“We’ll keep all that in mind, Valentine,” Noonan said finally, finishing his tenth doodle for an even count and slamming his notebook shut. “You’re right, this is a disgrace.”
Valentine stretched out a slender hand and carefully flicked the ashes into the ashtray. “And what exactly will you be keeping in mind?” he inquired politely.
“Oh, everything you said,” replied Noonan cheerfully, leaning back in his armchair. “Every last word.”
“And what did I say?”
“That’s irrelevant,” said Noonan. “Whatever you said, we’ll keep it all in mind.”
Valentine (Dr. Valentine Pillman, Nobel laureate, etc., etc.) was sitting in front of him in a deep armchair—small, neat, and elegant, his suede jacket spotless, and his pulled-up trousers ironed to perfection. He was wearing a blindingly white shirt, a severe solid-colored tie, and gleaming shoes; there was a sardonic smile on his pale thin lips, enormous sunglasses hid his eyes, and his black hair bristled in a crew cut over a broad low forehead. “In my opinion, they pay you your incredible salary for nothing,” he said. “And on top of that, Dick, I think you’re also a saboteur.”
“Shh!” said Noonan in a whisper. “For God’s sake, not so loud.”
“As a matter of fact,” continued Valentine, “I’ve been watching you for some time. As far as I can tell, you do no work at all.”
“Wait a minute!” interrupted Noonan, wagging a fat pink finger at him in protest. “What do you mean, ‘no work’? Has a single claim been without consequences?”
“No idea,” said Valentine, flicking his ashes again. “We get good equipment, and we get bad equipment. We get the good stuff more often, but what you have to do with it—I don’t have a clue.”
“And if it wasn’t for me,” objected Noonan, “the good stuff would be rarer. Besides, you scientists keep damaging good equipment, you file claims, and who covers for you then? Take, for example, what you’ve done with the bloodhound. An outstanding machine, made a brilliant showing during the geological surveys—reliable, autonomous. And you were running it at ridiculous settings, rode the mechanism too hard, like a racehorse…”
“Didn’t give it enough water and didn’t feed it oats,” commented Valentine. “You’re a stablemaster, Dick, not a manufacturer!”
“A stablemaster,” Noonan repeated thoughtfully. “That’s more like it. Now a few years ago we had a Dr. Panov working here—you probably knew him, he later perished… Anyway, he figured that my true calling is breeding crocodiles.”
“I’ve read his papers,” said Valentine. “A very serious-minded and thoughtful man. If I were you, I’d consider his words carefully.”
“All right. I’ll mull them over sometime. Why don’t you tell me instead what happened at yesterday’s experimental SK-3 launch?”
“SK-3?” repeated Valentine, furrowing his pale forehead. “Oh… The minstrel! Nothing in particular. It followed the route well and brought back a few bracelets and a strange disk.” He paused. “And a buckle from a pair of Lux-brand suspenders.”
“What kind of disk?”
“An alloy of vanadium, hard to say more right now. No unusual attributes.”
“Then why did the SK grab it?”
“Ask the company. That’s more in your line.”
Noonan pensively tapped his notebook with his pencil. “After all, it was an experimental launch,” he mused. “Or maybe the disk lost charge. You know what I’d advise you to do? Throw it back into the Zone, and after a day or two send the bloodhound after it. I remember, the year before last—”
The phone rang, and Noonan, immediately forgetting Valentine, grabbed the receiver.
“Mr. Noonan?” asked the secretary. “General Lemchen calling for you again.”
“Put him through.”
Valentine stood up, placed his extinguished cigarette in the ashtray, twirled two fingers near his temple as a sign of farewell, and went out—small, straight backed, well built.
“Mr. Noonan?” said the familiar drawl.
“Speaking.”
“It’s hard to find you at work, Mr. Noonan.”
“A new shipment has arrived…”
“Yes, I already know that. Mr. Noonan, I’m in town for a short time. There are a couple of issues that need to be discussed in person. I’m referring to the latest contracts for Mitsubishi Denshi. The legal aspects.”
“I’m at your service.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, we’ll meet in half an hour in our department. Is that convenient for you?”
“That’s fine. See you in half an hour.”
Richard Noonan put down the receiver, got up, and, rubbing his plump hands, walked around his office. He even started singing a pop song but immediately hit a sour note and laughed genially at himself. Then he took his hat, threw his raincoat over his arm, and went into the waiting room.
“My dear,” he said to the secretary, “I have to go make my rounds. You’re now in charge of the troops. Hold the fort, as they say, and I’ll bring you back some chocolates.”
The secretary perked up. Noonan blew her an air kiss and walked briskly along the Institute’s corridors. A few times people tried to waylay him; he dodged them, put them off with jokes, urged them to hold the fort without him, to take it easy, not to overwork themselves; finally, having successfully avoided everyone, he strode out of the building, waving his unopened pass in the guard’s face with his usual motion.
Heavy clouds were hanging over the city, it was muggy, and the first hesitant raindrops were spreading into little black stars on the pavement. Throwing his raincoat over his head and shoulders, Noonan trotted along the long row of cars to his Peugeot, dived inside, and, tearing his raincoat off his head, threw it into the backseat. He took a round black spacell out of a side pocket of his jacket, inserted it into a jack on the dashboard, and pushed it in with his thumb until it clicked. Finally, wriggling his rear, he made himself comfortable behind the wheel and pressed on the gas. The Peugeot silently rolled into the middle of the street and raced toward the exit from the restricted area.
The rain gushed down all at once, as if a gigantic bucket of water had been tipped over in the sky. The road became slippery, and the car started skidding on turns. Noonan turned on his windshield wipers and slowed down. So they’ve received the report, he thought. Now they’ll praise me. Well, I’m all for that. I like being praised. Especially by General Lemchen, in spite of himself. It’s funny, I wonder why we like being praised. There’s no money in it. Fame? How famous could we get? He became famous: now he’s known to three. Maybe four, if you count Bayliss. Aren’t humans absurd? I suppose we like praise for its own sake. The way children like ice cream. It’s an inferiority complex, that’s what it is. Praise assuages our insecurities. And ridiculously so. How could I rise in my own opinion? Don’t I know myself—fat old Richard H. Noonan? By the way, what does that H stand for? What a thing! And there’s no one to ask. Not like I can ask General Lemchen… Oh, I got it! Herbert. Richard Herbert Noonan. Boy, is it pouring.
He turned onto Central Avenue, and a thought popped into his head. How our little town has grown in recent years! Skyscrapers all around… There’s another one under construction. And what will we have here? Oh yes, the Luna Complex—featuring the world’s best jazz and a variety show and the brothel that’ll hold a thousand—all for our valiant troops and brave tourists, especially the wealthy ones, and for our noble knights of science. Meanwhile, the suburbs are emptying out. And there’s no longer anywhere for the returning dead to go.