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Scanning the letter, I saw the word Stanton pop up again and again; Barrows was answering a letter from Pris having to do with it. But I could not get the hang of Barrows’ thoughts; it was all too diffuse.
Then all at once I got the drift.
Barrows had obviously misunderstood Pris. He thought the idea of refighting the Civil War with electronic simulacra, manufactured at our factory in Boise, was a civic enterprise, a do-gooding patriotic effort along the lines of improving the schools and reclaiming the deserts, not a business proposition at all. That’s what she gets, I said to myself. Yes, I was right; Barrows was thanking her for her idea, for thinking of him in connection with it … but, he said, he received requests of this sort daily, and already had his hands full with worthy efforts. For instance a good deal of his time was spent in fighting condemnation of a war-time housing tract somewhere in Oregon … the letter became so vague, at that point, that I lost the thread completely.
‘Can I keep this?’ I asked Miss Nild.
‘Please do. And if you’d like to comment, I’m sure Mr Barrows would be interested in anything you have to say.’
I said, ‘How long have you worked for Mr Barrows?’
‘Eight years, Mr Rosen.’ She sounded happy about it.
‘Is he a billionaire, like the papers say?’
‘I suppose so, Mr Rosen.’ Her brown eyes twinkled, enlarged by her glasses.
‘Does he treat his employees good?’
She smiled without answering.
‘What’s this housing project, this Green Peach Hat, that Barrows is talking about in the letter?’
‘That’s a term for Gracious Prospect Heights, one of the greatest multiple-unit housing developments in the Pacific Northwest. Mr Barrows always calls it that, although originally it was a term of derision. The people who want to tear it down invented the term and Mr Barrows took it over – the term, I mean – to protect the people who live there, so they won’t feel spat upon. They appreciate that. They got up a petition thanking him for his help in blocking condemnation proceedings; there were almost two thousand signatures.’
‘Then the people who live there don’t want it torn down?’
‘Oh no. They’re fiercely loyal to it. A group of do-gooders have taken it upon themselves to meddle, housewives and some society people who want to increase their own property values. They want to see the land used for a country club or something on that order. Their group is called the Northwest Citizens’ Committee for Better Housing. A Mrs Devorac heads it.’
I recalled having read about her in the Oregon papers; she was quite up in the fashionable circles, always involved in causes. Her picture appeared on the first page of section two regularly.
‘Why does Mr Barrows want to save this housing tract?’ I asked.
‘He is incensed at the idea of American citizens deprived of their rights. Most of them are poorer people. They’d have no place to go. Mr Barrows understands how they feel because he lived in rooming houses for years … you know that his family had no more money than anyone else? That he made his money on his own, through his own hard work and efforts?’
‘Yes,’ I said. She seemed to be waiting for me to go on, so I said, ‘It’s nice he still is able to identify with the working class, even though he’s now a billionaire.’
‘Since most of Mr Barrows’ money was made in real estate, he has an acute awareness of the problems people face in their struggle to obtain decent housing. To society ladies such as Silvia Devorac, Green Peach Hat is merely an unsightly conglomeration of old buildings; none of them have gone inside – it would never occur to them to do so.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘hearing this about Mr Barrows goes a long way to make me feel that our civilization isn’t declining.’
She smiled her informal, warm smile at me.
‘What do you know about this Stanton electronic simulacrum?’ I asked her.
‘I know that one has been built. Miss Frauenzimmer mentioned that in her communications both by mail and over the phone to Mr Barrows. I believe Mr Barrows also told me that Miss Frauenzimmer wanted to put the Stanton electronic simulacrum onto a Greyhound bus and have it ride unaccompanied to Seattle, where Mr Barrows is currently. That would be her way of demonstrating graphically its ability to merge with humans and be unnoticed.’
‘Except for its funny split beard and old-fashioned vest.’
‘I was unaware of those factors.’
‘Possibly the simulacrum could argue with a cab driver as to the shortest route from the bus terminal to Mr Barrows’ office,’ I said. ‘That would be an additional proof of its humanness.’
Colleen Nild said, ‘I’ll mention that to Mr Barrows.’
