The Ultimate Egoist (16 page)

See, most merchant ships under 15,000 tons don’t carry doctors unless they are passenger jobs. That means that every time a tanker, for instance, sails, she has thirty-five or forty men aboard who can have no medical attention besides the first aid that the skipper or steward can handle. Suppose someone gets really sick? Well, then, Sparks sends the letters MEDICO out on the radio until one of the government stations picks him up. Every other ship shuts up on that call, same as on S.O.S. Then the sick man’s condition is described, and the government doctor replies with treatment. Captains have even operated for appendicitis, guided by that radio voice. But if the man’s condition is bad they send a cutter or a plane out to get him.

Like that time Cotter got sick on the tankship
S.W. Wonderford
. Cotter was the ordinary seaman on my watch. Swell kid. He made a pier-head jump, catching the ship just as we threw the lines off in Baytown, Tex. Never been to sea before. Green but willing to learn. He was tall and very thin. Been out of work a long time, he told us. Hadn’t been eating much.

Well, he was all right till we got about as far as Dry Tortugas, not far from the Florida straits. Took us about three days; the Gulf was acting friendly. No wind, no waves. But around Tortugas she began kicking up a little. Not too much, but it floored the kid. We all laughed at him same as we always do about seasickness. Sometimes you can kid a man right out of it. But not this one. We wandered into the tail end of a Caribbean hurricane off Old Isaac light
in the Bahamas, and the old can began standing on her nose.

It couldn’t have been seasickness. Anyone could see that. The kid just passed out cold in his bunk one morning. Couldn’t get him to stay on his feet. The steward brought him around all right with ammonia, but he went under again. The Old Man was told; he came aft and looked Cotter over for a second, then had Sparks call MEDICO. Messages went like this:

“Medico O.K. Give symptoms, condition.”

“Seaman periodically unconscious, hard to rouse. Spirits of ammonia not very effective. What shall I do?”

“Feverish?”

“Yes, 103.”

“Apply cold pack to head, keep us advised.”

It didn’t do much good. Yeah, Cotter came to after a bit. But that was worse.

“Medico. Man conscious, complains of acute internal pain. Not localized. Advise.”

“Are symptoms those of appendicitis as per manual?”

“No. Pain not localized. Fever now 104. Advise.”

The Old Man was frantic by this time. That was one sick-looking kid.

“Continue cold pack treatment. Give position. Dispatching coast guard cutter to take man off.”

The Old Man gave the position and we changed course a bit inshore to meet the cutter halfway. It was blowing hard; we had a job on our hands. How to get him aboard the cutter in that sea? Now and then I’d look in on Cotter. Poor kid. Very low.

Well, in about five hours we saw the lights of the cutter. She was boiling along under forced draft, rolling like a spruce log. She came up under our port bow broad on and kicked alongside as near as she could get without sinking both of us. She shot a line over us, and we hauled a cable aboard. She had an automatic tension engine aboard her that worked like a miracle, taking the slack out of that cable no matter how we tossed and rolled. Never saw anything like it.

Next we hauled a breeches buoy across the cable, put the kid in, lashed him, and they snatched him back. I timed the whole thing.
Just under eighteen minutes from the second they shot their line aboard, the cutter was headed for her base. We gave her three blasts and the crew cheered like maniacs. I tell you, at that moment we were proud of the old man with the whiskers and the striped pants.

So you see why a seaman will like as not take a poke at the guy who says the government is lying down on the job. Radio, trained doctors and a half million dollar cutter at the disposal of one sick kid.

Oh, the kid? Sure he got well. That was almost a joke. Not one man in a million will get it as bad as he did. Yeah, just a very bad case of seasickness. Darndest thing I ever saw.

G
ENE
W
ILLIS WAS
slipping. It was the sort of thing that no one could have foreseen and yet, when it happened, everyone was wise. They all said, “What can you expect when you put a leg-man into a spot like that?” and “How could a youngster like that, with only a year’s experience in the newspaper business behind him, handle that sort of an assignment?” and “Willis turned out too many wows. He’s played out.”

