Easy and Hard Ways Out (11 page)

Christine's attractiveness had seeped into Brundage slowly—her heavily mascaraed cat eyes, her slightly bent nose, her barely too thick lips, her dyed auburn hair—gradually they had blended into a symphony of canceling imperfections, specks of earth on the earth mother. Staunch, trusslike brassieres and high-necked blouses could no longer conceal the huge, bubbling breasts. Demure dresses could not prevent occasional glimpses of lusciously nyloned thighs. Six months after everyone else, Brundage realized that not only was she an excellent, diligent employee but a terrific piece of ass.

“I'd like to marry her for the weekend,” said Odz, in the machine shop.

“I'd like to strap her on,” said Van Lamm, in Purchasing.

Brundage had seen her ignore Bill Murphy on two occasions when he'd tried to start a conversation while leering over the handles of his floor-waxing machine. He'd seen her give curt, efficient answers to Potamos and Brennan and several of the techs when they'd asked her silly questions. He'd seen her smile at times, but always remain stiff and formal when Cohen would amble over ingratiatingly during coffee break and offer a onetime-only bargain in lingerie. And he'd heard her voice, all honeyed and melting, “Oh, thank you so much, Dr. Brundage,” when he told her she'd made a good-quality film.

During their exchanges, though they were brief and usually limited to work-related subjects, Brundage had gradually grown convinced that her attitude toward him was different from her response to everyone else. Softer, more concerned, interested. Most likely, of course, because he was department head and she was trying to impress him, but still, still… Once, she asked him if she might take home and read a reprint of an article he'd written.

“I'm surprised you're interested in this type of thing,” he'd said as he handed it to her. “It's rather technical.”

“Oh, I've read quite a few of your papers, Dr. Brundage,” she had purred. “They're really the best written in the field.”

“Well,” said Brundage, “I mean I wouldn't exactly say … Well, heh, well, thank you.”

Twice he'd made mildly droll remarks about Ardway in her presence and she had responded with great bursts of laughter, the second time touching his sleeve as she did so and giving him the chills.

“Hey,” said Plotsky, in Drafting, “I think Chris has the hots for the doc.”

“Are you kidding?” said Potamos, from the next table. “He doesn't have the coordination for intercourse. Besides, his briefcase would get in the way.”

“That's a lovely tie, Dr. Brundage,” Chris had told him one morning when he came out of his office to check the vacuum monitoring system. And later, in the afternoon, when he had filled the knot with blueberries, she had taken it from him and gotten most of the stain out with cleaning fluid, Brundage watching her breasts jiggle as she rubbed the tie vigorously.

“You should've let me do it,” snapped giant, cranky Amelia when he returned to his office. “I'd have done it better.”

“Doubtful,” Brundage had remarked.

He sat now in his cubicle, unable to work, non-engineering images tumbling about in his mind. Fifty-four years old. In two more weeks he'd be fifty-four. And what had he had in his life? What real pleasures could he point to in his mind's eye? Life was passing him by, passing, passing, girls like Christine were other men's dreams, forever beyond reach, passing. He glanced down at his desk and saw a petty cash voucher put in by Cohen, who'd taken a visiting engineer to the cafeteria and filled in “two teas—.20, cookie—.07.” Brundage signed it, not knowing the cookie had never been purchased and that Cohen would gleefully list “.07” as income for this date on his chart. Amelia knocked and immediately entered, depositing Ardway's afternoon set of memos in the In box. Brundage waited until she'd left before transferring them to the “Secret” disposal file for shredding. He spied Hands at the door.

“Mr. Hands here to see you, Dr. Brundage,” said Amelia.

“Yes, send him in,” said Brundage.

Hands entered, a friendly, erudite Negro who imagined that in some mysterious manner he was gradually working his way up in the company and would someday be an executive. His main job was to repair faulty instruments, although no one had ever seen him do much more than shine the glass on the meters or clean the cases using the spray can he always carried. “He cleans behind knobs the way other people clean behind the ears” was the saying among the other techs. “Ken,” he said now to Brundage, “Mrs. Parness is in the midst of a vacuum run that requires about two hours' cooling, which will mean some overtime. I've told her it's okay, subject to your approval, of course.”

