The realists were churning. Right there, sides were being chosen. I let
all know my side immediately.
"Venus is hot, but it's desert heat. Continuous dust storms with
fantastic winds--"
"People'd never go for that junk," interrupted the Mind. "Everyone knows
Venus is swampy."
"Everyone whose reading tastes matured no further than Edgar Rice
Burroughs!"
The Mind, with a if-you-know-so-much-why-aintcha-rich look, sneered,
"How come you know all about it?"
Speechless, I spread my hands. This joker was leading with his chin,
forcing the fight. I had to hit him again; if I lost, I lost good. "A
person," I said slowly and rhythmically, "with normal intelligence and a
minute interest in the universe, will keep step with the major sciences,
at least on an elementary level. I must stress the qualification of
normal intelligence."
The Mind, face contorted, was determined to get me. I was in a very
vulnerable spot; more important, so was the idea.
Mind began an emotional tirade, and mentally I damned him. It couldn't
have mattered to him what environment we used, but he was politicking
where he shouldn't.
There was silence when he stopped. This was the crux; The Boss would
decide. I held my breath.
He said, "We'll make it hot and dusty." The realists had won; the rest
climbed on the bandwagon but quick; and the temple was cleansed.
It was natural--because at the moment I was fair-haired--for the project
to become mine. God knows, I worked hard for it. I'd have to watch the
Mind, though; he would make things as difficult as possible.
However, he'd proved he was the one person I wasn't seeking. One down
and 2,499,999,999 to go.
Within a few days, a new opposition coalition formed, headed by the
Mind. Fortunately, they helped. I'd hesitated on one last point. Pushed.
I gambled the momentum of the initial enthusiasm would carry it.
* * * * *
Originally the plan was a series of rooms, glassed off, that people
could stare into. There was something much better; engineering and I
spent 36 hours straight, figuring costs, juggling space and equipment,
until the modification didn't look too expensive--juggling is always
possible in technical proposals. For the results, the cost was worth it.
I hand-carried the proposal in.
Why not take people _through_ the rooms? We could even design a
simulated, usable spacesuit. There'd be airlock doors between the rooms
for effectiveness, insulation, economy. No children under ten allowed;
no adults over 50. They'd go through in groups of 10 or 11.
Sure, I realized this was the most elaborate, most ambitious concession
ever planned. The greatest ever attempted in its line, it would
cost--both us and the public. But people will pay for value. They'd go
for a buck-and-a-half or even two; the lines of those filing past the
windows, at 50 cents a crack, would also bring in the dough.
They bought it. Not all--they nixed my idea of creating exact
environmental conditions; and I didn't insist, luck and Hollywood being
what they are.
From the first, I established a special group to work on one problem.
They were dubbed the Gravity Gang, and immediately after, the GG. I
hired them for the gravity of the situation, a standard gag that, once
uttered, became as trite as the phrase. The Tour's realism would be
affected by normal weight sensations.
The team consisted of a female set designer--who'd turn any male
head--from the Studio, a garage mechanic with 30 years' experience, an
electronics engineer, a science fiction writer, and the prettiest
competent secretary available. I found Hazel, discovering with delight
she'd had three years of anthropology at UCLA.
As soon as they assembled, I explained their job: find a way to give the
illusion of lessened gravity.
Working conditions would be the best possible--why I'd wanted the women
pretty--and their time was their own. I found the GG responded by
working 10 hours a day and thinking another 14. They were that sort.
I couldn't know the GG was foredoomed to failure by its very collective
nature; nor could I know, by its nature, the GG meant the difference
between my success and failure.
The opposition put one over; we'd started referring to the job as Tour
of the System Project. Next day, it was going the rounds as TS project.
Words, words, and men will always fight with words.
Actually, the initials were worthy of the name. The engineering problems
mounted like crazy. Words, words, and one of them got to the outside
world. Or maybe it was the additional construction crew we hired.
One logical spot for the building was next to the moon flight. The Tour
building now would be bigger than first planned, so we extended it
southeasterly. This meant changing the roadbed of the Santa Fe &
Disneyland R.R. It put me up to my ears in plane surveying--and gave me
a nasty shock.
I looked up at someone's shout, in time to see a ton of cat rolling down
the embankment at me.
* * * * *
What we were doing was easy. Using a spiral to transition gradually from
tangent to circular curve and from circular curve to tangent. Easy?
