He walked in, through the main hallway, past the rows of elevators, and down to the special elevator at the end of the hall, where an attendant awaited him, standing stiffly, his uniform impeccable. Newton smiled to himself; he could imagine the flurry of commands that must have gone out the day before, after he had called and said he would be coming in the next morning. He hadn’t been in the offices for three months. It was seldom that he ever left his apartment. The elevator boy gave him a rehearsed and nervous, “Good morning. Mr. Newton.” He smiled at him and stepped in.
The elevator took him slowly and very smoothly up to the seventh floor, which had formerly housed Farnsworth’s law offices. Farnsworth was waiting for him when he stepped out. The lawyer was dressed like a potentate in a gray silk suit, a brilliant red jewel flashing on a fat and perfectly manicured ring finger. “You’re looking well, Mr. Newton,” he said, taking his extended hand with gentle care. Farnsworth was observant; he would have noticed, quickly enough, the wince that Newton made if he were touched roughly in any way.
“Thank you, Oliver. I’ve been feeling especially well.”
Farnsworth led him down a hallway, past offices and into a suite of rooms with the plaque, W. E. Corp. They walked by a battery of secretaries, who became respectfully silent at their approach, and into Farnsworth’s office, with O. Y. Farnsworth, President, in small brass letters on the door.
Inside, the office was furnished as before, with mixed rococo pieces dominated by the huge, grotesquely ornamented Caffieri desk. The room was, as always, filled with music—a violin piece this time. It was unpleasant to Newton’s ears; but he said nothing.
A maid brought them tea, while they chatted for a few minutes—Newton had learned to like tea, although he had to drink it lukewarm—and then they began to talk about business; their status in the courts, the arranging and rearranging of directorships, holding companies, grants and licenses and royalties, the financing of new plants, the purchase of old ones, the markets, prices, and the fluctuation of public interest in the seventy-three consumer articles they made—television antennas, transistors, photographic film, and radiation detectors—and the three hundred-odd patents they leased out, from the oil refining process to a harmless substitute for gunpowder that was used in children’s toys. Newton was well aware of Farnsworth’s amazement—even more than usual—with his own grasp of these things, and he told himself it would be wise if he made a few intentional blunders in his recollection of figures and details. Yet it was enjoyable, exciting—even though he knew the vain and cheap pride that gave the pleasure—in using his Anthean mind on these matters. It was as if one of these people—he always thought of them as “these people,” much as he had grown to like and to admire them—should find himself dealing with a group of very alert and resourceful chimpanzees. He was fond of them and, with his fundamental human vanity, unable to resist the easy pleasure of exercising his mental superiority to their dumbfounded amazement. Yet, enjoyable as this might be, he had to remember that these people were more dangerous than chimpanzees—and it had been thousands of years since any of them had seen an Anthean undisguised.
They went on talking until the maid brought them lunch—sliced-chicken sandwiches and a bottle of Rhine wine for Farnsworth; oatmeal cookies and a glass of water for Newton. Oatmeal, he had found, was one of the most digestible foods for the peculiar qualities of his system, and he ate it frequently. They continued to talk for quite a while about the complex business of financing the various and widespread enterprises. Newton had come to enjoy this part of the game for its own sake. He had been forced to learn it from scratch—there were many things about this society and this planet that could not be learned from watching television—and he had found he had a natural bent for it, possibly an atavism tracing back to ancient ancestors in the old, strong days that had been the glory of primitive Anthean culture. That was during the time that this Earth had been in its second ice age—the time of harsh capitalism and warfare, before the Anthean power sources had been all but exhausted and the water gone. He enjoyed playing with the counters and the numbers of finance, even though this power gave him little excitement and though he had entered the game with the stacked deck that only ten thousand years of Anthean electronics, chemistry, and optics could have provided. But he never for a moment forgot what he had come to Earth for. It was always with him, unavoidable, like the dim ache that still lived in his strengthened, but always tired, muscles, like the impossible strangeness, however familiar it would become, of this huge and various planet.
