“Sweet Apple,” Maury said to her, “we left the Edwin M. Stanton over at Louis’ dad’s house.”
Glancing up, she said, “Is it off?” Her eyes burned with a wild, intense flame, which both startled and impressed me.
“Pris,” I said, “the mental health people broke the mold when they produced you. What an eerie yet fine-looking chick you turned out to be, now that you’ve grown up and gotten out of there.”
“Thanks,” she said, with no feeling at all; her tone had, in former times, been totally flat, no matter what the situation, including big crises. And that was the way with her still.
“Get the bed ready,” I said to Maury, “so I can turn in.” Together, he and I unfolded the guest bed in the spare room; we tossed sheets and blankets on it, and a pillow. His daughter made no move to help; she remained in the living room snipping tile.
“How long’s she been working on that bathroom mural?” I asked.
“Since she got back from K.C. Which has been quite a while, now. For the first couple of weeks she had to report back to the mental health people in this area. She’s not actually out; she’s on probation and receiving out-patient therapy. In fact you could say she’s on loan to the outside world.”
“Is she better or worse?”
“A lot better. I never told you how bad she got, there in high school before they picked it up on their test. We didn’t know what was wrong. Frankly, I thank god for the McHeston Act; if they hadn’t picked it up, if she had gone on getting sicker, she’d be either a total schizophrenic paranoid or a dilapidated hebephrenic, by now. Permanently institutionalized for sure.”
I said, “She looks so strange.”
“What do you think of the tiling?”
“It won’t increase the value of the house.”
Maury bristled. “Sure it will.”
Appearing at the door of the spare room, Pris said, “I asked, _is it off?_” She glowered at us as if she had guessed we were discussing her.
“Yes,” Maury said, “unless Jerome turned it back on to discourse about Spinoza with it.”
“What’s it know?” I asked. “Has it got a lot of spare random useless type facts in it? Because if not my dad won’t be interested long.”
Pris said, “It has the same facts that the original Edwin M. Stanton had. We researched his life to the nth degree.”
I got the two of them out of my bedroom, then took off my clothes and went to bed. Presently I heard Maury say goodnight to his daughter and go off to his own bedroom. And then I heard nothing–except, as I had expected, the snap-snap of tile being cut.
For an hour I lay in bed trying to sleep, falling off and then being brought back by the noise. At last I got up, turned on the light, put my clothes back on, smoothed my hair in place, rubbed my eyes, and came out of the spare room. She sat exactly as I had seen her first that evening, yogi-style, now with an enormous heap of broken tile around her.
“I can’t sleep with that racket,” I told her.
“Too bad.” She did not even glance up.
“I’m a guest.”
“Go elsewhere.”
“I know what using that pliers symbolizes,” I told her. “Emasculating thousands upon thousands of males, one after another. Is that why you left Kasanin Clinic? To sit here all night doing this?”
“No. I’m getting a job.”
“Doing what? The labor market’s glutted.”
“I have no fears. There’s no one like me in the world. I’ve already received an offer from a company that handles emigration processing. There’s an enormous amount of statistical work involved.”
“So it’s someone like you,” I said, “who’ll decide which of us can leave Earth.”
“I turned it down. I don’t intend to be just another bureaucrat. Have you ever heard of Sam K. Barrows?”
“Naw,” I said. But the name did sound familiar.
“There was an article on him in _Look_. When he was twenty he always rose at five a.m., had a bowl of stewed prunes, ran two miles around the streets of Seattle, then returned to his room to shave and take a cold shower. And then he went off and studied his law books.”
“Then he’s a lawyer.”
“Not anymore,” Pris said. “Look over in the bookcase. The copy of _Look_ is there.”
“Why should I care?” I said, but I went to get the magazine.
Sure enough, there on the cover in color was a man labeled:
SAM K. BARROWS, AMERICA’S MOST ENTERPRISING
NEW YOUNG MULTI-MILLIONAIRE
It was dated June 18, 1981, so it was fairly recent. And sure enough, there came Sam, jogging up one of the waterfront streets of downtown Seattle, in khaki shorts and gray sweatshirt, at what appeared to be sunup, puffing happily, a man with head shining due to being smooth-shaven, his eyes like the dots stuck in a snowman’s face: expressionless, tiny. No emotion there; only the lower half of the face seemed to be grinning.
“If you saw him on TV–” Pris said.
“Yeah,” I said, “I saw him on TV.” I remembered now, because at the time–a year ago–the man had struck me unfavorably. His monotonous way of speaking. . . he had leaned close to the reporter and mumbled at him very rapidly. “Why do you want to work for him?” I asked.
“Sam Barrows,” Pris said, “is the greatest living land speculator in existence. Think about that.”
“That’s probably because we’re running out of land,” I said. “All the realtors are going broke because there’s nothing to sell. Just people and no place to put them.” And then I remembered.
Barrows had solved the real estate speculation problem. In a serks of far-reaching legal actions, he had managed to get the United States Government to permit private speculation in land on the other planets. Sam Barrows had singlehandedly opened the way for subdividers on Luna, Mars and Venus. His name would go down in history forever.
“So that’s the man you want to work for,” I said. “The man who polluted the untouched other worlds.” His salesmen sold from offices all over the United States his glowinglydescribed Lunar lots.
“‘Polluted untouched other worlds,’ “Pris mimicked. “A slogan of those conservationists.”
“But true,” I said. “Listen, how are you going to make use of your land, once you’ve bought it? How do you live on it? No water, no air, no heat, no–”
“That will be provided,” Pris said.
“How?”
“That’s what makes Barrows the great man he is,” Pris said. “His vision. Barrows Enterprises is working day and night–”
“A racket,” I broke in.
There was silence, then. A strained silence.
“Have you ever actually spoken to Barrows?” I asked. “It’s one thing to have a hero; you’re a young girl and it’s natural for you to worship a guy who’s on the cover of magazines and on TV and he’s rich and single-handedly he opened up the Moon to loan sharks and land speculators. But you were talking about getting a job.”
Pris said, “I applied for a job at one of his companies. And I told them I wanted to see him personally.”
“They laughed.”
“No, they sent me into his office. He sat there and listened to me for a whole minute. Then, of course, he had to take care of other business; they sent me on to the personnel manager’s office.”
“What did you say to him in your minute?”
“I looked at him. He looked at me. You’ve never seen him in real life. He’s incredibly handsome.”
“On television,” I said, “he’s a lizard.”
“I told him that I can screen dead beats. No time-wasters could get past me if I was his secretary. I know how to be tough and yet also I never turn away anyone who matters. You see, I can turn it on and off. Do you comprehend?”
“But can you open letters?” I said.
“They have machines who do that.”
“Your father does that. That’s Maury’s job with us.”
“And that’s why I’d never work for you,” Pris said. “Because you’re so pathetically small. You hardly exist. No, I can’t open letters. I can’t do any routine jobs. I’ll tell you what I can do. It was my idea to build the Edwin M. Stanton simulacrum.”
I felt a deep unease.
“Maury wouldn’t have thought of it,” Pris said. “Bundy– he’s a genius. He’s inspired. But it’s idiot savantry that he has; the rest of his brain is totally deteriorated by the hebephrenic process. I designed the Stanton and he built it, and it’s a success; you saw it. I don’t even want or need the credit; it was fun. Like this.” She had resumed her tilesnipping. “Creative work,” she said.
“What did Maury do? Tie its shoelaces?”
“Maury was the organizer. He saw to it that we had our supplies.”