"There is now talk of a thirteenth and fourteenth," said Halyard. "The line has to be drawn somewhere, of course, because of the economics of the thing. In order to be self-supporting, a book club has to have at least a half-million members, or it isn't worth setting up the machinery -the electronic billers, the electronic addressers, the electronic wrappers, the electronic presses, and the electronic dividend computers."
"And the electronic writers," said the girl bitterly.
"That'll come, that'll come," said Halyard. "But Lord knows getting manuscripts isn't any trick. That's hardly the problem. Machinery's the thing. One of the smaller clubs, for instance, covers four city blocks. DSM."
"DSM?" said Khashdrahr.
"Excuse me. Dog Story of the Month."
Khashdrahr and the Shah shook their heads slowly and made clucking sounds. "Four city blocks," echoed Khashdrahr hollowly.
"Well, a fully automatic setup like that makes culture very cheap. Book costs less than seven packs of chewing gum. And there are picture clubs, too - pictures for your walls at amazingly cheap prices. Matter of fact, culture's so cheap, a man figured he could insulate his house cheaper with books and prints than he could with rockwool. Don't think it's true, but it's a cute story with a good point."
"And painters are well supported under this club system?" asked Khashdrahr.
"Supported - I guess!" said Halyard. "It's the Golden Age of Art, with millions of dollars a year poured into reproductions of Rembrandts, Whistlers, Goyas, Renoirs, El Grecos, Dégas, da Vincis, Michelangelos . . ."
"These club members, they get just any book, any picture?" asked Khashdrahr.
"I should say not! A lot of research goes into what's run off, believe me. Surveys of public reading tastes, readability and appeal tests on books being considered. Heavens, running off an unpopular book would put a club out of business like that!" He snapped his fingers ominously. "The way they keep culture so cheap is by knowing in advance what and how much of it people want. They get it right, right down to the color of the jacket. Gutenberg would be amazed."
"Gutenberg?" said Khashdrahr.
"Sure - the man who invented movable type. First man to mass-produce Bibles."
"Alla sutta takki?" said the Shah.
"Eh?" said Halyard.
"Shah wants to know if he made a survey first."
"Anyway," said the girl, "my husband's book was rejected by the Council."
"Badly written," said Halyard primly. "The standards are high."
"Beautifully written," she said patiently. "But it was twenty-seven pages longer than the maximum length; its readability quotient was 26.3, and -"
"No club will touch anything with an R.Q. above 17," explained Halyard.
"And," the girl continued, "it had an antimachine theme."
Halyard's eyebrows arched high. "Well! I should hope they wouldn't print it! What on earth does he think he's doing? Good lord, you're lucky if he isn't behind bars, inciting to advocate the commission of sabotage like that. He didn't really think somebody'd print it, did he?"
"He didn't care. He had to write it, so he wrote it."
"Why doesn't he write about clipper ships, or something like that? This book about the old days on the Erie Canal - the man who wrote that is cleaning up. Big demand for that bare-chested stuff."
She shrugged helplessly. "Because he never got mad at clipper ships or the Erie Canal, I guess."
"He sounds very maladjusted," said Halyard distastefully. "If you ask me, my dear, he needs the help of a competent psychiatrist. They do wonderful things in psychiatry these days. Take perfectly hopeless cases, and turn them into grade A citizens. Doesn't he believe in psychiatry?"
"Yes, indeed. He watched his brother find peace of mind through psychiatry. That's why he won't have anything to do with it."
"I don't follow. Isn't his brother happy?"
"Utterly and always happy. And my husband says somebody's just got to be maladjusted; that somebody's got to be uncomfortable enough to wonder where people are, where they're going, and why they're going there. That was the trouble with his book. It raised those questions, and was rejected. So he was ordered into public-relations duty."
"So the story has a happy ending after all," said Halyard.
"Hardly. He refused."
"Lordy!"
"Yes. He was notified that, unless he reported for public-relations duty by yesterday, his subsistence, his housing permit, his health and security package, everything, would be revoked. So today, when you came along, I was wandering around town, wondering what on earth a girl could do these days to make a few dollars. There aren't many things."
"This husband of yours, he'd rather have his wife a - Rather, have her -" Halyard cleared his throat " - than go into public relations?"
"I'm proud to say," said the girl, "that he's one of the few men on earth with a little self-respect left."
Khashdrahr translated this last bit, and the Shah shook his head sadly. The Shah removed a ruby ring and pressed it into her hand. "Ti, sibi Takaru. Dibo. Brahous brahouna, houna saki. Ippi goura Brahouna ta tippo a mismit." He opened the limousine door for her.
"What did the gentleman say?" she asked.
"He said to take the ring, pretty little citizen," said Khashdrahr tenderly. "He said goodbye and good luck, and that some of the greatest prophets were crazy as bedbugs."
"Thank you, sir," she said, climbing out and starting to cry again. "God bless you."
The limousine pulled away from her. The Shah waved wistfully. "Dibo, sibi Takaru," he said, and was seized by a violent sneezing fit. He blew his nose. "Sumklish!"
Khashdrahr handed him the sacred flask.
Chapter Twenty-Five
WHEN the spirit of the meadows churned up to the dock at the Mainland, the public address system, turned low, was murmuring "Good Night, Sweetheart," a sweet wraith of music a whisper above the voice in the pines, the lapping of the great blue water, the whir of the eagle wing.
No lights shone from the women's and children's lodges. In the Central Administration Building was a single square of light, silhouetting a sleeping clerk.
As Paul made for it, to ask the clerk where he might find Anita, lights flashed in his night-accustomed eyes. When his pupils had adjusted themselves to the glare, he found himself staring at his reflection in a mirror again, under the legend, THE BEST WIFE FOR THE BEST MAN FOR THE BEST JOB IN THE WORLD.
He hurried past the mirror, wondering how many times Anita had contemplated her reflection and the legend here, wondering how she would take the news that her Best Man had become merely a man, with no job at all.
He woke up the clerk, who called the matron in charge of the lodge where Anita slept.
"What's matter with the party over there?" said the clerk sleepily, waiting for the matron to answer. "You're about the tenth guy to come over here tonight. Usually they don't start coming until about the fourth day. Now, what's the matter with the matron, anyway? The phone's right by her bunk." He glanced at the clock. "You know what time it is? You haven't got time to make a nickel. The last boat back for the island leaves in three minutes."
"Keep ringing. I'm not going back."
"If you're going to spend the night, don't tell me about it. There're about twenty-seven rules against it."
Paul handed him a ten-dollar bill. "Keep ringing."
"For that, you can be invisible for a week. Whaddya like? Blondes, brunettes, redheads? Aha! She answered. Where the hell you been?" he asked the matron. "You got a Mrs. Paul Proteus there?" He nodded. "Uh-huh, uh-huh. O.K. Leave a note on her bunk, will you." He turned to Paul. "She's out, Doctor."
"Out?"