He enjoyed Farnsworth. He enjoyed the few humans he knew. He was unacquainted with any women, for he feared them, for reasons he did not understand himself. He was sad, sometimes, that security made it too risky to know these people better. Farnsworth, hedonist that he was, was a shrewd man, a lusty player of the game of money; a man who required occasional watching; a possibly dangerous man, but one whose mind had many fine and subtle facets. He had not made his huge income—an income that Newton had trebled for him—solely on reputation.
When he had made it clear enough to Farnsworth what he wanted to have done, he leaned back in his chair for a moment, resting, and then said, “Oliver, now that the money is beginning to… accumulate, there is a new thing I want to undertake. I spoke to you before of a research project….”
Farnsworth did not seem surprised. But then he had probably been expecting something more important to be the subject of this visit. “Yes, Mr. Newton?”
He smiled gently. “It will be a different kind of undertaking, Oliver. And, I fear, an expensive one. I imagine you’ll have some work to do in setting it up—the financial end of it anyway.” He looked out the window for a moment, at the discreet row of gray Fifth Avenue shops, and at the trees. “It’s to be nonprofit, and I think the best thing is to set up a research foundation.”
“A research foundation?” The lawyer pursed his lips.
“Yes.” He turned back to Farnsworth. “Yes, I think we’ll incorporate in Kentucky, with about all the capital I can gather together. That’ll be about forty million dollars, I think—if we can get the banks to help us.”
Farnsworth’s eyebrows shot up. “Forty million? You’re not worth half that, Mr. Newton. In another six months maybe, but we’ve only begun…”
“Yes. I know. But I think I’m going to sell my rights in Worldcolor to Eastman Kodak, outright. You may, of course, keep your share, if you wish. Eastman will make intelligent use of it, I imagine. They’re prepared to go rather high to get it—with a proviso that I don’t market a competitive color film within the next five years.”
Farnsworth was getting red in the face now. “Isn’t that like selling a life interest in the U.S. Treasury?
“I suppose it is. But I need the capital; and you know yourself that there’s an annoying danger of anti-trust action inherent in these patents. And Kodak has better access to the world markets than we have. Really, we’ll be saving ourselves a great deal of trouble.”
Farnsworth shook his head, somewhat placated. “If I had a copyright on the Bible I wouldn’t sell it to Random House. But I suppose you know what you’re doing. You always do.”
5
At Pendley State University in Pendley, Iowa, Nathan Bryce dropped by the office of his department head. This was Professor Canutti and his position was called Departmental Coordinator-Advisor, which was much like the titles of most department heads these days, since the time of the great labeling shift that had turned every salesman into a Field Representative, every janitor into a Custodian. It had taken a little longer to reach the universities. But it had reached them, and nowadays there were no more secretaries, only Receptionists and Administrative Aides, no more bosses, only Coordinators.
Professor Canutti, crew-cut, pipe-smoking and rubbery-complexioned, welcomed him with a twenty-dollar smile, waved him across the pigeons-egg-blue carpet to a lavender plastic-chair and said, “Good to see you, Nate.”
Bryce winced almost visib
ly at the “Nate.” and, looking at his watch as though in a hurry, said, “Something I’m curious about, Professor Canutti.” He was not in a hurry—except to get this interview over with; now that exams were ended he had nothing to do for a week.
Canutti smiled sympathetically, and Bryce momentarily cursed himself for coming to see this golf-playing idiot in the first place. But Canutti might know something of use to him; he was at least no fool as a chemist.
Bryce pulled a box from his pocket, and set it on Canutti’s desk. “Have you seen this new film?” he said.
Canutti picked it up in his soft, uncalloused hand, and looked at it for a moment, puzzled. “Worldcolor? Yes, I’ve used it, Nate.” He set it down, with a kind of finality. “It’s a darn good film. Self-developing.”
“Do you know how it works?”
Canutti drew speculatively on his pipe, which was unlit. “No, Nate. Can’t say as I do. Like any other film, I guess. Only a little more… sophisticated.” He smiled at his pleasantry.
“Not exactly.” Bryce reached over and picked up the box, weighing it in his hand, and watching Canutti’s bland face. “I ran some tests on it, and was pretty thoroughly startled. You know, the best color films have three separate emulsions, one for each primary. Well, this one has no emulsion at all.”
