II
The great ship lay sleekly quiet under the slanting sun, the passengers like ants measured against its giant hull. Clink, clink, clink went the coins into the counting box, the light over each seat going on with the clink of the coin.
Then they were seated, the lights all on, and the tractor was pulling the giant to the channelled runway, guarded by the blast walls.
Milwaukee, here I come.
The whirr of the rolling wheels, the reverberations from the blast walls, a crescendo of sound, and they were free of earth. An accelerating, effortless flight, a faint tremor as they passed the sonic barrier, then no sensory impressions at all.
Flight as free as the wind's passage but more silent. Through the visacrys windows a blur of blue-green. Speed without strain, power without tumult.
Doak relaxed and for the first time since the Chief's summons he wasn't thinking of June. He was thinking of Man, from the cave to Venus, from the wheel to free flight. And something out of his childhood memory came to mind.
Studious let me sit
And hold high converse with the mighty dead
Where had he heard that? Some Scotch poet, it must have been, for his mother recited only the Scotch poets. Studious let me sit—in front of a video set, to watch the wrestling?
And hold high converse with the mighty dead—not in this world where there was only tomorrow, not in this world of no books. There were no writers on television—they had no need to attract an audience. They had an audience. An audience that would watch wrestling would watch anything.
So the ad men took over the duties of the semi-writers who had prepared the radio programs. Ad men offended nobody, even those with denture breath. That could be cured and so could acne, B.O., straight hair and seam squirrels.
Hey! he though suddenly. Watch where you're thinking, Doak Parker.
A government man, a Security Officer, he straightened in his seat as the stewardess came along the aisle.
She smiled at him, "Everything all right, Mr. Parker?"
"Dandy," Doak said. "Great, fine! Why?"
She paused, disconcerted "I beg your pardon?"
"Why shouldn't everything be all right? Lateral-American, the skyway to the stars, right?"
She smiled "Absolutely correct."
"And Milwaukee," Doak added. "Do you only handle the earth runs?"
"Until next year," she said. "I'm new."
"I'm old," Doak said. "Is there anything to drink on board?"
"Water, Mr. Parker."
"I'm not that old," he said.
She glanced at her watch. "We'll be in Milwaukee in six minutes. And that's the beer town."
But he had no time for a glass of beer. The limousine took him to the elevated station and the last car for Dubbinville was leaving in three minutes.
It was a nine-minute trip. He'd picked up an hour, coming west, and used but thirty-three minutes. It was still only seven o'clock when the huge elevated car hissed to a stop in front of the Dubbinville station.
There was a smell to the place, a smell of sun-warmed grass and fruit blossoms, of lilacs and quiet rains. Doak stood on the platform, surveying the winding main street leading up into the gentle hills. People on porches and teenagers in front of the drugstore. A reddish-brown setter padded past on some secret business of his own.
There was no whiz, no whir, no clank, no squeal, no grind. This was Dubbinville, U.S.A.
The station agent was picking up a pair of film boxes, as Doak walked over. He smiled at Doak. "Beautiful evening, isn't it?"
"It certainly is. Is there—a place to stay in town, a hotel?"
The station agent shook his head. "No hotel. But you could stay at Mrs. Klein's. She takes in boarders." He pointed with a bony forefinger. "That grey house with the blue shutters, right on the curve there."
"Thank you," Doak said. "What's the population here?"
"Around eight hundred, last census, though we had a couple families move in since then. Hasn't changed much the last hundred years."
"Retired farmers, mostly?" Doak asked.
"Mmmm, I guess. Just—people."
People.... Which meant nothing and everything. Doak had turned away before he remembered. Then he turned back. "Oh, yes, and Senator Arnold? Where does he live?"
"Big house, over the hill," the agent said. "Only big house around here—you can't miss it. Got a high stone fence all around it and two vicious dogs. God knows what he's scared of." This was a different man from the one who had remarked on the beauty of the evening.
"Thanks," Doak said. "Thanks again."
Political resentment—or some local feud? Doak went along the platform to the single step that led to the street.
There was a breeze from the east, cooling the warm air. He turned in at the drug store and could scarcely believe his eyes.
Bent wire chairs and marble-topped tables with bent wire legs. No toasters, video sets, geiger counters, ray guns or portable garbage detergents.
But dim and cool and with a high marble fountain. "A lime-ade," Doak said, "with a sprig of mint."
The man behind the fountain wore a blue jacket over his white shirt. He had a thin face and a high-domed head and intelligent blue eyes.
Doak sat on one of the high wire stools and lighted a cigarette. "Hot day, was it?"
"Hot enough. But we get the night breeze. Stranger in town?"
"From Milwaukee," Doak said. "Out to visit Senator Arnold."
"Oh." The man set the drink in front of Doak.
"Trying to talk him into leaving some money to the University," Doak added. "Guess he's a pretty hard man to get money from."
"I hear he is. I wouldn't know about it. He—doesn't shop in town."
The drink was freshly flavorful, cool as springwater. Doak rubbed the beaded moisture with a thumb. "Pretty town," he said. "Pretty country around here."
