As a small child he had been sure water was life. Once he sprinkled some on a dead bird, stiff and ruffled. He found a towel, hard and grainy, dried his hands, shrinking slightly from the contact. He took his comb from his jacket and ran it through his still thick hair, only lightly graying. It was a minor pride that his campaign pictures were always the latest, never one taken when he was much younger.
He became aware he was being watched and turned inquiringly toward the door. The man standing there wore heavy work-shoes, blue denim pants, a denim jacket buttoned to his neck. His face was dark, his straight black hair long. His eyes slanted ever so little above his high cheekbones. He smiled at Lampley. "Everything OK?"
"Everything OK," said Lampley. "Except the plumbing."
The man nodded thoughtfully.
"Oh, the plumbing. It went out." He gestured vaguely with his hands, indicating leaks, stoppages, broken pipes, hopeless fittings, worn-out heaters. "So we put in washstands."
"I see. Maybe it would have been better to have it fixed."
The other shook a doubtful head. "This was change. Advance. Improvement. Maybe next we'll put a well in every room, with a rope and bucket reaching straight down. Plop! And then rrrrr, up she comes full and slopping over. Or artesians with the water bubbling up like a billiard ball on the end of a cue. That would be hard to beat, ay? Or perhaps wooden pipes from the rain gutters."
"I see," said Lampley. The plans didn't seem unreasonable. "You're the clerk?" he asked politely.
"Clerk is good as any. Everyone has lots to do."
"That's right. Well, thanks."