“How about a cup of coffee?” Gill said. “I’ll take a break far ten or fifteen minutes and you can tell me more about this automated machine or whatever it is.”
“Real coffee?” McConchie said, and the pleasant, optimistic mask slid for an instant from his face; he gaped at Gill with naked, eager hunger.
“Sorry,” Gill said. “It’s a substitute, but not bad; I Think you’ll like it. Better than what’s sold in the city at those so-called ‘coffee’ stands.” He went to get the pot of water.
“Quite a place you have here,” McConchie said, as they waited for the coffee to heat. “Very impressive and industrious.”
“Thank you,” Gill said.
“Coming here is a long-time dream fulfilled,” McConchie went on. “It took me a week to make the trip and I’d been thinking about it ever since I smoked my first special deluxe Gold Label. It’s—” He groped for words to express his thought. “An island of civifization in these barbaric times.”
Gill said, “What do you think of the country, as such? A small town like this, compared to life in the city… it’s very different.”
“I just got here,” McConchie said. “I came straight to you; I didn’t take time to explore. My horse needed a new right front shoe and I left him at the first stable as you cross the little metal bridge.”
“Oh yes,” Gill said. “That belongs to Stroud; I know where you mean. His blacksmith’ll do a good job.”
McConchie said, “Life seems much more peaceful here. In the city if you leave your horse—well, a while ago I left my horse to go across the Bay and when I got back someone had eaten it, and it’s things like that that make you disgusted with the city and want to move on.”
“I know,” Gill said, nodding in agreement. “It’s brutal in the city because there’re still so many homeless and destitute people.”
“I really loved that horse,” McConchie said, looking doleful.
“Well,” Gill said, “in the country you’re faced constantly with the death of animals; that’s always been one of the basic unpleasant verities of rural life. When the bombs fell, thousands of animals up here were horribly injured; sheep and cattle… but that can’t compare of course to the injury to human life down where you come from. You must have seen a good deal of human misery, since E Day.”
The Negro nodded. “That and the sporting. The freaks both as regards animals and people. Now Happy—”
“Hoppy isn’t originally from this area,” Gill said. “He showed up here after the war in response to our advertising for a handyman. I’m not from here, either; I was traveling through the day the bomb fell, and I elected to remain.”
The coffee being ready, the two of them began to drink. Neither man spoke for a time.
“What sort of vennin trap does your company make?” Gill asked, presently.
“It’s not a passive type,” McConchie said. “Being homeostatic, that is, self-instructing, it follows for instance a rat– or a cat or dog—dawn into the network of burrows such as now underlie Berkeley… it pursues one rat after another, killing one and going on to the next—until it runs out of fuel or by chance a rat manages to destroy it. There are a few brilliant rats—you know, mutations that are higher on the evolutionary scale—that know how to lame a Hardy Homeostatic Vermin Trap. But not many can.”
“Impressive,” Gill murmured.
“Now, our proposed cigarette-rolling machine—”
“My friend,” Gill said, “I like you but—here’s the problem. I don’t have any money to buy your machine and I don’t have anything to trade you. And I don’t intend to let anyone enter my business as a partner. So what does that leave?” He smiled. “I have to continue as I am.”
“Wait,” McCancbie said instantly. “There must be a solution. Maybe we. could lease you a Hardy cigarette-rolling machine in exchange for x-number of cigarettes, your special deluxe Gold Label variety, of course, delivered each week for x-number of weeks.” His face glowed with animation. “The Hardy Corporation for instance could became sole licensed distributors of your cigarette; we could represent you everywhere, develop a systematic network of outlets up and down Northern California instead of the haphazard system you now appear to employ, What do you say to that?”
“Hmmmm,” Gill said. “I must admit it does sound interesting. I admit that distribution has not been my cup of tea… I’ve thought off and on for several years about the need of getting an organization going, especially with my factory being located in a rural spot, as it is. I’ve even thought about moving into the city, but the napping and vandalism is too great there. And I don’t want to move back to the city; this is my home, here.”
He did not say anything about Bonny Keller. That was his real reason for remaining in West Marin; his affair with her had ended years ago but he was more in love with her now than ever. He had watched her go from man to man, becoming more dissatisfied with each of them, and Gill believed in his own heart that someday he would get her back. And Bonny was the mother of his daughter; he was well aware that Edie Keller was his child.
“You’re sure,” he said suddenly, “that you didn’t come up here to steal the formula for my cigarettes?”
McConchie laughed.
“You laugh,” Gill said, “but you don’t answer.”
“No, that’s not why I’m here,” the Negro said. “We’re in the business of making electronic machines, not cigarettes.” But, it seemed to Gill, he had an evasive look on his face, and his voice was too full of confidence, too nonchalant. All at once Gill felt uneasy.
Or is it the rural mentality? he asked himself. The isolation getting the better of me; suspicion of all newcomers… of anything strange.
I had better be careful, though, he decided. I must not get carried away just because this man recalls for me the good old pre-war days. I must inspect this machine with great suspicion. After all, I could have gotten Hoppy to design and build such a machine; he seems quite capable in that direction. I could have done all these things proposed to me entirely by myself.
Perhaps I am lonely, he thought. That might be it; I am lonely for city people and their manner of thought. The country gets me down—Point Reyes with its News & Views filled up with mediocre gossip, and mimeographed!
“Since you’re just up from the city,” he said aloud, “I might as well ask you—is there any interesting national or international news, of late, that I might not have heard? We do get the satellite, but I’m franidy tired of disc jockey talk and music. And those endless readings.”
They both laughed. “I know what you mean,” McConchie said, sipping his coffee and nodding. “Well, let’s see. I understand that an attempt is being made to produce an automobile again, somewhere around the ruins of Detroit. It’s mostly made of plywood but it does run on kerosene.”
“I don’t know where they’re going to get the kerosene,” Gill said. “Before they build a car they better get a few refineries operating again. And repair a few major roads.”
“Oh, something else. The Government plans to reopen one of the routes across the Rockies sometime this year. For the first time since the war.”
“That’s great news,” Gill said, pleased. “I didn’t know that.”
“And the telephone companies—”
“Wait,” Gill said, rising. “How about a little brandy in your coffee? How long has it been since you’ve had a coffee royal?”
“Years,” Stuart McConchie said.
“This is Gill’s Five Star. My own. From the Sonoma Valley.” He poured from the squat bottle into McConchie’s cup.
“Here’s something else that might interest you.” McConchie reached into his coat pocket and brought out something flat and folded. He opened it up, spread it out, and Gill saw an envelope.
“What is it?” Picking it up, Gill examined it without seeing anything unusual. An ordinary envelope with an address, a cancelled stamp… and then he understood, and he could scarcely credit his senses. Mail service. A letter from New York.