Originally published in Startling Stories, September 1951.
Chapter I
He was a very ordinary young man. And the prospects of his ever being anything more than that, except perhaps an ordinary older man, were remote this fine spring morning.
It was May in a year that doesn’t matter, in a city that needn’t be named, in a country formerly called the United States. His name was John Galveston Hughes and he rose early this fine May morning and, after touching his toes without bending his knees twelve times, he took off his pyjamas and stepped into the filo-chrome shower stall.
He showered twice a day for some reason and wore clothes designed to kill and wasn’t a bad looking lad at all. But he’d never had a girl. Not even in high school. Not even in college, where he’d majored in track and once taken fourth in a state meet in the 220. There were five in the race.
In the shower stall, he pressed the first of a row of buttons, and a liquid detergent swirled around his firm body from the hundreds of jets that filigreed the walls. The pressure and the pulsating swirl of the streams were more than cleansing. They were invigorating and at the same time strangely quieting.
The second button brought the liquid rinse, faintly perfumed—the third button the drying and massaging streams of air. He came out smelling like roses and feeling like a man who could take third in the 220.
He examined his face in one of the mirrored walls of the bathroom and decided he looked about as good as the next guy—brown hair, blue eyes, a certain patrician cast to the thin face. Why didn’t he have a girl?
His father had had a girl and so had his grandfather or of course there would not be any Johnny Hughes. But they’d lived in a time when men were given the doubtful privilege of pursuit and if they wanted a girl, well, they just went after her.
While he dressed John considered this ancient situation and wondered a little about the girls nobody had gone after. They must have been in a position akin to his and what had they done about it? According to the sketchy history he’d managed to pick up between track meets they’d written to Dorothy Dix.
She’d been a sort of distaff Tommy Trump as far as he could tell but had college girls written to her? He was a college man and it seemed beneath him to write to Tommy Trump.
In his brown-and-gold kitchen at the scarlet breakfast bar he said, “Eggs, toast, coffee and maybe some of that orange marmalade.”
The Dispensall clicked and whirred and chucked and murmured and then slid the order out its smooth brown chute to the scarlet table. Minus the orange marmalade.
John frowned at the Dispensall and its horrible, metallic voice said, “You said ‘maybe.’ Don’t I work hard enough without doing your thinking for you too?”
“Marmalade,” John said meekly. He wasn’t a man who enjoyed talking to machines, even the bright machines, but who else was there in his brown and gold kitchen?
So, as the marmalade came out in its crystal dish, he said, “Do you ever—I mean—have you no romantic… Do machines ever have female machines?”
“Not at this level.”
“Then you wouldn’t know about girls—about females.”
“Sorry, I don’t. You can take the pause out of that too if you want. All I do is serve humanity, as they say.”
“And very well too,” John said pleasantly and snapped the switch that made the machine dormant. It gave him a sense of power, this mastery over machines. He ate his eggs and toast and some of the marmalade and snapped on the visi-news to enjoy with his coffee.
Jane Baltenkorn’s clear alto voice emerged from the speaker behind the screen and then her image came into focus. She wasn’t the best looking girl in the world by a damned sight but even she looked good to John’s hungry eyes.
She was saying, “…an eventuality, of course, which would give Russia dominance over the bridge-playing world, a threat to the traditions and ethics of this most honorable and ancient game. The strategy of our supposed friends in this ridiculous maneuver seems to be—”
John snapped off the visi-news irritably. The Russians, the Russians, always the Russians. If it hadn’t been for them and their threats in the dim and distant eighties there would be no female dominance today and a guy could chase a girl.
It was the Swedes who had started No, No, Week back in the eighties, the Swedish women. I didn’t raise my boyfriend to be a soldier was their slogan, and it had spread. To Russia and America, to China and Japan, around the world. No soldier tastes my lips, no uniformed man shares my bed, no militarist holds me close.… And so on. Because the Russians were talking tough again.
The boys were getting ready for another big one, the drums drumming and the banners flying, and they thought it was a gag. Cute and with logic, but a gag. Until the No, no—no more hit them individually and personally where they lived.
In Russia the things shouldn’t have taken hold because Nilenoff had a very simple solution. Any Russian male who refused to report for immediate military duty was to die slowly and horribly.
He thought that was bad. Measured against the eternal No it was like living in heaven or America. A few died slowly and horribly, a few reported but were rejected because of psychiatric unbalance. Nilenoff didn’t want that kind of army even on the push buttons.
He raved about capitalistic decay spreading to his beloved country, about needing more living space than a crummy one sixth of the Earth’s surface, about female fascism. He was talking to himself. A greater terror loomed.
No!
There was no war. And the women grew drunk with their new power and—and now John Hughes, young and personable, had to talk across the breakfast bar to his Dispensall.
A machine can work harder than a man and think better and faster. A machine is not belligerent or subject to ego inflation and can do almost everything a man can. Almost. Practically anything a man can do a woman can do better.
Oh, they’d done it. Freed from the emotional and financial drain of war they’d shot rockets to the Moon—with mixed crews—established enough universities to accommodate every eligible woman in the country, eliminated the state governments and the county governments and the city governments. They’d followed the classic tradition of the best government being the least government and run the country on a fraction of what it had formerly cost.
And now they were shooting for Mars.
John knew about that, working in the Department of Science. He was a very small cog in that gargantuan organization but he knew all the other small cogs and they had discussions in the washroom.
It was getting no publicity, rated top-top secret. But the boys who walloped the typewriters in the Department got a word here and a formula there and in the washroom the picture began to take shape in their minds.
