He tried to run more gracefully and he tried to erase the thinking from his mind.
Mustn't think. Mustn't think at all. They catch everything. They will laugh at you.
They were laughing at him.
He could feel their laughter, the silent, gracious amusement that was racing in their minds.
She reached the group and waited.
"Hurry up," she called, and while her words were kindly, he could feel the amusement in the words.
He hurried. He pounded down upon them. He arrived, somewhat out of breath. He felt winded and sweaty and extremely uncouth.
"This is the one they sent us," said Elaine. "His name is Bishop. Is that not a lovely name?"
They watched him, nodding gravely.
"He will tell us stories," said Elaine. "He knows the stories that go with a place like this."
They were looking kindly at him, but he could sense the covert amusement, growing by the moment.
She said to Bishop: "This is Paul. And that one over there is Jim. Betty. Jane. George. And the one on the end is Mary."
"You understand," said Jim, "those are not our names."
"They are approximations," said Elaine. "The best that I could do."
"They are as close," said Jane, "as he can pronounce them."
"If you'd only give me a chance," said Bishop, then stopped short.
That was what they wanted. They wanted him to protest and squirm. They wanted him to be uncomfortable.
"But of course we don't," said Elaine.
Mustn't think. Must try to keep from thinking. They catch everything.
"Let's all sit down," said Betty. "Bishop will tell us stories."
"Perhaps," Jim said to him, "you will describe your life on Earth. I would be quite interested."
"I understand you have a game called chess," said George. "We can't play games, of course. You know why we can't. But I'd be very interested in discussing with you the technique and philosophy of chess."
"One at a time," said Elaine. "First he will tell us stories."
They sat down on the grass, in a ragged circle.
All of them were looking at him, waiting for him to start.
"I don't quite know where to start," he said.
"Why, that's obvious," said Betty. "You start at the beginning."
"Quite right," said Bishop.
He took a deep breath.
"Once, long ago, in the island of Britain, there was a great king whose name was Arthur - "
"Yclept," said Jim.
"You've read the stories?"
"The word was in your mind."
"It's an old word, an archaic word. In some versions of the tales - "
"I would be most interested sometime to discuss the word with you," said Jim.
"Go on with your story," said Elaine.
He took another deep breath.
"Once, long ago, in the island of Britain, there was a great king whose name was Arthur. His queen was Guinevere and Lancelot was his staunchest knight - "
He found the writer in the desk in the living room and pulled it out. He sat down to write a letter.
He typed the salutation:
Dear Morley,
He got up and began pacing up and down the room.
What would he tell him?
What could he tell him?
That he had safely arrived, and that he had a job?
That the job paid a hundred credits a day - ten times more than a man in his position could earn at any Earth job?
He went back to the writer again.
He wrote:
Just a note to let you know that I arrived here safely and already have a job. Not too good a job, perhaps, but it pays a hundred a day and that's better than I could have done on Earth.
He got up and walked again.
There had to be more than that. More than just a paragraph.
He sweated as he walked.
What could he tell him?
He went back to the writer again:
In order to learn the conditions and the customs more quickly, I have taken a job which will keep me in touch with the Kimonians. I find them to be a fine people, but sometimes a little hard to understand. I have no doubt that before too long I shall get to understand them and have a genuine liking for them.
He pushed back his chair and stared at what he'd written.
It was, he told himself, like any one of a thousand other letters he had read.
He pictured in his mind those other thousand people, sitting down to write their first letter from Kimon, searching in their minds for the polite little fables, for the slightly colored lie, for the balm that would salve their pride. Hunting for the words that would not reveal the entire truth:
I have a job of entertaining and amusing a certain family. I tell them stories and let them laugh at me. I do this because I will not admit that the fable of Kimon is a booby trap and that I've fallen into it -
No, it would never do to write like that.
Nor to write:
I'm sticking on in spite of them. So long as I make a hundred a day, they can laugh as much as they want to laugh. I'm staying here and cleaning up no matter what -
Back home he was one of the thousand. Back home they talked of him in whispers because he made the grade.
And the businessmen on board the ship, saying to him: "The one who cracks this Kimon business is the one who'll have it big," and talking in terms of billions if he ever needed backing.
He remembered Morley pacing up and down the room. A foot in the door, he'd said: "Some way to crack them. Some way to understand them. Some little thing - no big thing, but some little thing. Anything at all except the deadpan face that Kimon turns toward us."
Somehow he had to finish the letter. He couldn't leave it hanging, and he had to write it.
He turned back to the writer:
I'll write you later at greater length. At the moment I'm rushed.
He frowned at it.
But whatever he wrote, it would be wrong. This was no worse than any of another dozen things that he might write.
Must rush off to a conference.
Have an appointment with a client.
Some papers to go through.
All of them were wrong.
What was a man to do?
He wrote:
Think of you often. Write me when you can.
Morley would write him. An enthusiastic letter, a letter with a fine shade of envy tingeing it, the letter of a man who wanted to be, but couldn't be, on Kimon.
For everyone wanted to go to Kimon. That was the hell of it.
You couldn't tell the truth, when everyone would give their good right arm to go.
You couldn't tell the truth, when you were a hero and the truth would turn you into a galactic heel.
And the letters from home, the prideful letters, the envious letters, the letters happy with the thought you were doing so well - all of these would be only further chains to bind you to Kimon and to the Kimon lie.
He said to the cabinet: "How about a drink?"
"Yes, sir," said the cabinet. "Coming right up, sir."
"A long one," Bishop said, "and a strong one."
"Long and strong it is, sir."
He met her in the bar.
"Why, if it isn't Buster!" she said, as though they met there often.
He sat on the stool beside her.
"That week is almost up," he said.
She nodded. "We've been watching you. You're standing up real well."
"You tried to tell me."
"Forget it," said the girl. "Just a mistake of mine. It's a waste of time telling any of them. But you looked intelligent and not quite dry behind the ears. I took pity on you."
She looked at him over the rim of her glass.
"I shouldn't have," she said.
"I should have listened."