"There he is," a voice said, and the light flicked in his direction, dazzling him. He swung so that his back was to it; lifting up one of the copies of _Time_ he stared at the cover.
On the cover of _Time_, dated January 14, 1996, was his picture. A painting, in color. With the words underneath it:
RAGLE GUMM -- MAN OF THE YEAR
Sitting down on the porch he opened the magazine and found the article. Photographs of him as a baby. His mother and father. Him as a child in grammar school. He turned the pages frantically. Him as he was now, after World War Two or whatever war it had been that he had fought in... military uniform, himself smiling back at the camera.
A woman who was his first wife.
And then a scenic sprawl, the sharp city-like spires and minarets of an industrial installation.
The magazine was plucked from his hands. He looked up and saw, to his amazement, that the men lifting him up and away from the porch had on familiar drab coveralls.
"Watch out for that gate," one of them said.
He glimpsed dark trees, men stepping on flower beds, crushing plants under their shoes. Flashlights swinging across the stone path out of the yard, to the road. And, in the road, trucks parked with their motors noisily running, headlights on. Olivegreen service trucks, ton and a half. Familiar, too. Like the drab coveralls.
City trucks. City maintenance men.
And then one of the men held something to his face, a bubble of plastic that the man compressed with his fingers. The bubble split apart and became fumes.
Held between four of the men, Ragle Gumm could do nothing but breathe in the fumes. A flashlight poured yellow fumes and glare into his face; he shut his eyes.
"Don't hurt him," a voice murmured. "Be careful with him."
Under him the metal of the truck had a cold, damp quality. As if, he thought, he had been loaded into a refrigerator tank. Produce, from the countryside, to be hauled into town. To be ready for the next day's market.
ten
Hearty morning sunlight filled his bedroom with a white glare. He put his hand over his eyes, feeling sick.
"I'll pull down the shades," a voice said. Recognizing the voice he opened his eyes. Victor Nielson stood at the windows, pulling down the shades.
"I'm back," Ragle said. "I didn't get anywhere. Not a step." He remembered the running, the scrambling uphill, through shrubbery. "I got up high," he said. "Almost to the top. But then they rolled me back." Who? he wondered. He said aloud, "Who brought me back here?"
Vic said, "A burly taxi driver who must have weighed three hundred pounds. He carried you right in the front door and set you down on the couch." After a moment he added, "It cost you or me, depending on who foots the bill, eleven dollars."
"Where did they find me?"
"In a bar," Vic said.
"What bar?"
"I never heard of it. Out at the end of town. The north end. The industrial end, by the tracks and the freight yards.
"See if you can remember the name of the bar," Ragle said. It seemed important to him; he did not know why.
"I can ask Margo," Vic said. "She was up; we both were up. Just a minute." He left the room. After a moment or so, Margo appeared at the end of his bed.
"It was a bar called Frank's Bar-B-Q," she said.
"Thanks," Ragle said.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Better."
"Can I fix you something bland to eat?"
"No," he said. "Thanks."
Vic said, "You really tanked up. Not on beer. Your pockets were full of shoestring potatoes."
"Anything else?" Ragle said. There was supposed to be something else; he had a memory of stuffing something valuable into them, something that he wanted vitally to keep and bring back.
"Just a paper napkin from Frank's Bar-B-Q," Margo said.
"And a lot of change. Quarters and dimes."
"Maybe you were making phone calls," Vic said.
"I was," he said. "I think." Something about a phone. A phone book. "I remember a name," he said. "Jack Daniels."
Vic said, "That was the cab driver's name."
"How do you know?" Margo asked him.
"Ragle kept calling the cab driver that," Vic said. "What about city maintenance trucks?" Ragle said. "You didn't say anything about them," Margo said. "But it's easy to see why you might have them on your mind."
"Why?" he said.
She raised the window shade. "They've been out there since sunup, since before seven o'clock. The din probably affected your subconscious and got into your thoughts."
Lifting himself up, Ragle looked out the window. Parked at the far curb were two olive-green city maintenance trucks. A crew of city workmen in their drab coveralls had started digging up the street; the racket of their trip hammers jarred him, and he realized that he had been hearing the sound for some time.
"Looks like they're there to stay," Vic said. "Must be a break in the pipe."
"It always makes me nervous when they start digging up the street," Margo said. "I'm always afraid they'll just walk off and leave it dug up. Not finish it."
"They know what they're doing," Vic said. Waving good-bye to Margo and Ragle, he set off for work.
Later, after he had got shakily out of bed, washed and shaved and dressed, Ragle Gumm wandered into the kitchen and fixed himself a glass of tomato juice and a soft-boiled egg on unbuttered toast.
Seated at the table he sipped some of the coffee that Margo had left on the stove. He did not feel like eating. From a distance he could hear the drapapapapapa of the trip hammers. I wonder how long that'll be going on, he asked himself.
He lit a cigarette and then picked up the morning paper. Vic or Margo had brought it in and laid it on the chair by the table, where he would find it.
The texture of the paper repelled him. He could hardly bear to hold it in his hands.
Folding the first sheets back he glanced over the puzzle page. There, as usual, the names of winners. His name, in its special box. In all its glory.
"How does the contest look today?" Margo asked, from the other room. Wearing toreador pants, and a white cotton shirt of Vic's, she had started to polish the television set.
"About the same," he said. The sight of his name on the newspaper page made him restless and uncomfortable, and his first nausea of the morning returned. "Funny business," he said to his sister. "Seeing your name in print. All of a sudden it can be nerve-racking. A shock."
"I've never seen my name in print," she said. "Except in some of those articles about you."
Yes, he thought. Articles about me. "I'm pretty important," he said, putting the paper down.
"Oh you are," Margo agreed.
"I have the feeling," he said, "that what I do affects the human race."
She straightened up and stopped polishing. "What a peculiar thing to say. I don't really see--" She broke off. "After all, a contest is only a contest."
Going into his room, he began setting up his charts, graphs, tables and machines. An hour or so later he had gotten deep into the ordeal of solving the day's puzzle.
At noon, Margo rapped on the closed door. "Ragle," she said, "can you be interrupted? Just say you can't if you can't."
He opened the door, glad of a break.
"Junie Black wants to talk to you," Margo said. "She swears she'll stay only a minute; I told her you hadn't finished." She made a motion, and Junie Black appeared from the living room. "All dressed up," Margo said, eying her.
"I'm going downtown shopping," Junie explained. She had on a red knit wool suit, stockings and heels, and a shorty coat over her shoulders; her hair was done up and she had on make-up, a good deal of it. Her eyes seemed extra dark, and her lashes long, dramatic. "Close the door," she said to Ragle, stepping into his room. "I want to talk to you."