blew again, and the music stopped. Down the street, another whistle shrilled, and the whole business began again as a company of kilted bagpipers swung into view. “Parade competition down at the park,” said the man with the glasses. “They’ll be coming by for hours. Let’s go in and have a drink.” “On us?” said Finnerty. “Who else?” “Wait,” said Paul, “this should be interesting.” An automobile had just come from the north side of the river, and its driver honked irritably at the marchers, who blocked his way. The horn and the bagpipes squalled at one another until the last rank of marchers had turned down the side street. Paul recognized the driver too late to get out of sight. Shepherd looked at him with puzzlement and mild censure, waved vaguely, and drove on. Peering through the back window were the small eyes of Fred Berringer. Paul refused to attach any importance to the incident. He sat down in the booth with the short, heavy man, while Finnerty went after more drinks. “How’s your son?” said Paul. “Son, Doctor? Oh, oh, of course – my son. You said you were going to talk to Matheson about him, didn’t you? What did the good Matheson say?” “I haven’t seen him yet. I’ve been meaning to, but the opportunity hasn’t come up.” The man nodded. “Matheson, Matheson – beneath that cold exterior, there beats a heart of ice. Well, it’s just as well. There’s no need to talk to him now. My boy’s all set.” “Oh, really? I’m glad to hear that.” “Yes, he hanged himself this morning in the kitchen.” “Lord!” “Yes, I told him what you said yesterday, and it was so discouraging that he just gave up. It’s the best way. There are too many of us. Upps! You’re spilling your drink!” “What’s going on here?” said Finnerty. “I was just telling the Doctor here that my son couldn’t find any good reason for being alive, so he quit it this morning – with an ironing cord.” Paul covered his eyes. “Jesus, oh Jesus I’m sorry.” The man looked up at Finnerty with a mixture of bewilderment and exasperation. “Now, hell, why’d I have to go and do that? Have a drink, Doctor, and pull yourself together. I haven’t got a son, never had one.” He shook Paul’s arm. “Hear me? It’s a lot of crap.” “Then why don’t I bust your stupid head open?” said Paul, half standing in the booth. “Because you’re wedged in too tightly,” said Finnerty, pushing him back down. He set the drinks before them. “Sorry,” said the man to Paul. “I just wanted to see how one of those superbrains worked. What’s your I.Q., Doctor?” “It’s a matter of record. Why don’t you go look it up?” It was a matter of record. Everyone’s I.Q., as measured by the National Standard General Classification Test, was on public record – in Ilium, at the police station. “Go on,” he said acidly, “experiment with me some more. I love it.” “You picked a bad specimen if you’re out to find out what the rest of them across the river are like,” said Finnerty. “This guy’s an odd one.” “You’re an engineer too.” “Until I quit.” The man looked surprised. “You know, this is really very illuminating, if you’re not kidding me. There are malcontents, eh?” “Two that we know of,” said Finnerty. “Well, you know, in a way I wish I hadn’t met you two. It’s much more convenient to think of the opposition as a nice homogeneous, dead-wrong mass. Now I’ve got to muddy my thinking with exceptions.” “How have you got yourself typed,” said Paul, “as an upstate Socrates?” “The name is Lasher, the Reverend James J. Lasher, R-127 and SS-55. Chaplain, Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps.” “The first number’s for Protestant minister. What’s the second, that SS thing?” said Finnerty. “Social scientist,” said Lasher. “The 55 designates an anthropologist with a master’s degree.” “And what does an anthropologist do these days?” said Paul. “Same thing a supernumerary minister does – becomes a public charge, a bore, or possibly a rum-dum, or a bureaucrat.” He looked back and forth between Paul and Finnerty. “You, I know, Doctor Proteus. And you?” “Finnerty, Edward Francis Finnerty, Ph.D., one-time EC-002.” “There’s a collector’s item – a double-o-two number!” said Lasher. “I’ve known several single-o men, but never a double-o. I guess you’re the highest classification I ever had friendly words with. If the Pope set up shop in this country, he’d be only one notch up – in the R-numbers of course. He’d be an R-001. I heard somewhere that the number was being held for him, over the objections of Episcopal bishops who want R-001 themselves. Delicate business.” “They could