We Can Build You

  “Guess so.”

  “We’re like gods,” Pris said, “in what we’ve done, this task of ours, this great labor. Stanton and Lincoln, the new race … and yet by giving them life we empty ourselves. Don’t you feel hollow, now?”

  “Heck no.”

  “Well, you’re so different from me. You have no real sense of this task. Coming here to this bar … it was a momentary impulse that you yielded to. Maury and Bob and your dad and the Stanton are back at MASA with the Lincoln—you have no consciousness of that because you want to sit in a bar and have a drink.” She smiled at me genially, tolerantly.

  “Suppose so,” I said.

  “I’m boring you, aren’t I? You really have no interest in me; you’re only interested in yourself.”

  “That’s so. I realize you’re right.”

  “Why did you say you wanted to know everything about me? Why did you say you were almost in love with me except that fear held you back?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Don’t you ever try to look yourself in the face and understand your own motives? I’m always analyzing myself.”

  I said, “Pris, be sensible for a moment. You’re only one person among many, no better and no worse. Thousands of Americans go to—are right now in—mental health clinics, get schizophrenia and are committed under the McHeston Act. You’re attractive, I’ll admit, but any number of movie starlets in Sweden and Italy are more so. Your intelligence is—”

  “It’s yourself you’re trying to convince.”

  “Pardon?” I said, taken aback.

  “You’re the one who idolizes me and is fighting against recognizing it,” Pris said calmly.

  I pushed away my drink. “Let’s get back to MASA.” The alcohol made my cut lip burn searingly.

  “Did I say the wrong thing?” For a moment she looked disconcerted; she was thinking back over what she had said, amending it, improving it. “I mean, you’re ambivalent about me …

  I took hold of her arm. “Finish your beer and let’s leave.”

  As we left the bar she said wanly, “You’re sore at me again.”

  “No.”

  “I try to be nice to you but I always rub people the wrong way when I make a deliberate effort to be polite to them and say what I ought to say … it’s wrong of me to be artificial. I told you I shouldn’t adopt a set of behavior-patterns that are false to me. It never works out.” She spoke accusingly, as if it had been my idea.

  “Listen,” I said, as we got back into the car and set out into the traffic. “We’ll go back and resume our dedicated task of making Sam Barrows the core of all that we do—right?”

  “No,” Pris said. “Only I can do that. That’s not within your power.”

  I patted her on the shoulder. “You know, I’m much more sympathetic to you, too, than I was. I think we’re beginning to work out a very good, wholesome, stable relationship between us.”

  “Maybe so,” Pris said, unaware of any overtone of sarcasm. She smiled at me. “I hope so, Louis. People should understand one another.”

  When we got back to MASA, Maury greeted us excitedly. “What took you so long?” He produced a piece of paper. “I sent a wire to Sam Barrows. Read it—here.” He pushed it into my hands. Uneasily, I unfolded the paper and read Maury’s writing.

  ADVISE YOU FLY HERE AT ONCE. LINCOLN SIMULACRUM INCREDIBLE SUCCESS. REQUEST YOUR DECISION. SAVING ITEM FOR YOUR FIRST INSPECTION AS PER PHONE CALL. EXCEEDS WILDEST HOPES. EXPECT TO HEAR FROM YOU WITHIN DAY.

  MAURY ROCK,

  MASA ASSOCIATES

  “Has he answered yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but we just phoned in the wire.”

  There was a commotion and Bob Bundy appeared. To me he said, “Mr. Lincoln asked me to express his regrets and find out how you are.” He looked pretty shaky, himself.

  “Tell him I’m okay.” I added, “And thank him.”

  “Right.” Bundy departed; the office door shut after him.

  To Maury I said, “I have to admit it, Rock. You’re onto something. I was wrong.”

  “Thanks for coming around.”

  Pris said, “You’re wasting your thanks on him.”

  Puffing on his Corina agitatedly Maury said, “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. I know we’ll get Barrows’ interest now. But what we have to be careful of—” He lowered his voice. “A man like that could sweep us aside like a lot of kindling. Am I right, buddy?”

  “Right,” I answered. I had thought of that, too.