Mars was uninhabited—that much had been established. Under the big eye of the recently installed electronic telescope on Mt. Wilson, Mars was practically next door. And Mars was inhabitable.
In Section 37, which had formerly been New Mexico, near Taos, the big ship was taking form. In the Department of Science, the personnel cards were run through the compto-determina scanner, grading for colonists.
Mars was to be an American colony.
Colony, colony, colony… John was trying on his new hat before the blue mirror in the entrance hall when this senseless repetition hit him. Colony meant colonists and colonists meant both men and women, one for one, each for each other. Hardy duos, hand in hand, going forth to settle a new world. The imagery pleased him and he saw himself in the front row of marching colonists, a lovely by his side.
That would be something, a woman for each man and real people too.
There’d be no artificial insemination in that gang. And maybe, away from the female preponderance of the mother planet, maybe man would again be dominant. Maybe they could stage a No, No Week of their own. Or month, even. Well, two weeks…
He went out into the May sunshine, dreaming his dreams.
On Eighth, just as he was going down to the belt, a woman smiled at him. A stout woman, about forty-nine, with a mustache. John kept his eyes averted.
The belt to the Science Building was fairly crowded this morning, and John stood next to Pete Haskell. It was a slow-moving belt. “That Brooklyn looks like the club,” Pete said. “They’ve got the pitching.”
“I guess,” John said and looked around him to see who was within earshot. Then, “What’s new in New Mexico.”
Pete looked around too before answering. He was only a file clerk and it gave, him a sense of importance to look around. “Another week,” he muttered. “Maybe two.”
“Oh,” John said dispiritedly. “Then the colonists are—”
“Picked?” Pete shook his head. “Damn scanner broke down. Machines! They never work when you want them to.” The mechanical filing clerk was gaining so much headway that lads like Pete were almost obsolete—hence his bitterness.
John said quietly, “On Mars a man could be a man again. A man could be on top.”
“Hey,” Pete said, staring at him. “Hey, what are you thinking of, John? Hey—” His eyes were suddenly thoughtful.
“Women,” John said. “What are you thinking of, Pete?”
Pete continued to stare at him. “John,” he said after a few seconds. “Say, could we—would we…?”
“Would we what?”
“Don’t pretend it isn’t your idea. What else could you be thinking?”
“I was thinking of volunteering for the Mars trip.”
Pete snorted. “Volunteering! Since when does anybody volunteer for anything? You know the compto-determina scanner decides all that. But, John, it’s a machine.”
“And?”
“And Joe Nolan runs it. And Joe’s as hungry as we are. He’s virtually a virgin.”
It sounded like a song, John thought. Nolan, Joe, virgin, virtual. “We’re dreaming,” John said. “You know we’re dreaming, Pete.”
“Are we? What can we lose?”
“Our freedom, about twenty years of our lives. Extra-terrestrial Planning doesn’t fool with meddlers, Pete. They’d really stick it to us. And the whole Science Department behind them.”
“Chicken,” Pete said scornfully. “Count you out, is that it, Johnny?”
John frowned. “You’re serious? You’re really going to approach Joe Nolan on it?”
“I sure as hell am. In or out, John?” His voice was grave.
John looked at him for only a second before saying, “In!”
They stepped off the belt at the first escalator in the Science zone and went up together. They held their thumbprints in front of the time-clock scanner and watched their punched cards move over to the In display case. They were still twelve minutes early.
In the mammoth lounge next to the washroom Joe Nolan was watching a re-broadcast of yesterday’s Cubs game. He was alone in front of that particular screen.
Pete said, “I hear your baby broke down, Joe. How bad is it?”
“The color disc,” Joe said. “Every grade of physical condition has a different color, you know, and every degree of intelligence and every point of social aptitude. Blended they give the kind of color the scanner eye picks up. Well, right now, the eye’s color-blind.”
“And what have they got you doing now?”
Joe glanced at him curiously. “Fixing it. You think I’m a stooge like you monkeys? I am also a mechanic.”
“I’ll bet,” John said. “I’ll bet you’ll fix it but good!”
“Take back your needle, Johnny. I can make that thing whistle Dixie if I want to. I can fix it to play third base for the Yanks.”
“Huh,” Pete said. “Listen to the man talk.”
Joe was getting a little red. “Now, listen, boys, I know you’re just needling me but on this I’m sensitive. I tell you honestly I can make that damned compto-determina scanner do anything I want it to with personnel cards.”
Both of them stared at Joe gravely. Very seriously Pete said, “Anything, Joe?”
His stare went from one to the other. “What gives? What’s the gimmick?”
Pete smiled. John smiled and said, “How’s your girl, Joe?”
“Girl, girl, you guys know I haven’t got a—” He stopped talking, his mouth still open. He looked at John and at Pete and back at John. “Girl, girl—” he said hoarsely, and closed his mouth.
Chapter II
Nobody said anything for almost a full minute. Behind Joe there was a crack of the bat and Sam DiMaggio went streaking for first. Finally, Joe said, “Twenty years.”
“With good lawyers twenty years,” John said quietly. “The question is—how badly do we want it? How much will we risk?”
Joe didn’t answer that. Instead he said, “Wouldn’t it look strange, three men from Science, including the operator?”
“Strange as hell to a man,” John said. “But to a woman? They’ve learned to rely on machines completely. How many of them could drive a car with a steering wheel or crack an egg by hand?”
The warning buzzer and the red lights were flashing—two minutes to get on the job. All the video screens went blank, the bubblers dried up, the lounge chairs disappeared into the floor cavities. Women knew how to make a washroom or lounge uninhabitable.
