The Man Who Japed

  “How did you meet her?”

  In the back of his mind Allen sensed that the enemy was closing in. There were many questions he couldn’t answer, questions for which no evasion would work. This was one of them.

  “I don’t remember,” he said, and saw the floor open to receive him. “Some mutual friends, maybe.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did you take a four-day trip with her?”

  “Prove that I did.” He had the way out of that, at least. “Is that in the report?”

  Mrs. Birmingham searched, and shook her head no.

  “Mr. A.P.,” the voice said, “I’d like to ask you this.” He couldn’t tell if this were the same accuser; warily, he assumed it was. “Two weeks ago, when you arrived home drunk. Had you been with this woman?”

  “No,” he said, which was true.

  “Are you positive? You had been alone at your office; you took a sliver to Hokkaido; you showed up several hours later clearly having had—”

  “I didn’t even know her then,” he said. And realized his utter and final mistake. But now, alas, it was too late.

  “You met her less than two weeks ago?”

  “I had seen her before.” His voice came out insect-frail, weak with awareness of defeat. “But I didn’t know her well.”

  “What happened between you and her during the last two weeks? Was that when the relationship grew?”

  Allen reflected at length. No matter how he answered, the situation was hopeless. But it was bound to end this way. “I’m not aware,” he said at last, half-idly, “that it ever grew, then or any other time.”

  “To you a relationship with a young woman not your wife that involves petting and fondling and the juxtaposition of bodies—”

  “To a diseased mind any relationship is foul,” Allen said. He got to his feet and faced the people below him. “I’d like to see who I’m talking to. Come on out from under your rock; let’s see what you look like.”

  The impersonal voice went on: “Are you in the habit of putting your hands on the bodies of young women with whom you happen, during the course of the day, to come in contact? Do you use your job as a means by which—”

  “I tell you what,” Allen said. “If you’ll identify yourself I’ll knock the living Jesus out of you. I’m fed-up with this faceless accusation. Obscene, sadistic minds are using these meetings to pry out all the sordid details, tainting every harmless act by pawing over it, reading filth and guilt into every normal human relationship. Before I step off this stage I have one general, theoretical statement to make. The world would be a lot better place if there was no morbid inquisition like this. More harm is done in one of these sessions than in all the copulation between man and woman since the creation of the world.”

  He reseated himself. No sound was audible anywhere. The room was totally silent. Presently Mrs. Birmingham said: “Unless anybody wishes to make any further statements, the Council will prepare its decision.”

  There was no response from the impersonal voice of “justice.” Allen, hunched over, realized that it had said not one word in his defense. Janet still sat like a stick of wood. Possibly she agreed with the accusations. At the moment it didn’t really matter to him.

  The council of ladies conferred for a period that seemed to him unnecessarily long. After all, the decision was foregone. He plucked at a thread on his sleeve, coughed, twisted restlessly on the chair. At last Mrs. Birmingham stood.

  “The block-neighbors of Mr. A.P.,” she stated, “regret that they are required to find Mr. A.P. to be an undesirable tenant. This exceptionally unfortunate is, since Mr. A.P. has been an exemplary tenant in this housing unit for many years, and his family before him. Mr. A.P., in point of fact, was born in the apartment he now holds. Therefore it is with deep reluctance that the Council, speaking for Mr. A.P.’s block-neighbors, declares his lease to be void as of the sixth day of November, 2114, and with even deeper reluctance petitions Mr. A.P. to remove his person, family, and possessions from these premises by that date.” Mrs. Birmingham was silent a moment and then concluded: “It is also hoped that Mr. A.P. will understand that given the circumstances the Council and his block-neighbors had no choice in the matter, and that they wish him the best of personal luck. In addition, the Council wishes to make clear its conviction that Mr. A.P. is a man of greatest fortitude and perseverance, and it is the Council’s belief that Mr. A.P. will surmount this temporary difficulty.”