  “He’s probably done it a million times to small operators along the way. We got to close ranks, all four of us; five, if you include Bob Bundy. Right?” He looked around at Pris and me and my dad.

  My dad said, “Maury, maybe you should take this to the Federal Government.” He looked timidly at me. “Hab’ Ich nicht Recht, mein Sohn?”

  “He’s already contacted Barrows,” I said. “For all we know, Barrows is on his way here.”

  “We could tell him no,” Maury said, “even if he shows up. If we feel this should go to Washington, D.C., instead.”

  “Ask the Lincoln,” I said.

  “What?” Pris said sharply. “Oh for god’s sake.”

  “I mean it,” I said. “Get its advice.”

  “What would a hick politician from the last century know about Sam K. Barrows?” Pris shot at me sardonically.

  In as calm a voice as possible I said, “Pris, watch it. Honest to god.”

  Maury said quickly, “Let’s not get to quarreling. We all have a right to express our opinions. I think we should go ahead and show the Lincoln to Barrows and if for some crazy reason—” He broke off. The office phone was ringing. Striding over he picked it up. “MASA ASSOCIATES. Maury Rock speaking.”

  Silence.

  Turning toward us Maury mouthed silently: Barrows.

  That’s it, I said to myself. The die is cast.

  “Yes, sir,” Maury was saying into the phone. “We’ll pick you up at the Boise airfield. Yes, we’ll see you there.” His face glowed; he winked at me.

  To my dad I said, “Where’s the Stanton?”

  “What, mein Sohn?”

  “The Stanton simulacrum—I don’t see it around.” Recalling its expression of hostility toward the Lincoln I got up and went over to where Pris stood trying to hear the other end of Maury’s phone conversation. “Where’s the Stanton?” I said loudly to her.

  “I don’t know. Bundy put it somewhere; it’s probably down in the shop.”

  “Wait a minute.” Maury lowered the phone. To me, with a strange expression on his face, he said, “The Stanton is in Seattle. With Barrows.”

  “Oh no,” I heard Pris say.

  Maury said, “It took the Greyhound bus last night. Got there this morning and looked him right up. Barrows says he’s been having a good long talk with it.” Maury covered the phone with his hand. “He hasn’t gotten our wire yet. It’s the Stanton he’s interested in. Shall I tell him about the Lincoln?”

  “You might as well,” I said. “He’ll be getting the wire.”

  “Mr. Barrows,” Maury said into the phone, “we just sent you a wire. Yes—we have the Lincoln electronic simulacrum operating and it’s an incredible success, even more so than the Stanton.” Glancing at me with an uneasy grimace he said, “Sir, you’ll be accompanied on the plane flight by the Stanton, will you not? We’re anxious to get it back.” Silence, and then Maury once more lowered the phone. “Barrows says the Stanton told him it intends to stay in Seattle a day or so and look at the sights. It intends to get a haircut and visit the library and if it likes the town maybe even think about opening a law office and settling down there.”

  “Christ’s cross,” Pris said, clenching her fists. “Tell Barrows to talk it into coming back here!”

  Maury said into the phone, “Can’t you persuade it to come with you, Mr. Barrows?” Again silence. “It’s gone,” Maury said to us, this time not covering the phone. “It said goodbye to Barrows and took off
.” He frowned, looking deeply distressed.

  I said, “Anyhow, finish up as to the flight.”

  “Right.” Maury drew himself together and again addressed the phone. “I’m sure the damn thing’ll be all right; it had money, didn’t it?” Silence. “And you gave it twenty dollars, too; good. Anyhow, we’ll see you. The Lincoln one is even better. Yes sir. Thanks. Goodbye.” He hung up and sat staring down at the floor, his lips twisting. “I didn’t even notice it was gone. You think it was sore about the Lincoln? Maybe so; it’s got one hell of a temper.”

  “No use crying over spilt milk,” I said.

  “True,” Maury murmured, chewing his lip. “And it’s got a battery good for six months! We may not see it until next year. My god, we’ve got thousands of dollars tied up in it—and what if Barrows is stringing us? Maybe he’s got the thing locked up in a vault somewhere.”

