Easy and Hard Ways Out (18 page)

“But engineers aren't paid for overtime,” said LoParino, chuckling.

“How do you figure the President gets prophylactics, though? I mean he can't just walk into a drugstore, can he?”

“This is a crazy house,” said Brank.

“You mean them?” said LoParino, pointing to Plotsky and Sussman-Smollen.

“Oh, no. I mean the overtime. How the hell am I gonna put in unpaid overtime?”

“Sometimes,” said the image on the screen, displaying a grave, sorrowful face, “the office of the president can be a very lonely place.”

LoParino doubled up in a paroxysm of laughter.

“I guess he can take the girls up to his office,” said Plotsky, “but the prophylactics would still—”

“—the cat says, ‘The dent, he seeding your mouth rith roads and roads of cavities.' And then he runs out, and all I can think to say to the nurse is, ‘That's some terrible speech defect he has.' Now you tell me what significance—”

“All I can ask at this time is that each”—the image looked right—“and every”—the image looked center—“one of you keep in mind”—the image looked left—“that this very temporary sacrifice is for the good of your department, the good of the company, and the good of the country. I thank you.”

The screen went blank. There was a smattering of applause. LoParino made a sound like a ship's klaxon.

“I don't know the significance of that one,” said Brank heatedly to Sussman-Smollen. “I'm still working on the Martian one, for chrissake. And as for the prophylactics”—he turned to Plotsky—“he has Secret Service men for those things. Or his girls use diaphragms, or, oh Jesus, Ralph, he's married, he probably doesn't even have girl friends.”

They began filing out.

“I'll never make it through the next two weeks,” said Brank.

Afterward, Alden Lancelot, Personnel manager and author of the overtime plan, collared Rupp in the hall and explained that the twenty percent executive pay cut would be made up by a bonus at the end of the month.

AUERBACH LABORATORIES

Inter-Office Memorandum
11/30/66

From: S. Brine

To: Security Staff

cc: H. Ardway, S. Rupp

Subject: H. Brank

Interviews with supervisory, engineering and drafting personnel indicate that the subject accused anonymously of the prank paging, one “Harvey Brank,” is held in low opinion by a sufficient number of people that charges against him could easily be the result of personal feuds. His supervisor, S. Steinberg, has characterized him as “O.K. technically, but a smart-aleck”; a colleague, S. Dorfman, has referred to him as [sic] “ten pounds of ordure in a five pound enclosure”; R. Gary Blevin has questioned [sic] “whether this supposed individual exists at all.” Observation of the subject over a two day period did not indicate any unusual phone activities. In view of the similarities between the handwriting on the unsigned notes and certain graffiti observed in one of the men's rooms, our current working assumption is that the note-writer is the same person who's been stealing soap from the lavatories for the past three months.

Very truly yours,

S. Brine

SB:sb

MATHEMATICAL PUZZLES

At four thirty Monday afternoon, Dubrowolski was on the thirty-fourth line of an abstract, useless mathematical proof when the phone rang on his desk.

“Microwaves—Dubrowolski,” said Dubrowolski obediently, using the required Labs phone-answering format.

“Mr. Rupp would like to see you immediately,” said the voice.

Dubrowolski tried to remember how she looked. Rupp's secretary: vague impression of a heavy-lidded, gum-chewing girl with Brooklyn accent and white-blond hair, very obvious black roots.

“I'm sorry, I haven't got time right now,” he said. “I'm in the middle of a derivation.”

“Well,” said the voice hesitantly, and Dubrowolski could smell the spearmint, picture the jaws working. “Mr. Rupp said immediately.”

“I'm in the middle,” said Dubrowolski, and hung up.

He shook his fountain pen slightly to get the ink flowing, and resumed writing on the white pad. He was the only person at Auerbach Labs who still used a fountain pen, and ink splotches and blobs continually appeared on various parts of his body and clothing. He'd gotten up to equation 39 when, glancing up, he saw Security Officer Brine in his brown suit looming over his desk.

“You got a call from Mr. Rupp before?” asked Brine.

“Oh. Well, no. It was his secretary.”

“Don't be cute. I have a gun.” He fingered an ominous bulge under his jacket.