give him a negative number,” said Paul. “That the Episcopalians would go along with. My glass is empty.” “What was this business about the people across the river being the opposition?” said Paul. “You think they do the Devil’s work, do you?” “That’s pretty strong. I will say you’ve shown up what thin stuff clergymen were peddling, most of them. When I had a congregation before the war, I used to tell them that the life of their spirit in relation to God was the biggest thing in their lives, and that their part in the economy was nothing by comparison. Now, you people have engineered them out of their part in the economy, in the market place, and they’re finding out – most of them – that what’s left is just about zero. A good bit short of enough, anyway. My glass is empty.” Lasher sighed. “What do you expect?” he said. “For generations they’ve been built up to worship competition and the market, productivity and economic usefulness, and the envy of their fellow men – and boom! it’s all yanked out from under them. They can’t participate, can’t be useful any more. Their whole culture’s been shot to hell. My glass is empty.” “I just had it filled again,” said Finnerty. “Oh, so you did.” Lasher sipped thoughtfully. “These displaced people need something, and the clergy can’t give it to them – or it’s impossible for them to take what the clergy offers. The clergy says it’s enough, and so does the Bible. The people say it isn’t enough, and I suspect they’re right.” “If they were so fond of the old system, how come they were so cantankerous about their jobs when they had them?” said Paul. “Oh, this business we’ve got now – it’s been going on for a long time now, not just since the last war. Maybe the actual jobs weren’t being taken from the people, but the sense of participation, the sense of importance was. Go to the library sometime and take a look at magazines and newspapers clear back as far as World War II. Even then there was a lot of talk about know-how winning the war of production – know how, not people, not the mediocre people running most of the machines. And the hell of it was that it was pretty much true. Even then, half the people or more didn’t understand much about the machines they worked at or the things they were making. They were participating in the economy all right, but not in a way that was very satisfying to the ego. And then there was all this let’s-not-shoot-Father-Christmas advertising.” “How’s that?” said Paul. “You know – those ads about the American system, meaning managers and engineers, that made America great. When you finished one, you’d think the managers and engineers had given America everything: forests, rivers, minerals, mountains, oil – the works. “Strange business,” said Lasher. “This crusading spirit of the managers and engineers, the idea of designing and manufacturing and distributing being sort of a holy war: all that folklore was cooked up by public relations and advertising men hired by managers and engineers to make big business popular in the old days, which it certainly wasn’t in the beginning. Now, the engineers and managers believe with all their hearts the glorious things their forebears hired people to say about them. Yesterday’s snow job becomes today’s sermon.” “Well,” said Paul, “you’ll have to admit they did some pretty wonderful things during the war.” “Of course!” said Lasher. “What they did for the war effort really was something like crusading; but” – he shrugged – “so was what everybody else did for the war effort. Everybody behaved wonderfully. Even I.” “You keep giving the managers and engineers a bad time,” said Paul. “What about the scientists? It seems to me that -” “Outside the discussion,” said Lasher impatiently. “They simply add to knowledge. It isn’t knowledge that’s making trouble, but the uses it’s put to.” Finnerty shook his head admiringly. “So what’s the answer right now?” “That is a frightening question,” said Lasher, “and also my favorite rationalization for drinking. This is my last drink, incidentally; I don’t like being drunk. I drink because I’m scared – just a little scared, so I don’t have to drink much. Things, gentlemen, are ripe for a phony Messiah, and when he comes, it’s sure to be a bloody business.” “Messiah?” “Sooner or later someone’s going to catch the imagination of these people with some new magic. At the bottom of it will be a promise of regaining the feeling of participation, the feeling of being needed on earth – hell, dignity. The police are bright