"Peaceful," the man agreed. "I've never been anywhere else, so I couldn't judge it right, I guess—but then I've never had the urge to go anywhere else, so it must be all right."
"These days," Doak said, "a man doesn't need to go anywhere else. They bring the world right to you."
"I guess. Hear they're having a hard time getting Venus populated. I guess people aren't as rootless as the planners figured."
By "the planners" the man undoubtedly meant THAT WASHINGTON CROWD. Doak finished his drink and went up the street to the grey house with the blue shutters on the curve.
There was a woman sitting on the front porch, a short and heavy woman with dark hair and brown eyes. She smiled at him and said, "Good evening," without rising.
"Mrs. Klein?" Doak asked and she nodded. He said, "The station agent told me you rented rooms and served meals. My name is Doak Parker."
"A pleasure, Mr. Parker. If you'll go through the living room and take that door at the east end of it, you'll come to a hall. The room at the back of the hall's the one, if you'd like to look at it." She didn't move from her chair.
He went into the dim living room and through the door and down the hall. A mahogany bed with a patchwork quilt for a spread, a mahogany dresser and a huge wicker chair, upholstered in a bright chintz. It was a chintzy house.
He looked out the back window and saw a neat lawn, bordered with flowering shrubs. He put his grip on the floor and came back to the living room.
There were windows along the front of this room and they were open. He could see Mrs. Klein in her chair and a girl standing next to her.
There was no reason for him to pause but he did. He'd heard Mrs. Klein say, "Another meeting tonight, Martha?"
"Yes." The girl's voice was defensive.
"Why—why, Martha? Don't you realize the danger of—oh, Martha!"
"Mother, please. There's no danger. We're careful."
Doak coughed and walked out again onto the porch. The girl standing there was as dark as her mother but slim and long-legged and vividly beautiful.
Mrs. Klein said, "My daughter Martha, Mr. Parker. You liked the room?"
"It's fine," he said and to Martha, "How do you do?"
"How do you do, Mr. Parker? You've had supper?"
He nodded and lied, "In Milwaukee. I'm up here to try and get some money out of Senator Arnold. I wonder if this might be a good time to see him."
Mrs. Klein said, "I doubt if anytime is a good time to see him. You're a salesman, Mr. Parker?"
"No, no. It's philanthropy I'm concerned with. Mr. Arnold's old enough to start thinking about his benefactors."
"He'll probably leave it all to the dogs," Mrs. Klein said. "And you be careful of them, Mr. Parker."
"That I will," Doak said. "I think I'll walk up there now. Not much of a walk, I understand. Just over the hill, isn't it?"
It was the girl who answered. "That's right. I'm going that way myself. I'll be glad to show you the house."
Mrs. Klein said, "You're leaving so soon, Martha?"
"Right now. I'll be home early. Don't fret about me, Mother."
They went down the walk together, Doak and Martha, and he had forgotten June and the Department and all the girls who would be out, looking, tonight in Washington.
She walked easily at his side, poised and quiet.
He said, "Do you work in town?"
She nodded. "For an attorney. I was going to law school myself until Dad died."
"Oh," he said.
He wondered at his lack of words, and the strange sense of—almost of inferiority glimmering in him. She hadn't said anything or done anything to place him at a disadvantage but he knew this was no lass for the casual pitch.
They came to the crest of the hill and saw the dying sun low in the west. The quiet was almost absolute. About a hundred yards on the other side of the ridge was a road leading off to the south. On the right side of this road was the big house with the high stone fence.
Doak said quietly, "There's a few sentences that have been bothering me all day. I wonder if you'd recognize them. They're, 'Studious, let me sit and hold high converse with the mighty dead.' One of the Scotch poets probably."
"Thomson," she said, "from his Seasons." She looked straight ahead.
"I'm not sure I understand exactly what he meant," Doak said.
"He meant—reading." She turned to look at him. "This is Senator Arnold's house, Mr. Parker. You might ask him what Thomson meant."
Her smile was brief and cool. She walked on.
Behind the fence, the dogs started to bark. In the huge gatepost was a pair of paneled doors about three feet high, the lower edges about four feet from the ground. A sign read, Visitors, kindly use this phone.
Doak opened the double doors and lifted the phone. As he did so a scanning light went on in the weatherproof niche. Someone said, "Yes?"
"Officer Parker of Security. I believe I'm expected."
"One moment, sir."
Silence, except for the sniffing dogs. And then the sniffing stopped and he heard the pad of their feet, as they raced for the house and the voice in the phone said, "The gates will be open soon, Mr. Parker."
They opened in less than a minute. At the far end of the gravel drive a turreted monstrosity loomed, a weathered wooden structure that had undoubtedly once been white.
It was now as ashen as the face of Senator Arnold, bleak against the skyline, set back on a dandelion-covered lawn. Behind the wrought-iron fence, to the right of the house, the dogs watched him approach.
They were German Boxers, formidable creatures and great slobberers. They drooled as he walked up to the low porch but uttered not a sound.
The man who opened the door was fat and needed a shave. He wore a shiny, duraserge suit. "Follow me, please, Mr. Parker."