Steel: And Other Stories Page 13

  A tiny aperture opened in the heavy door, disclosing a single bespectacled eye. The eye blinked once and, with a faint accent Talbert could not recognize, whispered furtively, “Why did the widow wear black garters?”

  “In remembrance,” said Colonel Bishop with great gravity, “of those who passed beyond.”

  The door opened.

  The owner of the eye was tall, gaunt, of indeterminable age and nationality, his hair a dark mass wisped with gray. His face was all angles and facets, his eyes piercing behind large, horn-rimmed glasses. He wore flannel trousers and a checked jacket.

  “This is the Dean,” said Colonel Bishop.

  “How do you do,” said Talbert.

  “Come in, come in,” the Dean invited, extending his large hand to Talbert. “Welcome, Mr. Bean.” He shafted a scolding look at Bishop’s pistol. “Now, Colonel,” he said, “indulging in melodramatics again? Put it away, dear fellow, put it away.”

  “We can’t be too careful,” grumped the Colonel.

  Talbert stood in the spacious grace of the entry hall looking around. His gaze settled, presently, on the cryptic smile of the Dean, who said: “So. You have found us out, sir.”

  Talbert’s toes whipped like pennants in a gale.

  He covered his excitement with, “Have I?”

  “Yes,” said the Dean. “You have. And a masterful display of investigative intuition it was.”

  Talbert looked around.

  “So,” he said, voice bated. “It is here.”

  “Yes,” said the Dean. “Would you like to see it?”

  “More than anything in the world,” said Talbert fervently.

  “Come then,” said the Dean.

  “Is this wise?” the Colonel warned.

  “Come,” repeated the Dean.

  The three men started down the hallway. For a moment, a shade of premonition darkened Talbert’s mind. It was being made so easy. Was it a trap? In a second the thought had slipped away, washed off by a current of excited curiosity.

  They started up a winding marble staircase.

  “How did you suspect?” the Dean inquired. “That is to say—what prompted you to probe the matter?”

  “I just thought,” said Talbert meaningfully. “Here are all these jokes yet no one seems to know where they come from. Or care.”

  “Yes,” observed the Dean, “we count upon that disinterest. What man in ten million ever asks, where did you hear that joke? Absorbed in memorizing the joke for future use, he gives no thought to its source. This, of course, is our protection.”

  The Dean smiled at Talbert. “But not,” he amended, “from men such as you.”

  Talbert’s flush went unnoticed.

  They reached the landing and began walking along a wide corridor lit on each side by the illumination of candelabra. There was no more talk. At the end of the corridor they turned right and stopped in front of massive, iron-hinged doors.

  “Is this wise?” the Colonel asked again.

  “Too late to stop now,” said the Dean and Talbert felt a shiver flutter down his spine. What if it was a trap? He swallowed, then squared his shoulders. The Dean had said it. It was too late to stop now.

  The great doors tracked open.

  “Et voilà—,” said the Dean.

  * * *

  The hallway was an avenue. Thick wall-to-wall carpeting sponged beneath Talbert’s feet as he walked between the Colonel and the Dean. At periodic intervals along the ceiling hung music-emitting speakers; Talbert recognized the Gaieté Parisienne. His gaze moved to a petitpointed tapestry on which Dionysian acts ensued above the stitched motto, “Happy Is the Man Who Is Making Something.”

  “Incredible,” he murmured. “Here; in this house.”

  “Exactly,” said the Dean.

  Talbert shook his head wonderingly.

  “To think,” he said.

  The Dean paused before a glass wall and, braking, Talbert peered into an office. Among its rich appointments strode a young man in a striped silk weskit with brass buttons, gesturing meaningfully with a long cigar while, crosslegged on a leather couch, sat a happily sweatered blonde of rich dimensions.

  The man stopped briefly and waved to the Dean, smiled, then returned to his spirited dictating.

  “One of our best,” the Dean said.

  “But,” stammered Talbert, “I thought that man was on the staff of—”

  “He is,” said the Dean. “And, in his spare time, he is also one of us.”