They didn’t know, of course, what Gene had been through—what he was going through. How could he fill that column, day in and day out, with the stupid answers that stupid people gave to the stupid questions he asked them as the
Evening Sunburst
’s Inquiring Reporter, when his heart was heavy and his steps dragged and his whole being cried out for someone who didn’t want him? Betty Riordan … she’d been impatient when he asked her to set their wedding date a year ahead so that he could save for it. She’d been jealous and accused him of wanting time to play around with someone else. She’d said she never wanted to see him again. Unfair? Certainly, but he loved her. He loved her! And what did it matter what people answered when he asked them, “Who’ll win the pennant this year?” or, “What do you think of the Third Term movement?” or “How did you propose to your husband?”

At first, when the assignment was given to him, he brought the “Inquiring Reporter” column to life. He had the knack of pointing up the comments of the man on the street without misquoting. Each and every one of those comments, as it appeared in print, was brilliant, original, amusing, and intensely interesting. And now? He did his job. That is, he asked enough people the daily question received in the mail, wrote enough words to fill his column, and submitted it. But the rawest cub could have turned out the kind of work he
was doing since Betty Riordan and he had quarreled. Gene Willis was a discouraged man—a man on the way out.

And today’s question! Why did the Features Editor have to pick a thing like that? “How would you tell an ex-sweetheart you wanted him back?” The prospect of hearing little stenogs and waitresses tell him their answers was the most refined torture. Well, he’d go through with it … he always did. “Here goes,” he said to himself.

“Beg pardon, miss. I’m the Inquiring Reporter. Would you care to answer today’s question? Fine! Name? Occupation? Now, the question. How would you tell an ex—” How would Betty Riordan tell him?— “You would? Very well, Miss Rand.”
Would
Betty Riordan tell him she wanted him back? “You’ll see it in tomorrow’s
Sunburst
. Thank you. Beg pardon, miss, I’m the Inquiring Reporter. Would you—”

On and on and on through the afternoon. Out of fifty interviews, he’d use the five best. And submit them. And have the editor tell him they lacked punch. And he’d go out the next day and do worse. And who cared?

The thirty-fifth interview was with a plump lady who insisted that once she had put a man out of her life she would keep him out. She was rather vociferous about it, and a tittering crowd had gathered. Well, that saved work. There were always a half a dozen idiots ready to push forward with their two cents’ worth. “Thank you very much, Miss Robertson. You’ll see it in tomorrow’s
Sunburst
,” he said automatically. “Is there anyone else who might like to—”

The crowd surged lightly and another girl stood before him. Without looking up from his notebook he said, “Your name?”

“Betty Riordan,” said that soft, familiar voice.

The last straw! But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how terribly he was hurt by having to ask her that question. The shaking of his voice was almost unnoticeable as he asked, for the thirty-sixth time that day, “How would you tell an ex-sweetheart that you wanted him back?”

She said, “I’d tell him that I was a fool for ever having quarreled … I’d say that I couldn’t live without him … I’d tell him that he was right and I was, oh,
so
wrong. I’d—oh, Gene! Gene darling!
I’ve followed you ever since you left the
Sunburst
office, hoping you’d see me. You were too proud to call, and I was too proud to write, and—oh, Gene, take me back! Take me back.”

The crowed roared as two young people held each other close and kissed lingeringly …

“How do you like that!” bellowed the Features Editor, as he hurled Gene’s manuscript at the copy boy. “Here we are, ready to fire Gene Willis because he’s lying down on the job, and he submits a minor masterpiece. Tell the cashier to take the pink slip out of Willis’ pay envelope. By the way, who was it sent in today’s question?”

“Someone named—” the boy studied the front page of manuscript “—Betty Riordan. Why?”

“Just wondered. She was sure Gene Willis’ good angel!”

B
UTCH WAS A
card. He was a wild Indian, a jitterbug, and in the words of a harassed high school principal, a troublemaker. There was never a dull moment with Butch around. There was no real harm in him, his aunt used to say. He was just a lively young man who got his fun by annoying people. He lived with his aunt—had, ever since his father died in 1922. That left him an orphan; his mother had died when he was born, and his aunt never could do much with him. She stopped trying when he was in his teens.

He was two years out of high school and had an office boy job somewhere or other. He still lived with his aunt, and shot his salary on clothes and the nerve-wracking things he called fun.