enough to look for people like that, and lock them up under the antisabotage laws. But sooner or later someone’s going to keep out of their sight long enough to organize a following.” Paul had been watching his expression closely, and decided that, far from being in horror of the impending uprising, Lasher was rather taken by the idea. “And then what?” said Paul. He picked up his glass and rattled the ice cubes against his teeth. He’d finished his second drink and wanted another. Lasher shrugged. “Oh, hell – prophecy’s a thankless business, and history has a way of showing us what, in retrospect, are very logical solutions to awful messes.” “Prophesy anyway,” said Finnerty. “Well – I think it’s a grave mistake to put on public record everyone’s I.Q. I think the first thing the revolutionaries would want to do is knock off everybody with an I.Q. over 110, say. If I were on your side of the river, I’d have the I.Q. books closed and the bridges mined.” “Then the 100’s would go after the 110’s, the 90’s after the 100’s, and so on,” said Finnerty. “Maybe. Something like that. Things are certainly set up for a class war based on conveniently established lines of demarkation. And I must say that the basic assumption of the present setup is a grade-A incitement to violence: the smarter you are, the better you are. Used to be that the richer you were, the better you were. Either one is, you’ll admit, pretty tough for the have-not’s to take. The criterion of brains is better than the one of money, but” – he held his thumb and forefinger about a sixteenth of an inch apart – “about that much better.” “It’s about as rigid a hierarchy as you can get,” said Finnerty. “How’s somebody going to up his I.Q.?” “Exactly,” said Lasher. “And it’s built on more than just brain power – it’s built on special kinds of brain power. Not only must a person be bright, he must be bright in certain approved, useful directions: basically, management or engineering.” “Or marry someone who’s bright,” said Finnerty. “Sex can still batter down all sorts of social structures – you’re right,” Lasher agreed. “Big tits will get you in anywhere,” said Finnerty. “Well, it’s comforting to know that something hasn’t changed in centuries, isn’t it?” Lasher smiled. There was a mild commotion at the bar, and Lasher leaned out of the booth to see what was going on. “Hey,” he called, “Luke Lubbock – come over here.” Luke, the serious old man who had borne the elephant tusk at the head of the parade, came over from the bar, gulping his beer as he came, and looking nervously at the clock. He was perspiring and short of breath, like a man who’d been running. He had a large parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. Paul welcomed the opportunity to study Luke’s magnificent costume more closely. Like a stage set, it was designed to impress at a distance. Nearness showed that the splendor was a fraud of cheap cloth, colored glass, and radiator paint. At his waist was a jeweled poniard, basically plywood, with an owl on its hilt. Counterfeit rubies as big as robin’s eggs, mounted in golden sunbursts, were hung at random on the front of his lavender blouse. About the cuffs of his blouse and jade-green pantaloons were circlets of tiny bells, and – again – perched at the upturned tips of his golden slippers were a pair of miniature owls. “Luke, you look wonderful,” said Lasher. Luke’s eyes flashed agreement, but he was an important man, in too much of a hurry to respond to flattery. “It’s too much, too much,” he said. “Now I got to change so’s I can march with the Parmesans. They’re waiting up the street, and I got to change, and some damn fool’s locked hisself in the can, so I got no place to change.” He looked around quickly. “Would you let me do it in the booth, and kind of screen me?” “You bet,” said Finnerty. They let Luke squirm into the shadows of the booth, and Paul found himself keeping a playful, leering lookout for women. Muttering, Luke started to disrobe. He dropped his belt and poniard on the table, where they struck with an impressive thump. The glittering heap grew and grew, until, from a distance, it might have looked good enough to be at the end of a rainbow. Paul relaxed his vigil for an instant to glance at Luke, and he was shocked at the transformation. The man was in his underwear now, ragged and drab, and none-too-clean. And Luke had somehow shrunk and saddened and was knobbed and scarred and scrawny. He was subdued now, talking not at all, and meeting no one’s eyes. Almost