  Talbert followed on excitement-numbed legs.

  “But I had no idea,” he said. “I presumed the organization to be composed of men like Bruin and Bullock.”

  “They are merely our means of promulgation,” explained the Dean. “Our word-of-mouthers, you might say. Our creators come from more exalted ranks—executives, statesmen, the better professional comics, editors, novelists—”

  The Dean broke off as the door to one of the other offices opened and a barrelly, bearded man in hunting clothes emerged. He shouldered past them, muttering true things to himself.

  “Off again?” the Dean asked pleasantly. The big man grunted. It was a true grunt. He clumped off, lonely for a veldt.

  “Unbelievable,” said Talbert. “Such men as these?”

  “Exactly,” said the Dean.

  They strolled on past the rows of busy offices, Talbert tourist-eyed, the Dean smiling his mandarin smile, the Colonel working his lips as if anticipating the kiss of a toad.

  “But where did it all begin?” a dazed Talbert asked.

  “That is history’s secret,” rejoined the Dean, “veiled behind time’s opacity. Our venture does have its honored past, however. Great men have graced its cause—Ben Franklin, Mark Twain, Dickens, Swinburne, Rabelais, Balzac; oh, the honor roll is long. Shakespeare, of course, and his friend Ben Jonson. Still farther back, Chaucer, Boccaccio. Further yet, Horace and Seneca, Demosthenes and Plautus. Aristophanes, Apuleius. Yea, in the palaces of Tutankhaumen was our work done; in the black temples of Ahriman, the pleasure dome of Kubla Khan. Where did it begin? Who knows? Scraped on rock, in many a primordial cave, are certain drawings. And there are those among us who believe that these were left by the earliest members of the Brotherhood. But this, of course, is only legend.…”

  Now they had reached the end of the hallway and were starting down a cushioned ramp.

  “There must be vast sums of money involved in this,” said Talbert.

  “Heaven forfend,” declared the Dean, stopping short. “Do not confuse our work with alley vending. Our workers contribute freely of their time and skill, caring for naught save the Cause.”

  “Forgive me,” Talbert said. Then, rallying, he asked, “What Cause?”

  The Dean’s gaze fused on inward things. He ambled on slowly, arms behind his back.

  “The Cause of Love,” he said, “as opposed to Hate. Of Nature, as opposed to the Unnatural. Of Humanity, as opposed to Inhumanity. Of Freedom, as opposed to Constraint. Of Health, as opposed to Disease. Yes, Mr. Bean, disease. The disease called bigotry; the frighteningly communicable disease that taints all it touches; turns warmth to chill and joy to guilt and good to bad. What Cause?” He stopped dramatically. “The Cause of Life, Mr. Bean—as opposed to Death!”

  The Dean lifted a challenging finger. “We see ourselves,” he said, “as an army of dedicated warriors marching on the strongholds of prudery. Knights Templar with a just and joyous mission.”

  “Amen to that,” a fervent Talbert said.

  They entered a large, cubicle-bordered room. Talbert saw men; some typing, some writing, some staring, some on telephones, talking in a multitude of tongues. Their expressions were, as one, intently aloft. At the far end of the room, expression unseen, a man stabbed plugs into a many-eyed switchboard.

  “Our Apprentice Room,” said the Dean, “wherein we groom our future…”

  His voice died off as a young man exited one of the cubicles and approached them, paper in hand, a smile tremulous on h
is lips.

  “Oliver,” said the Dean, nodding once.

  “I’ve done a joke, sir,” said Oliver. “May I—?”

  “But of course,” said the Dean.

  Oliver cleared viscid anxiety from his throat, then told a joke about a little boy and girl watching a doubles match on the nudist colony tennis court. The Dean smiled, nodding. Oliver looked up, pained.

  “No?” he said.

  “It is not without merit,” encouraged the Dean, “but, as it now stands, you see, it smacks rather too reminiscently of the duchess-butler effect, Wife of Bath category. Not to mention the justifiably popular double reverse bishop-barmaid gambit.”