One warm afternoon, Butch and three of his sidekicks were loafing out in front of Murphy’s place. No one seemed to have any good ideas for killing the evening, and all four of them were tired of holding down that corner. But there was no other place to go, so they stayed there. After a while even small talk petered out. Butch began scuffing the side of his shoe on the curbstone. Those who knew him always welcomed that little sign, because it meant that Butch was bored, and when Butch was bored things happened.

And just at that moment Harry Jack peered up the street and saw Pushover Britt coming along. The situation was made to order. Britt had been in the neighborhood about two weeks, which was about as long as it took Butch to find out that the guy was quiet and harmless and would just as soon avoid trouble.

“Hey, Butch!” said Harry. “Get a load of this!”

Butch looked. “Well, strike me pink!” he said. “Pushover Britt himself, and—by golly, he’s got an armload of posies!”

“I’d like to know who the gal is that would give him a tumble,” said Al Schultz.

“Anyone could get a tumble with that many flowers,” said Mario Petri. “Musta cost his whole pay day.”

Harry started toward Britt, but Butch caught his arm. “Wait a second. Let’s follow him. I’d like to have a look at the girl who rates all that shrubbery, myself. Maybe we can get to know her.”

So they let Britt pass them without a word and gave him half a block lead. “Now who in blazes can he be going to see?” Mario asked no one in particular. “I thought I knew every skirt in the neighborhood. Let’s see …”

The same thought was running through all four minds as they followed Britt. For a while they were sure it was Sue Reale, but Britt passed her street without a glance. Aggie’s house was just around the corner from it, but he ignored that, too.

“I’ve got it!” said Al suddenly. “Little Marion Kennedy who lives opposite the cemetery!”

“You got something there,” said Butch. “This is going to be good!”

It seemed as if Al Schultz was right. Britt turned toward the churchyard. Butch began planning his campaign. It was going to be one spoiled evening for Pushover Britt. They were so sure of themselves, those four, that when Britt turned into the burying ground they stopped short, open-mouthed.

“Come on!” said Mario. “He’s wise to us—or he’s going to meet her inside. That’s a laugh!”

“Nuts,” said Butch. “Leave him be. I don’t like that place. I’m going back.”

Harry hooted. “Scared of ghosts, Butch?” He ducked as Butch swung at him. Then the four of them went after Britt.

They saw him just as they poured through the gate. He was walking slowly down one of the paths, reading the headstones as he went. “How do you like that?” breathed Mario. “Come on!”

As they reached Britt he was leaning over a low railing, placing his flowers on one of the graves. The rest of them made way for Butch; he always started the fun. But this time it didn’t look like fun. Butch’s face was paper white and working crazily. He came up behind Britt and whirled him around.

“What’s the idea, mug?” he snarled.

Britt looked very much surprised, but not at all frightened. “Why,” he said coolly. “I always do this on Memorial Day. Look.” He pointed to the headstone.

JOHN ROLFE HARRISON
1890–1922
He died at home but gave his life to his country.

“I guess he was a war vet who died of his wounds. There’s no flowers on the grave, and there should be today. Some people forget. It’s up to you and me to remember.”

“Yes,” said Butch. His voice was choked. “Some … people … forget …”

Britt said to the others, “Let’s go, boys. I think your friend wants to be by himself for a while.” He turned to Butch, put a hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t know—”

Butch brushed the hand off. “Okay, Okay.”

So they left him there, Britt and the three flashily-dressed youths; left him standing with bowed head, gazing through what might have been tears at the flowers on his father’s grave.

K
ENNETH
C
OURTNEY, ANYONE
could see, was plenty sore. No man works so hard and viciously digging his own lily pond on his own time unless he has a man-size gripe against someone. In Kenneth’s case it was a wife who allowed herself to be annoyed by trifles. The fact that in her arguments she presented a good case made Kenneth all the angrier because it made him sore at himself too. Suppose he
had
come in at 4
A.M.
? And suppose he
had
told Marjorie that he was working late? A lie like that was nothing—much. The only trouble with lies was that people—especially wives and bosses—can make such a damn fool out of a man when they catch him in one. All right; so it was a poker game, and he had lost a few bucks.