Pete took that moment to say, “And maybe, Joe, on Mars—a new deal. Give it some thought.” He took a deep breath and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “We’ll call it ‘Operation John.’”
The marching song came from the cove-masked speakers—On Wisconsin this morning, the school from the state that was now section 22. Heads erect and falsely proud they marched to their appointed tasks. Good old University of 22, what a team they’d had last fall!
Operation John—through the long dull day the phrase lived with him, moving back and forth through his mind. Operation John—if Joe came through…
* * * *
At two-thirty Don Devlin stopped at his desk. “Boss wants to see you, John. Looks hot.”
Don meant angry. And she certainly did. She sat back of her huge ebony desk in her mammoth red durapelt-covered chair, a gigantic slob of a woman with unkempt hair and a ridiculous cigarette holder dangling from unpainted lips.
She had a sheaf of letters in her hand, John’s morning production, ready for her signature. She waved them, and said, “What is it, spring, love, baseball? Migawd, what in hell is it?”
“Something’s wrong?” John asked meekly.
“Erasures,” she said. “What do you erase with, a piece of coal? A few clean corrections to every, say—oh, six letters. But my gosh, Johnny, this just isn’t like you.”
He stared down at the carpet. She put the cigarette holder carefully on the desk and leaned forward in her chair. The desk creaked under the weight of her bosom as she said quietly, “Love? Has that old devil love come to my favorite typist?” Her sagging face was repulsive in simpering whimsey. “Love, Johnny—at last?”
He shook his head sadly. He looked up in time to catch the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “I’m glad,” she said softly. “I—wouldn’t want to lose my little Johnny. Today’s one of our bad days, isn’t it?”
He nodded mutely. Why was it always the crows—the hags and the slobs and the washed-out widows? Was he like Liederkranz, needing a cultivated taste?
“You’re a good boy,” she said. “I’m sorry I blew up. Take the rest of the afternoon off. Maybe you can catch the tail end of that ball game. Come back refreshed tomorrow, Johnny.”
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re—aces, Mrs. Glutz. It won’t happen again.”
“Of course not,” she said, smiling horribly. “Fresh and bright tomorrow, Johnny-boy.” She was practically drooling on her desk.
He went out, nausea stirring in him.
* * * *
He went over to Filing after picking up his hat and stood in the doorway, looking for Pete. Pete with an armful of papers and a worried look was standing near the transparent east wall. He saw John and hurried over. “Trouble? What is it?”
John shrugged. “Got the rest of the day off. How about tonight, meeting some place with Joe? Sort of make some sensible plans.”
“Sure. I’ll call you. Hey, how about that, the rest of the day off? That Glutz will eat you some day, John.”
“That’s my speed,” John said. “Glutz! Well, there are better worlds.”
“Quiet,” Pete cautioned. “Easy, boy. I’ll call you.”
John went out on the street side and the day was still magic. Ball game, she’d said. There were no male clubs playing in, town and he sure didn’t want to watch the Senators play Philadelphia.
What didn’t they have, he and Pete and Joe and all the others? What was it they lacked? With all the women in the world why should a few men be stormed and so many overlooked? In the old days had it been the meal ticket they’d been looking for with all their talk of romance? Why, when they didn’t need men for support, had they become so self-sufficient? Was there no romance in them?
Some there must be, he thought, as he walked past the soap opera house. But damn it, it was all talk, words, blather. And if it was did he still want one all to himself on Mars?
Yes.
I’ll make it romantic, he vowed. It may have to be a new high in self-delusion but I’ll make it romantic as hell.
He turned on Ames, heading for Lydia Pinkham park. Near Taos the ship would be waiting, and how appropriate that was for the launching of Operation John. Taos, which had formerly housed D. H. Lawrence and Walt MacFredric and what lovers they had been! Taos, which had erected a black marble statue to man’s best friend—the dog!
Oh, it was a big scheme and how big were they, he and Pete and Joe? A typist, a filing clerk and a compto-determina operator—how big were they? A man can be as big as his dream, given the guts to try it. And what could they lose but their loneliness?
Would they get to Mars? They would. Women had reduced adventure to another word in the dictionary. There was exactly as much chance of their missing a safe landing on Mars as there was of John being elected president of his local bridge club. If Mars weren’t a certainty, there’d be no money wasted on the ship now being finished. That was a mortal lock, getting to Mars.
And once there, wouldn’t other ships follow, bringing the indiscriminate choice of the undirected compto-determina? Wouldn’t that change the picture back to this one?
They’d have to discuss that tonight.
In Pinkham Park he sat on a white leather-upholstered bench, watching the female androids pushing the baby carriages. One of those he could have, just by registering at the Center. Some of the boys had settled for them and seemed happy.
Well, some of the boys were watching the Senators play Philadelphia this afternoon too. It depended on the degree of your degradation. For pushing baby carriages, for keeping a house running right, sure. But for marriage, for romance? John shook his head.
One of the androids said, “Who’s asking you?” and went by, her nose tilted skyward. Women, women, even these—pseudo-women. Why did he want one? It was a question better minds than his had failed to solve.
They met, he and Pete and Joe, in the Lace Room at the Cryden Arms that evening. A fancy spot, but this was a momentous occasion. Joe said, “She’ll be ready to roll tomorrow afternoon. The thing is, what kind of partners do you want?”
“Call them wives,” Pete said, “because that’s what they’ll be. We’ll be married on board the ship. Now here’s what I want…”
He went into a long and detailed description, mostly physical.
And while Pete talked, John thought and thought and thought and all he could think of was the video star, June Maling.
