22

 

 

Blaine went to his job every day, swept the floor, emptied the wastepaper basket, addressed envelopes, and did a few antique hulls on commission. In the evenings he studied the complex science of 22nd century yacht design. After a while he was given a few small assignments writing publicity releases. He proved talented at this, and was soon promoted to the position of junior yacht designer. He began handling much of the liaison between Jaakobsen Yachts, Ltd., and the various yards building to their design.

He continued to study, but there were few requests for classic hulls. The Jaakobsen brothers handled most of the stock boats, while old Ed Richter, known as the Marvel of Salem, drew up the unusual racers and multi-hulls. Blaine took over publicity and advertising, and had no time for anything else.

It was responsible, necessary work. But it was not yacht designing. Irrevocably his life in 2110 was falling into much the same pattern it had assumed in 1958.

Blaine pondered this carefully. On the one hand, he was happy about it. It seemed to settle, once and for all, the conflict between his mind and his borrowed body. Obviously his mind was boss.

On the other hand, the situation didn’t speak too well for the quality of that mind. Here was a man who had travelled 152 years into the future, had passed through wonders and horrors, and was working again, with a weary and terrible inevitability, as a junior yacht designer who did everything but design yachts. Was there some fatal flaw in his character, some hidden defect which doomed him to inferiority no matter what his environment?

Moodily he pictured himself flung back a million or so years, to a caveman era. Doubtless, after a period of initial adjustment, he would become a junior designer of dugouts. Only not really a designer. His job would be to count the wampum, check the quality of the tree trunks and contract for outriggers, while some other fellow (probably a Neanderthal genius) did the actual running of the lines.

That was disheartening. But fortunately it was not the only way of viewing the matter. His inevitable return could also be taken as a fine example of internal solidarity, of human steadfastness. He was a man who knew what he was. No matter how his environment changed, he remained true to his function.

Viewed this way, he could be very proud of being eternally and forever a junior yacht designer.

He continued working, fluctuating between these two basic views of himself. Once or twice he saw Marie, but she was usually busy in the high councils of the Rex Corporation. He moved out of his hotel and into a small, tastefully furnished apartment. New York was beginning to feel normal to him.

And, he reminded himself, if he had gained nothing else, he had at least settled his mind-body problem.

But his body was not to be disposed of so lightly. Blaine had overlooked one of the problems likely to exist with the ownership of a strong, handsome, and highly idiosyncratic body such as his.

One day the conflict flared again, more aggravated than ever.

 

He had left work at the usual time, and was waiting at a corner for his bus. He noticed a woman staring intently at him. She was perhaps twenty-five years old, a buxom, attractive redhead. She was commonly dressed. Her features were bold, yet they had a certain wistful quality.

Blaine realized that he had seen her before but never really noticed her. Now that he thought about it, she had once ridden a helibus with him. Once she had entered a store nearly on his footsteps. And several times she had been passing his building when he left work.

She had been watching him, probably for weeks. But why?

He waited, staring back at her. The woman hesitated a moment, then said, “Could I talk to you a moment?” Her voice was husky, pleasant, but very nervous. “Please, Mr. Blaine, it’s very important.”

So she knew his name. “Sure,” Blaine said. “What is it?”

“Not here. Could we—uh—go somewhere?”

Blaine grinned and shook his head. She seemed harmless enough; but Orc had seemed so, too. Trusting strangers in this world was a good way of losing your mind, your body, or both.

“I don’t know you,” Blaine said, “and I don’t know where you learned my name. Whatever you want, you’d better tell me here.”

“I really shouldn’t be bothering you,” the woman said in a discouraged voice. “But I couldn’t stop myself, I had to talk to you. I get so lonely sometimes, you know how it is?”

“Lonely? Sure, but why do you want to talk to me?”

She looked at him sadly. “That’s right, you don’t know.”

“No, I don’t,” Blaine said patiently. “Why?”

“Can’t we go somewhere? I don’t like to say it in public like this.”

“You’ll have to,” Blaine said, beginning to think that this was a very complicated game indeed.

“Oh, all right,” the woman said, obviously embarrassed. “I’ve been following you around for a long time, Mr. Blaine. I found out your name and where you worked. I had to talk to you. It’s all on account of that body of yours.”

“What?”

“Your body,” she said, not looking at him. “You see, it used to be my husband’s body before he sold it to the Rex Corporation.”

Blaine’s mouth opened, but he could find no adequate words.