desperately, hungrily, he ripped open the brown parcel and took from it a pale-blue uniform, encrusted with gold embroidery and piped in scarlet. He pulled on the trousers and black boots, and the jacket with its ponderous epaulets. Luke was growing again, getting his color back, and as he strapped on his saber he was talkative again – important and strong. He bundled up his other costume in the brown paper, left the parcel with the bartender, and rushed into the street, waving naked steel. A whistle blew, and the Parmesans fell in behind him, to be led to glorious exploits in a dreamworld those on the sidewalk could only speculate about. “Harmless magic: good, old-fashioned bunkum,” laughed Lasher. “Talk about your hierarchies: Luke, with an I.Q. of about 80, has titles that’d make Charlemagne sound like a cook’s helper. But that sort of business wears thin pretty quick for everybody but a few Luke Lubbocks. The lodge turnover is terrific.” He stood. “No more for me, thanks.” He rapped on the table. “But someday, gentlemen, someone is going to give them something to sink their teeth in – probably you, and maybe me.” “We’ll give them something to sink their teeth in?” said Paul. He noticed he was getting somewhat thick of speech. “You’ll be what they’ll get to sink their teeth in.” Lasher laid his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “One more thing: I want to be sure you understand that men really do worry about what there is for their sons to live for; and some sons do hang themselves.” “And this is as old as life itself,” said Paul. “Well?” said Lasher. “Well, it’s too bad. I’m certainly not overjoyed about it.” “You figure to be the new Messiah?” said Finnerty. “Sometimes I think I’d like to be – if only in self-defense. Also, it’d be a swell way to get rich. Trouble is, I can be sold or unsold on anything too easily. I enjoy being talked into something. Pretty shaky outlook for a Messiah. Besides, who ever heard of a short, fat, middle-aged Messiah with bad eyesight? And I haven’t got that common touch. Frankly, the masses give me a pain in the tail, and I guess I show it.” He made clucking sounds with his tongue. “I’m going to get myself a uniform, so I’ll know what I think and stand for.” “Or two – like Luke Lubbock,” said Paul. “All right, two. But that’s the absolute maximum any self-respecting human being ought to permit himself.” He sipped from Paul’s highball. “Well, good night.” “Have another,” said Finnerty. “No – I mean it. I don’t like getting tight.” “All right. I want to see you again, anyway. Where can I find you?” “Here, most likely.” He wrote an address on a paper napkin. “Or try here.” He looked closely at Finnerty. “You know, wash your face, and you might do real well as a Messiah.” Finnerty looked startled, and didn’t laugh. Lasher picked up a hard-boiled egg at the bar, crackled its shell by rolling it along the keyboard of the player piano, and walked out into the evening. “Magnificent, wasn’t he?” said Finnerty raptly. His gaze returned reluctantly from the door to Paul. Paul saw his eyes take on a glaze of ennui, of letdown, and he knew that Finnerty had found a new friend who made Paul look very pale indeed. “Your orders, gentlemen?” said a short, dark waitress, with a hard, trim figure. She looked at the television screen while waiting for them to reply. The sound never seemed to be turned on, only the video. An anxious young man in a long sports coat jiggled up and down on the screen, and blew through a saxophone. The saloon was filling up, and many of the flamboyantly and enigmatically costumed marchers had come in for refreshment, giving the place an atmosphere of international unrest and intrigue. One small young man in mufti, with immensely wise and large eyes, leaned back against the table in Paul’s and Ed’s booth and watched the television screen with what seemed to be more than routine interest. He turned casually to Paul. “What you think he’s playing?” “Beg pardon?” “The guy on television – what’s the name of the song?” “I can’t hear it.” “I know,” he said impatiently, “that’s the point. Guess from just seeing.” Paul frowned at the screen for a moment, tried to jiggle as the saxophonist jiggled, and to fit a song to the rhythm. Suddenly his mind clicked, and the tune was flowing in his imagination as surely as though the sound had been turned on. ” ‘Rosebud.’ The song is ‘Rosebud,’ ” said Paul. The young man smiled quietly. ” ‘Rosebud,’ eh? Just for laughs, want to put a little money on it? I’ll say it’s – um, ah, well – ‘Paradise Moon,’ maybe.” “How much?” The young man studied Paul’s jacket, and then, with slight surprise, his expensive trousers and shoes. “Ten?” “Ten, by God. ‘Rosebud’!” “What’s he say it is, Alfy?” called the bartender. “He says ‘Rosebud,’ I say ‘Paradise Moon.’ Turn her on.” The last notes of “Paradise Moon” blared from the loudspeaker, the saxophonist grimaced and backed off the screen. The bartender winked admiringly at Alfy and turned down the volume again. Paul handed Alfy the ten. “Congratulations.” Alfy sat down in the booth without being invited. He looked at the screen, blew smoke through his nose, and closed his eyes reflectively. “What you figure they’re playing now?” Paul decided to buckle down and get his money back. He looked hard at the screen, and took his time. The whole orchestra was in view now, and, once he thought he’d picked up the thread of a melody, he looked from musician to musician for confirmation. “An old, old one,” he said. ” ‘stardust.’ ” “For ten it’s ‘stardust’?” “For ten.” “What is it, Alfy?” called the bartender. Alfy jerked a thumb at Paul. “This kid’s fair. He says ‘stardust,’ and I can see where he gets it. He’s right about the oldy, but he picked the wrong one. ‘mood Indigo’ is the name.” He looked sympathetically at Paul. “It’s a tough one all right.” He snapped his fingers. The bartender twisted the volume knob, and “Mood Indigo” filled the air. “Wonderful!” said Paul, and he turned to Finnerty for confirmation. Finnerty was lost in his own thoughts, and his lips moved slightly, as though in an imaginary conversation. Despite the noise and excitement of Alfy’s performances, he apparently hadn’t noticed them. “A knack,” said Alfy modestly. “Like anything else: you know, keep at it long enough, and you surprise yourself. Couldn’t tell you – in real detail, you know – how I did it. Gets to be another sense – you kind of feel it.” The bartender, the waitress, and several other bystanders had fallen silent in order to hear Alfy’s words. “Oh, there’s some tricks,” said Alfy. “Watch the bass drum quiver instead of what the guy’s doing with the traps. Get the basic beat that way. Lot of people watch the traps, see, and the guy may be going off on a tangent. Things like that you can learn. And, you gotta know instruments – how they make a high note, how they make a low one. But that ain’t enough.” His voice took on a respectful, almost reverent tone. “It’s kind of spooky what else it takes.” “He does classical stuff too,” said the bartender eagerly. “Oughta see him with the Boston Pops on Sunday nights.” Alfy ground out his cigarette impatiently. “Yeah, yeah – classics,” he said, frowning, mercilessly airing his inner doubts about himself. “Yeah, I was lucky last Sunday when you saw me. But I ain’t got the repertory for that. I’m over my head, and you can’t pick up in the middle of the classics. And you play hell building a repertory of that stuff, when you gotta wait sometimes a year, two years, to see the thing twice.” He rubbed his eyes, as though remembering hours of concentration before a video screen. “You gotta see ’em plugged and plugged and plugged. And all the time new ones – and lots of ’em steals from oldies.” “Tough, eh?” said Paul. Alfy raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s tough – like anything else. Tough to be the best.” “There’s punks trying to break in, but they can’t touch Alfy,” said the bartender. “They’re good in their specialties – usually the quick killings,” said Alfy. “You know, the minute a new number’s out, they try and cash in on it before everybody’s seen it. But none of ’em’s making a living at it, I’ll tell you that. Got no repertory, and that’s what it takes to keep going day in, day out.” “This is your living?” said Paul. He hadn’t succeeded in keeping the sense of whimsey out of his voice, and quick resentment was all about him. “Yeah,” said Alfy coldly, “this is my living. A buck here, ten cents there -” “Twenty bucks here,” said Paul. This seemed to soften most of the expressions. The bartender was anxious to maintain a friendly atmosphere. “Alfy started out as a pool shark, eh, Alfy?” he said briskly. “Yeah. But the field’s crowded. Maybe room for ten, twenty guys going at it steady. There must of been a couple of hundred of us trying to make a go of it with pool. The Army and the Reeks and Wrecks were on my tail, so I started looking around for something else. Funny, without thinking much about it, I’d been doing this since I was