That was really reaching. Pert and popular and gifted, she’d resent being sent out as a colonist. She’d go, of course, because women had a national loyalty as great as man’s. But what kind of life would that be for her? Married to John Hughes, the no-girl man, leaving an adoring fandom behind. What kind of…?
Joe said, “And you, John?”
“June Maling,” John said. “I’ll buy a drink.”
They both stared at him. Joe said, “I’ll say you’ll buy a drink. Holy cow, you don’t want much, do you?”
“Just June,” John said. “I’ve wanted her since I was eighteen.”
“Well,” Joe said finally, “considering the risk we’re taking I guess it isn’t too much to ask. I won’t need the machine for that. I’ll just get her card direct from personnel.”
The tumblers came out then and the weight-lifting act. Pete said, “I understand there was a time when they had women in night club acts, women in tights.”
“Tights?” Joe said. “That’s going way back. Naked, they had them, even when your grandpa was a boy. And some of them were beauties, I’ve read.”
The weight-lifter was last year’s Mr. America and every feminine eye in the house was on him. Behind him the tumblers cavorted, lithe and agile lads clad only in loin cloths.
“Double bourbon for me,” Joe said and the others followed his lead.
John said, “How about the ships that follow us, boys? If we want to set up the new, or rather the old, regime on Mars, won’t the ones who follow rebel at that?”
Joe shook his head. “I’ve set the machine for a definite mental pattern, male and female, and that’s the way it will continue to operate. Actually your Miss June Maling will be the only female outside the pattern. And, I think, a possible source of trouble, John.”
“Maybe she won’t want to go,” Pete said. “Maybe she’ll back out.”
“For that,” John said, “you’ll buy one, Pete.”
There were more after that. There were too many. John didn’t remember getting home but he got there. And awoke, fully clothed, on the davenport in the living room the next morning.
He went into the shower a very sad sack and even the rosy rinse failed to lift him from his sodden lethargy. No headache, no buzzing in the ears—just the dull listlessness of a sapped vitality.
June Maling, June Maling, June Maling… His girl, June Maling. That was a laugh. He must have been loaded last night to reach for that one. June Maling—how she’d scream when she learned she’d been paired with a typist for the rest of her life.
To the Dispensall he said, “Onion soup and toast, thin toast.”
The murmuring and whirring, the clicking while the audio-selector relayed the news down the line.
The onion soup helped some and then he had a cup of black coffee and then he turned on Jane Baltenkorn and she wasn’t talking about the Russians this morning.
She was talking about June Maling and Glenn Jalkowski. All-American Glenn Jalkowski, who had run wild against Army, Michigan and Southern California and was now walking tamely at the side of June Maling. Glenn was Miss Baltenkorn’s guest this morning.
He was a handsome lad and modest. He looked gravely at John from the screen of the visi-news. Baltenkorn simpered, “I understand you’re an all-around athlete, Glenn, though football seems to give you the most publicity.”
He smiled modestly. “Oh, I’ve won a few track meets. I only hold three world records in track, though, the 220, the 440 and the 880. I’m not really what you’d call a track man.”
John, who had taken that fourth in the state meet, had always considered himself a track man. He looked at his coffee cup.
“And now, cupid tells us,” Baltenkorn went on, “that you’ve quit running. What are these rumors about June Maling, Glenn?”
“We get along,” he said. “Isn’t she beautiful, Miss Baltenkorn?” He gave John his profile, as he looked at the commentator, waiting for the WORD on that.
“She certainly is,” Jane agreed, “and talented and thoroughly charming. But then, so are you, Glenn.”
“Aw, he said, “I play the uke a little but I’m not really talented. When I think—”
John never did learn what the All-American thought. He snapped off the visi-news and stared at the table. Glenn Jalkowski and June Maling, headline makers. And John Galveston Hughes, manual and voice typist. A triangle? Huh! Huh, huh and huh!
He stared at his coffee cup and saw June Maling. He saw her with Glenn, making the rounds, soaking up the adulation, two bright and talented stars in love and well paired.
Joe had said the machine wouldn’t be ready to roll until this afternoon. He’d see him at the lunch hour and tell him to forget about June Maling.
It was raining. Somebody at the Weather Bureau had pulled a boner and it was raining at the peak of the morning inbound traffic. Or perhaps Dame Nature had decided to exercise one of her rare opportunities for decision.
Pete wasn’t on the belt this morning and John realized that most of the riders weren’t the old familiar faces. He was late. And after his typing errors of yesterday, after the unprecedented gift of an afternoon off, old Glutz was not likely to view his tardiness with benevolence.
To hell with Glutz! To hell with Baltenkorn, Jalkowski and June Maling! To hell with the dreams of John Galveston Hughes!
His thumbprint in front of the time clock scanner not only shifted his card this morning, it also lighted the red bulb next to his name in the display case. This, he knew, actuated the buzzer in Glutz’s office.
A note was waiting for him when he got to his desk:
See me immediately.
M.G.
Chapter III
The cigarette holder wasn’t in her mouth when he walked into her office but she was as repulsive as ever. She shook her head and looked at him.
“I’m sorry,” John said. “I really haven’t any excuse either.”
She smiled. It would have been better if she hadn’t. She said, “Johnny, Johnny,” and shook her head. “You know we can’t have any waste here. You’ll have to make it up, Johnny.” And now she leaned forward. “Maybe—tonight?”
Like some monstrous buffalo spider eyeing a fly she watched him, hunched forward as though ready to hurtle her grotesque body toward him. John shook his head stubbornly. “Not tonight.”
Her voice quietly ominous. “And why not?”
“I’m—just not in the mood to—work tonight.”
