Today, Blaine thought, a whole new stratum of existence impinged upon man's existence on Earth. Just as the zombie impinged uncomfortable on his existence.
The helicab landed on the roof of an apartment building. Marie Thorne paid, and led Blaine to her apartment.
It was a large airy apartment, pleasingly feminine, and furnished with a certain dramatic flair. There was more bright color than Blaine would have thought compatible with Miss Blaine's sombre personality; but perhaps the vivid yellows and sharp reds expressed a wish of some sort, a compensation for the restraint of her business life. Or perhaps it was just the prevailing style. The apartment contained the sort of gadgetry that Blaine associated with the future; self-adjusting lighting and air-conditioning, self-conforming armchairs, and a push-button bar that produced an adequate Martini.
Marie Thorne went into one of the bedrooms. She returned in a high-collared housedress and sat down on a couch opposite him.
“Well, Blaine, what are your plans?”
“I thought I'd ask you for a loan.”
“Certainly.”
“In that case my plan is to find a hotel room and start looking for a job.”
“It won't be easy,” she said, “but I know some people who might —”
“No thanks,” Blaine said. “I hope this doesn't sound too silly, but I'd rather find a job on my own.”
“No, it doesn't sound silly. I just hope it's possible. How about some dinner?”
“Fine. Do you cook, too?”
“I set dials,” she told him. “Let's see. How would you like a genuine Martian meal?”
“No thanks,” Blaine said. “Martian food is tasty, but it doesn't stick to your ribs. Would you happen to have a steak around the place?”
Marie set the dials and her auto-chef did the rest, selecting the food from pantry and freezer, peeling, unwrapping, washing and cooking them, and ordering new items to replace those used. The meal was perfect; but Marie seemed oddly embarrassed about it. She apologized to Blaine for the completely mechanical operation. After all, he came from an age in which women had opened their own cans, and done their own tasting; but they'd probably had more leisure time, too.
The sun had set by the time they finished their coffee. Blaine said, “Thank you very much, Miss Thorne. Now if you could loan me that money, I'll get started.”
She looked surprised. “At night?”
“I'll find a hotel room. You've been very kind, but I wouldn't want to presume any further —”
“That's all right,” she said. “Stay here tonight.”
“All right,” Blaine said. His mouth was suddenly dry, and his heart was pounding with suspicious rapidity. He knew there was nothing personal in her invitation; but his body didn't seem to understand. It insisted upon reacting hopefully, expectantly even, to the controlled and antiseptic Miss Thorne.
She gave him a bedroom and a pair of green pajamas. Blaine closed the door when she left, undressed and got into bed. The light went out when he told it to.
In a little while, just as his body had expected, Miss Thorne came in wearing something white and gossamer, and lay down beside him.
They lay side by side in silence. Marie Thorne moved closer to him, and Blaine slipped an arm under her head.
He said, “I thought you weren't attracted to my type.”
“Not exactly. I said I preferred tall, lean men.”
“I was once a tall, lean man.”
“I suspected it.”
They were both silent. Blaine began to grow uncomfortable and apprehensive. What did this mean? Had she some fondness for him? Or was this simply a custom of the age, a sort of Eskimo hospitality? “Miss Thorne,” he said, “I wonder if —”
“Oh be quiet!” she said, suddenly turning toward him, her eyes enormous in the shadowy room. “Do you have to question everything, Tom?” Later she said, dreamily, “Under the circumstances, I think you can call me Marie.”
In the morning Blaine showered, shaved and dressed. Marie dialed a breakfast for them. After they had eaten she gave him a small envelope.
“I can loan you more when you need it,” she said. “Now about finding a job —”
“You've helped me very much,” Blaine said. “The rest I'd like to do on my own.”
“All right. My address and telephone number are on the envelope. Please call me as soon as you have a hotel.”
“I will,” Blaine said, watching her closely. There was no hint of the Marie of last night. It might have been a different person entirely. But her studied self-possession was reaction enough for Blaine. Enough, at least for the moment.
At the door she touched his arm. “Tom,” she said, “please be careful. And call me.”
“I will, Marie,” Blaine said.
He went into the city happy and refreshed, and intent upon conquering the world.
12
Blaine's first idea had been to make a round of the yacht-design offices. But he decided against it simply by picturing a yacht designer from 1806 walking into an office in 1958.
The quaint old man might be very talented; but how would that help him when he was asked what he knew about metacentric shelf analysis, flow diagrams, centers of effort, and the best locations for RDF and sonar? What company would pay him while he learned the facts about reduction gears, exfoliating paints, tank testing, propeller pitch, heat exchange systems, synthetic sailcloth…
Not a chance, Blaine decided. He couldn't walk into a design office 152 years behind the times and ask for a job. A job as what? Perhaps he could study and catch up to 2110 technology. But he'd have to do it on his own time.
Right now, he'd take anything he could get.
He went to a newsstand and purchased a micro-film New York Times and a viewer. He walked until he found a bench, sat down and turned to the classified ads. Quickly he skipped past the skilled categories, where he couldn't hope to qualify, and came to unskilled labor. He read:
“Set-up man wanted in auto-cafeteria. Requires only basic knowledge of robotics.”
“Hull wiper wanted, Mar-Coling liner. Must be Rh positive and fortified anticlaustrophobiac.”
“List man needed for hi-tensile bearing decay work. Needs simple jenkling knowledge. Meals included.”
It was apparent to Blaine that even the unskilled labor of 2110 was beyond his present capacity. Turning the page to Employment for Boys, he read:
“Wanted, young man interested in slic-trug machinery. Good future. Must know basic calculus and have working knowledge Hootean Equations.”
“Young Men wanted, salesmen's jobs on Venus. Salary plus commission. Knowledge basic French, German, Russian and Ourescz.”
“Delivery, Magazine, Newspaper boys wanted by Eth-Col agency. Must be able to drive a Sprening. Good knowledge of city required.”
So — he couldn't even qualify as a newsboy! It was a depressing thought. Finding a job was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. Didn't anyone dig ditches or carry packages in this city? Did robots do all the menial work, or did you need a Ph.D. even to lug a wheelbarrow? What sort of world was this?
He turned to the front page of the Times for an answer, adjusted his viewer, and read the news of the day:
A new spacefield was under construction at Oxa, New South Mars.
A poltergeist was believed responsible for several industrial fires in the Chicago area. Tentative exorcism proceedings were under way.