  “If he had,” Pris said, “he wouldn’t be coming here. In fact, maybe this is all for the good; maybe Barrows wouldn’t be coming here except for the Stanton, what it said and did—he got to see it and maybe the wire wouldn’t have brought him. And if it hadn’t run off and ditched him maybe he would have snared it and we’d be out in the cold; right?”

  “Yeah,” Maury agreed morosely.

  My dad said, “Mr. Barrows is reputable, isn’t he? A man with so much social concern as he expresses, this letter my son showed me about that housing unit with those poor people he’s protecting.”

  Maury nodded again, still morosely.

  Patting my dad on the arm Pris said, “Yes, Jerome; he’s a civic-minded fellow. You’ll like him.”

  My dad beamed at Pris and then at me. “It looks as if everything is turning out good, nicht wahr?”

  We all nodded, with a mixture of gloom and fear.

  The door opened and Bob Bundy appeared, holding a folded piece of paper. Coming up to me he said, “Here’s a note from Lincoln.”

  I unfolded it. It was a short note of sympathy:

  Mr. Louis Rosen.

  My Dear Sir:

  I wish to enquire of your condition, with hope that you have improved somewhat. Yours Truly,

  A. Lincoln

  “I’ll go out and thank him,” I said to Maury.

  “Do that,” Maury said.

  9

  As we waited in the cold wind at the concourse entrance for the flight from Seattle to land I said to myself, How’ll he differ from the other people?

  The Boeing 900 landed; it taxied along the runway. The ramps were run out, the doors opened, stewardesses helped people out, and at the bottom of each ramp airline employees made sure the passengers did not take pratfalls onto the asphalt ground. Meanwhile, luggage-carrying vehicles raced around like large bugs, and off to one side a Standard Stations truck had parked with its red lights on.

  Every sort of passenger started appearing, issuing forth from the plane at both doors and swarming rapidly down the ramps. Around us friends and relatives pushed forward and out as far onto the field as was allowed. Beside me Maury stirred restlessly.

  “Let’s get out there and greet him.”

  Both he and Pris started going, so I went along with them. We were halted by an airline official in a blue uniform who waved us back. However Maury and Pris ignored him; I did so, too, and we reached the bottom of the first class ramp. There we halted. The passengers, one by one, descended, some of them smiling, the businessmen with no expression on their faces. Some of them looked tired.

  “There he is,” Maury said.

  Down the first class ramp came a slender man in a gray suit, smiling slightly, his topcoat over his arm. As he got nearer to us it seemed to me that his suit fitted more naturally than the other men’s. No doubt custom-tailored, probably in England or Hong Kong. And he looked more relaxed. He wore greenish dark glasses, rimless; his hair, as in the photos, was cut extra short, almost a GI sort of crewcut. Behind him came a jolly-looking woman I knew: Colleen Nild, with a clipboard and papers under her arm.

  ‘Three in the party,” Pris observed. There was another man, very short, portly, in an ill-fitting brown suit with sleeves and trousers too long, a reddish-faced man with a Doctor Doolittle nose and long thinning lank black hair combed across his domed skull. He wore a stickpin in his tie, and the way he strode after Barrows with his short legs convinced me that here was an attorney; this was the way trial lawyers take off from their seat in court, like the manager of a baseball club striding out onto the field to protest a decision. The gesture of protest, I decided as I watched him, is the same in all professions; you get right out there, talking and waving your arms as you come.

  The lawyer was beaming in an alert, active fashion, talking away at a great rate to Colleen Nild; he looked to me to be a likable sort of guy, someone with enormous bouncy energy, just the sort of attorney I would have expected Barrows to have on retainer. Colleen, as before, wore a heavy blue-black quilted cloth coat that hung like lead. This time she was dressed up: she had on gloves, a hat, new leather mailpouch type purse. She was listening to the attorney; as he talked away he gestured in all directions, like an interior decorator or the foreman of a construction crew. Something about him gave me a friendly warm feeling and I felt less tense, now. The lawyer looked, I decided, like a great kidder. I felt I understood him.

  Now here came Barrows to the bottom of the ramp, his eyes invisible behind his dark glasses, his head down slightly so as to keep an eye on what his feet were doing. He was listening to the attorney. As he started out onto the field Maury stepped forward.

  “Mr. Barrows!”

