I roused myself from my reverie and said, "I was just wondering what's
going to be the outcome of all this."
"A good wonder," she said. "I guess it's worth a penny. Frankly, I
don't worry much about it. Assuming, of course, that we all come
through it with our health, happiness and honor intact."
The Monolithian bartender was in front of us suddenly. He smiled.
There was a snort from our right. It was a man of about sixty who was
drinking a Pernod.
"Ah, a philosopher," Joy said.
The man picked up his drink, admired its cloudy color and took a sip
before replying. "I am indeed," he said. "My eyes are wide open and
unfilmed."
"_Whose_ eyes?" I said.
"Mine--the eyes of Clyde B. Fitchburn, student of men."
"Fitchburn!" I said. "The renowned crier of doom?"
"The _former_ crier of doom," he said placidly. "Student of men and
current employee of Monolithia. My cries are stilled while I remain on
the payroll. What's your excuse, Mr. Kent? And yours, Miss Linx?"
I didn't like his tone. "Now look--" I started to say, but Joy put her
hand on my arm.
"He's got a point," she said. "Aren't we all on the payroll?"
I had to admit in my secret mind that this was a valid point. But
I said, "Let's leave us out of it. We don't matter, except to
ourselves----"
"Oh, but we do," Fitchburn said. "We matter in direct ratio to the
millions, or thousands, or even one that we influence. But go on,
Kent."
He was an irritating man because he was speaking the truth--perhaps for
the first time in his life.
"All right," I said angrily. "We matter to some extent. I grant you
that--and that influence on one person, rightly exerted, can change the
course of empire. But our influence is insignificant compared with that
of the big boys. And we've got the biggest boys in the world aboard.
What's _their_ excuse?"
Clyde B. Fitchburn took out a crushable pack and lit a thinking-man's
cigarette. The bartender rushed over to light it for him.
"Thank you," Fitchburn said to the Monolithian. "Listen if you like. I
know you will anyway."
The bartender smiled and deliberately went to the other end of the bar.
I was sure he could hear just as well from there.
Fitchburn turned back to Joy and me. "Each of us has his own secret
soul," he said, and punctuated that profound remark with a sip of
Pernod. "I took this job, which entailed an end to my well-known
destructive criticism of the administration, because my third wife has
gone into court with a demand for more alimony. For me it's as simple
as that. I can fight the demand with lawyers, or I can pay. Either way
I need more money. You, Miss Linx, took your job because you saw a
possibility of meeting more important people and thus advancing your
career--or alternatively, meeting more interesting people and perhaps
finding an intelligent and well-to-do mate. Am I not right, my dear?"
"Look, Joy," I said, "we don't have to sit here and listen to this----"
"Simmer down, Sam," she said. "Mr. Fitchburn's honesty is refreshing,
if not altogether flattering. Mr. Fitchburn--may I call you Clyde?"
"Please do."
"Clyde," she said, "I admire you. Frankly, I always dialed you out when
I accidently heard you on the air. It's a pity more people can't hear
you over a drink, without benefit of microphone. A frank question,
Clyde: What do you now consider your role to be?"
"An easy question from a friend," Fitchburn said. "I am, as of 48 hours
ago, approximately, an apologist for the well-paying Monolithians. And
you, Miss Linx?"
"Joy," she said. "A fearful Joy, perhaps, to steal the words of Mr.
Cary, but an honest one, I hope. My role? You've already said it,
Clyde. Meeting interesting, friendly people, with a loving but
calculating female eye to the future. There--now I've said it, too."
"But what do you fear?" Fitchburn asked.
"That the Monolithians are not all they profess to be. That their
humanity--their seeming friendliness to us Earthpeople--is motivated by
something we don't know anything about. That in the end we're all going
to be more miserable for it--if we exist to be miserable at all."
I ate a pretzel, feeling like a supernumerary carrying a rubber-tipped
spear. I ate several pretzels, moodily, recalling my experience in
the spaceship in the woods, my imprisonment and brain-picking and the
covey of doubles for famous personages. And who were those aboard this
spaceship? The real articles or the Monolithian duplicates?
"You'll get fat, eating all those pretzels," Joy said.
Clyde had said something to her and she to him and now she was worried
about me. I was worried about me, too, and it had nothing to do with
pretzels. It had to do with the whole human race.
"How well do you know President Allison?" I asked Clyde.
"As well as any reporter does," he said. "Maybe better--I had a private
interview with him about a year ago."
"And the British Prime Minister? And the Frenchman and the German?"
"Slightly. I've met them at receptions a few times. Why?"
"Have you talked to them since they came aboard?"
"Yes. Not long. Just to say hello. What are you getting at, Kent?"
"I'm not sure. Did they look all right to you?"
"They all seemed weary and irritable, but otherwise okay. Two of them
even remembered my name, which is a damn good average."
"What's this all about, Sam?" Joy asked. "You sound as if you have some
inside information."
"I do," I said. "But I wonder what good it does me. It's something like
a movie you've seen before. You know how it's going to end and there's
no way to change it."
"My, you're morbid," Joy said. "I hope your movie had a happy ending."
Clyde Fitchburn had been gazing into his Pernod. "I've been thinking,"
he said to Joy. "The things our young friend here has been saying--or
hinting--are beginning to tie in. I did notice something about our
VIP's. Yes, definitely, now that I think of it. They looked tired, as
I said. But that other thing I noticed--as I think back, it seems to
me it wasn't just irritation. No; they were frightened. Yes, that's the
word. Frightened. Scared to death."
"You mean they were afraid of this trip?" Joy asked. "I can't blame
them for that. I'm still a little queasy after that takeoff. Little old
internal organs may never be the same."
"Not that," Clyde said. "There was nothing cowardly about their fear.
I know I'm expressing this badly, but it seemed to me that their
trepidation was not for themselves--they're bigger men than that.
No, it was as if there were something they were being forced to
do--something that each had decided for himself had to be done. Each
had made this great decision he could not avoid. It had to be made
and each knew it was as right as any decision he had _ever_ made. But
having made it, he wasn't sure the next step, which was out of his
hands, would be the right one. Each of them--yes, I'm convinced of it
now--was frightened for all humanity."
The bartender came over and said, "You are all very amusing, but while
you have been libeling the Monolithians, one of your Earth nations has
begun a war against the rest of your unhappy planet."
"What?" I said. "Which one?"
"What do you mean?" Joy asked. "How?"
Clyde Fitchburn merely twirled his glass in his hand and smiled sadly.
"You would not suspect. A tiny Caribbean country. The one ruled by that
man with the big mouth. I believe it's called El Spaniola."