Canutti raised his eyebrows. You’d better look surprised, you idiot, Bryce thought. Taking the pipe from his mouth Canutti said, “Sounds impossible. Where’s the photosensitivity?”
“Apparently in the base. And it seems to be done with barium salts—only God would know how. Crystalline barium salts in a random dispersion. And,” he drew a breath, “the developer is gaseous—in a little pod under the canister lid. I’ve tried to find what’s in it and all I can be certain of is potassium nitrate, some peroxide, and something that, so help me, acted like cobalt. And it’s all mildly radioactive, which may explain something, although I’m not certain what.”
Canutti gave him the long pause that his little lecture, in all politeness, required. Then he said, “Sounds wild, Nate. Where do they make it?”
“There’s a factory in Kentucky. But they’re incorporated in New York, as near as I can find out. No stock listed on the exchange.”
Canutti, listening, adopted a serious expression; probably, Bryce thought, the one he reserved for solemn occasions, like being admitted to a new country club. “I see. Well, this is tricky, isn’t it?”
Tricky? What in hell did that mean? Of course it was tricky. It was impossible. “Yes, it’s tricky. That’s what I wanted to ask you about.” He hesitated a moment, reluctant to ask a favor of this pompous little extrovert. “I’d like to follow it up, find out how the devil it works. I wonder if I could use one of the big research labs down in the basement—at least during the time between semesters. And I could use a student assistant, if there’s one available.”
Canutti had leaned far back in his plastic-covered chair during the middle of this speech, as though Bryce had physically pushed him down into the soft and billowy foam cushions. “The labs are all being used, Nate,” he said. “You know we’ve got more industrial and military projects now than we can handle. Why don’t you write the company that makes the film and query them?”
He tried to keep his voice level: “I’ve already written them. They don’t answer their mail. Nobody knows anything about them. There’s nothing about them in the journals—not even in American Photochemistry.” He stopped a minute. “Look, all I need is a lab, Professor Canutti… I can do without the assistant.”
“Walt. Walt Canutti. But the labs are full, Nate. Coordinator Johnson would have me by the ruddy ears if I—”
“Look… Walt… This is basic research. Johnson is always giving speeches about basic research, isn’t he? The backbone of science. All we appear to be doing here is developing cheaper ways to make insecticides, and perfecting gas bombs.”
Canutti raised his eyebrows, his chubby body still sunk in cushioning foam. “We don’t make a habit of talking about our military projects that way, Nate. Our applied tactical research is—”
“All right. All right.” He fought his voice back down, trying to make it sound normal. “Killing people is basic, I suppose. Part of the nation’s life, too. But this film…”
Canutti flushed at the sarcasm. “Look. Nate.” he said, “what you want to do is diddle with a commercial process. And, moreover, one that already works just fine. Why blow your top over it? So the film’s a little unusual. All the better.”
“My God.” he said, “this film is more than unusual. You can see that. You’re a chemist—a better chemist than I am. Can’t you see the techniques this thing implies? My Lord, barium salts and a gaseous developer!” He suddenly remembered the roll of film still in his hand, and held it out as if it were a snake, or a holy relic. “It’s as if we were… as if we were cave men, scratching fleas out of our armpits, and one of us found a… a roll of toy caps…” And then, in an instant, it struck him like a physical blow in the chest and, pausing in his speech a second he thought, Good holy God—that roll of caps! “…and threw them in the fire. Think of the tradition, the technical tradition, that went into making a strip of paper with little gunpowder pods in a neat row, so that we could hear the little pop, pop, pop! Or if you gave an ancient Roman a wrist-watch, and he knew what a sundial was…” He didn’t finish the comparison, thinking now of that roll of caps, how they had gone off so loudly, had not smelt of gunpowder at all.
Canutti smiled coldly. “Well, Nate, you’re very eloquent. But I wouldn’t get so worked up over a thing that some hot research team thought up.” He tried to sound humorous, to joke away the disagreement. “I doubt we’ve been visited by men of the future. Not, at least, to sell us camera film.”
