Dworcas nodded precisely. "Perhaps you should have," he said gravely.
"What? Oh, no, Arnie, you don't understand. General Recreations is lousy on that. They won't sell unless; they can get their pound of flesh and plenty more besides. We had a vice-president once, a couple of years ago, got in dutch with the board and wanted out. Well, they set a price of four hundred thousand dollars on his contract. He had some rich relatives, I guess, or anyway he got some money somewhere and tried to bribe another firm to buy him, but of course they wouldn't pay that kind of money. He had a family, couldn't give up his job, give up his house, just like that, you know. He killed himself, finally. It was that or cancel."
"That's a point to remember, Norvell. In any engineering problem there are always two components, at least, to any vector."
Norvell chewed his lip a second. "Oh, I see what you mean," he said unconvincingly. "There's no way out."
Dworcas shook his head. "No, Norvell, that's what I just said. There are always two ways out."
Norvell said, "Well——"
"At the shop," Arnie said, leaning back, "these problems don't arise, of course. Not like with you temperamental artists. But, of course, I know what I would do."
"What?"
"I don't want to interfere——"
Norvell sighed. "I guess you're right."
"—don't want to interfere in your life, but if it were my decision, I'd cancel."
Norvell goggled. He was suddenly sober.
"That's right, Norvell. I'd cancel."
Norvell looked at him unbelievingly, but Dworcas's gaze was grave and considerate—except, perhaps, for a tiny glint that was enjoying Norvell's consternation very much. Norvell looked away. He took a deep drink of his beer as Dworcas said:
"I know it's a tough decision to make, Norvell. Heaven knows, I'd find it hard to make myself without half an hour or more of serious thought. But what is your alternative?"
Norvell shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He put his beer down; neither man said a word for a long time, while Norvell's mind raced from Candella to Dworcas to the lawyer, Mundin, to Virginia to Stimmens to a fire-red mystery marked "Belly Rave" to the old man who had sat weeping out loud while he waited for the broken-field event to start; he had slid through the wire and missed every mine, but the man next to him wasn't so fortunate and the old man had fainted dead away when he heard the blast.
At last, with a sigh, Norvell surrendered to the terrifying theme.
"I don't think I ought to," he said faintly.
Dworcas inclined his head. "It's your decision, Norvell," he said courteously.
"I just don't see how I can, Arnie. I'd lose the house, Virginia would raise holy—"
Arnie stopped him. He shrugged. "You may be right. Who knows? There's certainly no security in the world for a man without a contract job. You'd have to leave your home, true, and move to the suburbs—" Norvell blinked "—at least temporarily. It's a hard life there. Hard work, few amusements, a constant challenge to prove yourself—to make your way in spite of hell or high water—or fall by the wayside." He looked speculatively at Norvell, and dismissed the subject. "Well," he said generously, "I just wanted to give you the benefit of my thinking on the point. You do as you see fit. I guess you'll want to be getting home."
"Sure," Norvell said. And remembering: "Oh, Arnie, I meant to thank you for steering me to that lawyer. I don't know what I would have——"
"Think nothing of it. I'm always glad to do anything I can for you, you know that. You won't forget about the tickets."
"Tickets?" Norvell asked wildly.
"The tickets for the Field Day. Not general admission, you know. As close to the Master's box as you can get them."
Norvell's eyes opened wide. He said in a thin voice, "Arnie, you were bragging to your boss that you could get tickets even though they've been sold out for six weeks. Isn't that it?" They stared nakedly at each other; then Norvell's eyes fell. "Just kidding," he mumbled. "I'll try to get them."
He got home, somehow. Virginia was still awake, but there was only a minor squabble over the music coming from behind Alexandra's locked door. Norvell made the mistake of commenting that it was past midnight, and a ten-year-old should—
His wife said raucously, "Should be this, and should be that, and should do everything Mr. Bligh wants her to. Sure! Norvie, did you ever stop to think that she's a person?! This whole house isn't organized around you, you know; it's our home too, and—
Norvell had had all he could take. He yelled, "It's our house now, but it's the company's house too, and one more word out of you and I give it back to them. Then you two prize packages from Belly Rave will be right back where you belong."
The words "Belly Rave" did it, more than the threat. Virginia's face stiffened in shocked surprise. Norvell stalked out and down the steps and poured himself a drink.
He sat with it in his hand for a long minute of wordless anger and finally set it down untasted. Belly Rave; hell, it couldn't be too bad. He looked in sudden wonder at the room around him.
Such a difference between a bubble-city G.M.L. house and Belly Rave? Why did they take it so hard? He decided he'd have to visit Belly Rave one of these days, anyhow. Not for anything nasty. Thank God he didn't care for that sort of thing. Just to get a look. But what could the difference be? A house was a house. It had warm resilient floors; it had walls; it had utilities. If you didn't like the floor warm you dialed it to cool. If you didn't like the wall color or pattern you turned the selector wheel to something else. If you didn't like a room plan you unclipped the wall and clipped it somewhere else. Hell, that's what a house was.
Norvell dialed a bed and set the house to full automatic. As he lay down his pillow chimed softly, but he didn't need sleepy music that night; with a curse, he reached over his head and turned it off. In the copper plexus at the house's core transistors pulsed; solenoids barred the doors; microswitches laid traps for intruders; thermocouples tasted the incoming air and cooled it an additional four degrees. Commutator points roved around a hidden dial until they reached the stations where a sweeping clock hand would boil the water for the coffee, heat the griddle for the eggs, set the breakfast dishes. But by then Norvell was already asleep.
Chapter Five
Reverse your telescope. Point the small end at a sign that is neither here nor now, a long way off in space and as many years past as it has been since the end of World War II.
The sign is in a dozen chromatic colors, a picture of a vine-covered cottage with a curl of smoke winding from a fieldstone chimney, and an impossibly long-legged girl waving from the door. The giant letters read:
BELLE REVE ESTATES
"Gracious Living for America's Heroes" VETS! OWN YOUR OWN HOME! $350 cash, $40.25 monthly, pays all
FREE!
3-speed washer, home freezer fifteen-foot picture window
Before the paint on the sign was dry, three cars were parked in the muddy ruts in front of it and three couples were being guided through the model home by Belle Reve salesmen— estate managers, they preferred to be called.
Their technique was identical. If any one of them had lost his voice, or been blasted to charcoal by a resentful God, any of the others could have taken his place in mid-syllable. And their movements were as exact as a ballet troupe; when salesman A brought his charges into a room, salesman B was just on the way out. The rooms were handsomely made and cutely furnished, but the sales director didn't like to have too many people in a room at one time—gave the impression the rooms were small.