“Yeah,” he said. He looked back and saw a line of people waiting to send letters to the brave pioneers on Ganymede. A very clever gimmick. Very clever.
A woman in her late thirties came running by, face frozen in a horrified smile. She wore bright blue lipstick that was smeared all over her face, and she was clutching her tattered halter together with one hand.
In hot pursuit came a much younger man with the bright fierce eyes of a satyr. He was yelling, “Come back, Libby, we still got half an hour paid for!”
Kennedy smiled crookedly. World Holiday. Step outside yourself and leave your ulcers behind. Girls who were the epitome of prudishness thought nothing of whipping off their halters and letting the breeze cool their breasts until the park police intervened. Sober second-level men could ease their tensions in a frenzied alcoholic jig.
But World Holiday was no holiday for him. There was no escaping Ganymede even out here. He was worse off than the carny men who had to work on World Holiday, he thought; at least they drew double pay.
Marge squeezed his hand. “You look funny. You’re all right, aren’t you, Ted?”
“Sure. Sure. The heat, that’s all. I’d be cooked without this hat.”
Somehow he pretended gaiety. They had another drink, and another. They looped the loop and rode the caterpillars and goggled at the sweating freaks in the sideshow, and had more drinks. They met Mike Cameron and his wife; the third-level man looked drunk and so did his blond wife. Jerrie Cameron brushed up against Kennedy in open invitation, but he ignored it. The Camerons reeled on toward the rocket. Kennedy and Marge had another drink.
Sometime later they bought tickets for the swimming pool, the one place in Joyland where nudity went unquestioned, and spent an hour bobbing in the warm, chlorinated water. Toward evening they watched the fireworks display and wandered down to the rocket-field to see the big missile come in for a landing.
Kennedy felt dizzy and when he looked at Marge she was smiling crookedly. They wearily retraced their steps to the exit. The Send A Letter To Ganymede booth was doing land-office business. The program was a success, Kennedy realized dimly; even Joyland recognized the impact of his Ganymede colony on the nation.
At the parking lot the attendant was dispensing sober-tabs for all drivers; you couldn’t get your car until you took one. Kennedy swallowed the tasteless little pellet and felt his mind clearing. His stomach began to knot again. He paused by his car, watching the purple and aureate brilliance of the fireworks in the dust-hung sky, listening to the big swoosh of the departing rocket.
The fun would go on all night. There was always Sunday for recuperating. But he felt no more desire for amusement, and drove home slowly and cautiously, with his hand grimly gripping the wheel. Marge was exhausted; she curled up into a fetal ball on the back seat and slept. Kennedy wondered about the Camerons, and if Jerrie had found the partner she so obviously was searching for.
Happy World Holiday to me, he thought tiredly. Happy, happy, happy.
8
Sunday was a gloom-shrouded botch of a day. Kennedy slept late, dreaming of the harsh hues of Joyland, and woke with his mind still clouded by bitterness and his head aching. He spent an awkward, uncomfortable day in and around the house with Marge. The ’fax-sheet gave the rundown on the World Holiday damage: a thousand lives lost in the Appalachia district alone, much carnage, property destruction, theft. A good day’s fun.
It was his turn to operate the car-pool come Monday, the second of July, as 2044 swung into its second half. When he reached the office he found a crisp little note waiting for him on his desk:
Floor Nine 6:57 AM.
Ted:
Would you stop off at my office at 8:30 this morning? We’re having an important visitor.
Lou
LD:lk
Curious, he arrived at Dinoli’s office a little ahead of time and cooled his heels in the big man’s oak-paneled foyer for a while until a white-toothed secretary ushered him through the maze into the first-level suite.
There was quite a turnout in Dinoli’s office. Dinoli himself faced the door, keen-eyed and wide awake, hunched over with his gnarled hands locked. Kennedy smiled hello. Standing around Dinoli were four men: Watsinski, looking bored; McDermott, the tough little gamecock of a second-level man who was handling governmental liaison on the Ganymede Contract; Executive Hubbel of the Corporation. There was also a fourth man, thick-necked and coarse-featured, with a broad, genial smile and a delicate network of broken capillaries spread out over his face.
Dinoli said, “Mr. Bullard, I’d like you to meet Theodore Kennedy, Executive Third-Level of Steward and Dinoli.”
Bullard swung forward. He was a bull of a man, six four or more in height, with the biggest hands Kennedy had ever seen. He proffered one, mangled Kennedy’s hand momentarily in greeting, and boomed, “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Kennedy. I’ve heard wonderful things about your work from Mr. Dinoli here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Kennedy looked around. Despite himself he felt a little wobbly-kneed; this was very big brass. Two first-level men in the same room.
“Did you enjoy your holiday?” Dinoli asked, in his dark vast voice.
“Yes, sir. It was very good, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. You know, of course, that Mr. Bullard here is head of the Corporation?”
Kennedy nodded. Bullard swung himself up on the corner of Dinoli’s conference table, crossed his long legs, took out an ignitopak and offered Kennedy a cigarette. He took it. To refuse would have been a mortal insult in such a meeting.
Smiling, Bullard said, “I understand you’re the man who’s responsible for development of the—ah—colony on Ganymede. I want to tell you that it’s a brilliant concept. Brilliant.”
Kennedy was silent. He was tired of saying, Thank you, sir.
Bullard went on. “The whole nation—the whole world —is enraptured by the struggles of the unfortunate souls you’ve invented. And I understand you and you alone have charge of the project.”
“I have an assistant, sir. A man named Spalding. He’s been a great help.”
He saw Watsinski pale; Dinoli seemed to scowl. A little taken aback, Bullard said, “Ah, yes. But the main responsibility is yours. And that’s why I’ve come over here this morning to make this offer to you.”
“Offer, sir?”
“A very fine one. You’ve succeeded in capturing the feel of the Ganymede terrain beautifully, considering the second-hand nature of your data. But Mr. Dinoli and I believe that you’d so an even finer job if you had a little actual experience with living conditions on Ganymede. It would give your project that extra touch of reality that would insure the success of the campaign.”
Kennedy blinked. Dinoli was beaming.
Bullard said, “There’s a supply ship leaving shortly for the Ganymede outpost. There is room for one passenger aboard that ship. I’ve spoken to Mr. Dinoli and we’ve agreed to offer you a chance to be that passenger. You can spend three weeks on Ganymede at Corporation expense. How would you like that?”
Kennedy felt steamrollered. He took a fumbling step backward and grabbed a chair. “Sir, I—”
“You want time to think about it. I understand how it is. You’re in the midst of a difficult work program. You have certain personal commitments. Well, the ship departs on Thursday. If you care to be on it, all you need to do is say the word.”