Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Four

It had been a trying evening for Norvie Bligh. When he walked in on Virginia and the girl they had been perfectly normal—sullen. His news about the lawyer, Mundin, and the prospects of adopting Alexandra had produced the natural effect: "You forgot to ask about the inheritance. Leave it to Norvie! He'd forget his Social Security number if it wasn't tattooed on him."

Before he finished dinner he was driven to the point of getting up and stalking out.

It wasn't anything they said. It was just that neither of them said anything to him. Not even when, pushed past the threshold of control, he had shrieked at his wife and slapped the child.

But there was always Arnie.

He killed time for half an hour—Arnie didn't like it if you got there too early; hell, you couldn't blame him for that—and then hurried. He was almost out of breath as he got to Dworcas's door.

And Arnie was warmly friendly. Norvell began at last to relax.

It wasn't just a matter of plenty of beer and the friendly feeling of being with someone you liked. Arnie was going out of his way, Norvell saw at once, to get at the roots of Norvell's problems. As soon as they had had a couple of beers he turned the conversation to Norvell's work. "They must be really beginning to roll on the Field Day," he speculated.

Norvell expanded. "Sure. I've got some pretty spectacular things lined up for it, too," he said modestly. "Of course, Candella hasn't given me the final go-ahead"—he frowned at the submerged memory—"but it's going to be quite a program. One gets a big charge out of doing one's best on a big job, Arnie. I guess you know that. I remember a couple of years—"

Dworcas interrupted. "More beer?" He dialed refills. "Your place has quite a good reputation," he said with sober approval. "This afternoon, in the shop, We Engineers were talking about the technical factors involved."

"You were?" Norvell was pleased. "That's interesting, Arnie. This time I was talking about——"

"Especially the big shows," Dworcas went on. "The Field Days. Say, you know what would be interesting, Norvell? Getting a couple of the fellows to go to one, to see just how the thing looked from the engineering viewpoint. I'd like to go myself—if I could get away, of course; we're pretty busy these days. Might invite a few of the others to come along."

"You would?" Norvell cried. "Say, that would be fine. There's a lot of engineering connected with a Field Day. Like this time a couple of years——"

"Excuse me," Arnie interrupted. "Beer. Be right back."

While Dworcas was gone, Norvell felt actually cheerful. Arnie was so concerned with his work; you didn't find many friends like Arnie. Warmed by the beer, Norvell re-examined his recent blinding depression. Hell, things weren't too bad. Ginny was a bitch, he told himself. All right, so she's a bitch. Lots of men live with bitches and make out all right. Besides, if a woman's a bitch doesn't it say something about the man she's married to? And the kid, of course. Kids reflect what's around them. And as for Candella— he thought briefly about Candella, and retreated to the safer ground. Virginia. Suppose he went back home tonight, not saying a word of anger or reproach—— No, it was better to have things out. Well, suppose he went right up—she'd be asleep—well, went right up and woke her up. "Ginny," he could say, "we've made a lot of mistakes." Cancel that. "Ginny, I've made a lot of mistakes, but I love you. I want to live happily with you." He thought for a second, then amended it: "With you and Alexandra." Maybe he should wake up Alexandra too.

He had almost decided to have a swift cup of black coffee and go home when Arnie came back. Dworcas entered, beaming.

"Well, what say, Emotional Engineer? Want a couple of real live slide-rulers to look over your show?"

"What? Oh, sure, Amie. Just let me get this Field Day out of the way. We'll throw a real party—one of the Friday-night shows. There's a lot of complicated stuff under the stadium; you'd be interested——"

Dworcas was pursing his lips. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully, "if the fellows would be interested in one of the second-rate shows. Maybe we ought to skip it."

