Flying to America (25 page)

“Cynthia,” Baskerville said. He employed his best Harvard Business manner. “Before you go, one thing. Are you ready to divulge the whereabouts of your headquarters?”

“Mr. Baskerville, I can’t. I told you a hundred times. They’ll kill me if I tell.”

“But Cynthia,” he said kindly, reasonably. “Look at it from our
point of view. Look at this room. DID YOU EVER SEE ANYTHING LIKE IT?” he shouted. “What in the name of God do you expect us to do?”

De Vinne interposed a soothing hand. “You know we have to consider everything carefully. These things take time. Meanwhile, we’re being pressed to death by your people. By the people you represent.”

“Let her go,” William Elderly Baskerville said suddenly. “What is she? A transient, just passing through. Get yourself out of here, scab,” he said. “Get back to headquarters. And you can tell them from us . . .” He paused, looking at De Vinne. “What can she tell them from us?”

“Let’s just send them the knife. A declaration of war.” He formally tendered the paperknife, as if surrendering a sword.

The girl fled, bumping and clanging down the hall. “We probably shouldn’t have done that,” Baskerville said. “There’ll be repercussions.” He moved to the window. “What kind of day is it?” De Vinne asked. He sat slumped in his chair, toying with a rubber stamp that printed his initials H.D.V. He printed them several times on the telephone book. Baskerville pressed his face to the glass and squinted upward, to the bit of sky between the two buildings. “The same kind,” he said moodily. “Look for yourself.”

“You know I have a fear of heights.”

“Have you got any paper clips?”

“More than I can possibly use. Have a thousand.”

“Two will do. What time is it?”

“Almost lunch.”

A rat appeared on one of the piles of paper on the floor, looked at them, and scuttled along the wall. “Game!” De Vinne cried, and ran delightedly to the supply closet, where he pulled an ancient crossbow from an upper shelf. Winding it with difficulty, he laid a feathered bolt in place. “Where is it?” His face was flushed with unnatural exertion.

“I think it’s under the watercooler. Here, give me the bow. Let me shoot.”

“No,” De Vinne held the weapon high above his head, “no, no,
no.” He danced out of reach. “It’s mine, I found it.” The thing went off with a shivering clang, shattering the great globe of the watercooler. Dank green growths cascaded over the floor. De Vinne quietly put the crossbow back on its shelf.

“It’s an outmoded weapon,” Baskerville said. “Don’t reproach yourself.”

“There was something in my eye,” De Vinne said, rubbing.

“Usually you’re better.”

“Usually IT stands still.”

“I hope it didn’t drown.”

William Elderly Baskerville sat with his feet on the desk, watching the telephone. Sooner or later it would ring. He was not discouraged by the fact that it never had, in all the years or months he had been watching it. In the meantime, there were diversions. De Vinne wasn’t a bad fellow, really, although he was young and a Christian Scientist. Baskerville stared at his collection of Rorschachs, taped on the wall behind him. There were hundreds of them: bats and shattered golfballs, broken butterflies and carnivorous leemings and amphibious bandicoots, falling angels and whirling circus tents. With practice he could look at them and see nothing at all.

Palatino the office boy looked in the door. He was an old man of retirement age, or close to it, with a twisted foot. “Do you want to know what I heard about your guys?” he said, leering. “Do you want to know? What’s it worth to you?”

“A thousand paper clips,” De Vinne said.

“Skin of a drowned rat,” Baskerville countered.

“A genuine antique crossbow in excellent condition.”

“A cloot on the snoot.”

“William, don’t be unkind.” De Vinne turned. “He’s only trying to be helpful. Aren’t you, you filthy mother?” He grabbed the old man by the shoulders and shook him furiously, then pushed him back out the door.

Palatino jumped. There was someone behind him. It was Miss Angel Craw, a beautiful Negress who was the floor maid. She was singing “Bringing In The Sheaves” in a lovely dark contralto. “They’re going to flood this place and wash you all away,” the old
man shrilled. “They’re going to hook the fire hoses up to the transoms. You’ll be drowned! You’ll be drowned!” He laughed insanely and pinched Miss Angel Craw; with a quick gesture, she shoved the end of her mop up under his chin. He howled and ran.

“Did he mean it?” De Vinne looked worried. “Does he know something?

“A born turncoat. He might.”

“Do you think maybe they’re not satisfied? With our work?”

“How would they know? We never send anything
out.
Everything comes
in.
How could they possibly know?”

“Maybe we haven’t complained enough.”

“Maybe we haven’t complained in the
right way
.”

“We’d better cover ourselves. First we’ll draw up formal complaint. Then we’ll seal the transoms.”

“After all these years,” Baskerville mused. “Not satisfied with
our
work.” Miss Angel Craw mopped the floor in the background, singing softly. Her mop swished through little puddles of water and broken glass. “When I retired, they said I was the best man they ever had on this job. The best.”

“We’re not so young anymore.” De Vinne answered. “We’re thirty-one. But alert for our age.”

“It’s a flagrant example of . . . What shall I say in the complaint?”

“Let me think.” De Vinne began pacing, lifting his feet delicately to avoid the waves from Miss Angel Craw’s mop. “Say: When in the course of human events it becomes necessary . . . No, that won’t do. We don’t want to
petition.
We want to
demand
.”

“You can’t
demand
if you have nothing to bargain with. Use your head. We need hostages.” They both looked at Miss Angel Craw, who gave them a seductive smile. William Elderly Baskerville took her by the hand. She posed prettily as Pocahontas. “Won’t do,” Baskerville said, shaking his head, “she’s under age.” Miss Angel Craw looked hurt. She returned to her mopping.

