II
I locked the door of the hotel room. Arthur was peeping out of thesuitcase at me.
I said: "I'm back. I got your typewriter." He waved his eye at me.
I took out the little kit of electricians' tools I carried, tipped thetypewriter on its back and began sorting out leads. I cut them freefrom the keyboard, soldered on a ground wire, and began taping theleads to the strands of a yard of forty-ply multiplex cable.
It was a slow and dull job. I didn't have to worry about whichsolenoid lead went to which strand--Arthur could sort them out. Butall the same it took an hour, pretty near, and I was getting hungry bythe time I got the last connection taped. I shifted the typewriter sothat both Arthur and I could see it, rolled in a sheet of paper andhooked the cable to Arthur's receptors.
Nothing happened.
"Oh," I said. "Excuse me, Arthur. I forgot to plug it in."
I found a wall socket. The typewriter began to hum and then it startedto rattle and type:
DURA AUK UKOO RQK MWS AQB
It stopped.
"Come on, Arthur," I ordered impatiently. "Sort them out, will you?"
Laboriously it typed:
!!!
Then, for a time, there was a clacking and thumping as he typed randomletters, peeping out of the suitcase to see what he had typed, untilthe sheet I had put in was used up.
I replaced it and waited, as patiently as I could, smoking one of thelast of my cigarettes. After fifteen minutes or so, he had the hang ofit pretty well. He typed:
YOU DAMQXXX DAMN FOOL WHUXXX WHY DID YOU LEAQNXXX LEAVE ME ALONE Q Q
"Aw, Arthur," I said. "Use your head, will you? I couldn't carry thatold typewriter of yours all the way down through the Bronx. It wasgetting pretty beat-up. Anyway, I've only got two hands--"
YOU LOUSE, it rattled, ARE YOU TRYONXXX TRYING TO INSULT ME BECAUSE IDONT HAVE ANY Q Q
"Arthur!" I said, shocked. "You know better than that!"
The typewriter slammed its carriage back and forth ferociously acouple of times. Then he said: ALL RIGHT SAM YOU KNOW YOUVE GOT ME BYTHE THROAT SO YOU CAN DO ANYTHING YOU WANT TO WITH ME WHO CARES ABOUTMY FEELINGS ANYHOW
"Please don't take that attitude," I coaxed.
WELL
"Please?"
He capitulated. ALL RIGHT SAY HEARD ANYTHING FROM ENGDAHL Q Q
"No."
ISNT THAT JUST LIKE HIM Q Q CANT DEPEND ON THAT MAN HE WAS THELOUSIEST ELECTRICIANS MATE ON THE SEA SPRITE AND HE ISNT MUCH BETTERNOW SAY SAM REMEMBER WHEN WE HAD TO GET HIM OUT OF THE JUG IN NEWPORTNEWS BECAUSE
I settled back and relaxed. I might as well. That was the trouble withgetting Arthur a new typewriter after a couple of days without one--hehad so much garrulity stored up in his little brain, and the onlyperson to spill it on was me.
* * * * *
Apparently I fell asleep. Well, I mean I must have, because I woke up.I had been dreaming I was on guard post outside the Yard atPortsmouth, and it was night, and I looked up and there was somethingup there, all silvery and bad. It was a missile--and that was silly,because you never see a missile. But this was a dream.
And the thing burst, like a Roman candle flaring out, all sorts ofcomet-trails of light, and then the whole sky was full of bright andcolored snow. Little tiny flakes of light coming down, a mist oflight, radiation dropping like dew; and it was so pretty, and I took adeep breath. And my lungs burned out like slow fire, and I coughedmyself to death with the explosions of the missile banging against myflaming ears....
Well, it was a dream. It probably wasn't like that at all--and if ithad been, I wasn't there to see it, because I was tucked away safeunder a hundred and twenty fathoms of Atlantic water. All of us wereon the _Sea Sprite_.
But it was a bad dream and it bothered me, even when I woke up andfound that the banging explosions of the missile were the noise ofArthur's typewriter carriage crashing furiously back and forth.
He peeped out of the suitcase and saw that I was awake. He demanded:HOW CAN YOU FALL ASLEEP WHEN WERE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS Q Q ANYTHINGCOULD HAPPEN SAM I KNOW YOU DONT CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO ME BUT FOR YOUROWN SAKE YOU SHOULDNT
"Oh, dry up," I said.
Being awake, I remembered that I was hungry. There was still no signof Engdahl or the others, but that wasn't too surprising--they hadn'tknown exactly when we would arrive. I wished I had thought to bringsome food back to the room. It looked like long waiting and I wouldn'twant to leave Arthur alone again--after all, he was partly right.
I thought of the telephone.
On the off-chance that it might work, I picked it up. Amazing, a voicefrom the desk answered.
I crossed my fingers and said: "Room service?"
And the voice answered amiably enough: "Hold on, buddy. I'll see ifthey answer."
Clicking and a good long wait. Then a new voice said: "Whaddya want?"
There was no sense pressing my luck by asking for anything like acomplete meal. I would be lucky if I got a sandwich.