Bryce stood up, clenching the film box in his hand. He spoke softly. “Hot research team, the devil! And for all I know—the way this film doesn’t use a single chemical technique from over a hundred years of development in photography—this process might be extraterrestrial. Or there’s a genius hiding somewhere in Kentucky who’s going to be selling us perpetual motion machines next week.” Abruptly, he turned, sick of the interview, and began walking toward the door.
Like a mother calling after a child who leaves in a tantrum, Canutti said. “I wouldn’t talk about extraterrestrial too much, Nate. Of course, I understand what you mean….”
“Of course you do,” Bryce said, leaving.
He went directly home on the afternoon monorail, and began looking—or, rather, listening—for small boys with cap guns.
6
Five minutes after he left the airport he realized that he had made a serious mistake. He should not have attempted to come this far south in the summer time, no matter how necessary it was. He could have sent Farnsworth, sent someone, to buy property, to make arrangements. The temperature was over ninety and, being physically unable to perspire, his body having been designed for temperatures in the forties, he was sick almost to unconsciousness in the back seat of the airport limousine that drove him, grinding his still gravity-sensitive body against its hard cushions, into downtown Louisville.
But, in more than two years on earth and with the ten years of physical conditioning he had undergone before leaving Anthea, he was able to endure the pain and keep himself, by force of will, grimly, although confusedly, conscious. He was able to get from the limousine into the hotel lobby, and from the lobby up the elevator—relieved that it was a smooth-running, slow elevator—and into his third-floor room, where he fell on the bed the moment the bellboy had left him to himself. After a moment he managed to get to the air-conditioner and set it for very cold. Then he fell back on the bed. It was a good air-conditioner; it was based on a group of patents he had leased to the company that made it. In a short while the room became sufficiently comfortable for him, but he left the machine on, thankful that his contribution to the science of refrigeration had managed to make the ugly little boxes, so necessary to him, noiseless.
It was noon, and after a while he called room service and had a bottle of Chablis and some cheese sent up to him. He had only recently begun drinking wine, pleased to find that it had, apparently, the same effect on him as it did on men of Earth. The wine was good, although the cheese was a little rubbery. He turned on the television set, which also operated on W. E. Corp, patents, and settled back in an armchair, determined, if he could do nothing else this hot afternoon, to enjoy himself.
It had been over a year since he had watched television at any length, and it seemed very strange to him, here in this plush and vulgarly modern hotel suite—so much like the apartments in which television private detectives lived, with its lounge chairs, never-used bookshelves, abstract paintings and plastic-topped private bar—here in Louisville, Kentucky, to be watching again. Watching the little human men and women moving about on the screen as he had watched them for so many years at home, on Anthea. He thought of those days now, sipping the cool wine, nibbling cheese—foreign, strange foods—while the background music of a love story filled the cool room and the dimly heard voices from the little speaker sounded against his sensitive, other-world hearing like the alien gutturals and gibberings that, fundamentally, they were. So much unlike the purring of his own language, even though the one had, ages ago, developed from the other. He permitted himself to think, for the first time in months, of the soft conversation of old Anthean friends, of the mild and brittle foods that he had eaten all his life at home, and of his wife and children. Perhaps it was the coolness of the room, calming him after his excruciating summer trip, perhaps the alcohol, still new to his veins, that made him fall into a state of mind so closely resembling human nostalgia—sentimental, self-regarding, and bitter. He wanted, suddenly, to hear the sound of his language being spoken, to see the light colors of Anthean soil, to smell the acrid desert odor, to hear the thick sounds of Anthean music, and to see the thin, gauze-like walls of its buildings, the dust of its cities. And he wanted his wife, with the dim Anthean body sexuality—a quiet, insistent aching. And, suddenly, looking again at his room, at its discreet gray walls and its vulgar furniture, he felt disgusted, weary of this cheap and alien place, this loud, throaty, rootless, and sensual culture, this aggregate of clever, itchy, self-absorbed apes—vulgar, uncaring, while their flimsy civilization was, like London Bridge and all bridges, falling down, falling down.