firms now in the process of forming like thunderheads out of rising
plumes of heated air. Whether Henry and Julius would come out atop
whatever entity would be born from that, or would remain somehow
within the shell of the older company to fill out their days, was not at
all clear. Henry Van Damme was so tired and sick at heart now that he
began to believe he didn’t care.
“It’s necessary to begin now to reduce the workforce on the pro-
gram, in fact throughout all the programs, including the A-21 and
others that are still fulfilling orders, so that we don’t release a tide of
unemployed just as war work ends and peacetime retooling hasn’t
begun.” That was the VP for labor, whose resemblance to the common
figure of Death and Taxes with scythe and dark cowl had just become
apparent to Henry. “The goal is to retain the skilled workforce. Unions
are helping here; the Management-Labor Policy Committee we’ve had
to set up has done a fine job of getting cooperation on all kinds of labor
issues, the turnovers, the absenteeism, reconversion issues. So far.
Unions will be willing to let go last-hired men, men with poor records,
older men new to the union, and particularly women. Well they only
362 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
ever admitted as many women as they had to anyway, and those few’ve
got little seniority. Of course the women will largely want to quit as
soon as peace comes, maybe before, not just because they’ll be glad to
get back to the home but because they’ll see that their husbands and all
the other young men being demobilized will need those jobs.”
He turned a leaf of his report—that item dealt with—on to the next.
“The handicaps will want to go home too, where they can be taken
care of. They made a fine effort, many of them, but the limited tasks
they were able to do can be redistributed now. It looks pretty certain
that Social Security will soon be expanded to pay a lifetime disability
payment to those people and they’ll basically retire from the work-
force. They’ll not be our issue.”
He began to describe other matters, colored and other marginal
workers, recovering investments in housing provided at cost or on gov-
ernment loans; Henry Van Damme wasn’t listening closely, though (as
always) he’d find he remembered it all when he needed to know it.
“Henry,” said Julius.
“Jet engines,” said Henry. “One on each wing, underslung. It could
give enough power to get the thing off the ground faster. Less strain on
the other engines, less overheating. It’s possible. Just a further modifi-
cation.”
Julius regarded his brother, the smart daring brother, the one who
always made the wild right guess about what to do next. “The Army
Air Force,” he said, “is thinking of going with Boeing on that, Henry.
Boeing’s got a bomber in plan with about the specs of the Pax but with
all jet engines. Our spies have just informed us. They’ve numbered it
XB-52. The military’s prepared to commit to it. I can give you the
details.”
“Well that’s so wrong,” Henry said, and pressed a hand to his heart.
“That is just so wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Pancho said to Prosper.
Larry the shop steward had that day asked Pancho with a grin about
Pancho’s pink slip, knowing even before Pancho’d opened his pay enve-
lope that he would find one, because (Larry didn’t quite say it but
everyone was free to assume) as shop steward and an associate member
F O U R F R E E D O M S / 363
of the Labor-Management Policy Committee, he’d been personally
responsible for its being put there. It was white, not pink, but it was
what it was. Getting rid of the deadwood, Larry said to his circle of
grinners and nodders. There’s still a war to win here. Prosper had over-
heard.
“What’s that mean?” Prosper now asked. “Doesn’t matter?”
“I have, as the saying goes, other fish to fry,” Pancho replied. He
and Prosper walked the aisles of the Kroger in search of the makings of
a dinner, which took a lot of time when shoppers were as judgmental
as Pancho and as slow-moving as Prosper. “Understand, I came here
chiefly for reasons other than permanent employment. I intended to
refine some ideas I’ve had through observation of a new kind of prac-
tice.” He lifted a potato from a bin and studied its face. “I’ve made
scores of notes.”
“Well I don’t know where you’ll get work now,” Prosper said.
“I should tell you, dear friend, that I’ve long been in communica-
tion with many people around the nation. Around the world in fact.
An inner core of associates as well. My ideas may seem to you to have
come out of my own little coco, but in fact they have been tried and
changed in argument and disputation. Anyway, these associates—I
keep them abreast of my thinking, and they do their best to bring to
fruition those plans I have long laid.”
“Really.” Prosper had seen him carrying his many envelopes to the
branch post office in the plant, licking stamps, asking for special deliv-
ery on this or that. He’d thought it no business of his. He looked into
the green porcelain meat case, checked his book of stamps.
“Now after many false starts it seems that matters are, coinciden-
tally, coming to a head. I’m informed that a man of great wealth has
expressed interest. Real interest. Wants to meet us, talk about these
things.” He leaned close to Prosper as though he might be overheard.
“Oil money.” He took up his search again amid the vegetables. “Of
course not even the greatest magnate, the most repentant profiteer,
could by himself pay for the establishing of even one Harmonious City.
However much the world is in need of its example right now. No. But
now perhaps a real start might be made.”
“I thought this place, Van Damme Aero, was a kind of place you
had in mind.”
364 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
“An illusion,” Pancho said with calm certitude. “I’m through with
that.”
“So you’re going to meet this man? The oil man?”
Pancho said nothing, as though Prosper was to infer that it must be so.
Prosper had a hard time imagining these associates of Pancho’s. He
thought of the icehouse gang, of the Invisible Agent and his controllers.
He thought that he, Prosper, was perhaps considered one of them in
Pancho’s mind.
They approached the counters, where a dull-faced woman awaited
them at the imposing cash register to add up their purchases. Just there,
crates of oranges stood, the first seen in a good while around here,
things were getting better. While Pancho laid down their selections,
Prosper studied the bright paper labels of the crates, which showed
over and over a hacienda at sunset; primroses and cactus; a huge pot
with zigzag stripe; and, holding in each hand a golden globe dropped
from the rows of green trees beyond that led to purple mountains, a
senorita just as golden. And he thought he’d heard about this place
before. Hadn’t Pancho spoken to him of it, as though from his own
experience, that day they’d met beside the gas-less Zephyr? Yes just this
place, where Prosper had thought to go and Pancho claimed to have
gone, but maybe not. Well anyone could want to be there, now; surely
anyone could believe, anyone who’d been long on the road and done
poorly, that such a place existed, and could be reached.
“No matter,” he heard Pancho say, to no one. “No matter.”