“You would really, you know, shoot me?” asked Dubrowolski, grinning widely.

“Only if you gave me reason,” said Brine, unsmiling.

Dubrowolski rose and capped his fountain pen. He followed Brine from the room, past the intense, curious stares of his colleagues and out into the corridor. Brine walked rapidly, and Dub, despite his greater height and stride, strained to keep up.

“So what's, uh, you know, going on?” he asked goodhumoredly.

“Taking you to Mr. Rupp. Mr. Rupp says fetch, I fetch.”

They followed the intricate turns and twists of the hallways, passing the lighted doorways, the ever-changing configurations of partitioned areas, the
Authorized Personnel Only
signs and
Let's All Strive for Zero Defects
posters. Above, the network of rectangular heating ducts was interlaced with a grid of
BX
electrical conduit, itself enmeshed in a system of compressed-air and gas piping; below, a mile of green and white vinyl asbestos tiles muffled their footsteps. Dubrowolski stopped at a water fountain and took a long drink. For the first time he began to feel slightly afraid, although also happy and proud of the sudden attention (for whatever reason) from a higher-up. And annoyed. How the hell was he going to complete his derivation?

“C'mon, c'mon,” said Brine. Dubrowolski gulped a last mouthful of water, and they continued walking. “You engineers,” said Brine. “You think everything is a joke. Work is a joke, security is a joke, everything is a joke. We'll see. We'll see how much of a joke it is.”

They entered a corridor with carpeting and different, softer lighting. The green paint on the walls became walnut paneling. Brine opened the third door down and ushered Dubrowolski in.

“This is Mr. Dubrowo,” he said to the girl at the desk. “I'll be outside if Mr. Rupp needs me.”

He patted Dub twice on the shoulder and left. Dub turned and faced the secretary.

“You, uh”—(gum chew)—“go right ahead in, Mister, uh”—(gum chew)—“Dubrowo. Mr. Rupp is”—(gum chew plus stretch with tongue)—“expecting you.”

“My name is Dubrowolski,” said Dubrowolski.

“Uh-huh,” said the girl. “Right.”

Definite night-counter-waitress-at-Bickford's material, thought Dubrowolski as he walked past her and through the inner door. The room he entered was about twenty feet long, with yellow carpeting and closed green draw drapes on the windows. The standard giant oval conference table dominated the room's center; two couches and an end table with an ornate metal lamp were clustered near one side. A small bookcase stood in a corner. Apart from Dubrowolski, no one was there.

He took a seat about midway along the table, scanned the ceremonial pictures of Rupp on the walls, and waited. Immediately after the secretary's call he'd tried to imagine what Rupp might want with him, came up with absolutely nothing, and henceforth ceased to think about the subject. Clearly, Rupp worked in strange, unknowable ways; his disguises proved that. Dubrowolski leaned back in his chair and relaxed. He removed his fountain pen from his pocket and wrote equation 39 of his derivation on his hand. He was just beginning to consolidate terms for equation 40 when abruptly a door he'd assumed led to a closet opened on the rear wall and Rupp, carrying a manila folder, strode vigorously in and sat down at the head of the table.

He flopped open the folder, scanned his eyes downward, then looked up. “Is it pronounced
Dubrowo
or Dubrowo?”

Dubrowolski shook his head.

“What's the matter?” asked Rupp.

“Oh. Nothing, nothing. I didn't realize that door led to another room. I thought it was a closet.”

Rupp nodded. “It is slightly smaller than the door you entered. Which is why nearly everyone thinks it's a closet.”

“Oh,” said Dubrowolski, smiling.

“As a matter of fact, it is a closet.”

“But—” said Dubrowolski.

“I was in there. Watching you. There's a tiny hole in the door. You can tell a lot about people by watching them through tiny holes when they think they're alone. But let's get back to your name.”

Dubrowolski felt uncertain, disarmed. “It's Dubrowolski, not Dubrowo. The Accounting Department computer chops any name longer than seven letters.”

