Time is the Simplest Thing

FIVE

The party was beginning to get noisy — not boisterous, but noisy. It was beginning to acquire that stale air of futility to which, in the end, all parties must fall victim. And there was something about it — about the sour smell of too many cigarettes, the chill of the canyon breeze through the open windows, the shrill and vacant sound of human chatter — that said it was getting late — late and time to go, although it really wasn’t. It wasn’t midnight yet.

The man named Herman Dalton stretched his long legs out, slumping in the chair, the big cigar thrust into one corner of his mouth, and his hair like a new-built brush pile from his running hands through it.

“But I tell you, Blaine,” he rumbled, “there’s got to be an end to it. The time will come, if something isn’t done, when there’ll be no such thing as business. Fishhook, even now, has driven us flat against the wall.”

“Mr. Dalton,” Blaine told him wearily, “if you must argue this, you should find someone else. I know nothing about business and even less of Fishhook despite the fact I work there.”

“Fishhook’s absorbing us,” said Dalton, angrily. “They’re taking away our very livelihood. They’re destroying a fine system of conventions and of ethics built very painfully through the centuries by men deeply dedicated to the public service. They are breaking down the commercial structure which has been built so carefully. They’re ruining us, slowly and inexorably, not all of us at once, but surely, one by one. There is the matter, for example, of this so-called butcher vegetable. You plant a row of seeds, then later you go out and dig up the plants as you would potatoes, but rather than potatoes you have hunks of protein.”

“And so,” said Blaine, “for the first time in their lives, millions of people are eating meat they couldn’t buy before, that your fine, brave system of conventions and of ethics didn’t allow them to earn enough to buy.”

“But the farmers!” Dalton yelled. “And the meat market operators. Not to mention the packing interests . . .”

“I suppose,” suggested Blaine, “it would have been more cricket if the seeds had been sold exclusively to the farmers or the supermarkets. Or if they were sold at the rate of a dollar or a dollar and a half apiece instead of ten cents a packet. That way we’d keep natural meat competitive and the economy safe and sound. Of course, then, these millions of people—”

“But you do not understand,” protested Dalton. “Business is the very lifeblood of our society. Destroy it and you destroy Man himself.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Blaine.

“But history proves the position of commercialism. It has built the world as it stands today. It opened up the new lands, it sent out the pioneers, it erected the factories and it—”

“I take it, Mr. Dalton, you read a lot of history.”

“Yes, Mr. Blaine, I do. I am particularly fond of—”

“Then, perhaps, you’ve noticed one other thing as well. Ideas and institutions and beliefs in time outlive their usefulness. You’ll find it in page after page of all our history — the world evolves and the people and their methods change. Has it ever occurred to you that business as you think of it may have outlived its usefulness? Business has made its contribution and the world moves on. Business is just another dodo. . . .”

Dalton came straight out of his slump, his hair standing straight on end, the cigar dangling in his mouth.

“By God,” he cried, “I believe you actually mean it. Is that what Fishhook thinks?”

Blaine chuckled dryly. “No, it’s what I think. I have no idea what Fishhook may be thinking. I am not in Policy.”

And that was the way it went, Blaine told himself. No matter where you went, that was the way it was. There was always someone who tried to root out a hint, a clue, a tiny secret that might pertain to Fishhook. Like a group of hopping vultures, like a bunch of peeping Toms — athirst to know what was going on, suspecting, perhaps, much more was going on than was actually the case.

The city was a madhouse of intrigue and of whispering and of rumor — filled with representatives and operatives and pseudodiplomats. And this gent in the chair across from him, Blaine speculated, was here to place a formal protest against some new outrage perpetrated upon some proud commercial unit by some new Fishhook enterprise.

Dalton settled back into his chair. He got a fresh and deadly grip upon the big cigar. His hair fell back again, it seemed, into some semblance of once having known a comb.

“You say you’re not in Policy,” he said. “I believe you told me you are a traveler.”

Blaine nodded.

“That means that you go out in space and visit other stars.”

“I guess that covers it,” said Blaine.

“You’re a parry, then.”

“I suppose you’d call me that. Although I’ll tell you frankly it is not a name that is regularly employed in polite society.”

The rebuke was lost on Dalton. He was immune to shame.

