Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Two

He didn't seem to be much of a lawyer, Norvie Bligh told himself on the way back to his office, but at least this fellow Mundin probably wouldn't charge much. Arnie had as much as promised him that; Arnie had said, "You go see my brother, Norvie. Del's quite an important man and, if you don't mind my saying so, one of the most powerful minds in government today. He'll put you on the track of somebody good. And he'll make the price right, too."

Anyway, who needed a legal eagle to put adoption papers through? The whole thing was pretty silly. If only Ginny weren't so touchy lately, you could explain to her that it was just an unwarranted expense, nobody was going to take Alexandra away from them; there wasn't even any question about inheriting if he died.

He tasted that for a moment. Virginia had certainly seemed to take that part of it seriously, he thought. She had mentioned it half a dozen times: "Don't forget to ask him about inheriting." And, of course, he had forgotten. Well, there would be another chance on Friday.

And you couldn't blame Virginia if she was a little, well, insecure. Life with that Tony must have been pure hell, living in Belly Rave from hand to mouth, no future, no security. That was why she was such a devoted wife now.

Of course she was a devoted wife now, he told himself.

Right now, though, the important thing was whether Candella was going to say anything about his being fifteen minutes late. Candella was pretty difficult lately. Of course, you couldn't blame him; he was naturally jumpy with the big fall Field Day coming up and all.

Of course you couldn't blame Candella. Of course you couldn't blame Virginia, or Arnie when his promises didn't jell, or Alexandra when she was a little touchy, like any ten-year-old, of course.

Of course you couldn't blame anybody for anything. Not if you were Norvell Bligh.

Fortunately, Candella didn't notice what time he came back from lunch. But in the middle of the afternoon his secretary came worriedly out to Norvie's desk and said, "Mr. Candella would like to discuss your Field Day program with you."

He went in with a feeling of uneasiness, well justified.

Old Man Candella slapped the papers down and roared:

"Bligh, maybe you think a Field Day is a Boy Scout rally where the kids shoot arrows and run footraces around the tennis court. Is that right? Maybe you think it's a Ladies' Aid pink tea. Maybe you just don't know what a Field Day is supposed to be, Bligh. Is that it?"

Norvie swallowed. "No, sir," he whispered.

" 'No, sir,'" Candella mimicked. " 'No, sir.' Well, if you do know what a Field Day is, why doesn't it show? Why isn't there at least one good, exciting idea in this whole bloody script? I take back that word 'bloody,' Bligh. I got to give you that, nobody would say this script was bloody. There might be some complaints in the other direction, but I guarantee there wouldn't be any complaints that there was too much blood." He jabbed at the program with a hairy forefinger. "Listen to this. 'Opening pageant: Procession of jeeps through gauntlet of spearmen. First spectacle. Fifty girl wrestlers versus fifty male boxers. First duet: Sixty-year-old men with blowtorches.' Ah, what's the use of going on? This is supposed to be the big event of the year, Bligh, did you know that? It isn't a Friday-night show in the off season. This is the one that counts. It's got to be special."

Norvie Bligh shifted miserably. "Gosh, Mr. Candella, I—I thought it was. It's a classical motif, do you see? It's like——"

"I can tell what it's like," Candella bellowed. "I've been producing these shows for fifteen years. I don't need anybody to tell me whether a script will play or it won't And I'm telling you this one won't." He stabbed a button on his console. Norvie felt the seat lurch warningly underneath him, and scrambled to his feet as it disappeared into the wall. 'Take this script away," Candella growled. "We've got to start casting on Monday. Let's see if we can have something above the level of an Odd Fellows' smoker tomorrow night." He didn't even look up as Norvie cringed out the door.

The whole afternoon was like that.

Norvie dictated and erased five tapes. He sent his three assistants on three different errands of research, to find the best spectacle on the highest-rated Field Days in every major city. Nothing they brought back was any help. When Miss Dali came in to pick up the afternoon's dictation and he had to face the fact that there was no afternoon's dictation, he grumbled to her:

"What do they expect in that moldy gym they call a stadium here? Look at Pittsburgh—we're twice as big, and they have armored halftracks."

"Yes, sir," said Miss Dali. "Mr. Stimmens would like to see you."

"All right," he said ungraciously, and dialed a chair for his junior scriptwriter.

"Excuse me, chief," Stimmens said hesitantly. "Can I see you for a moment?"

"You're seeing me," Norvie had picked that bon mot up from Candella the week before.