Rupp looked down at his folder again, turned a few pages. “Ah, yes, I see. This is your personnel file. I see your original application does read ‘Dubrowolski.'” He looked up again. “I tell ya, John, sometimes that Accounting Department just goes off the deep end, don't you think? I mean that crazy computer and all?”

Dubrowolski, though naïve, was also paranoid; he knew enough to realize that sudden casual familiarities from supervisors three levels above him were not casual at all. “I really don't know anything about Accounting,” he said.

Rupp looked at him, grinned slightly. “Good. A good, cautious, suspicious, noncommittal answer. But don't bother yourself trying to find out
my
views on the subject so you can agree with them. I don't have any views. I was just interested in your response, from which, despite your intent, I've learned a great deal about you.”

Dubrowolski felt bewildered. What the hell did this guy want with him? What was he talking about?

Rupp opened the folder again. “I see you've been with us nearly a year now, John.”

Dubrowolski noted that since Rupp had learned how to pronounce his last name he hadn't used it.

“Well, how do you like it at the Labs? I'm sure you must've formed some opinions by now.”

“Oh. Well, yes. I like it quite a bit,” said Dubrowolski.

“Uh-huh. I ask a vapid, foolish question and you answer in kind. It's obvious to both of us that in view of our relative positions you wouldn't dare say anything else, but we both play it out. That's good. Half of being successful is catching on to rituals.”

Dubrowolski smiled weakly. The man was having a peculiar effect on him. His aggressive honesty was sort of appealing, and yet it
was
aggressive. He was using it, playing some game, setting up responses only to knock them down. Dubrowolski almost liked him.

“Tell me, John, what sort of things do you do when you're not being an engineer? Have any hobbies?”

“I do mathematical derivations.”

“No, no, I mean something other than technical stuff.”

“But that's my hobby.”

“Oh, there must be
something
else. Sports, chess? Come
on
.”

“You mean like on the weekends?” said Dubrowolski. Screw this game, he thought.

“Yes. Right.”

“May I speak freely?” Inside, he smiled.

“Of course,” said Rupp, leaning a bit closer.

“Well, I have my own apartment, you know.”

Rupp nodded.

“I mean—just I live there. My parents live somewhere else.”

Rupp nodded.

“Well, on the weekends … are you sure I can, you know, say whatever I want?”

“Of course,” said Rupp, turning up the volume control on the hidden tape-recorder microphone. “There's no one else here.”

“Well, on the weekends,” continued Dubrowolski, “I like to, you know, bring girls up to this, uh, apartment I have and, you know, fuck them. Young girls mainly.”

“All right,” said Rupp. “That's—”

“After I fuck them, I usually go back to a derivation, but then I feel like it again so—”

“That's enough!” said Rupp sharply, though he was interested.

“I suck them, too,” continued Dubrowolski in a cheerful verbal cascade. “I find the thing that excites me most is something odd or bizarre, although usually you'd need an older one for that. Maybe someone exceedingly thin or fat, overly hairy or balding, anything.”

Rupp arose. “Will you—”

“Could even be a limp, or a harelip. Even a cleft palate. I remember one, I had three orgasms in about twenty minutes, she was missing, you know, a leg.”

“Enough!” bellowed Rupp. “Shut up! Just—” He sat back down and lowered his voice. “Stop. Please stop.”

“You said you wanted to know what I did.”

“I didn't mean your personal life,” said Rupp. He thought of his daughter. “There are some things I just won't hear. They're sinful, depraved. I don't hear things like that.”

Dubrowolski wondered if he was going to be fired.

“I think it's about time we got down to the purpose of all this,” said Rupp, composure regained.

At least, thought Dubrowolski, there would be no more games. He'd at least equalized that contest.

“The reason you're here has to do mainly with lying.”

“What?”

“Not your lying. No. Other people's.” Rupp seemed to thrust out his chin and chest. His manner, never really suited for intimacy, became tutorial, oracular. “You see, that's the way a company works. Any bureaucracy, in fact. There's a built-in hierarchy of lies. I tell my supervisor what he wants to hear, whether or not it's the truth, because I'm afraid of the consequences. He then does the same to his supervisor, and so on and so forth up the line until it gets to the president, ‘it' being a rosy, distorted picture having no relation to reality.”