  Allen laughed out loud.

  Mrs. Birmingham glanced at him quizzically, then folded up her statement and stepped back. Allen walked from the stage, down the steps and across the crowded room to the table at which his wife sat.

  “Come on,” he said to her. “We might as, well leave.”

  As the two of them pushed outside they heard Mrs. Birmingham droning into the next indictment.

  “We will now undertake the case of R.P., a boy, age nine, who did willingly and knowingly on the morning of October 21, 2114, scrawl certain pornographic words on the wall of the community bathroom of the second floor of this housing unit.”

  “Well,” Allen said to his wife, as the door was locked after them, “that’s that.”

  She nodded.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “It seems so unreal.”

  “It’s real. We have two weeks to get out. Temporary difficulty.” He shook his head. “What a travesty.”

  Loitering in the corridor was Mr. Wales, a folded newspaper under his arm. As soon as he saw Allen and Janet he walked hesitantly forward. “Mr. Purcell.”

  Allen halted. “Hello, Mr. Wales. We missed you.”

  “I wasn’t in there.” Mr. Wales seemed both apologetic and animated. “Mr. Purcell, my new lease came through. That’s why I wasn’t there; I’m not part of this unit any more.”

  “Oh,” Allen said. So they hadn’t eased him out; they had bought up a superior lease and presented it to him. Presumably Mr. Wales was ignorant of the purpose of his good fortune; after all, he had his own problems.

  “What was it like in there?” Mr. Wales asked. “Somebody told me you were up again.”

  “I was,” Allen admitted.

  “Serious?” Mr. Wales was concerned.

  “Not too serious.” Allen patted the little fellow on the arm. “It’s all over now.”

  “I hope because I wasn’t—”

  “Made no difference at all. But thanks anyhow.”

  They shook hands. “Drop by and see us,” Mr. Wales said. “My wife and I. We’d be glad to have you.”

  “Okay,” Allen said, “we’ll do that. When we’re in the neighborhood.”

  After returning Janet to the apartment, Allen walked the long way to Telemedia and his new office. His staff was subdued; they greeted him and swiftly returned to their work. His two-hour absence testified to a block meeting; they all knew where he had been.

  In his office he examined a summary of the day’s schedule. The tree packet was in process, and for that he was glad. He called a few T-M officials in, discussed technical problems, then sat alone for awhile, smoking and meditating.

  At eleven-thirty Mrs. Sue Frost, in a long coat, looking handsome and efficient, bustled cheerfully in to pay a visit.

  “I won’t take up much of your time,” she announced. “I realize how busy you are.”

  “Just sitting here,” he murmured. But she went on:

  “We were wondering if you and your wife are free, tonight. I’m having a little Juggle get-together at my place, just a few people; we’d particularly like you two to be there. Mavis will be there, so will Mrs. Hoyt and perhaps—”

  He interrupted: “You want my resignation? Is that it?”

  Flushing, she said: “As long as we’re going to be getting together I thought it might be a good opportunity to discuss further some of the—”

  “Let’s have a direct answer,” he said.

  “All right,” she
said. In a tight, controlled voice she said, “We’d like your written resignation.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  He said, “You mean now?”

  With almost perfect composure Sue Frost said, “Yes. If it’s convenient.”

  “What if it isn’t?”

  For a moment she did not seem to understand.

  “I mean,” he said, “what if I refuse to resign?”

  “Then,” she said, facing him calmly, “you’ll be discharged.”

  “As of when?”

  Now, for the first time, she floundered. “Mrs. Hoyt will have to approve. As a matter of fact—”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “it takes full Committee action. My lease is good until the sixth and it’ll be at least that long before you can legally get me out of T-M. Meanwhile I’m still Director. If you want me you can call me here at my office.”

  “You’re serious?” she said, in a strained voice.

  “I am,” Allen said. “Has this ever happened before?”