I said: "Please, may I have a Spam sandwich on Rye Krisp and somecoffee for Room Fifteen Forty-one?"
"Please, you go to hell!" the voice snarled. "What do you think thisis, some damn delicatessen? You want liquor, we'll get you liquor.That's what room service is for!"
* * * * *
I hung up. What was the use of arguing? Arthur was clacking peevishly:
WHATS THE MATTER SAM YOU THINKING OF YOUR BELLY AGAIN Q Q
"You would be if you--" I started, and then I stopped. Arthur'sfeelings were delicate enough already. I mean suppose that all you hadleft of what you were born with was a brain in a kind of sardine can,wouldn't you be sensitive? Well, Arthur was more sensitive than youwould be, believe me. Of course, it was his own foolish fault--I meanyou don't get a prosthetic tank unless you die by accident, orsomething like that, because if it's disease they usually can't saveeven the brain.
The phone rang again.
It was the desk clerk. "Say, did you get what you wanted?" he askedchummily.
"No."
"Oh. Too bad," he said, but cheerfully. "Listen, buddy, I forgot totell you before. That Miss Engdahl you were expecting, she's on herway up."
I dropped the phone onto the cradle.
"Arthur!" I yelled. "Keep quiet for a while--trouble!"
He clacked once, and the typewriter shut itself off. I jumped for thedoor of the bathroom, cursing the fact that I didn't have cartridgesfor the gun. Still, empty or not, it would have to do.
I ducked behind the bathroom door, in the shadows, covering the halldoor. Because there were two things wrong with what the desk clerk hadtold me. Vern Engdahl wasn't a "miss," to begin with; and whatevername he used when he came to call on me, it wouldn't be Vern Engdahl.
There was a knock on the door. I called: "Come in!"
The door opened and the girl who called herself Vern Engdahl came inslowly, looking around. I stayed quiet and out of sight until she wasall the way in. She didn't seem to be armed; there wasn't anyone withher.
I stepped out, holding the gun on her. Her eyes opened wide and sheseemed about to turn.
"Hold it! Come on in, you. Close the door!"
She did. She looked as though she were expecting me. I looked herover--medium pretty, not very tall, not very plump, not very old. I'dhave guessed twenty or so, but that's not my line of work; she couldhave been almost any age from seventeen on.
The typewriter switched itself on and began to pound agitatedly. Icrossed over toward her and paused to peer at what Arthur was yackingabout: SEARCH HER YOU DAMN FOOL MAYBE SHES GOT A GUN
I ordered: "Shut up, Arthur. I'm _going_ to search her. You! Turnaround!"
* * * * *
She shrugged and turned around, her hands in the air. Over hershoulder, she said: "You're taking this all wrong, Sam. I came here tomake a deal with you."
"Sure you did."
But her knowing my name was a blow, too.
I mean what was the use ofall that sneaking around if people in New York were going to know wewere here?
I walked up close behind her and patted what there was to pat. Theredidn't seem to be a gun.
"You tickle," she complained.
I took her pocketbook away from her and went through it. No gun. A lotof money--an _awful_ lot of money. I mean there must have been two orthree hundred thousand dollars. There was nothing with a name on it inthe pocketbook.
She said: "Can I put my hands down, Sam?"
"In a minute." I thought for a second and then decided to do it--youknow, I just couldn't afford to take chances. I cleared my throat andordered: "Take off your clothes."
Her head jerked around and she stared at me. "_What?_"
"Take them off. You heard me."
"Now wait a minute--" she began dangerously.
I said: "Do what I tell you, hear? How do I know you haven't got aknife tucked away?"
She clenched her teeth. "Why, you dirty little man! What do youthink--" Then she shrugged. She looked at me with contempt and said:"All right. What's the difference?"
Well, there was a considerable difference. She began to unzip andunbutton and wriggle, and pretty soon she was standing there in herunderwear, looking at me as though I were a two-headed worm. It wasinteresting, but kind of embarrassing. I could see Arthur's eye-stalkwaving excitedly out of the opened suitcase.
I picked up her skirt and blouse and shook them. I could feel myselfblushing, and there didn't seem to be anything in them.
I growled: "Okay, I guess that's enough. You can put your clothes backon now."
"Gee, thanks," she said.
She looked at me thoughtfully and then shook her head as if she'dnever seen anything like me before and never hoped to again. Withoutanother word, she began to get back into her clothes. I had to admireher poise. I mean she was perfectly calm about the whole thing. You'dhave thought she was used to taking her clothes off in front ofstrange men.
Well, for that matter, maybe she was; but it wasn't any of mybusiness.
* * * * *
Arthur was clacking distractedly, but I didn't pay any attention tohim. I demanded: "All right, now who are you and what do you want?"
She pulled up a stocking and said: "You couldn't have asked me that inthe first place, could you? I'm Vern Eng--"
"_Cut it out!_"
She stared at me. "I was only going to say I'm Vern Engdahl's partner.We've got a little business deal cooking and I wanted to talk to youabout this proposition."