“Mood?” She leaned back, studying him, her chin tilted. “Mood? What are you—saying? What are you suggesting, Johnny?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply stating that I won’t work tonight—or any night.”
“Stating?” She seemed to turn to rock. “Stating? What kind of a word is that. It comes very close to insubordination, Johnny.”
“Does it?” he said and returned her gaze equally.
“Why, Johnny!” she said, bewilderment now on her face along with the anger. “You’re—well, aren’t you?”
“Not quite,” he said. “I’ve got a bellyache, a bellyfull of science, of ball games and fights and warm showers. I don’t care what happens anymore.”
“Love,” she said finally. “It could only be love. Who’s turned you down, Johnny? Did it hurt much?”
“It’s not love,” he half-lied. “I’m fed up with this world. It’s a woman’s world and I’m fed up with it.”
“A woman’s world? Look at me, Johnny. Have I got everything I want? Am I contented?”
“You’ve got a good job,” Johnny said. “You’ve got a husband and a home to go to, a real home, and you don’t punch any clocks. I’ll trade jobs with you any time.”
She turned to rock again. “I’m sure you would. At some loss, I’m sure you’ll admit, to the efficiency of the Department.”
“With no loss,” Johnny said.
It was quiet, very quiet. “That,” she said finally, “was a remark in poor taste and bad sense. You do have to work here, Johnny, and it is silly of you to make your conditions of work any—”
“I don’t have to work anywhere,” Johnny said. “And especially here.” He turned and walked out.
He went to his desk, and was cleaning it out when he remembered Joe and the machine. He picked up his hat and went over to Extra-terrestrial Planning. The huge compto-determina machine was running!
From his control rostrum Joe waved at him. John went over there quickly. “I thought you said this afternoon, Joe. You haven’t…”
Joe winked at him. “Outbound’s already got most of the cards. I’m just finishing up. And what a gang we’re going to have!”
“But, Joe—you said…”
“I got here early this morning and got her all set. I couldn’t sleep anyway and as long as we’d decided—”
“But, Joe, I’ve changed my mind.”
Joe closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “Pivot L-head camshaft, what in hell do you mean, you changed your mind, assuming you’ve got a mind, which I don’t. Are you crazy? Just whom did you have in that alleged mind now? Glutz?”
“Nobody. But especially not June Maling. She’s in love with Jalkowski.”
“What’s that, a cult?” Joe was a baseball fan.
“It’s a man. A handsome, modest and talented football player. He’s a big, big wheel.”
“So? And you feel for him or is he one of your gods? If he’s such a hot-shot he ought to be a good loser.”
“He won’t be any kind of a loser,” Johnny said. “You think she’ll go to Mars with a lousy typist? You think she won’t have every big shot in the country on Science’s neck? And how about her fans?”
The compto-determina stopped suddenly and the room was as quiet as a morgue. Joe said, “You couldn’t have thought of all this last night? It would be too much to expect, I suppose, that you would think of your friends in a situation like this. If she does stir up a rumpus, and they start to investigate this…”
Joe came down off the rostrum. “You’d better get to hell out of here. That’s all we need, being seen together. That’s all we need to make the sentence thirty years instead of twenty.”
“But…” John said.
“Go,” Joe said. “Get out! I’ll call you—maybe.”
* * * *
John went out. The rain had stopped, but it was not a pleasant day, damp and chill. The possibility of the twenty years in stir bothered him very little at the moment though he regretted bringing Pete and Joe into it.
Even if the rumpus should touch off a Science investigation, what could they prove? And maybe, with the patriotic angle involved, June Maling would hesitate to protest too publicly. But that didn’t make him feel any better. The picture of Glenn Jalkowski, All-American back was still with him.
June Maling—the Mars trip was a sleeper jump compared to the distance between John Hughes and June Maling. How had he ever been crazy enough, sober, to suggest that name to Joe?
In his apartment he stretched out on the davenport, and stared at the ceiling. He saw her in Brent’s Folly, in Venusian Lace and all the others. Her tightly curled black hair, her expressive eyes, her grace, her trim figure, her rich warming voice. June, June, June…
He slept.
In his sleep he turned and fidgeted, dreaming of June. He saw Jalkowski take a hand-off from Smith and cut inside tackle, knees high and moving, moving, moving like the wind, the Army tacklers looking silly as he outsped, outguessed, outmanoeuvered them all the way to pay dirt. He saw June moving upstage and taking the single rose from the vase on the mantel. He saw her turn and heard again her final speech in Unwanted.
Unwanted by whom? Who didn’t want June Maling? What male wouldn’t give up his right arm or his Rose Bowl tickets for a lifetime with June Maling?
Chimes. The chimes in New Ground? No, the chimes in the apartment of John Hughes. He rose to a dim room. He must have slept for hours—it was dusk.
He went to the door and a man stood there, a handsome man and tall, a dead-serious man named Glenn Jalkowski.
“John Hughes?” the man asked.
John nodded. “And you’re Glenn Jalkowski. I saw you against Army. You sure had the blocking in that one.”
“I didn’t come here to talk football,” Jalkowski said.
“What else do you know?” John asked him.
“I know when there’s funny business going on,” Jalkowski said. “I’ve got a friend in the Science Department. I’ve got friends all over, Hughes.”
“Come in,” John said. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Jalkowski came in and swung the door shut behind him. “I’m telling you I’ve heard about the Mars business and that Miss Maling’s been picked to go and you’re to be her husband.”
“You heard about the Mars business—from one of the employees?” John’s voice was grave, his glance steady on Jalkowski’s. “Somebody talked?”
“That’s right. The official announcement won’t come until tomorrow but I heard and I got your address from this same party.”