  “N-no.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He picked up some papers from his desk and began to study them; in the time he had left there was a great deal of work to be done.

  20

  All alone, Mr. Wales surveyed his new apartment in unit R6 of leasing zone 28. A life-long dream was fulfilled. He had advanced not one but two zones toward omphalos. The Housing Authority had investigated his petition, seen the utter virtue of his life, his devotion to public good.

  Moving about the room, Mr. Wales touched walls, the floor, gazed out the window, inspected the closet. He ran his hands over the stove, marveling at his gain. The former tenants had even left their Edufactured objects: clock, shaving wand, small appliances.

  To Mr. Wales it seemed unbelievable that his trivial person had been recognized. Petitions lay in ten-foot heaps on the desks at the Housing Authority. Surely there was a God. Surely this proved that the gentle and the meek, the unassuming won out in the end.

  Seating himself, Mr. Wales opened a package and brought forth a vase. He had acquired it as a gift for his wife, a celebration present. The vase was green and blue and speckled with light. Mr. Wales turned it around, blew on the smooth glazed surface, held it tightly in his hands.

  Then he thought about Mr. Purcell. He remembered all the times Mr. Purcell had stuck up for victims in the weekly block meetings. All the kind words he had put in. The encouragement he had given the tormented in their trial.

  Mr. Wales thought how Allen Purcell must have looked coming up before the last block meeting. The dogs tearing at him. The female bitches guzzling at his throat.

  Suddenly Mr. Wales shouted: “I betrayed him! I let them crucify him!”

  Anguished, he rocked back and forth. Then he sprang to his feet and hurled the vase against the wall. The vase burst, and bits of green and blue and speckled light danced around him.

  “I’m a Judas,” Mr. Wales said to himself. He covered his eyes with his fingers so he would not have to look at the apartment. He hated the apartment. Now he had what he had always wanted, and he didn’t want it.

  “I’ve changed my mind!” he shouted. But nobody heard him. “You can have it back!”

  The room was silent.

  “Go away!” Mr. Wales cried.

  He opened his eyes. The room was still there. It did not respond; it did not leave.

  Mr. Wales began gathering up the fragments of vase. The bits of glass cut his fingers. He was glad.

  21

  The next morning Allen arrived promptly at eight o’clock at his office in the Telemedia building. As the staff appeared for work, he called them into his office until all thirty-three of them were present. The hundreds of assignment workers continued at their desks throughout the building as Allen addressed their executive department heads.

  “Yesterday my resignation was requested. It’s involved with the fracas that took place here Monday afternoon. I refused to resign, so I’m still Director, at least until the Committee can assemble and fire me.”

  The staff took the news with aplomb. One member, head of the layout department, asked: “How long will you remain in your estimation?”

  “A week or so,” Allen answered. “Maybe a little longer.”

  “And you intend to continue work during that time?”

  “I’ll work to the best of my ability,” Allen said. “There’s plenty to do and I want to get into it. But you’re entitled to know the situation.”

  Another member of the staff, a trim woman with glasses, asked: “You’re the legal Director, is that correct? Until they fire you—”

  “Until dismissal papers are served, I’m the sole legal Director of this Trust; I’m your boss, with the powers implicit and explicit in that capacity. Naturally my policies here will be highly suspect. Probably the next Director will cancel them all, straight across the board.”

  The staff murmured among themselves.

  “You should meditate over that,” Allen said, “as I give you your assignments. How much trouble you’ll get into for obeying and working with me I can’t say. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the next Director will fire the lot of you. Probably not.”

  “It’s unlikely,” a staff member said.

  “I’m going to give you a few hours to talk it over among yourselves. Let’s say until noon. Those of you who would prefer not to take the risk can go home and wait out the period of my directorship. I’m positive that won’t get you into trouble with the Committee; they may even suggest it.”

  One staff member asked: “What are your policies going to be? Maybe we should hear them before we decide.”