  “Oh, sir,” grieved Oliver, “I’ll never prevail.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Dean, adding kindly, “son. These shorter jokes are, by all odds, the most difficult to master. They must be cogent, precise; must say something of pith and moment.”

  “Yes, sir,” murmured Oliver.

  “Check with Wojciechowski and Sforzini,” said the Dean. “Also Ahmed El-Hakim. They’ll brief you on use of the Master Index. Eh?” He patted Oliver’s back.

  “Yes, sir.” Oliver managed a smile and returned to his cubicle. The Dean sighed.

  “A somber business,” he declared. “He’ll never be Class-A. He really shouldn’t be in the composing end of it at all but—” He gestured meaningfully, “—there is sentiment involved.”

  “Oh?” said Talbert.

  “Yes,” said the Dean. “It was his great grandfather who, on June 23, 1848, wrote the first Traveling Salesman joke, American strain.”

  The Dean and the Colonel lowered their heads a moment in reverent commemoration. Talbert did the same.

  * * *

  “And so we have it,” said the Dean. They were back downstairs, sitting in the great living room, sherry having been served.

  “Perhaps you wish to know more,” said the Dean.

  “Only one thing,” said Talbert.

  “And that is, sir?”

  “Why have you shown it to me?”

  “Yes,” said the Colonel, fingering at his armpit holster, “why indeed?”

  The Dean looked at Talbert carefully as if balancing his reply.

  “You haven’t guessed?” he said, at last. “No, I can see you haven’t. Mr. Bean … you are not unknown to us. Who has not heard of your work, your unflagging devotion to sometimes obscure but always worthy causes? What man can help but admire your selflessness, your dedication, your proud defiance of convention and prejudice?” The Dean paused and leaned forward.

  “Mr. Bean,” he said softly. “Talbert—may I call you that?—we want you on our team.”

  Talbert gaped. His hands began to tremble. The Colonel, relieved, grunted and sank back into his chair.

  No reply came from the flustered Talbert, so the Dean continued, “Think it over. Consider the merits of our work. With all due modesty, I think I may say that here is your opportunity to ally yourself with the greatest cause of your life.”

  “I’m speechless,” said Talbert. “I hardly—that is—how can I…”

  But, already, the light of consecration was stealing into his eyes.

  LEMMINGS

  “Where do they all come from?” Reordon asked.

  “Everywhere,” said Carmack.

  They were standing on the coast highway. As far as they could see there was nothing but cars. Thousands of cars were jammed bumper to bumper and pressed side to side. The highway was solid with them.

  “There come some more,” said Carmack.

  The two policemen looked at the crowd of people walking toward the beach. Many of them talked and laughed. Some of them were very quiet and serious. But they all walked toward the beach.

  Reordon shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said for the hundreth time that week. “I just don’t get it.”

  Carmack shrugged.

  “Don’t think about it,” he said. “It’s happening. What else is there?”

  “But it’s crazy.”

  “Well, there they go,” said Carmack.

  As the two policemen watched, the crowd of people moved across the gray sands of the beach and walked into the water. Some of them started swimming. Most of them couldn’t because of their clothes. Carmack saw a young woman flailing at the water and dragged down by the fur coat she was wearing.

  In several minutes they were all gone. The two policemen stared at the place where the people had walked into the water.

  “How long does it go on?” Reordon asked.

  “Until they’re gone, I guess,” said Carmack.

  “But why?”

  “You ever read about the lemmings?” Carmack asked.

  “No.”

  “They’re rodents who live in the Scandinavian countries. They keep breeding until all their food supply is gone. Then they move across the country, ravaging everything in their way. When they reach the sea they keep going. They swim until their strength is gone. Millions of them.”

  “You think that’s what this is?” asked Reordon.

  “Maybe,” said Carmack.

  “People aren’t rodents!” Reordon said angrily.

  Carmack didn’t answer.

  They stood on the edge of the highway waiting but nobody appeared.

  “Where are they?” asked Reordon.

  “Maybe they’ve all gone in,” Carmack said.

  “All of them?”

  “It’s been going on for more than a week,” Carmack said. “People could have gotten here from all over. Then there are the lakes.”