“It’s something you shouldn’t admit,” John said quietly. “This friend of yours can get life for that.”
“Save the bull,” Jalkowski said. “How about you and your buddies rigging that passenger list? What could you get for that?”
“Nobody rigged anything,” John said. “I don’t even know Miss Maling. Do you by any chance, mean the video star?”
“Save it,” Jalkowski told him. “Just this I want to tell you. Whoever rigged that list I want it unrigged before the announcement. Or you’ll be a very sad looking sight. Got that?”
“I got it. And now let me tell you something. The Secretary of Science herself has already got that list and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. And there isn’t anything I would do about it if I could. And if Miss Maling wants to back out all she has to do is say so. Going to Mars is a privilege, not a duty.”
“Why, you little—!” Jalkowski began and reached one big hand out for John’s shoulder.
John caught him with a left hand, a fine left hand flush to the halfback’s mouth. Exultation flowed in John as blood flowed from the mouth and he started a right for the same spot.
Somebody pulled the floor out from under him and then hit him with the roof.
The bell and he came out for the fourth round, circling away from Jalkowski’s right, watching the pattern of his feet, waiting for him to get flat-footed. From the gallery a fan shouted, “Kill the big jerk, Johnny. Left-hand him silly.”
The bell and he opened his eyes and heard the bell again through the throbbing in his head. His doorbell.
He put a hand beneath him, and winced at the rattles in his brain. He rose slowly, and opened the door. Pete Haskell stood there and Joe Nolan. They looked troubled. “What’n’hell happened to you?” Pete said.
“Slipped in the shower,” John said. “Come in, boys.”
They came in. Joe looked around the apartment. “Alone?”
“Don’t flatter me. Of course. Why? What’s new?”
“Trouble,” Joe said. “Tell him, Pete.”
“Glutz,” Pete said.
John massaged the back of his neck and ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth. They were all there. He moved carefully into the living room and they followed. He sat in one of the big chairs—they sat on the davenport.
“Start at the beginning,” John said, “and make it simple.”
“Glutz got a copy of the passenger list,” Pete told him, “and when she came to your name she was wild. She said you’d quit your job this afternoon and you wouldn’t have quit if you didn’t know you’d be on the list. She said you’ve been acting love-sick and now she can see why, and how about Joe here, the operator, being on the list? She’s screaming collusion.”
“And I,” Joe added, “have just had a very bad two hours with the Secretary herself.”
John rubbed his jaw and twisted his neck slowly. “What can they prove?”
“Nothing,” Joe said, “unless they put us under lucidate and they need our permission for that unless it’s a case of suspected treason.”
“Well then,” John said, “what’s all the fuss about?
“Because,” Joe said quietly, “it could be a case of suspected treason.”
John stared at him and the rattles grew in his brain.
“Naming no names,” Joe went on, “if you’ll pardon the State terminology, a rigged machine could be used to send the wrong people to Mars. Naming no names again, a party of supposed Americans could be sent and then, too late, it might be discovered they were nationals of the no-name country.”
“Spies?” John said. “Why that’s—”
“A rumor currently running its course in State,” Pete said, “and Science. I’ve no idea where it started.”
“Jalkowski,” John said.
“Come again?” Pete said.
“June Maling’s boy-friend,” John explained. “He said he had a friend in Science. I’ll bet…” He rubbed his eyes. “But the whole idea is ridiculous. Why wouldn’t this no-name country build their own ship?”
“Because they haven’t the know-how. They talk big and loud but they’re scientific midgets. They haven’t a single advanced machine they haven’t copied from somewhere.”
John waggled his jaw and shrugged his shoulder muscles loose. “Well, what do we do?”
“We stand together,” Pete said, “or hang together. Tentatively the list stands until there’s a quiet investigation of all the names. The coincidence of the three of us can be explained because a lot of the cards were from Science anyway, as the Personnel Survey showed a lot of us were expendable. And the machine had been set for that as one of the factors. But we need a solid front, John, and you’re the weakest spot in that.”
“Well, thanks,” John said bitterly.
“I’m not being nasty,” Joe said, “but when Pete and I were satisfied with ordinary girls you had to reach for Pluto. You had to have June Maling.”
“Didn’t I come to you this morning and ask you to change that? Can I help it if you have to be an eager beaver and get to work early? Throw out June Maling—tell the Secretary to throw her out if you want. And my name too. You can all go to hell.”
“Sure we can,” Pete said. “And we will if you don’t simmer down. If you’d cut out the childish emotionalism I’d breath easier. All we have to do is sit tight and act right—all three of us.”
“Okay,” John said. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t the shower that got me it was Glenn Jalkowski. He really slugged me, the ape.”
“Jalkowski?” Pete said. “How did he hear about the list?”
“He’s got a friend in Science, he claimed.”
“But—” Pete began and then the screen at the end of the living room lighted up and the face of an operator came into view.
“John Hughes. Hollywood calling John Hughes.”
John looked at Pete and Joe wonderingly and went over to stand in front of the screen. He snapped a switch and said, “John Hughes.”
The face that came on next was a familiar one. Tightly curling black hair, a full rich mouth and expressive eyes—and the warm voice of June Maling. “Well, I didn’t do so badly. Let’s see the profile, John Hughes.”
John obediently turned for the side shot and then turned back. “How did you—who told you? I mean—”
“Don’t be silly. Old Wiggins told me, of course. Isn’t it exciting?”
Old Wiggins was the esteemed and renowned Secretary of Science, Letitia P. Wiggins.
John said, “Wah—urf, I, well glup—”
“French?” June asked. “John, are you busy, tonight?”