“What’s it like?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Dalton, I cannot begin to tell you.”

“You go out all alone?”

“Well, not alone. I take a taper with me.”

“A taper?”

“A machine. It gets things down on tape. It is full of all sorts of instruments, highly miniaturized, of course, and it keeps a record of everything it sees.”

“And this machine goes out with you—”

“No, damn it. I told you. I take it out with me. When I go out, I take it along with me. Like you’d take along a brief case.”

“Your mind and that machine?”

“That’s right. My mind and that machine.”

“Think of it!” said Dalton.

Blaine did not bother with an answer.

Dalton took the cigar out of his mouth and examined it intently. The end that had been in his mouth was very badly chewed. The end of it was shredded, and untidy strips hung down. Grunting with concentration, he tucked it back into his mouth, twirling it a bit to wind up the shreds.

“To get back to what we were talking about before,” he announced pontifically. “Fishhook has all these alien things and I suppose it is all right. I understand they test them rather thoroughly before they put them on the market. There’d be no hard feelings — no sir, none at all — if they’d only market them through regular retail channels. But they don’t do that. They will allow no one to sell any of these items. They’ve set up their own retail outlets and, to add insult to injury, they call these outlets Trading Posts. As if, mind you, they were dealing with a bunch of savages.”

Blaine chuckled. “Someone, long ago, in Fishhook must have had a sense of humor. Believe me, Mr. Dalton, it is a hard thing to believe.”

“Item after item,” Dalton raged, “they contrive to ruin us. Year by year they take away or cancel out commodities for which there was demand. It’s a process of erosion that wears away at us. There’s no vicious threat, there’s just the steady chiseling. And I hear now that they may open up their transportation system to the general public. You realize what a blow that would strike at the old commercial setup.”

“I suppose,” said Blaine, “it would put the truckers out of business and a number of the airlines.”

“You know very well it would. There isn’t any transportation system that could compete with a teleportive system.”

Blaine said: “It seems to me the answer is for you to develop a teleportive system of your own. You could have done it years ago. You’ve got a lot of people outside of Fishhook who could show you how it’s done.”

“Crackpots,” said Dalton viciously.

“No, Dalton. Not crackpots. Just ordinary people who have the paranormal powers that put Fishhook where it is today — the very powers you admire in Fishhook but deplore in your own people.”

“We wouldn’t dare,” said Dalton. “There’s the social situation.”

“Yes, I know,” said Blaine. “The social situation. Are the happy little mobs still crucifying them?”

“The moral climate,” conceded Dalton, “is at times confusing.”

“I should imagine so,” said Blaine.

Dalton took the cigar from his mouth and regarded it with something like disgust. One end of it was dead and the other badly frayed. After considering for a moment, he tossed it into a potted plant. It caught on the lower part of the greenery and dangled there obscenely.

Dalton leaned back and clamped his hands across his gut. He stared up at the ceiling.

“Mr. Blaine,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You’re a man of great discernment. And of integrity. And of a great impatience with fuddy-duddy thinking. You’ve brought me up short on a couple of matters and I liked the way you did it.”

“Your servant,” Blaine said, coldly.

“How much do they pay you?”

“Enough,” said Blaine.

“There’s no such thing as enough. I never saw a man—”

“If you’re trying to buy me, you’re out of your ever-loving mind.”

“Not buy you. Hire you. You know the ins and outs of Fishhook. You know a lot of people. In a consultive capacity, you’d be invaluable. We’d be very willing to discuss—”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Blake, “but I’d be entirely useless to you. Under the present circumstance, I’d be no good at all.”

For he’d been here for an hour and that was much too long. He’d eaten and he’d had a drink and he’d talked with Dalton — he’d wasted a lot of time on Dalton — and he must be getting on. For the word that he was here would filter back to Fishhook and before it did he must be far away.

There was a fabric rustle, and a hand fell on his shoulder. “Shep,” said Charline Whittier, “it was nice of you to come.”

He rose and faced her.

“It was good of you to ask me.”

She crinkled impish eyes at him. “Did I really ask you?”

“No,” he said. “Leave us be honest. Freddy dragged me in. I hope that you don’t mind.”

“You know you’re always welcome.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “There’s someone you must meet. You’ll forgive us, Mr. Dalton.”