‘Do you know the Rosen electronic organ, or possibly our spinet pianos?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘The Rosen factory at Boise produces the finest electronic chord organ in existence. Far superior to the Hammerstein Mood Organ, which emits a noise nothing more adequate than a modified flute-sound.’
‘I was unaware of that, too,’ Miss or Mrs Nild said. ‘I’ll mention that to Mr Barrows. He has always been a music lover.’
I was still involved in reading Barrows’ letter when my partner returned from his mid-day coffee break. I showed it to him.
‘Barrows writing to Pris,’ he said, seating himself to pore over it. ‘Maybe we’re in, Louis. Could it be? I guess it isn’t a figment of Pris’ mind after all. Gosh, the man’s hard to follow; is he saying he is or he isn’t interested in the Stanton?’
‘Barrows seems to say he’s completely tied up right now with a pet project of his own, that housing tract called Green Peach Hat.’
‘I lived there,’ Maury said. in the late ‘fifties.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Louis, it’s hell. The dump ought to be burned to the ground; only a match – nothing else – would help that place.’
‘Some do-gooders agree with you.’
Maury said in a low, tense voice, if they want someone to burn it down I’ll do it personally for them. You can quote me, too. Sam Barrows owns that place.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘He’s making a fortune in rentals off it. Slum rentals is one of the biggest rackets in the world today; you get back like five to six hundred per cent return on your investment. Well, I suppose we can’t let personal opinion enter into business. Barrows is still a shrewd businessman and the best person to back the simulacra, even if he is a rich fink. But you say this letter is a rejection of the idea?’
‘You could phone him and find out. Pris seems to have phoned him.’
Picking up the phone, Maury dialed.
‘Wait,’ I said.
He glared at me.
‘I’ve got an intuition,’ I said, ‘of doom.’
Into the phone, Maury said, ‘Mr Barrows.’
I grabbed the phone from him and hung it up.
‘You –’ He quivered with anger. ‘What a coward.’ Lifting the receiver he once more dialed. ‘Operator, I was cut off.’ He looked around for the letter; it had Barrows’ number on it. I picked up the letter and crumpled it into a ball and tossed it across the room.
Cursing at me he slammed down the receiver.
We faced each other, breathing heavily.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Maury said.
‘I don’t think we should get tangled up with a man like that.’
‘Like what?’
I said, ‘Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad!’
That shook him. ‘What do you mean?’ he mumbled, tipping his head and regarding me bird-like. ‘You think I’m batty to call, do you? Ought to be at the funny clinic. Maybe so. But anyhow I intend to.’ Going past me he fished up the crumpled ball of paper, smoothed it, memorized the number, and returned to the phone. Again he placed the call.
‘It’s the end of us,’ I said.
An interval passed. ‘Hello,’ Maury said suddenly. ‘Let me talk to Mr Barrows, please. This is Maury Rock in Ontario, Oregon.’
Another interval.
‘Mr Barrows! This is Maury Rock.’ He got a set grin on his face; he bent over, resting his elbow on his thigh. ‘I have your letter here, sir, to my daughter, Pris Frauenzimmer … regarding our world-shaking invention, the electronic simulacrum, as personified by the charming, old-time characterization of Lincoln’s Secretary of War, Edwin McMasters Stanton.’ A pause in which he gaped at me vacantly. ‘Are you interested, sir?’ Another pause, much longer this time.
You’re not going to make the sale, Maury, I said to myself.
‘Mr Barrows,’ Maury said. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. That’s true, sir. But let me point this out to you, in case you overlooked it.’
‘The conversation rambled on for what seemed an endless time. At last Maury thanked Barrows, said goodbye, and hung up.
‘No dice,’ I said.
He glowered at me wearily. ‘Wow.’
‘What did he say?’
‘The same as in the letter. He still doesn’t see it as a commercial venture. He thinks we’re a patriotic organization.’ He blinked, shook his head wonderingly, ‘No dice, like you said.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Maybe it’s for the better,’ Maury said. But he sounded merely resigned; he did not sound as if he believed it. Someday he would try again. He still hoped.
We were as far apart as ever.
5 (#ulink_3609af8a-baad-55d0-aab0-a3fedba39570)
During the next two weeks Maury Rock’s predictions as to the decline of the Rosen electronic organ seemed to be borne out. All trucks reported few if any sales of organs. And we noticed that the Hammerstein people had begun to advertise one of their mood organs for less than a thousand dollars. Of course their price did not include shipping charges or the bench. But still – it was bad news for us.