"No, no," Norvell said earnestly. "The regular shows are just as interesting technically. Why, just last week something came up. You'll be interested in this, Arnie. We had a broken-field run—barbed wire and castrator mines—and, half an hour before the show started, the director came around crying that he didn't have enough men for the spectacle. Well, Candella—that is, we—put in a quick call to the cops and they sent a squad down to Belly Rave. Got twenty-five volunteers in fifteen minutes. The orderlies lined 'em up and gave them million-unit injections of B1." He chuckled. "Arnie, you should have seen some of those guys when they sobered up. We——" Arnie was shaking his head. "I don't think you understand," he said seriously. "That sort of thing isn't what We Engineers are interested in. It's the big effects."

"Oh. You mean like in the Field Day next week." Norvell thought vaguely about the Field Day. "Yeah," he said uncertainly, "There certainly are plenty of headaches when you run a Field Day. Can I have another beer, please?"

As he dialed another glass, Dworcas said sunnily, "Suppose you can fit us in, then? After all, you've got eighty thousand seats. There ought to be five somewhere that the man who runs the whole damn thing can give to a friend."

"Sure," Norvell mumbled. "Uh—now it's my turn. Excuse me, Arnie. All right?"

When he came back the room wasn't spinning quite so dizzily, but the warmth in his body wasn't so gratifying either.

He stared so long at the glass of beer by his chair that Arnie thought it was flat and pressed a replenishment button. "Oh, thanks," Norvell said, startled.

He picked up the glass and took a sip, then put it down hard. Half of it slopped over. Over the whistle of the suction cleaners draining the spilled beer, Norvell said with sudden misery, "Arnie, I'm in trouble."

Dworcas froze. After a moment, he said carefully, "Trouble?"

"Yes, trouble. The dirtiest, damnedest, lowest-down trouble I've ever been in in my life. It scares me, Arnie. I swear to Cod, if it weren't for people like you—hell, if it weren't for you personally—I don't know what I'd do. Arnie, I think I'm going to go out of my head! It isn't just one thing, it's everything. The job, the wife, that slimy little kid—everything." He told Dworcas about the grisly dinner with his wife and stepdaughter; about the countless run-ins with Candella; about all of the fights and frustrations that had come to him. "The worst was this morning, just before I went to that lawyer. Candella— God, I could've killed him! Or myself. I was reaming out that little punk Stimmens when Candella walked into the room. He must've heard every word I said, because when I turned around and saw him he said, 'Excellent advice, Mr. Bligh, I hope you'll follow it yourself.' And Stimmens just stood there laughing at me. I couldn't do a thing. For two cents I would have gone in and asked him for my contract."

Dworcas nodded precisely. "Perhaps you should have," he said gravely.

"What? Oh, no, Arnie, you don't understand. General Recreations is lousy on that. They won't sell unless; they can get their pound of flesh and plenty more besides. We had a vice-president once, a couple of years ago, got in dutch with the board and wanted out. Well, they set a price of four hundred thousand dollars on his contract. He had some rich relatives, I guess, or anyway he got some money somewhere and tried to bribe another firm to buy him, but of course they wouldn't pay that kind of money. He had a family, couldn't give up his job, give up his house, just like that, you know. He killed himself, finally. It was that or cancel."

"That's a point to remember, Norvell. In any engineering problem there are always two components, at least, to any vector."

Norvell chewed his lip a second. "Oh, I see what you mean," he said unconvincingly. "There's no way out."

Dworcas shook his head. "No, Norvell, that's what I just said. There are always two ways out."

Norvell said, "Well——"

"At the shop," Arnie said, leaning back, "these problems don't arise, of course. Not like with you temperamental artists. But, of course, I know what I would do."

"What?"

"I don't want to interfere——"

Norvell sighed. "I guess you're right."

"—don't want to interfere in your life, but if it were my decision, I'd cancel."

Norvell goggled. He was suddenly sober.

"That's right, Norvell. I'd cancel."

Norvell looked at him unbelievingly, but Dworcas's gaze was grave and considerate—except, perhaps, for a tiny glint that was enjoying Norvell's consternation very much. Norvell looked away. He took a deep drink of his beer as Dworcas said:

"I know it's a tough decision to make, Norvell. Heaven knows, I'd find it hard to make myself without half an hour or more of serious thought. But what is your alternative?"

