Pilgrimage to Earth

DISPOSAL SERVICE

The visitor shouldn’t have got past the reception desk, for Mr. Ferguson saw people by appointment only, unless they were very important. His time was worth money, and he had to protect it.

But his secretary, Miss Dale, was young and easily impressed; and the visitor was old, and he wore conservative English tweeds, carried a cane, and held an engraved business card. Miss Dale thought he was important, and ushered him directly into Mr. Ferguson’s office.

“Good morning, sir,” the visitor said as soon as Miss Dale had closed the door. “I am Mr. Esmond from the Disposal Service.” He handed Ferguson his card.

“I see,” Ferguson said, annoyed at Miss Dale’s lack of judgment. “Disposal Service? Sorry, I have nothing I wish disposed of.” He rose, to cut the interview short.

“Nothing whatsoever?” Mr. Esmond asked.

“Not a thing. Thank you for calling—”

“I take it, then, that you are content with the people around you?”

“What? How’s that any of your business?”

“Why, Mr. Ferguson, that is the function of the Disposal Service.”

“You’re kidding me,” Ferguson said.

“Not at all,” Mr. Esmond said, with some surprise.

“You mean,” Ferguson said, laughing, “you dispose of people?”

“Of course. I cannot produce any personal endorsements, for we are at some pains to avoid all advertising. But I can assure you we are an old and reliable firm.”

Ferguson stared at the neat, stiffly erect Esmond. He didn’t know how to take this. It was a joke, of course. Anyone could see that.

It had to be a joke.

“And what do you do with the people you dispose of?” Ferguson asked jovially.

“That,” Mr. Esmond said, “is our concern. To all intents and purposes, they disappear.”

Ferguson stood up. “All right, Mr. Esmond. What really is your business?”

“I’ve told you,” Esmond said.

“Come now. You weren’t serious...If I thought you were serious, I’d call the police.”

Mr. Esmond sighed and stood up. “I take it, then, you have no need of our services. You are entirely satisfied with your friends, relatives, wife.”

“My wife? What do you know about my wife?”

“Nothing, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Have you been talking to our neighbors? Those quarrels mean nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“I have no information about your marital state, Mr. Ferguson,” Esmond said, sitting down again.

“Then why did you ask about my wife?”

“We have found that marriages are our chief source of revenue.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with my marriage. My wife and I get along very well.”

“Then you don’t need the Disposal Service,” Mr. Esmond said, tucking his cane under his arm.

“Just a moment.” Ferguson began to pace the floor, hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t believe a word of this, you understand. Not a word. But assuming, for a moment, that you were serious. Merely assuming, mind you—what would the procedure be if I—if I wanted—”

“Just your verbal consent,” Mr. Esmond said.

“Payment”

“After disposal, not before.”

“Not that I care,” Ferguson said hastily. “I’m just curious.” He hesitated. “Is it painful?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Ferguson continued to pace. “My wife and I get along very well,” he said. “We have been married for seventeen years. Of course, people always have difficulties living together. It’s to be expected.”

Mr. Esmond’s face was expressionless.

“One learns to compromise,” Ferguson said. “And I have passed the age when a passing fancy would cause me to—to—”

“I quite understand,” Mr. Esmond said.

“I mean to say,” Ferguson said, “my wife can, of course, be difficult. Vituperative. Nagging. I suppose you have information on that’“

“None,” Mr. Esmond said.

“You must have! You must have had a particular reason for looking me up!”

Mr. Esmond shrugged his shoulders.

“Anyhow,” Ferguson said heavily, “I’m past the age when a new arrangement is desirable. Suppose I had no wife? Suppose I could establish a liaison with, say, Miss Dale. It would be pleasant, I suppose.”

“Merely pleasant,” Mr. Esmond said.

“Yes. It would have no lasting value. It would lack the firm moral underpinning upon which any successful enterprise must be based.”

“It would be merely pleasant,” Mr. Esmond said.

“That’s right. Enjoyable, of course. Miss Dale is an attractive woman. No one would deny that. She has an even temper, an agreeable nature, a desire to please. I’ll grant all that.”

Mr. Esmond smiled politely, stood up and started to the door.

“Could I let you know?” Ferguson asked suddenly.

“You have my card. I can be reached at that number until five o’clock. But you must decide by then. Time is money, and our schedule must be kept up.”