Meanwhile, the Stanton was in and out of our office. Maury had the idea of building a showroom for sidewalk traffic and having the Stanton demonstrate spinets. He got my permission to call in a contractor to remodel the ground floor of the building; the work began, while the Stanton puttered about upstairs, helping Maury with the mail and hearing what it was going to have to do when the showroom had been completed. Maury advanced the suggestion that it shave off its beard, but after an argument between him and the Stanton he withdrew his idea and the Stanton went about as before, with its long white side whiskers.
‘Later on,’ Maury explained to me when the Stanton was not present, ‘I’m going to have it demonstrate itself. I’m in the process of finalizing on a sales pitch to that effect.’ He intended, he explained, to feed the pitch into the Stanton’s ruling monad brain in the form of punched instruction tape. That way there would be no arguments, as there had been over the whiskers.
All this time Maury was busy concocting a second simulacrum. It was in MASA’s truck-repair shop, on one of the workbenches, in the process of being assembled. On Thursday the powers that decreed our new direction permitted me to view it for the first time.
‘Who’s it going to be?’ I asked, studying it with a feeling of gloom. It consisted of no more than a large complex of selenoids, wiring, circuit breakers, and the like, all mounted on aluminum panels. Bundy was busy testing a central monad turret; he had his volt-meter in the midst of the wiring, studying the reading on the dial.
Maury said, ‘This is Abraham Lincoln.’
‘You’ve lost control of your reason.’
‘Not at all. I want something really big to take to Barrows when I visit him next month.’
‘Oh I see,’ I said. ‘You hadn’t told me about that.’
‘You think I’m going to give up?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I knew you wouldn’t give up; I know you.’
‘I’ve got the instinct,’ Maury said.
The next afternoon, after some gloomy pondering, I looked up Doctor Horstowski in the phonebook. The office of Pris’ out-patient psychiatrist was in the better residential section of Boise. I telephoned him and asked for an appointment as soon as possible.
‘May I ask who recommended you?’ his nurse said.
With distaste I said, ‘Miss Priscilla Frauenzimmer.’
‘All right, Mr Rosen; Doctor Horstowski can see you tomorrow at one-thirty.’
Technically, I was supposed to be out on the road, again, setting up communities to receive our trucks. I was supposed to be making maps and inserting ads in newspapers. But ever since Maury’s phonecall to Sam Barrows something had been the matter with me.
Perhaps it had to do with my father. Since the day he had set eyes on the Stanton – and found out it was a machine built to resemble a man – he had become progressively more feeble. Instead of going down to the factory every morning he often remained at home, generally hunched in a chair before the TV; the times I had seen him he had a troubled expression and his faculties seemed clouded.
I mentioned it to Maury.
‘Poor old guy,’ Maury said. ‘Louis, I hate to say this to you, but Jerome is getting frail.’
‘I realize that.’
‘He can’t compete much longer.’
‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘Keep him out of the bustle and strife of the market place. Consult with your mother and brother; find out what Jerome has always wanted to do hobby-wise. Maybe carve flying model World War One airplanes, such as the Fokker Triplane or the Spad. You should look into that, Louis, for the old man’s sake. Am I right, buddy?’
I nodded.
‘It’s partly your fault,’ Maury said. ‘You haven’t cared for him properly. When a man gets his age he needs support. I don’t mean financial; I mean – hell, I mean spiritual.’
The next day I drove to Boise and, at one-twenty parked before the modern, architect-designed office building of Doctor Horstowski.
When Doctor Horstowski appeared in the hallway to usher me into his office, I found myself facing a man built along the lines of an egg. His body was rounded; his head was rounded; he wore tiny round glasses; there were no straight or broken lines about him, and when he walked he progressed in a flowing smooth motion as if he was rolling. His voice, too, was soft and smooth. And yet, when I entered his office and seated myself and got a closer look, I saw that there was one feature of him which I had not noticed: he had a tough, harsh-looking nose, as flat and sharp as a parrot’s beak. And now that I noticed that, I could hear in his voice a suppressed tearing edge of great harshness.