Norvell shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He put his beer down; neither man said a word for a long time, while Norvell's mind raced from Candella to Dworcas to the lawyer, Mundin, to Virginia to Stimmens to a fire-red mystery marked "Belly Rave" to the old man who had sat weeping out loud while he waited for the broken-field event to start; he had slid through the wire and missed every mine, but the man next to him wasn't so fortunate and the old man had fainted dead away when he heard the blast.

At last, with a sigh, Norvell surrendered to the terrifying theme.

"I don't think I ought to," he said faintly.

Dworcas inclined his head. "It's your decision, Norvell," he said courteously.

"I just don't see how I can, Arnie. I'd lose the house, Virginia would raise holy—"

Arnie stopped him. He shrugged. "You may be right. Who knows? There's certainly no security in the world for a man without a contract job. You'd have to leave your home, true, and move to the suburbs—" Norvell blinked "—at least temporarily. It's a hard life there. Hard work, few amusements, a constant challenge to prove yourself—to make your way in spite of hell or high water—or fall by the wayside." He looked speculatively at Norvell, and dismissed the subject. "Well," he said generously, "I just wanted to give you the benefit of my thinking on the point. You do as you see fit. I guess you'll want to be getting home."

"Sure," Norvell said. And remembering: "Oh, Arnie, I meant to thank you for steering me to that lawyer. I don't know what I would have——"

"Think nothing of it. I'm always glad to do anything I can for you, you know that. You won't forget about the tickets."

"Tickets?" Norvell asked wildly.

"The tickets for the Field Day. Not general admission, you know. As close to the Master's box as you can get them."

Norvell's eyes opened wide. He said in a thin voice, "Arnie, you were bragging to your boss that you could get tickets even though they've been sold out for six weeks. Isn't that it?" They stared nakedly at each other; then Norvell's eyes fell. "Just kidding," he mumbled. "I'll try to get them."

He got home, somehow. Virginia was still awake, but there was only a minor squabble over the music coming from behind Alexandra's locked door. Norvell made the mistake of commenting that it was past midnight, and a ten-year-old should—

His wife said raucously, "Should be this, and should be that, and should do everything Mr. Bligh wants her to. Sure! Norvie, did you ever stop to think that she's a person?! This whole house isn't organized around you, you know; it's our home too, and—

Norvell had had all he could take. He yelled, "It's our house now, but it's the company's house too, and one more word out of you and I give it back to them. Then you two prize packages from Belly Rave will be right back where you belong."

The words "Belly Rave" did it, more than the threat. Virginia's face stiffened in shocked surprise. Norvell stalked out and down the steps and poured himself a drink.

He sat with it in his hand for a long minute of wordless anger and finally set it down untasted. Belly Rave; hell, it couldn't be too bad. He looked in sudden wonder at the room around him.

Such a difference between a bubble-city G.M.L. house and Belly Rave? Why did they take it so hard? He decided he'd have to visit Belly Rave one of these days, anyhow. Not for anything nasty. Thank God he didn't care for that sort of thing. Just to get a look. But what could the difference be? A house was a house. It had warm resilient floors; it had walls; it had utilities. If you didn't like the floor warm you dialed it to cool. If you didn't like the wall color or pattern you turned the selector wheel to something else. If you didn't like a room plan you unclipped the wall and clipped it somewhere else. Hell, that's what a house was.

Norvell dialed a bed and set the house to full automatic. As he lay down his pillow chimed softly, but he didn't need sleepy music that night; with a curse, he reached over his head and turned it off. In the copper plexus at the house's core transistors pulsed; solenoids barred the doors; microswitches laid traps for intruders; thermocouples tasted the incoming air and cooled it an additional four degrees. Commutator points roved around a hidden dial until they reached the stations where a sweeping clock hand would boil the water for the coffee, heat the griddle for the eggs, set the breakfast dishes. But by then Norvell was already asleep.