Arthur squawked: WHATS ENGDAHL UP TO NOW Q Q SAM IM WARNING YOU I DONTLIKE THE LOOK OF THIS THIS WOMAN AND ENGDAHL ARE PROBABLYDOUBLECROSSING US
I said: "All right, Arthur, relax. I'm taking care of things. Nowstart over, you. What's your name?"
She finished putting on her shoe and stood up. "Amy."
"Last name?"
She shrugged and fished in her purse for a cigarette. "What does itmatter? Mind if I sit down?"
"Go ahead," I rumbled. "But don't stop talking!"
"Oh," she said, "we've got plenty of time to straighten things out."She lit the cigarette and walked over to the chair by the window. Onthe way, she gave the luggage a good long look.
Arthur's eyestalk cowered back into the suitcase as she came close.She winked at me, grinned, bent down and peered inside.
"My," she said, "he's a nice shiny one, isn't he?"
The typewriter began to clatter frantically. I didn't even bother tolook; I told him: "Arthur, if you can't keep quiet, you have to expectpeople to know you're there."
She sat down and crossed her legs. "Now then," she said. "Frankly,he's what I came to see you about. Vern told me you had a pross. Iwant to buy it."
The typewriter thrashed its carriage back and forth furiously.
"Arthur isn't for sale."
"No?" She leaned back. "Vern's already sold me his interest, you know.And you don't really have any choice. You see, I'm in charge ofmateriel procurement for the Major. If you want to sell your share,fine. If you don't, why, we requisition it anyhow. Do you follow?"
I was getting irritated--at Vern Engdahl, for whatever the hell hethought he was doing; but at her because she was handy. I shook myhead.
"Fifty thousand dollars? I mean for your interest?"
"No."
"Seventy-five?"
"No!"
"Oh, come on now. A hundred thousand?"
It wasn't going to make any impression on her, but I tried to explain:"Arthur's a friend of mine. He isn't for sale."
* * * * *
She shook her head. "What's the matter with you? Engdahl wasn't likethis. He sold his interest for forty thousand and was glad to get it."
Clatter-clatter-clatter from Arthur. I didn't blame him for havinghurt feelings that time.
Amy said in a discouraged tone: "Why can't people be reasonable? TheMajor doesn't like it when people aren't reasonable."
I lowered the gun and cleared my throat. "He doesn't?" I asked, cuingher. I wanted to hear more about this Major, who seemed to have thecity pretty well under his thumb.
"No, he doesn't." She shook her head sorrowfully. She said in anaccusing voice: "You out-of-towners don't know what it's like to tryto run a city the size of New York. There are fifteen thousand peoplehere, do you know that? It isn't one of your hick towns. And it'sworry, worry, worry all the time, trying to keep things going."
"I bet," I said sympathetically. "You're, uh, pretty close to theMajor?"
She said stiffly: "I'm not married to him, if that's what you mean.Though I've had my chances.... But you see how it is. Fifteen thousandpeople to run a place the size of New York! It's forty men to operatethe power station, and twenty-five on the PX, and thirty on the hotelhere. And then there are the local groceries, and the Army, and theCoast Guard, and the Air Force--though, really, that's only twomen--and--Well, you get the picture."
"I certainly do. Look, what kind of a guy _is_ the Major?"
She shrugged. "A guy."
"I mean what does he like?"
"Women, mostly," she said, her expression clouded. "Come on now. Whatabout it?"
I stalled. "What do you want Arthur for?"
She gave me a disgusted look. "What do you think? To relieve themanpower shortage, naturally. There's more work than there are men.Now if the Major could just get hold of a couple of prosthetics, likethis thing here, why, he could put them in the big installations. Thisone used to be an engineer or something, Vern said."
"Well ... _like_ an engineer."
* * * * *
Amy shrugged. "So why couldn't we connect him up with the powerstation? It's been done. The Major knows that--he was in the Pentagonwhen they switched all the aircraft warning net over from computer toprosthetic control. So why couldn't we do the same thing with ourpower station and release forty men for other assignments? This thingcould work day, night, Sundays--what's the difference when you're justa brain in a sardine can?"
Clatter-rattle-_bang_.
She looked startled. "Oh. I forgot he was listening."
"No deal," I said.
She said: "A hundred and fifty thousand?"
A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I considered that for a while.Arthur clattered warningly.
"Well," I temporized, "I'd have to be sure he was getting into goodhands--"
The typewriter thrashed wildly. The sheet of paper fluttered out ofthe carriage. He'd used it up. Automatically I picked it up--it wascovered with imprecations, self-pity and threats--and started to put anew one in.
"No," I said, bending over the typewriter, "I guess I couldn't sellhim. It just wouldn't be right--"
That was my mistake; it was the wrong time for me to say that, becauseI had taken my eyes off her.
The room bent over and clouted me.
I half turned, not more than a fraction conscious, and I saw this Amygirl, behind me, with the shoe
still in her hand, raised to give meanother blackjacking on the skull.
The shoe came down, and it must have weighed more than it looked, andeven the fractional bit of consciousness went crashing away.