“Of course,” Ferguson said. He laughed hollowly. “I still don’t believe a word of this. I don’t even know your terms.”

“Moderate, I assure you, for a man in your circumstances.”

“And I would disclaim all knowledge of ever having met you, talked with you, anything.”

“Naturally.”

“And you will be at this number?”

“Until five o’clock. Good day, Mr. Ferguson.”

After Esmond left, Ferguson found that his hands were shaking. The talk had disturbed him, and he determined to put it out of his mind at once.

But it wasn’t that easy. Although he bent earnestly over his papers, forcing his pen to take notes, he was remembering everything Esmond had said.

The Disposal Service had found out, somehow, about his wife’s shortcomings. Esmond had said she was argumentative, vituperative, nagging. He was forced to recognize those truths, unpalatable though they might be. It took a stranger to look at things with a clear, unprejudiced eye.

He returned to his work. But Miss Dale came in with the morning mail, and Mr. Ferguson was forced to agree that she was extremely attractive.

“Will there be anything else, Mr. Ferguson?” she asked.

“What? Oh, not at the moment,” Ferguson said. He stared at the door for a long time after she left.

Further work was impossible. He decided to go home at once.

“Miss Dale,” he said, slipping on his topcoat, “I’m called away. I’m afraid a lot of work is piling up. Would it be possible for you to work with me an evening or two this week?”

“Of course, Mr. Ferguson,” she said.

“I won’t be interfering with your social life?” Ferguson asked, trying to laugh.

“Not at all, sir.”

“I’ll—I’ll try to make it up to you. Business. Good day.”

He hurried out of the office, his cheeks burning.

At home, his wife was just finishing the wash. Mrs. Ferguson was a small, plain woman with little nervous lines around her eyes. She was surprised to see him.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“Is there anything wrong with that?” Ferguson asked, with an energy that surprised him.

“Of course not—”

“What do you want? Should I kill myself in that office?” he snapped.

“When did I say—”

“Kindly don’t argue with me,” Ferguson said. “Don’t nag.”

“I wasn’t nagging!” his wife shouted.

“I’m going to lie down,” Ferguson said.

He went upstairs and stood in front of the telephone. There was no doubt of it, everything Esmond had said was true.

He glanced at his watch, and was surprised to find that it was a quarter to five.

Ferguson began to pace in front of the telephone. He stared at Esmond’s card, and a vision of the trim, attractive Miss Dale floated through his mind.

He lunged at the telephone.

“Disposal Service, Mr. Esmond speaking.”

“This is Mr. Ferguson.”

“Yes, sir. What have you decided?”

“I’ve decided...” Ferguson clenched the telephone tightly. He had a perfect right to do this, he told himself.

And yet, they had been married for seventeen years. Seventeen years! There had been good times, as well as bad. Was it fair, was it really fair?

“What have you decided, Mr. Ferguson?” Esmond repeated.

“I—I—no! I don’t want the service!” Ferguson shouted.

“Are you certain, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Yes, absolutely. You should be behind bars! Good day, sir!”

He hung up, and immediately felt an enormous weight leave his mind. He hurried downstairs.

His wife was cooking short ribs of beef, a dish he had never liked. But it didn’t matter. He was prepared to overlook petty annoyances.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, it must be the laundry,” Mrs. Ferguson said, trying simultaneously to toss a salad and stir the soup. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Glowing in his newfound self-righteousness, Ferguson opened the door. Two uniformed men were standing outside, carrying a large canvas bag.

“Laundry?” Ferguson asked.

“Disposal Service,” one of the men said.

“But I told you I didn’t—”

The two men seized him, and, with the dexterity of long practice, stuffed him into the bag.

“You can’t do this!” Ferguson shrieked.

The bag closed over him, and he felt himself carried down his walk. A car door creaked open, and he was laid carefully on the floor.

“Is everything all right?” he heard his wife ask.

“Yes, madam. There was a change in the schedule. We are able to fit you in after all.”

“I’m so glad,” he heard her say. “It was such a pleasure talking to your Mr. French this afternoon. Now excuse me. Dinner is almost ready, and I must make a phone call.”

The car began to move. Ferguson tried to scream, but the canvas pressed tightly against his face.

He asked himself desperately, who could she be calling? Why didn’t I suspect?