  “I don’t think you should,” Allen said. “You should make your decision on other grounds. If you stay, you’ll have to follow my orders no matter what they are. This is the important thing for you to decide: do you care to work for a man who’s out of favor?”

  The staff left his office, and he was alone. Outside in the corridor their mumbles reached him dully through the closed door.

  By noon virtually all the department heads had discreetly gone home. He was without an executive staff. The various operations went on, but the ranks were thinning. An unearthly loneliness hung around the building. The din of machines echoed in the empty offices and halls, and nobody seemed to feel like talking.

  To the intercom he said: “Vivian, come in here a moment.”

  A rather drab young woman entered with pencil and pad.

  “Yes, Mr. Purcell. My name is Nan, Mr. Purcell. Vivian left.”

  “You’re staying?” he asked.

  “Yes sir.” She put on her thick glasses and made ready to take dictation.

  “I want you to canvass the departments. It’s noon, so presumably those remaining will be with us during the next week. Find out where the depletions are.”

  “Yes sir.” She scribbled notes.

  “Specifically I’ll need to know which departments can function and which can’t. Then send me the highest ranking staff member left. If no staff members are left, send in whoever you think is most familiar with general operations.”

  “Yes sir.” She departed. An hour later a tall, gangling middle-aged party entered shyly.

  “Mr. Purcell,” he said. “I’m Gleeby. They said you wanted me. I’m head of music.” He tilted his right ear with his thumb, conveying the interesting bit of news that he was deaf.

  “Sit down,” Allen said, pleased by the man, and pleased, also, that one of the staff remained. “You were in here at eight? You heard my speech?”

  “Yes. I heard.” Evidently the man lip-read.

  “Well? Can we function?”

  Gleeby pondered and lit his pipe. “Well, that’s hard to say. Some departments are virtually closed down. We can redistribute personnel. Try to even up the losses. Fill in some of the widest gaps.”

  Allen asked: “Are you really prepared to carry out my orders?”

  “Yes. I am.” Gleeby suck
ed on his pipe.

  “You may be held Morecly responsible.”

  “I’d become psychotic loafing around my apartment a week. You don’t know my wife.”

  “Who here does the research?”

  Gleeby was puzzled. “The Agencies handle that.”

  “I mean real research. Checking for historical accuracy. Isn’t machinery set up to go over projections point by point?”

  “A gal named Phyllis Frame does that. She’s been around here thirty years. Has a big desk down in the basement, millions of files and records.”

  “Did she leave? If not, send her up.”

  Miss Frame hadn’t left, and presently she appeared. She was a heavy, sturdy-looking, iron-haired lady, formidable and taciturn. “You wanted me, Director?”

  “Be seated.” He offered her his cigarette case, which she declined. “You understand the situation?”

  “What situation?”

  He explained. “So bear that in mind.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind. What is it you want? I’m in a hurry to get back to my work.”

  “I want,” Allen said, “a complete profile of Major Streiter. Not derived from packets or projections, but the actual facts as are known about his life, habits, character, and so forth. I want unbiased material. No opinions. Material that is totally authentic.”

  “Yes, Director.”

  “How soon can you have the profile?”

  “By six.” She was starting from the office. “Should this project include material on the Major’s immediate family?”

  Allen was impressed. “Yes. Very good.”

  “Thank you, Director.” The door closed and she was gone.

  At two o’clock Gleeby re-appeared with the final list of workers remaining. “We could be worse off. But there’s almost nobody capable of making decisions.” He rattled the list. “Give these people something to do and they’ll go into action. But what’ll we give them?”

  “I have some ideas,” Allen said.

  After Gleeby had left the office, Allen phoned his old Agency.

  “I have vacancies here,” he said, “that need to be filled. I think I’ll draw from the Agency. I’ll put our people on the T-M payroll and try to get funds from the paymaster. If not, then I’ll cover with Agency funds. Anyhow, I want people over here, and I’m sending my want-list to you.”