“I am. But you have no instinct to sense it. That’s good, Louis. I’m the other way around; I have that instinct and I’m not good.”
“Good, schmood,” I said loudly. “Stop all this, Pris. You’re depressed because you’ve finished your creative work with the Lincoln, you’re temporarily at loose ends and like a lot of creative people you suffer a letdown between one–”
“There’s the doctor’s place,” Pris said, slowing the car.
After the doctor had examined me–and sent me off without seeing the need of stitching me up–I was able to persuade Pris to stop at a bar. I felt I had to have a drink. I explained to her that it was a method of celebrating, that it was something which had to be done; it was expected of us. We had seen the Lincoln come to life and it was a great moment, perhaps the greatest moment, of our lives. And yet, as great as it was, there was in it something ominous and sad, something upsetting to all of us, that was just too much for us to handle.
“I’ll have just one beer,” Pris said as we crossed the sidewalk.
At the bar I ordered a beer for her and an Irish coffee for myself.
“I can see you’re at home, here,” Pris said, “in a place like this. You spend a lot of time bumming around bars, don’t you?”
I said, “There’s something I’ve been thinking about you that I have to ask you. Do you believe the cutting observations you make about other people? Or are they just off-hand, for the purpose of making people feel bad? And if so–”
“What do you think?” Pris said in a level voice.
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you care anyhow?”
“I’m insatiably curious about you, for every detail and tittle.”
“Why?”
“You’ve had a fascinating history. Schizoid by ten, compulsive-obsessive neurotic by thirteen, full-blown schizophrenic by seventeen and a ward of the Federal Government, now halfway cured and back among human beings again but still–” I broke off. That was not the reason, her lurid history. “I’ll tell you the truth. I’m in love with you.”
“You’re lying.”
Amending my statement I said, “I _could_ be in love with you.”
“If what?” She seemed terribly nervous; her voice shook.
“I don’t know. Something holds me back.”
“Fear.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “Maybe it’s plain simple fear.”
“Are you kidding me, Louis? When you said that? Love, I mean?”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
She laughed tremulously. “If you could conquer your fear you could win a woman; not me but some woman. I can’t get over you saying that to me. Louis, you and I are opposites, did you know that? You show your feelings, I always keep mine in. I’m much deeper. If we had a child, what would it be like? I can’t understand women who are always having children, they’re like mother dogs . . . a litter every year. It must be nice to be biological and earthy like that.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “That’s a closed book to me. They fulfill themselves through their reproductive system, don’t they? Golly, I’ve known women like that but I could never be that way. I’m never happy unless I’m doing things with my hands. Why is that, I wonder?”
“No knowing.”
“There has to be an explanation; everything has a cause. Louis, I can’t remember for sure, but I don’t think any boy ever said he was in love with me before.”
“Oh, they must have. Boys in school.”
“No, you’re the first. I hardly know how to act. . . I’m not even sure if I like it. It feels strange.”
“Accept it,” I said.
“Love and creativity,” Pris said, half to herself. “It’s birth we’re bringing about with the Stanton and the Lincoln; love and birth–the two are tied together, aren’t they? You love what you give birth to, and since you love me, Louis, you must want to join me in bringing something new to life, don’t you?”
“Guess so.”
“We’re like gods,” Pris said, “in what we’ve done, this task of ours, this great labor. Stanton and Lincoln, the new race . . . and yet by giving them life we empty ourselves. Don’t you feel hollow, now?”
“Heck no.”
“Well, you’re so different from me. You have no real sense of this task. Coming here to this bar. . . it was a momentary impulse that you yielded to. Maury and Bob and your dad and the Stanton are back at MASA with the Lincoln–you have no consciousness of that because you _want_ to sit in a bar and have a drink.” She smiled at me genially, tolerantly.
“Suppose so,” I said.
“I’m boring you, aren’t I? You really have no interest in me; you’re only interested in yourself.”
“That’s so. I realize you’re right.”
“Why did you say you wanted to know everything about me? Why did you say you were almost in love with me except that fear held you back?”
“I dunno.”
“Don’t you ever try to look yourself in the face and understand your own motives? I’m always analyzing myself.”
I said, “Pris, be sensible for a moment. You’re only one person among many, no better and no worse. Thousands of Americans go to–are right now in–mental health clinics, get schizophrenia and are committed under the McHeston Act. You’re attractive, I’ll admit, but any number of movie starlets in Sweden and Italy are more so. Your intelligence is–”
“It’s yourself you’re trying to convince.”
“Pardon?” I said, taken aback.
“You’re the one who idolizes me and is fighting against recognizing it,” Pris said calmly.
I pushed away my drink. “Let’s get back to MASA.” The alcohol made my cut lip burn searingly.
“Did I say the wrong thing?” For a moment she looked disconcerted; she was thinking back over what she had said, amending it, improving it. “I mean, you’re ambivalent about me . . .”
I took hold of her arm. “Finish your beer and let’s leave.”
As we left the bar she said wanly, “You’re sore at me again.”
“No.”
“I try to be nice to you but I always rub people the wrong way when I make a deliberate effort to be polite to them and say what I ought to say . . . it’s wrong of me to be artificial. I told you I shouldn’t adopt a set of behavior-patterns that are false to me. It never works out.” She spoke accusingly, as if it had been my idea.
“Listen,” I said, as we got back into the car and set out into the traffic. “We’ll go back and resume our dedicated task of making Sam Barrows the core of all that we do– right?”
“No,” Pris said. “Only I can do that. That’s not within your power.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “You know, I’m much more sympathetic to you, too, than I was. I think we’re beginning to work out a very good, wholesome, stable relationship between us.”
“Maybe so,” Pris said, unaware of any overtone of sarcasm. She smiled at me. “I hope so, Louis. People should understand one another.”
When we got back to MASA, Maury greeted us excitedly. “What took you so long?” He produced a piece of paper. “I sent a wire to Sam Barrows. Read it–here.” He pushed it into my hands.
Uneasily, I unfolded the paper and read Maury’s writing.
ADVISE YOU FLY HERE AT ONCE. LINCOLN SIMULACRUM IN-
CREDIBLE SUCCESS. REQUEST YOUR DECISION. SAVING ITEM
FOR YOUR FIRST INSPECTION AS PER PHONE CALL. EXCEEDS
WILDEST HOPES. EXPECT TO HEAR FROM YOU WITHIN DAY.
MAURY ROCK,
MASA ASSOCIATES
“Has he answered yet?” I asked.
“Not yet, but we just phoned in the wire.”
There was a commotion and Bob Bundy appeared. To me he said, “Mr. Lincoln asked me to express his regrets and find out how you are.” He looked pretty shaky, himself.
“Tell him I’m okay.” I added, “And thank him.”
“Right.” Bundy departed; the office door shut after him. To Maury I said, “I have to admit it, Rock. You’re onto something. I was wrong.”
“Thanks for coming around.”
Pris said, “You’re wasting your thanks on him.” Puffing on his Corina agitatedly Maury said, “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. I know we’ll get Barrows’ interest now. But what we have to be careful of–” He lowered his voice. “A man like that could sweep us aside like a lot of kindling. Am I right, buddy?”
“Right,” I answered. I had thought of that, too.
“He’s probably done it a million times to small operators along the way. We got to close ranks, all four of us; five, if you include Bob Bundy. Right?” He looked around at Pris and me and my dad.
My dad said, “Maury, maybe you should take this to the Federal Government.” He looked timidly at me. “_Hab’ Ich nicht Recht, mein Sohn?_”