The cashier seemed to wince but Doak's gaze didn't relent. He was only
three years behind in his taxes now and this extra moola on the
swindle-sheet could bring him two months closer. Anyone who was only
two years behind on his taxes was considered a very solid citizen.
The cashier reached down to pull up four packets of twenties. "Well,"
he said quietly, "it's not _my_ money." He tossed the two thousand out
to Doak and yawned. "Remind me about it Monday if I forget, will you?
I'm not much good the end of the week."
_Or any other part of the week_, Doak thought. He said, "If I'm back,
Monday. If I'm not I'll scream for more."
"You do that well," the cashier said and reached up to turn off the
light overhead.
It was hot outside. The sun seemed to be imprisoned in the white
corridor that stretched for miles between the government buildings and
the ashment of the parking lot glittered like broken glass.
* * * * *
From the mines of Mars the ashment came, the best paving surface known
to man. And what was Mars but mines? With all their grand talk, who
wanted to leave Mother Earth? What was Venus but a sanctuary, a
vacation spot, and what was Mars but mines? When a big cog like the
Chief could send a lonely man all the way to Dubbinville because of a
neighbor's summons, how could they expect little cogs to grow up to
galactic thinking?
Dubbinville and the heat of a Wisconsin summer--and June waiting in
the apartment on Connecticut (S.E.). Doak swore quietly and
thoroughly and stepped into the oven that was his Chev.
The cooling system started with the motor and the interior was
comfortable by the time he pulled into the stream of home-bound
traffic. It was a fourteen-lane highway and jammed to the curbs.
* * * * *
There were only two signals in eight miles but traffic moved in fits
and starts at this time of day. He could see the first light when he
was a hundred yards from it and was sure he could make it.
But it turned amber when he was still fifteen yards from the corner
and the force-field actuated his traffic-servant and he heard the
brake control click. Well, it avoided accidents but it sure as hell
was rough on brake linings. He skidded to a stop.
Cars, cars, cars for miles. And the glittering ashment and all the
boys and gals going home to plot the week-end. No magazines, no books,
no papers with their social columns, so the girls would be out and
looking around.
And the men would be out and looking around and what more did you
need?
The light changed and his brake was released and he moved out at the
head of his line, thinking about Dubbinville, trying to imagine it,
some hamlet tucked away in a Wisconsin hill, dreaming of yesterday.
Great, fine, dandy!
In his apartment all his video sets yammered at him and he stopped in
the doorway, staring. They should have turned off when he'd thrown the
master switch this morning.
In the hallway, he checked the switch, and it read _off_. Must be
shorted....
He went from dinette to kitchen to bedroom to living room, turning off
each set individually. All of them had the same program, Milton Berle
IV. He liked that better than wrestling though not much.
In his chrome and plastic kitchen he dialed June's number.
Her hair wasn't in the curlers. It was golden and braided and high on
her classic head. She said, "Your picture isn't coming through. Who is
this, please?"