“I approve,” said Brundage.

“Oh, there's one other thing,” said Hands. “She'll miss her bus that she takes going home and the next one won't run for about an hour.”

“Can anyone give her a lift?”

“Well, I would myself,” said Hands, “but I think she might be a little afraid of me. I sort of hinted at it and she nearly jumped out of her pants.”

“Does she have reason to be afraid?” asked Brundage, smiling.

“Oh, yes,” said Hands.

Brundage's aluminum-trap mind snapped shut. “Tell her I'll take her home myself,” he said decisively.

Hands grinned.

“I'm only doing this for the sake of the department,” said Brundage.

“And her frontal lobes?” said Hands.

“Nothing to do with it,” said Brundage.

Hands left, and Brundage watched him walk to the vacuum area and speak to Christine. She looked over at Brundage's office, smiled, mouthed thank-you to him, and he smiled back and then shyly looked down at his desk.

He called his wife. “Hello? Harriet? Is that you? Oh. Oh, listen, I'm going to have to work late tonight, so that's why I'm calling.”

He heard her begin complaining about some disaster to the supper he had just brought on, and then generalize her complaints to the problems involved in all his suppers. How slowly he ate. How poor his manners. She was expert at this; he knew the generalizations would expand soon to include all meals, then all of their necessities, and finally, everything needed by the human race. By staying late that night, he would eventually wreak ecological havoc on three-fourths of the planet.

“Well, I'll do the best I can,” he said meekly, conscious of the time going by, and of what Rupp must be thinking as he secretly monitored their conversation.

“Of course you'll do your best,” said Harriet. “What then should you do, your worst? Frankly, Kenneth, I don't understand why someone with your background—”

He pictured her at the phone, obese, stringy-haired, high-pitched machine voice whining out of a paper-bag face. He had known in a vague sort of way when he married her that he probably needed someone slightly domineering, someone strong-willed where he was indifferent, pushy where he was retiring. And she hadn't been bad to look at. But over the years her sighs had turned to screeches, her hair to threads, and her body to fat—great wads of thick blubber that hung from every part of her like melting tar, and which made Brundage think of walruses and whales and the abdomens of spayed cats.

He closed his mind to her words and when, finally, they seemed to be coming a bit more slowly, he said quickly, “Harriet … uh … listen … I'm wanted on another phone so I'm gonna have to go now, okay? I'll see you later.”

Amelia came in as he hung up. “Mr. Peretz to see you, Dr. Brundage.”

Brundage nodded. His brain was alive, racing.

Peretz entered. “Uh, Ken, uh, I wonder if I could ask you, uh … Oh, are you busy? Oh, if you're busy I'll come back.”

Brundage wanted to be alone to savor his anticipation. Peretz, however, was a special case. Brundage saw in him, sensed really, a kindred battered spirit, someone to be handled with care. “Tell me quick,” he said. “I'm not busy for the next minute.”

“It's not really that important.”

“Leon, stop talking yourself out of whatever it is you want. Don't be so negative, Leon. Be positive. Be a proton instead of an electron. The world is full of shmuck electrons, maniacs, who whirl around all day in dizzy circles. Be a proton, Leon. Cluster with the hoi poloi in the nucleus. I'm sorry. What exactly did you want?”

“Well, it's not for me really,” said Peretz. “It's for this engineer from Microwaves, Harvey Brank. He's having a problem with a Yig filter he's making. He says the sphere epoxy won't take temperature cycling. He wants to know if you can help him, if he can speak to you.”

Brundage's mind had been drifting while Peretz spoke. He wondered what type of perfume Christine wore, or even if she wore perfume. Funny he'd never noticed. Also her ass. He really had to study her ass more carefully. Did it protrude a lot, was it hard-looking, well-shaped? There was so much he had to study. He caught Peretz's words as if they were under water.

“Yes and no,” he said. “Yes, I can help him. No, he can't speak to me.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” said Peretz.