a kid. It’s what I should of gone into right from the first. Reeks and Wrecks,” he said contemptuously, apparently recalling how close he came to being drafted into the R and R Corps. “Army!” He spat. A couple of soldiers and a large number of men from the Reeks and Wrecks heard him insult their organizations, and they did nothing but nod, sharing his contempt. Alfy looked at the screen. ” ‘Baby, Dear Baby, Come Home With Me Now,’ ” he said. “A newy.” He hurried to the bar to study the movements of the band more closely. The bartender rested his hand on the volume knob and watched anxiously for Alfy’s signals. Alfy would raise an eyebrow, and the bartender would turn up the volume. It would be on for a few seconds, Alfy would nod, and off it would go again. “What’ll it be, boys?” said the waitress. “Hmmm?” said Paul, still fascinated by Alfy. “Oh – bourbon and water.” He was experimenting with his eyes, and finding that they didn’t work too well. “Irish and water,” said Finnerty. “Hungry?” “Yeah – give us a couple of hard-boiled eggs, please.” Paul felt wonderful, at one with the saloon, and, by extension, with all humanity and the universe. He felt witty, and on the verge of a splendid discovery. Then he remembered. “Holy God! Anita!” “Where?” “At home – waiting.” Unsteadily, mumbling cheery greetings to all he passed, Paul got to the telephone booth, which reeked with a previous occupant’s cigar smoke. He called home. “Look, Anita – I won’t be home for supper. Finnerty and I got to talking, and -” “It’s all right, dear. Shepherd told me not to wait.” “Shepherd?” “Yes – he saw you down there, and told me you didn’t look like a man on his way home.” “When did you see him?” “He’s here now. He came to apologize for last night. Everything’s all ironed out, and we’re having a very nice time.” “Oh? You accepted his apology?” “Let’s say we arrived at an understanding. He’s worried that you’ll turn in a bad report on him to Kroner, and I did everything I could to make him think you were considering it seriously.” “Oh, now listen, I’m not going to turn in any bad report on that -” “It’s the way he plays. Fight fire with fire. I got him to agree not to spread any more tales about you. Aren’t you proud of me?” “Yeah, sure.” “Now you’ve got to keep working on him, keep him worried.” “Uh-huh.” “Now, you just go ahead and have a good time. It does you good to get away now and then.” “Yes’m.” “And please try to get Finnerty to move out.” “Yes’m.” “Do you think I nag you?” “No’m.” “Paul! Would you like it if I didn’t take an interest?” “No’m.” “All right. You just go ahead and get drunk. It’ll do you good. Eat something, though. I love you.” “I love you.” He hung up, and turned to face the world through the steamy window of the phone booth. Along with his feeling of dizziness was a feeling of newness – the feeling of fresh, strong identity growing within him. It was a generalized love – particularly for the little people, the common people, God bless them. All his life they had been hidden from him by the walls of his ivory tower. Now, this night, he had come among them, shared their hopes and disappointments, understood their yearnings, discovered the beauty of their simplicities and their earthy values. This was real, this side of the river, and Paul loved these common people, and wanted to help, and let them know they were loved and understood, and he wanted them to love him too. When he got back to the booth, two young women were sitting with Finnerty, and Paul loved them instantly. “Paul – I’d like you to meet my cousin Agnes from Detroit,” said Finnerty. He rested his hand on the knee of a fat and determinedly cheerful redhead sitting next to him. “And this,” he said, pointing across the table at a tall, homely brunette, “is your cousin Agnes.” “How do you do, Agnes and Agnes.” “Are you as crazy as he is?” said the brunette suspiciously. “If you are, I’m going home.” “Good, clean, fun-loving American type, Paul is,” said Finnerty. “Tell me about yourself,” said Paul expansively. “My name isn’t Agnes, it’s Barbara,” said the brunette. “And she’s Martha.” “What’ll it be?” said the waitress. “Double Scotch and water,” said Martha. “Same,” said Barbara. “That’ll be four dollars for the ladies’ drinks,” said the waitress. Paul handed her a five. “Holy smokes!” said Barbara, staring at the identification card in Paul’s billfold. “This guy’s an engineer!” “You from across the river?” said Martha to Finnerty. “Deserters.” Both girls moved away, and with their backs