  Reordon shuddered. “All of them,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Carmack, “but they’ve been coming right along until now.”

  “Oh, God,” said Reordon.

  Carmack took out a cigarette and lit it. “Well,” he said, “what now?”

  Reordon sighed. “Us?” he said.

  “You go,” Carmack said. “I’ll wait a while and see if there’s anyone else.”

  “All right.” Reordon put his hand out. “Goodbye, Carmack,” he said.

  They shook hands. “Goodbye, Reordon,” Carmack said.

  He stood smoking his cigarette and watching his friend walk across the gray sand of the beach and into the water until it was over his head. He saw Reordon swim a few dozen yards before he disappeared.

  After a while he put out his cigarette and looked around. Then he walked into the water too.

  A million cars stood empty along the beach.

  THE EDGE

  It was almost two before there was a chance for lunch. Until then his desk was snow-banked with demanding papers, his telephone rang constantly and an army of insistent visitors attacked his walls. By twelve, his nerves were pulled like violin strings knobbed to their tightest. By one, the strings drew close to shearing; by one-thirty they began to snap. He had to get away; now, immediately; flee to some shadowy restaurant booth, have a cocktail and leisurely meal; listen to somnolent music. He had to.

  Down on the street, he walked beyond the zone of eating places he usually frequented, not wishing to risk seeing anyone he knew. About a quarter of a mile from the office he found a cellar restaurant named Franco’s. At his request, the hostess led him to a rear booth where he ordered a martini; then, as the woman turned away, he stretched out his legs beneath the table and closed his eyes. A grateful sigh murmured from him. This was the ticket. Dimlit comfort, Muzak thrumming at the bottom fringe of audibility, a curative drink. He sighed again. A few more days like this, he thought, and I’m gone.

  “Hi, Don.”

  He opened his eyes in time to see the man drop down across from him. “How goes it?” asked the man.

  “What?” Donald Marshall stared at him.

  “Gawd,” said the man. “What a day, what a day.” He grinned tiredly. “You, too?”

  “I don’t believe—” began Marshall.

  “Ah,” the man said, nodding, pleased, as a waitress brought the martini. “That for me. Ano
ther, please; dryer than dry.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the waitress and was gone.

  “There,” said the man, stretching. “No place like Franco’s for getting away from it all, eh?”

  “Look here,” said Marshall, smiling awkwardly. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Hmmm?” The man leaned forward, smiling back.

  “I say I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”

  “I have?” The man grunted. “What’d I do, forget to shave? I’m liable to. No?” he said as Marshall frowned. “Wrong tie?”

  “You don’t understand,” said Marshall.

  “What?”

  Marshall cleared his throat. “I’m—not who you think I am,” he said.

  “Huh?” The man leaned forward again, squinting. He straightened up, chuckling. “What’s the story, Don?” he asked.

  Marshall fingered at the stem of his glass. “Yes, what is the story?” he said, less politely now.

  “I don’t get you,” said the man.

  “Who do you think I am?” asked Marshall, his voice rising a little.

  The man began to speak, gaped a trifle, then began to speak again. “What do you mean who do I—?” He broke off as the waitress brought the second martini. They both sat quietly until she was gone.

  “Now,” said the man curiously.

  “Look, I’m not going to accuse you of anything,” said Marshall, “but you don’t know me. You’ve never met me in your whole life.”

  “I don’t—!” The man couldn’t finish; he looked flabbergasted. “I don’t know you?” he said.

  Marshall had to laugh. “Oh, this is ludicrous,” he said.

  The man smiled appreciatively. “I knew you were ribbing me,” he admitted, “but—” He shook his head. “You had me going there for a second.”

  Marshall put down his glass, the skin beginning to tighten across his cheeks.

  “I’d say this had gone about far enough,” he said. “I’m in no mood for—”

  “Don,” the man broke in. “What’s wrong?”

  Marshall drew in a deep breath, then let it waver out. “Oh, well,” he said, “I suppose it’s an honest mistake.” He forced a smile. “Who do you think I am?”