The Muckfeet were massed in the doorway, staring in like visitors at an aquarium. Alvah dived at the power bar, shoved it over. The floater didn’t lift.
“Holly! Luke!” called a clear voice outside, and the Muckfeet turned. “Leave him alone. He’s got enough troubles now.”
Alvah was pawing at the control board.
The lights didn’t work.
The air-conditioner didn’t work.
The scent-organ didn’t work.
The musivox didn’t work.
One of the Muckfeet put his head in at the door. “Reckon he has,” he said thoughtfully and went away again. Alvah heard his voice, more faintly. “You do something, B. J.?”
“Yes,” said the girl, “I did something.”
MOVING warily, Alvah went outside. The girl was standing just below the platform, watching as the Muckfoot men filed down the stair.
“You!” he said to her.
She paid him no attention. “Just one of those things, Luke,” she said.
Luke nodded solemnly, “Well, the Fair don’t come but once a year.” He and the other men moved past her into the crowd, each one acquiring a train of curiosity-seekers as he went. The crowd began to drift away.
A familiar voice yelped, “Ride’m out on a razorback is what I say!”
A chorus of “Now, Jake!” went up. There were murmurs of dissent, of inquiry, of explanation. “Time for the poultry judging!” somebody called, and the crowd moved faster.
Alvah went dazedly down and climbed into the runabout. He waggled its power bar. No response.
He tore open his kit and began frantically hauling out one glittery object after another, holding each for an instant and then throwing it on the ground. The ‘ razor, the heater, the vacuum cleaner, the sonotube, the vibromasseur.
Swifty rode by, at ease atop his horse-lynx-camel-horror. He was whistling.
The crowd was almost gone. Among the stragglers was Jake, fists on his pudgy hips, his choleric cheeks gleaming with sweat and satisfaction.
“Well, Mister High-and-Mighty,” he called, “what are you going to do now?”
That was just what Alvah was wondering. He was about a thousand miles from home by air―probably more like fifteen hundred across-country. He had no transportation, no shelter, no power tools, no equipment. He had, he realized with horror, been cut off instantly from everything that made a man civilized.
What was he going to do?
V
MANAGER Wytak had his feet on the glossy desktop. So did the Comptroller, narrowfaced old Mr. Greedy; the Director of Information, plump Mr. Kling; the Commissioner of Supply, blotched and pimpled Mr. Jackson: and the porcine Mr. McArdle, Commissioner of War. With chairs tilted back, they stared through a haze of cigar smoke at each others’ stolid faces mirrored on the ceiling.
Wytak’s voice was as confident as ever, if a trifle muted, and when the others spoke, he listened. These were not the hired nonentities Alvah had seen; these were the men who had made Wytak, the electorate with whose consent he governed.
“Jack,” said Wytak, “I want you to look at it my way and see if you don’t think I’m right. It isn’t a question of how long we can hold out―when you get right down and look at it, it’s a question of can we do anything.”
“In time,” said Jackson expressionlessly.
“In time. But if we can do anything, there’ll be time enough. You say we’ve got troubles now and you’re right, but I tell you we can pull through a situation a thousand times worse than this―if we’ve got an answer. And have we got an answer? We have.”
Creedy grunted. “Like to see some results, Boley.”
“You’ll see them. You can’t skim a yeast tank the first day, Will.”
“You can see the bubbles, though,” said Jackson sourly. “Any report from this Gustad today, while we’re talking about it?”
“Not yet. He was getting some response yesterday. He’s following it up. I trust that boy―the analyzers picked his card out of five million. Wait and see. He’ll deliver.”
“If you say so, Boley.”
“I say so.”
Jackson nodded. “That’s good enough. Gentlemen?”
IN another soundproof, spyproof office in Over Manhattan, Kling and McArdle met again twenty minutes later.
“What do you think?” asked Kling with his meaningless smile.
“Moderately good. I was hoping he would lie about Gustad’s report, but of course there was very little chance of that. Wytak is an old hand.”
“You admire him?” Kling suggested.
“As a specimen of his type. Wytak pulled us out of a very bad spot in ’39.”
“Agreed.”
“And he has had his uses since then. There are times when brilliant improvisation is better than sound principles ― and times when it is not. Wytak is an incurable romantic.”
“And you?”
“We,” said McArdle grimly, “are realists.”
“Oh, yes. But perhaps we are not anything just yet. Creedy is interested, but not convinced―and until he moves, Jackson will do nothing.”
“Wytak’s project is a failure. You can’t do business with the Muckfeet. But the fool was so confident that he didn’t even interfere with Gustad’s briefing.”
Kling leaned forward with interest. “You didn’t …?”
“No. It wasn’t necessary. But it means that Gustad has no instructions to fake successful reports―and that means Wytak can’t stall until he gets back. There was no report today. Suppose there’s none tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.”
“In that case, of course … However, it’s always as well to offer something positive. You said you might have something to show me today.”
“Yes. Follow me.”
In a sealed room at the end of a guarded corridor, five young men were sitting. They leaped to attention when Kling and McArdle entered.
“At ease,” said McArdle. “This gentleman is going to ask you some questions. You may answer freely. He turned to Kling. Go ahead―ask them anything.”
Kling’s eyebrows went up delicately, but he looked the young men over, selected one and said, “Your name?”
“Walter B. Limler, sir.”
Kling looked mildly pained. “Please don’t call me sir. Where do you live?”
“CFF Barracks, Tier Three, McCormick.”
“CFF?” said Kling with a frown. “McCormick? I don’t place the district. Where is it?”
The young man, who was blond and very earnest, allowed himself to show a slight surprise. “In the Loop,” he said.
“And where is the Loop?” The young man looked definitely startled. He glanced at McArdle, moistened his lips and said, “Well, right here, sir. In Chicago.”
Kling’s eyebrows went up and then down. He smiled. “I begin to see,” he murmured to McArdle. “Very clever.”
IT cost Alvah two hours’ labor, using tools that had never been designed to be operated manually, to get the inspection plate off the motor housing in the floater. He compared the intricate mechanism with the diagrams and photographs in the maintenance handbook. He looked for dust and grime; he checked the moving parts for play; he probed for dislodged wiring plates and corrosion. He did everything the handbook suggested, even spun the flywheel and was positive he felt the floater lift a fraction of an inch beneath him. As far as he could tell, there was absolutely nothing wrong, unless the trouble was in the core of the motor itself―the force-field that rotated the axle that made everything go.
The core casing had an “easily removable” segment, meaning to say that Alvah was able to get it off in three hours more.