Yeah. Sure.
If this was my baby, I'd damned well better know its personality traits.
I was out with the surveyors, I was out with the construction gang, I
was out at the wrong time.
As the yellow beast, mindless servant of man, thundered down, I dove for
the rocks. Thank God for the rocks--we'd had to import them: the soil in
Orange County is fine for oranges, but too soft for train roadbeds.
Choking on the dust, I rolled over. The cat perched, grinning drunkenly,
on the rocks. The opposition or an accident? Surely the Mind wasn't
_that_ desperate. But I was; I had to keep the idea alive, for myself as
well as completion of the original mission.
Several million hands pulled me out; several million more patted away
the dust. Motionless, I'd just seen the driver of the cat. Seen him--and
was sorry.
He stood tall but hunched over; gaunt, with pasty skin, vapid eyes, and
a kind of yellow-nondescript hair.
It wasn't the physical characteristics, very similar to mine, that
bothered me--once after an incomplete pass, I'd been told by a young
lady that I was a "thin, sallow lecher." I was swept by waves of
impending trouble, more frightened of him than of the opposition in
toto. Then, relieved, I realized the man wasn't the one I was expecting.
Back in my office, I wasn't allowed the luxury of nervous reaction. Our
spacesuit man wanted an Ok on design changes. Changes? What changes?...
Oh, yes, go ahead.
A materials man wanted to know about weight. I told him where to go--for
the information.
A written progress report from the GG briefly, sardonically, said: "All
the talk about increased costs and lowered budget has decided us to ask
if any aircraft, missile, or AEC groups have come up with anti-gravity.
It'd be a lot simpler that way. Love and kisses."
I shrugged, wrote them a memo to take a week off for fishing, wenching,
or reading Van Es on the Pleistocene stratigraphy of Java. I didn't
care, as long as they returned with a fresh point of view.
Things were hectic already, less than four months after we'd started.
And we hadn't much to show, except a shift in the roadbed of the SF & D
RR. The opposition, growing stronger each day, could sit back and rest
the case, with nothing more than a smug, needling, I-told-you-so look.
The day finally came when we broke ground for the building. It was quite
an achievement, and I invited the GG to dinner. I'd been drawn to the
bunch of screwballs--the only name possible--more and more. Maybe
because they were my brain-child, or maybe because lately they were the
only human company in which I could relax.
The Hotel is about a half-mile south of Disneyland. I arrived early,
hoping to grab a ginger ale. Our set designer, Frank--christened
Francis--caught me at the door.
"Wanted to buy you a drink. This is the first time we've met socially."
That was true; it was equally true something bothered her. Damn it!
Trapped, I'd have to drink. We ordered, and I mulled it over. Waited,
but she said nothing.
* * * * *
The drinks came. I shook several little, bright-yellow pills from the
bottle, swallowed them, then drank. Frank cocked her head inquisitively.
"If you must know, they're for my ulcer."
"Didn't know you had one."
"Don't, but I'll probably get one, any day."
She laughed, and I drank again. I should do my drinking alone because I
get boiled incredibly fast. It happened now. One second I was sober; the
next, drunk.
Resting a cheek on a wobbly palm-and-elbow, I said, "Has everyone ever
said you are the most beautiful--"
"Yes, but in your present state, it isn't a good idea for you to add to
that number."
I shifted to the other forearm. "Frank, things might be different if I
weren't a thin, sallow lecher."
"What a nice compliment--"
"Uh huh."
"Especially since I work for you, nominally anyway--"
"Uh huh, nominally."
"Bosses should not make passes
At gals who work as lower classes."
"Uh, huh, familiar."
"But you are, and getting more so daily--"
"Uh hu--are what?" I asked in surprise.
"Thin, tired: the GG has decided you're working too hard."
"Because I don't use Vano." I grinned, having waited long to put that
one across.
"Be serious and listen--"
"_You_ listen: if I'm working too hard, it's to finish. I _must_, and
soon."
"This compulsion," she paced her words, "will kill you if you let it."
"It'll kill me if I don't let it--"
"Here comes Harry."
It was time. Blearily, I fumbled with the pills, spilled the bottle.
Frank helped me gather them up, as Harry arrived.
He said, a look of worry on his gaunt, gray features, "The rest of us
are waiting."