“I never had any children,” De Vinne said.

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. You’re ready to give them
me
.”

“It never occurred . . .”

“It’s written all over your face.”

“Not even for a moment.”

“After all these years.”

“Would you mind?”

“Judas!”

There was a crash in the supply closet. Miss Angel Craw had locked herself in. They rushed to the door, pulling and jerking on it. It refused to move. “Are you all right?” De Vinne called. Miss Angel Craw could be heard singing behind the door. “She’s all right,” Baskerville said testily. “Concentrate on the problem.” They both sat down at their desks in a businesslike way. “We forgot lunch,” De Vinne said.

“It’s dull here,” he went on. “I think I’ll look out the window.”

“Be careful. Remember your affliction.”

“I’m tired. I’m tired and I’m overworked.” He was working himself into a rage; Baskerville knew the signs. The strain of their assignment was telling on him. He was, after all, a young man, comparatively inexperienced. You had to make allowances. William Elderly Baskerville felt tolerant and fatherly. From the abundant supply on the floor he chose several pieces of paper and fashioned an elaborate Valentine heart, inscribing it, with many flourishes, with the words “Thirty-Five Years, In Grateful Memory.” He placed it wordlessly on his partner’s desk. De Vinne began to cry.

“You never answered my question,” Baskerville said gently.

“What question?” De Vinne’s face was hidden behind his hands.

“Why have we been thrown here, and abandoned?”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“Then
I
didn’t answer it. But you try, first.”

“To do our work.”

“But what precisely
is
our work?”

“It has something to do with all this.” De Vinne indicated the paper strewn all over the room. His interest was reviving; he wiped his tear-streaked face. “There is an organization, somewhere,” he began, patiently. “and it sends us the, uh, material, and we . . .”

“And we?”

“We
act
on it.

“When?”

“I thought
you
knew.”

“Maybe I do. But aren’t you getting impatient?”

“I bloody well am.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I was rabid the first couple of months. Or years. But you said to wait. You seemed to know what you were doing.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Do you?”

“It’s well you ask.”

“I’m trying to be efficient. God knows.” De Vinne brushed some lint from his green tweed jacket. “But it’s trying, with you being mysterious and Lord knows what going on outside . . .” He began to look tearful again.

“Henry,” Baskerville said quietly.

“Yes?”

“You’ve noticed the paper?”

“Noticed
it! My God, we’re drowning in it. You yourself told Cynthia . . .”

“You’ve noticed that there’s nothing on it?”

“Yes.”

“And you know that in a model of the typical clerical or administrative function, we would initial it and send it forward?”

“Typically, we would.”

“But we don’t.”

“We don’t.”

“We
contain
it.”

“I don’t see . . .”

“When I first came, Harry Garamond, he was in charge then, took
me aside and told me that although what we did here might seem foolish to me at first, that I would eventually get the idea. I’d understand, he said. And he was right. But it took some time.”

“And the idea was . . .” De Vinne leaned forward eagerly.

“That we were to be a bottleneck. That everything was to stop here. Although there might be pressures from outside.”

“But . . .”

“Both pro and con.”

“I’m confused.”

“I regret it.”

“Get to the point. What
is
this stuff?” De Vinne kicked a pile of paper; it flowed over the adjoining floorspace in a snowy wave.

“The substance of human lives.”

“This . . . waste?”

“Of hundreds of lives. Of real men in real rooms.”

“But what has it to do with
us
?”

“Our task is to know it for what it is.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“It’s a terrible responsibility.”

“So . . .”

“In a sense, we hold together the meaningless lives of hundreds and hundreds of people.”

“How?”

“You’re aware that there’s nothing on the paper?”

“Yes.”

Baskerville masked a smile. “Not everybody is.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Think of the sense of being needed and necessary, of achievement and authority, of promotion and advancement.”

“It’s not clear.”

“Examine your conscience.”

“Must I?”

“If you want to know.”

“Good God.”

“This is the truth of all offices. Of all organizations.”

“What would they do . . . if they knew?”

“There would be corpses hanging from lampposts, I suppose. Or other places. The stockmarket would explode in a marvel of fission. Blood would run in the gutters. The price of eggs would go up.
I
don’t know.”

“But why has our own organization turned on us?”

“Because it knows we’re thinking. It’s painful for everybody. Revolution is not a polite word.”

“And if we let it go?”

“It’s best not to think about it.”

“We’re finks, then.”

“Only in a sense.”

“Isn’t there anything to be said for us?”

“We do our job.”

“I’m sick.”

“You weren’t prepared.”

De Vinne sat down. For a long moment he thought heavily, then brightened.

“But what about General Dynamics?”

“I hardly see why they should be an exception.”

“What about ‘Better Things for Better Living Through Chemistry’?”

“Do parades make you weak inside?”

“I’m
already
weak inside.”

“Let Miss Angel Craw out of the closet.”

De Vinne took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Miss Angel Craw stumbled out of the closet, coughing. She began mopping again. Baskerville and De Vinne sat down at their desks once more.

A little rough on the kid, William Elderly Baskerville thought. And it isn’t even true. Still, it
might
be true. He gazed affectionately at his favorite inkblot, in which he could sometimes see William Howard Taft. He had had a horror of veracity ever since, as a little boy, he had been punished for owning up manfully to a shattered aquarium in his father’s study. Truth is punishment, he thought.