Stimmens hesitated, then spoke much too rapidly. "You've got a great organization here, chief, and I'm proud to be a part of it. But I'm having a little trouble—you know, trying to get ahead, hah-hah—and I wonder if it wouldn't be better for you chief, as well as me if——" He went through a tortuous story of a classification clerk's mistake when he finished school and an opening in Consumer Relations and a girl who wouldn't marry him until he got a Grade Fifteen rating.

Long before Stimmens had come anywhere near the point, Norvie knew what he wanted and knew what the answer had to be; but Candella's bruises were fresh on his back and he let Stimmens go on till he was dry. Then, briskly:

"Stimmens, if I'm not in error, you signed the regular contract before you joined us. It has——"

"Well, yes sir, but——"

"It has, I say, the usual provision for cancelation. I believe you know the company's policy in regard to selling contracts. We simply cannot afford to sell unless the purchase price is high enough to reimburse us for the employee's training time —which, I might say, in your case is all the time you've spent with us, since you have clearly failed to master your job. I'm surprised you come to me with a request like that."

Stimmens looked at him. "You won't let me go?"

"I can't let you go. You're at liberty to cancel your contract."

Stimmens laughed shortly. "Cancel! And go back to Belly Rave? Mr. Bligh, have you ever been in Belly Rave?" He shook his head like a man dispelling a nightmare. "Well, sorry, Mr. Bligh," he said. "Anything else for me to do today?"

Norvie looked undecided at his watch. "Tomorrow," he growled. As Stimmens slumped away, Norvie, already feeling ashamed of himself, petulantly swept the chair back into the wall.

It was almost quitting time.

He made a phone call: "Mr. Arnold Dworcas, please. Arnie? Hello; how're you? Fine. Say, I saw that attorney of your brother's today. Looks like everything will be all right. Uh-huh. Thanks a lot, Arnie. This evening? Sure, I was hoping you'd ask me. All right if I go home first?—Ginny'll want to hear about the lawyer. About eight, then. S'long. . . ."

Arnie Dworcas had a way of interminably chewing a topic and regurgitating it in flavorless pellets of words. Lately he had been preoccupied with what he called the ingratitude of the beneficiaries of science. At their frequent get-togethers he would snarl at Norvie:

"Not that it matters to Us Engineers. Don't think I take it personally just because I happen to be essential to the happiness and comfort of everybody in the city. No, Norvie, We Engineers don't expect a word of thanks. We Engineers work because there's a job to do, and we're trained for it. But that doesn't alter the fact that people are lousy ingrates."

At which point Norvie would cock his head a little in the nervous reflex he had acquired with the hearing aid and agree: "Of course, Arnie. Hell, fifty years ago when the first bubble-cities went up women used to burst out crying when they got a look at one. My mother did. Coming out of Belly Rave, knowing she'd never have to go back—she says she bawled like a baby when the domes came in sight."

And Arnie: "Yeah. Not that that's evidence, as We Engineers understand evidence. It's just your untrained recollection of what an untrained woman told you. But it gives you an idea of how those lousy ingrates nettled down and got smug. They'd change their tune damn fast if We Engineers weren't on the job. But you're an artist, Norvell. You can't be expected to understand." And he would gloomily drink beer.

Going home from work and looking forward to seeing his best friend later that night, Norvie was not so sure he didn't understand. He even felt a little grieved that Arnie had insisted on it. He even felt inclined to argue that he wasn't an artist like some crackpot oil painter or novelist in a filthy Belly Rave hovel, but a technician in his own right. Well, kind of; his medium was the emotional fluxes of a Field Day crowd rather than torques, forces, and electrons.

He had an important job, Norvie told himself: Associate Producer, Monmouth Stadium Field Days. Of course, Arnie far outstripped him in title. Arnie was Engineer Supervising Rotary and Reciprocal Pump Installations and Maintenance for Monmouth G.M.L. City. . . .

Not that Arnie was the kind of guy to stand on rank. Hell, look at how Arnie was always doing things for you—like finding you a lawyer when you needed one—and—well, he was always doing things for you. It was a privilege to know a man like Arnie Dworcas.

Knowing a fellow like Arnie made life a great deal more enjoyable for a fellow like Norvie.

Norvie smiled internally at the thought of Arnie, right up to the moment when he arrived at the door of his bubble-house and the scanner recognized him and opened the door, and he went in to join his wife and child.