“Hunk—zee pelf awk.” John paused and clenched his hands. “No!”
“Why don’t you fly out? It would be a terrific gag, baby. My publicity man can get you a reservation on the seven o’clock saucer from this end. With the difference in time you would be here at four twenty. It’s only a twenty-minute trip.”
“Urk amp—” John started and then Pete was standing next to him. Pete said, “We’ll get him on the saucer, Miss Maling. Treat him right. He’s fragile.”
June winked. “I’ll be waiting at the airport, Johnny. I hope you’re photogenic.”
The screen faded back into the wall, and there was silence.
Chapter IV
Joe broke it. “Dream girl,” he said with quiet scorn. “Just a gag to her. Charming, beautiful June Maling, idol of the airwaves, Hollywood opportunist, product of her publicity. You sure picked a winner, John Hughes.”
“Shut up, Joe,” Pete said. “John, you’ve got to go. You make a good impression on her and she’ll use her influence to keep us out of trouble. You heard her call the Secretary ‘Old Wiggins’—Wiggins must have called her as soon as she saw her name. She may not be what you hoped, John, but she’s a good girl to have on our side.”
“Of course I’m going,” John said. “You boys are awfully quick to judge somebody, aren’t you?”
Pete looked at Joe, who was looking at Pete. They shrugged. Joe said, “You’ll remember, John, that her card didn’t go through the machine.”
“So?”
“So all they have to do is run it through and see if the eye picks it. If she complains they might just do that.”
“She isn’t the kind of girl,” John said, “who’d put anybody in the soup.”
“Of course not,” Pete said.
“Of course not,” Joe agreed.
The saucer was a ship that made time, powered by centrifugal blast, kept aloft by its anti-gravity delurium. The saucer came into the L.A. International Airport at 16:20 and the business started there.
Cameras and noise and faces, one face more obnoxious than the others, the face of Glenn Jalkowski and what was he doing here? One face dear to John, and its owner threw her arms around him and then it was pure reflex action on his part. His arms went around her, his own true love, June Maling.
And the cameras ground and John trembled, forcing all the implications from his mind, concentrating on the single knowledge that this was June Maling in his arms.
And then Jalkowski said, “Hey, easy, I’m still here,” for the grinding cameras and the listening mikes. Jalkowski had a patch of medicated tape across his lower lip.
June pulled away from John and looked into his battered face. “Glenn told me about the fight,” she said. “He’s—unpredictable, isn’t he?”
“He’s a mug,” John said. “Let’s face it.”
She laughed. They all laughed—but Glenn Jalkowski.
They went to Lillian’s. In Hollywood, everybody who is anybody goes to Lillian’s. They had a table for eight. Glenn sat on one side of June, John on the other. The rest were just court followers, gossip columnists and June’s agent, Wendy Williams. Wendy sat on John’s left.
She was a plain girl but sharp enough. She said, “Play along, John Hughes. It may be nauseating but it won’t last forever. And it’s better than twenty years in the clink.”
John studied her for seconds. “Has Hollywood got a pipeline into Science? What did you hear about that?”
“Everything I heard I heard from Glenn,” Wendy told him. “He must have some connection there. My job is to watch out for Miss Maling’s interests. And my ten percent. Don’t count me among your friends, John Galveston Hughes.”
Then June was saying, “Wendy, will you quit monopolizing John? Be satisfied with your percentage.”
They all laughed. It was a joke.
He looked around at all of them, the stooges who were enjoying this immense gag. June Maling and the typist from Science, this Cinderella man, what a laugh. He looked around at their greedy phony faces and almost saw their knives. Malice in Wonderland, he thought, and she’s their queen.
Grow up, John Hughes, open your eyes. Sharpen up, little man, you’re in the majors now.
One of the columnists asked, “How long has this romance been going on, Mr. Hughes? June’s been very coy about the story.”
“On my side since I was eighteen,” John said. “But Miss Maling didn’t know about that.” He turned to face her. “Did you, darling?”
She looked at him in grave bewilderment. “Why—I—”
They laughed, all but June. John said quietly, “Joke. The least you could do is laugh at my jokes.”
“I’ll laugh at the next one,” she said, “I have to ration my laughs out here or get wrinkles.” Her voice seemed tight.
“Seriously,” the columnist continued, “just when did you two meet?”
Wendy nudged John and he realized that none of the stooges here knew about Mars. That announcement had not been made as yet. He said, “When did we meet, dear, and where? You know—my memory…”
Laugh.
June said, “The College Seventy-three game, wasn’t it? Last year when Glenn was still my favorite athlete?”
Wendy said, “It was at that benefit in Washington, June. On October twenty-second at the party the Lunts threw after the benefit. It was love at first sight.”
The talk went on, the laughs went on, the food came on and the drinks. The party moved on—to Sadie’s and the Redwood Room at the Chaplin. New faces supplanting the old, fresh laughs for the tired, old gags in new settings.
June stayed bright and chipper. Physically she was all he’d ever dreamed and all she showed was her physical side. But this pace and these people were her choice and that was as much character analysis as any reasonable man needed.
At 1620 it had started—at 0230 there were only four left of the original party—John, June, Wendy and Glenn. They stood on the sidewalk in front of the Redwood Room after ten hours of hilarity and June seemed as fresh as ever. John said, “You might do all right on Mars at that. You’ve certainly got the stamina.”
She looked at him gravely. “Was that true what you said about—about since you were eighteen?”
“It was true.”
Wendy said quickly, “You’re tired, June. This has been a busy day.”