against the wall of the booth, they looked at Paul and Finnerty with puzzlement. “I’ll be go to hell,” said Martha at last. “What you want to talk about? I had algebra in high school.” “We’re just plain folks,” said Paul. “What’ll it be?” said the waitress. “Scotch, double,” said Martha. “Same,” said Barbara. “Come here, damn it,” said Finnerty, pulling Martha to his side again. Barbara still kept her distance from Paul and looked at him distastefully. “What are you doing over here – having a good laugh at the dumb bunnies?” “I like it over here,” said Paul earnestly. “You’re making fun of me.” “Honest, I’m not at all. Did I say anything that sounded like I was?” “You’re thinking it,” she said. “That’ll be four dollars for the ladies’ drinks,” said the waitress. Paul paid again. He didn’t know what to say next to Barbara. He didn’t want to make a pass at her. He simply wanted her to be friendly and companionable, and to see that he wasn’t a stuffed shirt at all. Far from it. “They don’t castrate you when they give you an engineering degree,” Finnerty was saying to Martha. “They might as well,” said Martha. “Some of the kids that come over from across the river – you’d think they were.” “After our time,” said Finnerty. “I meant they didn’t use to.” To build up more of an atmosphere of intimacy, rapport, Paul casually picked up one of the shot-glasses before Barbara and sipped at it. It then dawned on him that the shots of expensive Scotch, which had been arriving as though by bucket brigade, were no more than brown water. “Smooth,” he said. “So what am I supposed to do, have a nervous breakdown?” said Barbara. “Let me out.” “No, please, that’s all right. Just talk to me is all. I understand.” “What’ll it be?” said the waitress. “Scotch, double, with water,” said Paul. “Trying to make me feel bad?” “I want you to feel good. If you need money, I want to help.” He meant it with all his heart. “Suit yourself, plunger,” said Barbara. She looked restlessly about the room. Paul’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier and heavier as he tried to think of the phrase that would break the ice with Barbara. He folded his arms on the table top and, for just an instant’s rest, he laid his head on them. When he opened his eyes again, Finnerty was shaking him, and Barbara and Martha had gone. Finnerty helped him out onto the sidewalk for air. The out-of-doors was a nightmare of light and noise, and Paul could see that some sort of torchlight parade was under way. He burst into a cheer as he recognized Luke Lubbock, who was being borne by in a sedan chair. When Finnerty had established him back in the booth, a speech, the nugget of the whole evening’s nebulous impressions, composed itself in Paul’s mind, took on form and polish inspirationally, with no conscious effort on his part. He had only to deliver it to make himself the new Messiah and Ilium the new Eden. The first line was at his lips, tearing at them to be set free. Paul struggled to stand on the bench, and from there he managed to step to the table. He held his hands over his head for attention. “Friends, my friends!” he cried. “We must meet in the middle of the bridge!” The frail table suddenly lurched beneath him. He heard the splitting of wood, cheers, and again – darkness. The next voice was the bartender’s. “Come on – closing time. Gotta lock up,” said the bartender gently. Paul sat up and groaned. His mouth was dry, and his head ached. The table was gone from the booth, and there were only cracked plaster and boltheads to show where it had once been moored to the wall. The saloon seemed deserted, but the air was filled with a painful clangor. Paul peered out of the booth and saw a man mopping the floor. Finnerty sat at the player piano, savagely improvising on the brassy, dissonant antique. Paul shuffled over to the piano and laid his hand on Finnerty’s shoulder. “Let’s go home.” Finnerty continued to lash at the keys. “Staying!” he shouted above the music. “Go home!” “Where you going to stay?” Then Paul saw Lasher, who sat unobtrusively in the shadows, leaning against the wall in a chair. Lasher tapped his thick chest. “With me,” he said with his lips. Finnerty shook off Paul’s hand and wouldn’t answer. “O.K.,” said Paul fuzzily. “So long.” He stumbled into the street and found his car. He paused for a moment to listen to Finnerty’s hellish music echoing from the fa?ades of the sleeping town. The bartender stood respectfully at a distance from the frenzied pianist, afraid to interrupt.