The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories (58 page)

“Where’d I get a cart?” Norm demanded.

“Maybe something could be adapted,” Sam said. “I’ll give you every bit of help I can. Personally, I’d go along but as I told my wife this whole idea worries me.” He thumped Norm on the back. “I admire your courage, you and Fran, setting off this way. I wish I had what it takes.” He looked unhappy.

In the end, Norm settled on a wheelbarrow. He and Fran would take turns pushing it. That way neither of them would have to carry any load above and beyond their food and water, and of course knives by which to protect them from the do-cats.

As they were carefully placing the elements of their layout in the wheelbarrow, Norm Schein’s boy Timothy came sidling up to them. “Take me along, Dad,” he pleaded. “For fifty cents I’ll go as guide and scout, and also I’ll help you catch food along the way.”

“We’ll manage fine,” Norm said. “You stay here in the fluke-pit; you’ll be safer here.” It annoyed him, the idea of his son tagging along on an important venture such as this. It was almost—sacreligious.

“Kiss us goodbye,” Fran said to Timothy, smiling at him briefly; then her attention returned to the layout within the wheelbarrow. “I hope it doesn’t tip over,” she said fearfully to Norm.

“Not a chance,” Norm said. “If we’re careful.” He felt confident.

A few moments later they began wheeling the wheelbarrow up the ramp to the lid at the top, to upstairs. Their journey to the Berkeley Fluke-pit had begun.

A mile outside the Berkeley Fluke-pit he and Fran began to stumble over empty drop-canisters and some only partly empty remains of past care parcels such as littered the surface near their own pit. Norm Schein breathed a sigh of relief; the journey had not been so bad after all, except that his hands had become blistered from gripping the metal handles of the wheelbarrow, and Fran had turned her ankle so that now she walked with a painful limp. But it had taken them less time than he had anticipated, and his mood was one of buoyancy.

Ahead, a figure appeared, crouching low in the ash. A boy. Norm waved at him and called, “Hey, sonny—we’re from the Pinole pit; we’re supposed to meet a party from Oakland here… do you remember me?”

The boy, without answering, turned and scampered off.

“Nothing to be afraid of,” Norm said to his wife. “He’s going to tell their Mayor. A nice old fellow named Ben Fennimore.”

Soon several adults appeared, approaching warily.

With relief, Norm set the legs of the wheelbarrow down into the ash, letting go and wiping his face with his handkerchief. “Has the Oakland team arrived yet?” he called.

“Not yet,” a tall, elderly man with a white armband and ornate cap answered. “It’s you Schein, isn’t it?” he said, peering. This was Ben Fennimore. “Back already with your layout.” Now the Berkeley flukers had begun crowding around the wheelbarrow, inspecting the Scheins’ layout. Their faces showed admiration.

“They have Perky Pat here,” Norm explained to his wife. “But—” He lowered his voice. “Their layouts are only basic. Just a house, wardrobe and car… they’ve built almost nothing. No imagination.”

One Berkeley fluker, a woman, said wonderingly to Fran, “And you made each of the pieces of furniture yourselves?” Marveling, she turned to the man beside her. “See what they’ve accomplished, Ed?”

“Yes,” the man answered, nodding. “Say,” he said to Fran and Norm, “can we see it all set up? You’re going to set it up in our pit, aren’t you?”

“We are indeed,” Norm said.

The Berkeley flukers helped push the wheelbarrow the last mile. And before long they were descending the ramp, to the pit below the surface.

“It’s a big pit,” Norm said knowingly to Fran. “Must be two thousand people here. This is where the University of California was.”

“I see,” Fran said, a little timid at entering a strange pit; it was the first time in years—since the war, in fact—that she had seen any strangers. And so many at once. It was almost too much for her; Norm felt her shrink back, pressing against him in fright.

When they had reached the first level and were starting to unload the wheelbarrow, Ben Fennimore came up to them and said softly, “I think the Oakland people have been spotted; we just got a report of activity upstairs. So be prepared.” He added, “We’re rooting for you, of course, because you’re Perky Pat, the same as us.”

“Have you ever seen Connie Companion doll?” Fran asked him.

“No ma’am,” Fennimore answered courteously. “But naturally we’ve heard about it, being neighbors to Oakland and all. I’ll tell you one thing… we hear that Connie Companion doll is a bit older than Perky Pat. You know—more, um,
matured.”
He explained, “I just wanted to prepare you.”

