“Listen,” Hoppy said, “don’t tell anyone you know me from before, because if you do I’ll get very upset; do you understand? I’ve been a vital part of this community for many years and I don’t want anything to come along and change it. Maybe I can help you with your business and then you can leave. How about that?”
“Okay,” Stuart said. “I’ll leave as soon as I can.” He studied the phoce with such intensity that Happy felt himself squirm with self-consciousness. “So you found a place for yourself,” Stuart said. “Good for you.”
Happy said, “I’ll introduce you to Gill; that’s what I’ll do for you. I’m a good friend of his, naturally.”
Nodding, Stuart said, “Fine. I’d appreciate that.”
“And don’t you do anything, you hear?” The phoce heard his voice rise shrilly; he could not control it. “Don’t you nap or do any other crime, or terrible things will happen to you—understand?”
The Negro nodded somberly. But he did not appear to be frightened; he did not cringe, and the phoce felt more and more apprehensive. I wish you would go, the phoce thought to himself. Get out of here don’t make trouble for me. I wish I didn’t know you; I wish I didn’t know anyone from outside, from before the Emergency. I don’t want even to think about that.
“I hid in the sidewalk,” Stuart said suddenly. “When the first big bomb fell. I got down through the grating; it was a real good shelter.”
“Why do you bring up that?” the phoce squealed.
“I don’t know. I thought ydu’d be interested.”
“I’m not,” the phoce squealed; he clapped his manual ex±ensors over his ears. “I don’t want to hear or think any more about those times.”
“Well,” Stwtrt said, plucking meditatively at his lower lip, “then let’s go see this Andrew Gill.”
“If you knew what I could do to you,” the phoce said, “you’d be afraid. I can do—” He broke off; he had been about to mention Eldon Blaine the glasses man. “I can move things,” he said. “From a long way off. It’s a form of magic; I’m a magician!”
Stuart said, “That’s not magic.” He voice was toneless. “We call that freak-tapping.” He smiled.
“N-no,” Happy stammered. “What’s that mean? ‘Freaktapping,’ I never heard that word. Like table-tapping?”
“Yes, but with freaks. With funny people.”
He’s not afraid of me, Hoppy realized. It’s because he knew me in the old days when I wasn’t anything. It was hopeless; the Negro was too stupid to understand that everything had changed—he was almost as he had been before, seven years ago, when Happy had last seen him. He was inert, like a rock.
Hoppy thought of the satellite, then. “You wait,” he said breathlessly to Stuart. “Pretty soon even you city people will know about me; everyone in the world will, just like they do around here. It won’t be long now; I’m almost ready!”
Grinning tolerantly, Stuart said, “First impress me by intraducing me to the tobacco man.”
“You know what I could do?” Happy said. “I could whisk Andrew Gill’s formula right out of his safe or wherever he keeps it and plunk it down in your hands. What do you say to that?” He laughed.
“Just let me meet him,” Stuart repeated. “That’s all I want; I’m not interested in his tobacco-formula.” He looked weary.
Trembling with anxiety and rage, the phoce turned his ‘mobile in the direction of Andrew Gill’s little factory and led the way.
Andrew Gill glanced up from his task of rolling cigarettes to see Hoppy Harrington—whom he did not like—entering the factory with a Negro—whom he did not know. At once Gill felt uneasy. He set down his tobacco paper and rose to his feet. Beside him at the long bench the other rollers, his employees, continued at their work.
He employed, in all, eight men, and this was in the tobacco division alone. The distillery, which produced brandy, employed another twelve men, but they were north, in Sonoma County. They were not local people. His was the largest commercial enterprise in West Marin, not counting the farming interests such as Orion Stroud or Jack Tree’s sheep ranch, and he sold his products all over Northern California; his cigarettes traveled, in slow stages, from one town to another and a few, he understood, had even gotten back to the East Coast and were known there.
“Yes?” he said to Hoppy. He placed himself in front of the phoce’s cart, halting him at a distance from the work-area. Once, this had been the town’s bakery; being made of cement, it had survived the bomb blasts and made an ideal place for him. And of course he paid his employees almost nothing; they were glad to have jobs at any salary.
Hoppy stammered, “This m-man came up from Berkeley to see you, Mr. Gill; he’s an important businessman, he says. Isn’t that right?” The phoce turned toward the Negro. “That’s what you said to me, isn’t it?”
Holding out his hand, the Negro said to Gill, “I represent the Hardy Homeostatic Vermin Trap Corporation of Berkeley, California. I’m here to acquaint you with an amazing proposition that could well mean tripling your profits with six months.” His dark eyes blazed.
There was silence.
Gill repressed the impulse to laugh aloud. “I see,” he said, nodding and putting his hands in his pockets; he assumed a serious stance. “Very interesting, Mr.—” He glanced questioningly at the Negro.
“Stuart McConchie,” the Negro said.
They shook hands.
“My employer, Mr. Hardy,” Stuart said, “has empowered me to describe to you in detail the design of a fully automated cigarette-making machine. We at Hardy Homeostatic are well aware that your cigarettes are rolled entirely in the old-fashioned way, by hand.” He pointed toward the employees working in the rear of the factory. “Such a method is a hundred years out of date, Mr. Gill. You’ve achieved superb quality in your special deluxe Cold Labe cigarettes—”
“Which I intend to maintain,” Gill said quietly.
Mr. McConchie said, “Our automated electronic equipment will in no way sacrifice quality for quantity. In fact—”
“Wait,” Gill said. “I don’t want to discuss this now.” He glanced toward the phoce, who was parked close by, listening. The phoce flushed and at once spun his ‘mobile away.
“I’m going,” Hoppy said. “This doesn’t interest me; goodbye.” He wheeled through the open door of the factory, out onto the street. The two of them watched him go until he disappeared.
“Our handy,” Gill said.
McConchie started to speak, then changed his mind, cleared his throat and strolled a few steps away, surveying the factory and the men at their work. “Nice place you have here, Gill. I want to state right now how much I admire your product; it’s first in its field, no doubt of that.”
I haven’t heard talk like that, Gill realized, in seven years. It was difficult to believe that it still existed in the world; so much had changed and yet here, in this man McConchie, it remained intact. Gill felt a glow of pleasure. It reminded him of happier times, this salesman’s line of chatter. He felt amiably inclined toward the man.
“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. Perhaps the world, at last, was really beginning to regain some of its old forms, its civilities and customs and preoccupations, all that had gone into it to make it what it was. This, he thought, this talk by McConchie; it’s authentic. It’s a survival, not a simulation; this man has somehow managed to preserve his viewpoint, his enthusiasm, through all that has happened—he is still planning, cogitating, bullshitting… nothing can or will stop him.
He is, Gill realized, simply a goad salesman. He has not let even a hydrogen war and the collapse of society dissuade him.