John D. MacDonald
The Pendans Box
Now that Professor Aldous Pendaniels is dead, and in a way you might say hoist with his own whatever-you-call-it, but at least beyond the reach of any of the patients he treated by fastening the Pendans Boxes on them, it is only fair to the memory of a man who was nothing if not eager, to tell the world the story behind his death. To some it must have looked like an ordinary death, but it was really shot through with drama — and that is why, with the help of Marg, who is at least talking to me again, though many of the words she says are unkind, I am setting down here the history of Professor Aldous Pendaniels and the Pendans Boxes which he expected would alter the course of civilization — and damn’ near did.
Mr. Genesee Miller is my boss, and a Captain of Industry and a millionaire and a right guy in spite of it all. I drive for him; usually the custom sedan, but once in a while the town car, which I don’t care much for as it leaves me out in the open and sort of out of things. Mr. Miller owns the estate at Little Palms, Florida, the model farm in Handy, Connecticut, he house in Westchester, and rents the triplex on Central Park West. In addition, of course, there is Miller Construction, Miller Motors, Miller Oil, Miller Distributors and the Miller Foundation.
Now I am a man with the firm belief that a chauffeur, provided he is the right type, can be a lot closer to the boss than even the heads of his various plants and organizations. Ten years ago, when I was thirty-three, I went to work for Mr. Genesee Miller, and for nearly a year I drove him around while he sat in the back seat, in the right corner, shuffling papers and moving his lips...
Then, in January, Mrs. Miller wanted the sedan in Florida, and Mr. Miller decided to ride down with me. Frankly, I was getting tired of him and tired of the job. I was sick of being treated like some kind of attachment to the motor. I kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror from time to time, wondering what made him tick. Mr. Miller looks like you could give him a harp and wings, and he could stand in for an elderly cherub.
I was tired and hot and irritated, and when I saw a big neon sign ahead that said, BEER, it was the end — really the end.
I slammed on the brakes and slid the crate over onto the shoulder in front of the joint. I leaned over the back of the seat and looked at him.
He said: “What’s the trouble... er... Jones?”
That bothered me somewhat, as my name is Bill Smith. So I said: “I’m tired and thirsty, and I would be delighted to buy you a beer.”
He sort of jumped and tried to look annoyed, but at the same time he was licking his lips. While he was trying to make up his mind, I helped him along by saying: “I am going in and get myself a beer anyway.”
Halfway to the door, I looked back. Mr. Genesee Miller was trudging along behind me. It was a quiet dark place that smelled of beer and varnish. I bought a round, and he bought a round, and I bought a round, and he bought a round.
As I sipped the fourth, he said: “You know, Jones—”
“The name is Bill Smith.”
“What I was trying to say, Smith, is that I should consider this as insubordination and undue familiarity. I should give you notice.”
“Why don’t you? I can get a job driving a milk-wagon. At least I could talk to the horse.”
He choked on his beer and I beat on his back. When he could talk, he said: “You know, I’ve had lots of chauffeurs, and they all make me uncomfortable. I look at the backs of their necks and think how they’re sneering at me and at everything I represent. They frighten me, and they embarrass me.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got too much money. They have to open doors for me, when I’m perfectly capable of opening my own. Take yourself. You resent me, don’t you?”
“Nuts!” I said politely. “I only resent you because you sit back there like a frog on a lily pad, and I get lonesome with nobody to talk to. I’m a gregarious type, and this job has me about nuts, and that is why I say you can go ahead and give me notice.”
He pointed a finger at his chest, his eyes wide, and said, like a little kid: “You want to talk to me?”
He needed a lot of reassurance, and I hung around while he had two more beers, which I skipped because of the driving I had to do. As we walked out, he said: “Bill—”
“Yes, Mr. Miller?”
“Would you mind if I rode up in the front seat?”
That started it. Ten miles farther along we were deep in a discussion of the social responsibilities of having money, and the possible effects on individual personality. Then I told him about the time I busted both arms on a freighter in the North Sea. All this is necessary, because it opened the door for Professor Aldous Pendaniels.
After that trip, whenever he was alone, Mr. Miller sat up beside me and talked about his problems.
I got one of my shocks when he climbed in one day to be taken up to Connecticut, and said: “Bill, you re member my telling you about Jonas-burger, the glib article who was running the refinery for me, and about the labor problems.” I told him I remembered. “Well, you said that it sounded to you as though Jonasburger wasn’t the type of guy to have any dealings with labor. I transferred him over to the Foundation, and now the refinery is back on schedule. You get a bonus of one hundred dollars this week.”
I could have fallen out of the car. It had never occurred to me that Mr. Miller would take anything I said seriously. After that, he constantly referred problems in human relations and personnel to me, and if I was stumped, I told him so, and if I was pretty sure of my ground, I gave him suggestions. I started paying an income tax that was almost as big as my salary had been before I bought him the beer.
All this is necessary to work up to Professor Aldous Pendaniels.
About two years ago I drove Mr. Miller down into lower Pennsylvania to look over some property, and he acted very moody and upset. I knew that he’d tell me what it was after a while, so I sat tight and waited.
At last he said: “Bill, I couldn’t sleep last night. It seems that everything I touch makes me more money. I’m putting every bit of energy I’ve got into this War Production Program, and I’m paying big taxes, and I’m donating hundreds and hundreds of thousands to charity, but it still isn’t enough. Somehow, I need more justification for my existence. What do you think I ought to do?”
I kicked some ideas around for about a hundred miles, and then I said: “Research.”
He stared at me. “Bill, I’ve got research laboratories connected with each one of my industries. That’s smart business. And if you mean medical research, that’s one of the main functions of the Foundation.”
“No, Mr. Miller, I got something else in mind: Those laboratories connected with the industries — they’re fine, and smart business: but they’re slanted. They’re supposed to develop stuff to help the specific business. What I mean is for you to set up an independent research laboratory, and collect a bunch of screwballs that are working on stuff that has no apparent commercial application. They turn their studies over to you for commercial development. When there’s any money in their ideas, you make the dough and plow all the profits back into the research foundation so as to employ more screwballs. Give them perfect surroundings, freedom from all outside worries, and make sure that they understand that you don’t give a damn what they work on — so long as there is the possibility of an eventual improvement in everyday living.”
He didn’t like it at first, but by the time we got back to New York he was sold, and he was even making additions to the plan.
I got a bonus of five hundred for the idea. He bought a big hunk of land north of Albany, and then the war ended so he felt free to divert a lot of materials up there. When construction was completed, he showed me an aerial photograph. Very pretty! Sprawling concrete laboratories, and one whole section full of little houses for the screwballs to live in. There was a huge fence around the whole thing, and he told me that already his people were contacting the lunatic fringe of research all over the country.