Norm and Fran glanced at each other. “Thanks,” Norm said slowly. “Yes, we should be as much prepared as possible. How about Paul?”

“Oh, he’s not much,” Fennimore said. “Connie runs things; I don’t even think Paul has a real apartment of his own. But you better wait until the Oakland flukers get here; I don’t want to mislead you—my knowledge is all hearsay, you understand.”

Another Berkeley fluker, standing nearby, spoke up. “I saw Connie once, and she’s much more grown up than Perky Pat.”

“How old do you figure Perky Pat is?” Norm asked him.

“Oh, I’d say seventeen or eighteen,” Norm was told.

“And Connie?” He waited tensely.

“Oh, she might be twenty-five, even.”

From the ramp behind them they heard noises. More Berkeley flukers appeared, and, after them, two men carrying between them a platform on which, spread out, Norm saw a great, spectacular layout.

This was the Oakland team, and they weren’t a couple, a man and wife; they were both men, and they were hard-faced with stern, remote eyes. They jerked their heads briefly at him and Fran, acknowledging their presence. And then, with enormous care, they set down the platform on which their layout rested.

Behind them came a third Oakland fluker carrying a metal box, much like a lunch pail. Norm, watching, knew instinctively that in the box lay Connie Companion doll. The Oakland fluker produced a key and began unlocking the box.

“We’re ready to begin playing any time,” the taller of the Oakland men said. “As we agreed in our discussion, we’ll use a numbered spinner instead of dice. Less chance of cheating that way.”

“Agreed,” Norm said. Hesitantly he held out his hand. “I’m Norman Schein and this is my wife and play-partner Fran.”

The Oakland man, evidently the leader, said, “I’m Walter R. Wynn. This is my partner here, Charley Dowd, and the man with the box, that’s Peter Foster. He isn’t going to play; he just guards our layout.” Wynn glanced about, at the Berkeley flukers, as if saying, I know you’re all partial to Perky Pat, in here. But we don’t care; we’re not scared.

Fran said, “We’re ready to play, Mr. Wynn.” Her voice was low but controlled.

“What about money?” Fennimore asked.

“I think both teams have plenty of money,” Wynn said. He laid out several thousand dollars in greenbacks, and now Norm did the same. “The money of course is not a factor in this, except as a means of conducting the game.”

Norm nodded; he understood perfectly. Only the dolls themselves mattered. And now, for the first time, he saw Connie Companion doll.

She was being placed in her bedroom by Mr. Foster who evidently was in charge of her. And the sight of her took his breath away. Yes, she was older. A grown woman, not a girl at all… the difference between her and Perky Pat was acute. And so life-like. Carved, not poured; she obviously had been whittled out of wood and then painted—she was not a thermoplastic. And her hair. It appeared to be genuine hair.

He was deeply impressed.

“What do you think of her?” Walter Wynn asked, with a faint grin.

“Very—impressive,” Norm conceded.

Now the Oaklanders were studying Perky Pat. “Poured thermoplastic,” one of them said. “Artificial hair. Nice clothes, though; all stitched by hand, you can see that. Interesting; what we heard was correct. Perky Pat isn’t a grownup, she’s just a teenager.”

Now the male companion to Connie appeared; he was set down in the bedroom beside Connie.

“Wait a minute,” Norm said. “You’re putting Paul or whatever his name is, in her bedroom with her? Doesn’t he have his own apartment?”

Wynn said, “They’re married.”

“Married!”
Norman and Fran stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Why sure,” Wynn said. “So naturally they live together. Your dolls, they’re not, are they?”

“N-no,” Fran said. “Leonard is Perky Pat’s boy friend…” Her voice trailed off. “Norm,” she said, clutching his arm, “I don’t believe him; I think he’s just saying they’re married to get the advantage. Because if they both start out from the same room—”

Norm said aloud, “You fellows, look here. It’s not fair, calling them married.”

Wynn said, “We’re not ‘calling’ them married; they are married. Their names are Connie and Paul Lathrope, of 24 Arden Place, Piedmont. They’ve been married for a year, most players will tell you.” He sounded calm.

Maybe, Norm thought, it’s true. He was truly shaken.

“Look at them together,” Fran said, kneeling down to examine the Oaklanders’ layout. “In the same bedroom, in the same house. Why, Norm; do you see? There’s just the one bed. A big double bed.” Wild-eyed, she appealed to him. “How can Perky Pat and Leonard play against them?” Her voice shook. “It’s not morally
right.”