  Turning and halting, moving out of the way so those behind him could step from the ramp, Barrows in one movement of his body lithely swiveled and held out his hand. “Mr. Rock?”

  “Yes sir,” Maury said, shaking hands. Colleen Nild and the attorney clustered around; so did I and Pris. “This is Pris Frauenzimmer. And this is my partner, Louis Rosen.”

  “Happy, Mr. Rosen,” Barrows shook hands with me. “This is Mrs. Nild, my secretary. This gentleman is Mr. Blunk, my counsel.” We all shook hands around. “Cold out here on the field, isn’t it?” Barrows started for the entrance of the building. He moved so swiftly that we all had to gallop after him like a flock of big awkward animals. Mr. Blunk’s short legs pumped away as in a speeded-up old movie; he did not seem to mind, however; he continued to radiate cheerfulness.

  “Boise,” he declared, gazing around him. “Boise, Idaho. What will they think of next?”

  Colleen Nild, falling in beside me, greeted me. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Rosen. We found the Stanton creature quite delightful.”

  “A fabulous construct,” Blunk boomed back at us; we were lagging behind. “We thought it was from the Bureau of Internal Revenue.” He gave me a hearty personal smile.

  Up front walked Barrows and Maury; Pris had dropped back because the concourse door was so narrow. Barrows and Maury passed on inside and Pris followed next, then Mr. Blunk, then Colleen Nild and I taking up the rear. By the time we had passed through the building and outside again onto the street entrance where the taxis waited, Barrows and Maury had already located the limousine; the uniformed driver was holding one of the rear doors open and Barrows and Maury were crawling inside.

  “Luggage?” I said to Mrs. Nild.

  “No luggage. Too time-consuming to wait for it. We’re only going to be here a few hours and then we’re flying back. Probably late tonight. If we should stay over we’ll buy what we need.”

  “Um,” I said, impressed.

  The rest of us also crawled into the limousine; the driver hopped around, and soon we were out in traffic, on our way into Boise proper.

  “I don’t see how the Stanton can set up a law office in Seattle,” Maury was saying to Barrows. “It’s not licensed to practice law in the State of Washington.”

  “Yes, I think you’ll be seeing it again one of these days.” Barrows offered Maury, then me, a cigarette from his case.

  Summing it up I decide
d that Barrows differed from the rest of us in that he looked as if he had grown his gray English wool suit the way an animal grows its fur; it was simply part of him, like his nails and his teeth. He was utterly unconscious of it, as well as of his tie, his shoes, his cigarette case—he was unconscious of everything about his appearance.

  So that’s how it is to be a multi-millionaire, I decided.

  A long jump from the bottom rung like myself, where the preoccupation is, I wonder if my fly is unzipped. That’s the dregs, people like me, stealing swift covert glances down. Sam K. Barrows never stole a covert look at his fly in his life. If it was unzipped he’d simply zip it up. I wish I was rich, I said to myself.

  I felt depressed. My condition was hopeless. I had not even gotten to the stage of worrying about the knot of my necktie, like other men. I probably never would.

  And in addition Barrows was a really good-looking guy, sort of Robert Montgomery-shaped. Not handsome like Montgomery; for now Barrows had removed his dark glasses and I saw that he had puffy wrinkled skin beneath his eyes. But he’s got that athletic build, probably from playing handball in a five thousand dollar private handball court. And he’s got a top-notch doctor who doesn’t let him swill cheap liquor or beer of any kind; he never eats in drive-ins … probably never eats any cut of pork, and only those eye lambchops, and only steak and roast type cuts of beef.

  Naturally he hasn’t got an ounce of extra flab on him, with a diet like that. It depressed me even more.

  Now I could see how those bowls of stewed prunes at six o’clock in the morning and those four-mile jogs through the deserted early dawn streets at five a.m. fitted in. The eccentric young millionaire whose picture appeared in Look was not going to drop dead at forty from heart trouble; he intended to live and enjoy his wealth. No widow would inherit it, contrary to the national pattern.

  Eccentric, hell.

  Smart.

  The time was a little after seven in the evening as our limousine entered Boise itself, and Mr. Barrows and his two companions announced that they had not eaten dinner. Did we know of a good restaurant in Boise?