“It's his problem, let him solve it,” said Brundage. “That's what he's being paid for. It's not my responsibility, I don't even know him. Why should I tell him the answer? It so happens I have a sample of epoxy right here in my desk that will probably work. I did some research on Yigs in, uh, oh, around 1962, I think it was. But let him put in the same effort I did. It'll be good for him, he'll learn something.”

Peretz nodded. “Okay, Ken, I'll tell him.”

“You understand,” said Brundage, “it's nothing in the least bit personal. I mean, if it were you that needed the information, you're a friend, I'd tell you in a minute. It's just that this guy, this, uh, whatever his name is, is a stranger. The only time I'd speak to him is if I couldn't help him.”

“Pardon?” said Peretz.

“If I can't help people I always talk to them,” said Brundage. “Because I might learn something, and learning is the chief goal of a scientist. Those I can help I never bother with because it's always better that they find the solution themselves, and besides, it takes time from potentially valuable research.”

Peretz nodded. “I, well, I can't, uh … Well, I can't argue with that, I guess. Okay, I'll tell him. Thank you, Ken.”

Brundage smiled slightly as the door closed behind Peretz.

“He can't see you,” said Peretz, as Brank strode toward him. “He says his work load right now is just too heavy. He—”

Back in the cubicle, Brundage let his imagination drift. I wonder, he thought, if she wears nylon panties or cotton …

AUERBACH LABORATORIES

Inter-Office Memorandum
11/22/66

From: S. Brine

To: Security staff, all section heads

cc: H. Ardway, S. Rupp

Subject: Prank paging

A certain anonymous fiend has been using our public address system to page various historical figures and other widely known dead people. This individual, whose mentality is comparable to those who plant bombs in public places, must be stopped from subverting our working professional atmosphere. Kindly be alert therefore to anyone who seems to use the phone abnormally, people who smirk when certain names are paged, and people who appear excessively well versed in history, politics, etc. Remember: the arrest of a criminal begins with suspicion. And failure to act on suspicion is itself criminal.

Very truly yours,

S. Brine

SB:sb

“ALL THOSE VOTING FOR A QUARTER INCH, RAISE HANDS”

The initials
YIG
stand for yttrium iron garnet, and a Yig filter is perhaps the heart of an electronic countermeasures system. The filter, consisting of tiny, special gemstones ground into spheres, permits only certain frequencies to pass through it, rejecting all others. Which frequencies get through depends on the strength of a controlled, external magnetic field; thus, enemy radar frequencies can be identified, and the radar jammed or deceived.

The initials
SAS
stood for Stanley Alvin Steinberg, and he was the head as well as the ass of the Microwave section at Auerbach Laboratories. Steinberg was one of those short, balding people who wear their pants just under their chests, have an extensive repertoire of lip pursings, and smile enigmatically when upset. He believed strongly in democracy, and treated everyone with the respect befitting adult engineers and technicians who might not listen to his admonitions anyway and force a sheepish and foolish retreat. He stood in the doorway of his cubicle now, wondering how to get Brank off the phone and Dorfman to stop eating.

Near the side of the room, Wizer and Dubrowolski stared at an instrument-cluttered bench. “In one minute Ah'm goin' to puke all over this Yig,” said Wizer. “Ah get different answers every time Ah take a readin.'”

“Just don't get any on my notebook,” said Dubrowolski.

A new maintenance man, who was not a maintenance man at all but Rupp in a clever and unrecognizable disguise, paused as he clumsily emptied an ashtray.

Wizer lowered his head. “That cockroach Rupp is here,” he whispered, motioning with his chin toward the maintenance man.

“You mean,” said Dubrowolski, “that this guy is re—”

“Shh!”

“I'm going back to my derivation,” said Dubrowolski disgustedly, heading for his desk. “Bench work gives me a headache. I like theory. Theory comforts me. Bench work gives me the runs.”

“Very Old World,” said Dorfman, sitting at his own desk nearby. “Very defeatist and effete, very nouveau-shitée.”

He chewed absentmindedly on a croissant as the maintenance man drifted out of the room. Opposite Dorfman, several yards away, Brank spoke softly and seriously into the phone. “Could you please page Immanuel Kant for the machine shop? His lathe needs oiling.” He hung up.