Just a moment, Doctor, please! Clare soothed. We have no desire to take advantage of a mere legal technicality, and no one disputes your interest. Let me outline what I had in mind He ran rapidly over the plan. O'Neil listened, but his expression was still unmollified at the conclusion.
I'm not interested, he said gruffly. So far as I am concerned the Government can have the whole thing. And I'll see to it.
I had not mentioned one other condition, added Clare.
Don't bother.
I must. This will be just a matter of agreement between gentlemen, but it is essential. You have custody of the 'Flower of Forgetfulness.'
O'Neil was at once on guard. What do you mean, 'custody.' I own it. Understand me own it.
'Own it,' repeated Clare. Nevertheless, in return for the concessions we are making you with respect to your contract, we want something in return.
What? asked O'Neil. The mention of the bowl had upset his confidence.
You own it and you retain possession of it. But I want your word that I, or Mr. Francis, or Miss Cormet, may come look at it from time to time frequently.
O'Neil looked unbelieving. You mean that you simply want to come to look at it?
That's all.
Simply to enjoy it?
That's right.
O'Neil looked at him with new respect. I did not understand you before, Mr. Clare. I apologize. As for the corporation nonsense do as you like. I don't care. You and Mr. Francis and Miss Cormet may come to see the 'Flower' whenever you like. You have my word.
Thank you, Doctor O'Neil for all of us. He switched off as quickly as could be managed gracefully.
Beaumont was looking at Clare with added respect, too. I think, he said, that the next time I shall not interfere with your handling of the details. I'll take my leave. Adieu, gentlemen and Miss Cormet.
When the door had rolled down behind him Grace remarked, That seems to polish it off.
Yes, said Clare. We've 'walked his dog' for him; O'Neil has what he wants; Beaumont got what he wanted, and more besides.
Just what is he after?
I don't know, but I suspect that he would like to be first president of the Solar System Federation, if and when there is such a thing. With the aces we have dumped in his lap, he might make it. Do you realize the potentialities of the O'Neil effect?
Vaguely, said Francis.
Have you thought about what it will do to space navigation? Or the possibilities it adds in the way of colonization? Or its recreational uses? There's a fortune in that alone.
What do we get out of it?
What do we get out of it? Money, old son. Gobs and gobs of money. There's always money in giving people what they want. He glanced up at the Scottie dog trademark.
Money, repeated Francis. Yeah, I suppose so.
Anyhow, added Grace, we can always go look at the 'Flower.'
Ordeal in Space
Maybe we should never have ventured out into space. Our race has but two basic, innate fears; noise and the fear of falling. Those terrible heights Why should any man in his right mind let himself be placed where he could fall...and fall...and fall But all Spacemen are crazy. Everybody knows that.
The medicos had been very kind, he supposed. You're lucky. You want to remember that, old fellow. You're still young and your retired pay relieves you of all worry about your future. You've got both arms and legs and are in fine shape.
Fine shape! His voice was unintentionally contemptuous.
No, I mean it, the chief psychiatrist had persisted gently. The little quirk you have does you no harm at all except that you can't go out into space again. I can't honestly call acrophobia a neurosis; fear of falling is normal and sane. You've just got it a little more strongly than most but that is not abnormal, in view of what you have been through.
The reminder set him to shaking again. He closed his eyes and saw the stars wheeling below him again. He was falling...falling endlessly. The psychiatrist's voice came through to him and pulled him back. Steady, old man! Look around you.
Sorry.
Not at all. Now tell me, what do you plan to do?
I don't know. Get a job, I suppose.
The Company will give you a job, you know.
He shook his head. I don't want to hang around a spaceport. Wear a little button in his shirt to show that he was once a man, be addressed by a courtesy title of captain, claim the privileges of the pilots' lounge on the basis of what he used to be, hear the shop talk die down whenever he approached a group, wonder what they were saying behind his back no, thank you!
I think you're wise. Best to make a clean break, for a while at least, until you are feeling better.
You think I'll get over it?
The psychiatrist pursed his lips. Possible. It's functional, you know. No trauma.
But you don't think so?
I didn't say that. I honestly don't know. We still know very little about what makes a man tick.
I see. Well, I might as well be leaving.
The psychiatrist stood up and shoved out his hand. Holler if you want anything. And come back to see us in any case.
Thanks.
You're going to be all right. I know it.
But the psychiatrist shook his head as his patient walked out. The man did not walk like a spaceman; the easy, animal self-confidence was gone.
Only a small part of Great New York was roofed over in those days; he stayed underground until he was in that section, then sought out a passageway lined with bachelor rooms. He stuck a coin in the slot of the first one which displayed a lighted vacant sign, chucked his jump bag inside, and left. The monitor at the intersection gave him the address of the nearest placement office. He went there, seated himself at an interview desk, stamped in his finger prints, and started filling out forms. It gave him a curious back-to-the-beginning feeling; he had not looked for a job since pre-cadet days.
He left filling in his name to the last and hesitated even then. He had had more than his bellyful of publicity; he did not want to be recognized; he certainly did not want to be throbbed over and most of all he did not want anyone telling him he was a hero. Presently he printed in the name William Saunders and dropped the forms in the slot.
He was well into his third cigarette and getting ready to strike another when the screen in front of him at last lighted up. He found himself staring at a nice-looking brunette. Mr. Saunders, the image said, will you come inside, please? Door seventeen.
The brunette in person was there to offer him a seat and a cigarette.
Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Saunders. I'm Miss Joyce. I'd like to talk with you about your application.
He settled himself and waited, without speaking.
When she saw that he did not intend to speak, she added, Now take this name 'William Saunders' which you have given us we know who you are, of course, from your prints.
I suppose so.
Of course I know what everybody knows about you, but your action in calling yourself 'William Saunders,' Mr.
Saunders.
Mr. Saunders, caused me to query the files. She held up a microfilm spool, turned so that he might read his own name on it. I know quite a lot about you now more than the public knows and more than you saw fit to put into your application. It's a good record, Mr. Saunders.
Thank you.
But I can't use it in placing you in a job. I can't even refer to it if you insist on designating yourself as 'Saunders.'
The name is Saunders. His voice was flat, rather than emphatic.
Don't be hasty, Mr. Saunders. There are many positions in which the factor of prestige can be used quite legitimately to obtain for a client a much higher beginning rate of pay than
I'm not interested.
She looked at him and decided not to insist. As you wish. If you will go to reception room B, you can start your classification and skill tests.