“This is another type of layout entirely,” Norm said to Walter Wynn. “This, that you have. Utterly different from what we’re used to, as you can see.” He pointed to his own layout. “I insist that in this game Connie and Paul
not
live together and
not
be considered married.”

“But they are,” Foster spoke up. “It’s a fact. Look—their clothes are in the same closet.” He showed them the closet. “And in the same bureau drawers.” He showed them that, too. “And look in the bathroom. Two toothbrushes. His and hers, in the same rack. So you can see we’re not making it up.”

There was silence.

Then Fran said in a choked voice, “And if they’re married—you mean they’ve been—intimate?”

Wynn raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Sure, since they’re married. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Perky Pat and Leonard have never—” Fran began, and then ceased.

“Naturally not,” Wynn agreed. “Because they’re only going together. We understand that.”

Fran said, “We just can’t play. We can’t.” She caught hold of her husband’s arm. “Let’s go back to Pinole pit—please, Norman.”

“Wait,” Wynn said, at once. “If you don’t play, you’re conceding; you have to give up Perky Pat.”

The three Oaklanders all nodded. And, Norm saw, many of the Berkeley flukers were nodding, too, including Ben Fennimore.

“They’re right,” Norm said heavily to his wife. “We’d have to give her up. We better play, dear.”

“Yes,” Fran said, in a dead, flat voice. “We’ll play.” She bent down and listlessly spun the needle of the spinner. It stopped at six.

Smiling, Walter Wynn knelt down and spun. He obtained a four.

The game had begun.

Crouching behind the strewn, decayed contents of a care parcel that had been dropped long ago, Timothy Schein saw coming across the surface of ash his mother and father, pushing the wheelbarrow ahead of them. They looked tired and worn.

“Hi,” Timothy yelled, leaping out at them in joy at seeing them again; he had missed them very much.

“Hi, son,” his father murmured, nodding. He let go of the handles of the wheelbarrow, then halted and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

Now Fred Chamberlain raced up, panting. “Hi, Mr. Schein; hi, Mrs. Schein. Hey, did you win? Did you beat the Oakland flukers? I bet you did, didn’t you?” He looked from one of them to the other and then back.

In a low voice Fran said, “Yes, Freddy. We won.”

Norm said, “Look in the wheelbarrow.”

The two boys looked. And, there among Perky Pat’s furnishings, lay another doll. Larger, fuller-figured, much older than Pat... they stared at her and she stared up sightlessly at the gray sky overhead. So this is Connie Companion doll, Timothy said to himself. Gee.

“We were lucky,” Norm said. Now several people had emerged from the pit and were gathering around them, listening. Jean and Sam Regan, Tod Morrison and his wife Helen, and now their Mayor, Hooker Glebe himself, waddling up excited and nervous, his face flushed, gasping for breath from the labor—unusual for him—of ascending the ramp.

Fran said,”We got a cancellation of debts card, just when we were most behind. We owed fifty thousand, and it made us even with the Oakland flukers. And then, after that, we got an advance ten squares card, and that put us right on the jackpot square, at least in our layout. We had a very bitter squabble, because the Oaklanders showed us that on their layout it was a tax lien slapped on real estate holdings square, but we had spun an odd number so that put us back on our own board.” She sighed. “I’m glad to be back. It was hard, Hooker; it was a tough game.”

Hooker Glebe wheezed, “Let’s all get a look at the Connie Companion doll, folks.” To Fran and Norm he said, “Can I lift her up and show them?”

“Sure,” Norm said, nodding.

Hooker picked up Connie Companion doll. “She sure is realistic,” he said, scrutinizing her. “Clothes aren’t as nice as ours generally are; they look machine-made.”

“They are,” Norm agreed. “But she’s carved, not poured.”

“Yes, so I see.” Hooker turned the doll about, inspecting her from all angles. “A nice job. She’s—um, more filled-out than Perky Pat. What’s this outfit she has on? Tweed suit of some sort.”

“A business suit,” Fran said. “We won that with her; they had agreed on that in advance.”

“You see, she has a job,” Norm explained. “She’s a psychology consultant for a business firm doing marketing research. In consumer preferences. A high-paying position… she earns twenty thousand a year, I believe Wynn said.”