“Shut up, Wendy,” June said and continued to look at John. “I’ve a guest appearance, tomorrow morning at ten. Do you want to meet me there, at NBC, around ten-thirty?”
John nodded. Wendy said, “Meet us, you mean, June.”
June ignored her. “At ten-thirty, at NBC, in the lobby. Your room is reserved at the Jericho. Glenn will drive you there now.”
“I’m seeing you home, June,” Glenn said.
“Not tonight, you’re not,” June said. “Call a cab, Wendy.”
Glenn started to say something and must have changed his mind. He said to John, “This way, lover.”
There was scarcely any traffic. Glenn’s Revere moved down the quiet streets without even a tire murmur, like a ghost car. Glenn kept his eyes straight ahead. “You monkeys sure gimmicked that compto-determina, didn’t you?”
“No—but the list seems to bother you even though you must know Miss Maling is going to back out.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“Maybe I’m too tired. You came all the way from Hollywood this afternoon just to moan about her name being on that list. If you had stopped to think you wouldn’t have done that.”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you know she won’t go. You revealed to me that you have an informant employed by Science. You wanted the machine changed back. If it had been changed, as you claimed, how would you know it? If I’d changed it, would anybody else in Science know it?”
“That’s too complicated for me,” Glenn said quietly. “You’ve had too much to drink, boy.”
“Maybe. Only I keep wondering if the machine hadn’t been gimmicked—but not for this list.”
The Revere slowed. “Keep talking, junior.”
The street they were now on was almost completely dark and ahead a Dead End sign loomed in the headlights.
“It broke down a few days ago,” John went on dully. “One of your boys—All-American?”
The Revere stopped. There were no homes along here. The dead end fronted on a canyon and the sides around them were thick with underbrush. John said, “They’re expecting me at the Jericho. June knows you’re taking me home. I can’t prove anything. Don’t play it dumb, halfback.” Words, words, words.…
And while he talked he was groping for the door handle. He saw Glenn turn and the glint of something in his hand and he found the handle.
The big door flew open, and he was running for the safety of the underbrush. There was no shot. But there was the sound of footsteps behind him as he plunged through the whippy branches of the shrubbery. Then he stumbled forward into a small glade.
He had his hands beneath him and was pushing himself up when Glenn crashed him. Glenn’s big hands were groping for his throat and John went sideways, crablike, trying to rise.
Glenn flipped him over on his back and now Glenn’s hands were around his throat, his strong fingers digging for the windpipe. John put a knee where he thought it might do some good.
Glenn grunted and doubled and John scrambled to a sitting position and put a swinging elbow to Glenn’s mouth. He was clear of him. He rose and, standing above him for a second, caught the halfback with a swinging foot above the temple.
And then John started to holler at the top of his lungs.
* * * *
It was a big lobby, high-ceilinged and impressive. A man sat on a davenport at the far end and a girl came out from a studio door.
John rose from the davenport and the girl said, “Hello, hero. You were a meanie, not to appear on Jane’s program.”
“I’ve had enough publicity, and enough yak-yak. And where’s Wendy?”
“Home in bed, I hope.”
“And the cameramen and the columnists and all those—?”
“I don’t know. Tell me what happened last night, John Galveston Hughes.”
They walked out together while John told her and added the background.
“I guess these—foreign agents figured Glenn would be the best guy to put in a kick since he could use you as his excuse for seeing me. You see, they had it originally gimmicked so all their lads and lassies would land on Mars. They’d doctored the coloring of the cards to match what the original scanner wanted and when this new list came out they had to have a reason to kick and sent for Glenn. He’s been one of them ever since he was a soph in college though he didn’t know about the Mars deal until they sent for him.”
“And last night he tried to kill you.”
“He tried.”
“And you—beat him. Were you—are you…? You don’t look strong.”
“I was a track man,” John said, “in college. A little football, too but I didn’t get the kind of blocking Glenn got.”
“And, you and this Joe and this Pete, did you gimmick the machine? The papers weren’t very clear on that.”
“Weren’t they? Neither is Science or State or Internal Security or External Security. The list stands, excepting for that dynamic video star, June Maling, who will undoubtedly pull strings.”
He paused in front of a hamburger stand. “Do you like hamburgers? That’s the only honest thing in this town.”
“I love ’em,” she said and they went in. They sat on stools, at the counter, and John told the counterman, “Two triple dipsy doodles with all embellishments and accompaniments.”
June said, “The papers also mentioned a Matilda Glutz and hinted she was in love with you. Was she a—foreign agent, too?”
“So it seems,” John said, “though I didn’t know it.”
“Was she—is she pretty, John?”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”
June laughed. “Now who’s going Hollywood? John, I’ve met her—at one of Letitia Wiggins’ parties.”
And they laughed, because this was a joke and not a bad one. June said, “I’ve heard other rumors, John. About a new deal on Mars.”
“It could be true,” John said. “That would be murder for you, wouldn’t it? The wife of a colonist. No Lillian’s, no Sadie’s, no Redwood Room. No dominance, no servants, no adoring fans. Just one guy to adore you and hold you close through the cold Martian nights. That would be hell, wouldn’t it?”
“No,” June said, “though it would depend on the guy. Johnny, baby, let’s start the new deal now. You ask me, Johnny, for a change.”
He didn’t have to. He looked at her and it was all there, the warmth, the fire, the whole of June Maling. It was all there in her eyes, waiting to be taken.
“Oh, baby!” Johnny said. “Holy cow!”
June’s hand found his below the counter. “We’re going to have fun,” she said. “It won’t be all drudgery. We’re going to have fun, Johnny lover.”
There wasn’t any doubt in Johnny’s mind about that.