“Certainly,” said Dalton.

She led Blaine away.

“You know,” he said, “that was rather rude of you.”

“I was rescuing you,” she told him. “The man’s a frightful bore. I can’t imagine how he got here. I’m sure I didn’t ask him.”

“Just who is he?” asked Blaine. “I’m afraid I never did find out.”

She shrugged bare and dimpled shoulders. “The head of some business delegation. Down here to cry out their broken hearts to Fishhook.”

“He indicated that much. He’s irate and most unhappy.”

“You haven’t got a drink,” said Charline.

“I just finished one.”

“And you’ve had something to eat? You’re having a good time? I have a new dimensino, the very latest thing. . . .”

“Maybe,” said Blaine. “Maybe later on.”

“Go and get another drink,” said Charline. “I must say hello to some other of my guests. How about staying after? It’s been weeks since I have seen you.”

He shook his head. “I’m more sorry than I can tell you. It was nice of you to ask.”

“Some other time,” she said.

She moved away, but Blaine reached out and stopped her.

“Charline,” he said, “did anyone ever tell you you’re an awfully good egg?”

“No one,” she told him. “Absolutely no one.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

“Now run along and play,” she said.

He stood and watched her move away into the crowd. Inside him the Pinkness stirred, a question mark implicit in its stirring.

Just a while, Blaine told it, watching the crowd. Let me handle it a little longer. Then we’ll talk it over.

And he felt the gratitude, the sudden tail-wag of appreciation for being recognized.

We’ll get along, he said. We’ve got to get along. We’re stuck with one another.

It curled up again — he could feel it curling up, leaving things to him.

It had been frightened to start with, it might become frightened again, but at the moment it was accepting the situation — and to it the situation, he knew, must seem particularly horrific, for this place was a far and frightening cry from the detachment and serenity of that blue room on the far-off planet.

He drifted aimlessly across the room, skirting the bar, pausing a moment to peer into the room which contained the newly installed dimensino, then heading for the foyer. For he must be getting on. Before morning light he either must be miles away or be well hidden out.

He skirted little jabbering groups and nodded at a few acquaintances who spoke to him or waved across the room.

It might take some time to find a car in which a forgetful driver had left the key. It might be — and the thought came with brutal force — he would fail to find one. And if that were the case, what was there to do? Take to the hills, perhaps, and hide out there for a day or two while he got things figured out. Charline would be willing to help him, but she was a chatterbox, and he would be a whole lot better off if she knew nothing of the matter. There was no one else he could think of immediately who could give him any help. Some of the boys in Fishhook would, but any help they gave him would compromise themselves, and he was not as desperate as all that. And a lot of others, of course, but each of them with an ax to grind in this mad pattern of intrigue and petition which surrounded Fishhook — and you could never know which of them to trust. There were some of them, he was quite aware, who would sell you out in the hope of gaining some concession or some imagined position of advantage.

He gained the entrance of the foyer and it was like coming out of some deep forest onto a wind-swept plain — for here the surflike chatter was no more than a murmuring, and the air seemed clearer and somehow a great deal cleaner. Gone was the feeling of oppression, of the crowding in of bodies and of minds, of the strange pulse beat and crosscurrent of idle opinion and malicious gossip.

The outer door came open, and a woman stepped into the foyer.

“Harriet,” said Blaine, “I might have known you’d come. You never miss Charline’s parties, I remember now. You pick up a running history of all that’s happened of importance and—”

Her telepathic whisper scorched his brain: Shep, you utter, perfect fool! What are you doing here? (Picture of an ape with a dunce cap on its head, picture of the south end of a horse, picture of a derisive phallic symbol.)

“But, you—”

Of course. Why not (a row of startled question marks)? Do you think only in Fishhook? Only in yourself? Secret, sure — but I have a right to secrets. How else would a good newspaperman pick up (heaps of blowing dirt, endless flutter of statistics, huge ear with a pair of lips flapping loosely at it)?

Harriet Quimby said, sweetly, vocally: “I wouldn’t miss Charline’s parties for anything at all. One meets such stunning people.”

Bad manners, said Blaine, reprovingly. For it was bad manners. There were only certain times when it was permissible to use telepathy — and never at a social function.

To hell with that, she said. Lay bare my soul for you and that is what I get. (A face remarkably like his with a thin, trim hand laid very smartly on it.) It is all over town. They even know you’re here. They’ll be coming soon — if they’re not already here. I came as fast as I could immediately I heard. Vocalize, you fool. Someone will catch on. Us just standing here.

“You’re wasting your time,” said Blaine. “No stunning people here tonight. It’s the poorest lot Charline has ever got together.” Peepers!!!!

Maybe. We have to take our chance. You are on the lam. Just like Stone. Just like all the others. I am here to help you.

He said: “I was talking to some business lobbyist. He was an awful bore. I just stepped out to get a breath of air.” Stone! What do you know of Stone?

Never mind right now. “In that case I’ll be going. No use to waste my time.” My car is down the road, but you can’t go out with me. I’ll go ahead and have the car out in front and running. You wander around awhile, then duck down into the kitchen (map of house with red guideline leading to the kitchen).

I know where the kitchen is.

Don’t muff it. No sudden moves, remember. No grim and awful purpose. Just wander like the average partygoer, almost bored to death. (Cartoon of gent with droopy eyelids and shoulders all bowed down by the weight of a cocktail glass he held limply in his hand, ears puffed out from listening and a frozen smile pasted on his puss.) But wander to the kitchen, then out the side door down the road.

“You don’t mean you’re leaving — just like that?” said Blaine. “My judgment, I can assure you, is very often bad.” But you? Why are you doing this? What do you get out of it? (Perplexed, angry person holding empty sack.)

Love you. (Board fence with interlocked hearts carved all over it.)

Lie. (Bar of soap energetically washing out a mouth.)

“Don’t tell them, Shep,” said Harriet. “It would break Charline’s heart.” I’m a newspaperman (woman) and I’m working on a story and you are part of it.

One thing you forgot. Fishhook may be waiting at the mouth of the canyon road.

Shep, don’t worry. I’ve got it all doped out. We’ll fool them yet.

“All right, then,” said Blaine. “I won’t say a word. Be seeing you around.” And thanks.

She opened the door and was gone, and he could hear the sound of her walking across the patio and clicking down the stairs.

He slowly turned around toward the crowded rooms and as he stepped through the door, the blast of conversation hit him in the face — the jumbled sound of many people talking simultaneously, not caring particularly what they said, not trying to make sense, but simply jabbering for the sake of jabber, seeking for the equivalent of conformity in this sea of noise.

So Harriet was a telly and it was something he would never have suspected. Although, if you were a news hen and you had the talent, it would make only common sense to keep it under cover.

Closemouthed women, he thought, and wondered how any woman could have managed to keep so quiet about it. Although Harriet, he reminded himself, was more newsman than she was woman. You could put her up there with the best of the scribblers.

He stopped at the bar and got a Scotch and ice and stood idly for a moment, sipping at it. He must not appear to hurry, he must never seem to be heading anywhere, and yet he couldn’t afford to let himself be sucked into one of the conversational eddies — there wasn’t time for that.

He could drop into the dimensino room for a minute or two, but there was danger in that. One got identified with what was going on too quickly. One lost one’s sense of time; one lost everything but the situation which dimensino created. And it often was disturbing and confusing to drop into the middle of it.

It would not be, he decided, a very good idea. He exchanged brief greetings with a couple of acquaintances; he suffered a backslapping reunion with a slightly inebriated gentleman he’d seen no longer than ten days before; he was forced to listen to two off-color stories; he went through a mild flirting routine with a simpering dowager who came charging out of ambush.

And all the time he moved steadily toward the door that led down to the kitchen.

Finally he arrived.

He stepped through the doorway and went casually down the stairs.

The place was empty, a cold, metallic place with the gleam of chrome and the shine of high utility. A clock with a sweep second hand hung upon one wall and its whirring sound hung heavy in the room.

Blaine placed his glass, still half full of Scotch, on the nearest table, and there, six strides away, across the gleaming floor, was the outside door.

He took the first two steps and as he started on the third a silent shout of warning sounded in his brain and he spun around.

Freddy Bates stood beside the huge refrigerator, one hand jammed deep into a jacket pocket.

“Shep,” said Freddy Bates, “if I were you, I wouldn’t try it. Fishhook has the place tied up. You haven’t got a chance.”