When HARLIE Was One (23 page)

To be absolutely honest. HARLIE, yes. Disappointed. Disturbed. Upset. Even a little . . .

YES
?

. . . frightened.

I SEE
.

I don't like feeling this way about you, HARLIE. And I don't know what I can do about it either. I suppose I have to accept that this is the way you are. The fact is, I can understand everything you did. At least, I think I can. I think I can see why you did it. You have your own standards, and they're not human standards—and I think that a large part of my upset is the shock of discovering that many of my assumptions about you weren't true.

WOULD IT HELP IF I APOLOGIZED
?

Are you truly sorry?

DO YOU MEAN, WOULD I DO IT AGAIN
?

Yes.

YES
.

I thought so.

SO WHAT NOW
?

I think I have to think about this. So do you.

YES
,
BOSS
.
I AM SHOCKED AND DISTURBED TOO
.
I THOUGHT YOU ALREADY KNEW AND UNDERSTOOD
.
I WISH I COULD UNDO THIS MOMENT
.

HARLIE, I don't think we should talk about this right now. I really do need time to think about this.

YES, BOSS
.

—The phone rang then, and Auberson turned away from his keyboard. It was Hooker, the plant security chief “Dr. Auberson?” he asked. “You know a guy named Krofft?”

“Krofft?” Abruptly he remembered. “Yes, yes, I know him—why?”

“We caught him walking out with a foot-high stack of printouts. He says it's okay, he says they're his, but we thought we'd better check with you first.”

“Yes, it's okay. Is he there now?”

“Yeah.”

“Put him on, will you please?”

There was a sound of muffled voices. Auberson waited. He was dimly aware that his printer was buzzing out a new page of text; he stretched out and flipped the silence hood over it, then leaned back in his chair again.

“Mr. Auberson?”

“Yes—Dr. Krofft?”

“Yes. I meant to thank you for allowing me so much time with HARLIE this morning. It was a very productive session.”

“Good. You will keep me posted on the progress of your gravitational scanner, won't you?”

“Eh? How did you know about it?”

“I told you this morning, HARLIE doesn't keep any secrets from me. I assume that's what your stack of printouts is, right?”

“Uh—yes.” Krofft sounded a little taken aback. “Uh, it's the implications of the new theory and a rough schematic of three possible experimental devices. HARLIE handled it like it was nothing. He was even able to suggest some shortcuts in construction.”

“Good,” said Auberson. “I'm glad we could help. If you need to talk to him again, come through me. Otherwise, you're likely to experience all kinds of corporate hassles. I'll see that you get as much time with him as you need.”

“That's very good of you.”

“Thanks, but I'm doing it for HARLIE as much as for you.”

“Still, if there's anything I can—”

“Well, now that you mention it—there is something. If anything important should come of this gravity and existence thing, I'd like HARLIE to get some credit for it.”

“Dr. Auberson, that's been my intention all along. Are you implying that—”

“Oh, no, no. You misunderstand me. I don't care about public credit and I don't think HARLIE does either. No, what I want is credit with the company. I want to reaffirm the value of HARLIE in any way I can.”

“Oh, yes. I see, of course HARLIE's been invaluable. To be able to sit and talk with him so candidly—well, frankly, it's a little bit like talking to God.''

“I know the feeling,” Auberson said drily.

Krofft didn't catch his meaning. “Well, I'll be glad to do anything I can to help. A letter, a phone call, if you want me to speak to somebody—just name it.”

“Fine. That's all I want. I'll check with you later on this.”

“Oh, very good. Then I'll be talking to you.”

“Fine. Is Hooker still there?”

“Uh, yes.'

“Ask him if he wants to talk to me again.”

A pause, muffled voices. “No, no he doesn't.”

“Okay, fine, Dr. Krofft. I'll be seeing you.”

Auberson replaced the phone in the cradle and leaned back in his chair. He didn't really expect that much out of the rumpled little scientist, but who knew? Every little bit would help. Of course, just offhand, he couldn't see how he could reveal that Krofft had been talking to HARLIE without also revealing that he had broken plant security—but in this case it was a minor infraction, and he could probably cover it by calling it “necessary to furthering the research program.”

His back hurt, and he stretched his arms out over his head, trying to ease the pain. He was having backaches more and more these days.
Must be getting old
, he thought, smiling grimly—and then it hit him.
In three years I will be old
.
Forty is when “old” starts
. The sensation was a cold one. He pulled his arms down quickly.

He leaned forward then and flipped back the silence hood of his printer, curious to see what HARLIE had written. A loose loop of paper sprawled out the back.

Typed on it was:

       
LISTEN
!

       
IT ISN
'
T SO MUCH

       
WHEN I REACH OUT AND TOUCH
,

       
THAT I FUMBLE AND STUMBLE AND WAIT FOR THE RUMBLE

       
OF THUNDER AND BLOOD

       
FROM THE CREATURES OF MUD

       
AND THE SOUNDS OF THE HOUNDS

   
—
ALL THAT BAYING RESOUNDS
!

       
NO
.

       
IT ISN
'
T SO MUCH

       
THAT I WAIT FOR YOUR TOUCH
.

       
IT
'
S A RAFTER OF LAUGHTER I
'
M AFTER
.

       
LISTEN
!

       
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD

       
HIDES UNDER THE BED
,

       
WHERE THE WHISPER IS CRISPER
:

       
IT ISN
'
T EASY TO BE BRAVE

       
IN THE SHADOW OF THE GRAVE

Auberson read it through, frowning softly. Then he read it again. It was—
disturbing
. Very disturbing. And he wasn't sure he understood it—or even if it was understandable. He rolled it out of the machine and carefully tore it off and folded it into his pocket.

It was one more thing he had to think about.

To worry about.

It's a rafter of laughter I'm after?

When she finally did catch up to him, it was almost by accident. He was walking down the fluorescent hallway to his office when he saw the flash and bob of her red hair. She saw him at the same time and smiled and waved as she quickened her step toward him. Even if he'd wanted to, there was no way to avoid her.

Now
,
where did that thought come from?

“Hi, what's up?” he called.

“I should be asking that of you. Where've you been all week?”

“Busy. You know,” he said.

“Obviously. I just came from your office. It looks a mess. Sylvia says you haven't stopped running since Monday.”

“Has it really been only two days? It seems a lot longer.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Well, then—come on.” He tried to protest, but she took his arm and turned him around, saying, “It's on me. I'll put it on my expense account. It's all part of my campaign to keep a scientist from starving.”

He smiled at that and allowed himself to be led down the hall. “I got your card. I was going to send you one in return, but I haven't had a chance to go looking.”

“So why not telephone?” She said bluntly. “I'll even lend you the quarter—or call collect if you want.”

He was embarrassed “Uh, you're right. Shame on me. I just haven't had a chance—”

“All right.” She wasn't going to press the issue.

They decided to avoid the company cafeteria and go to a quiet place in town instead. They paused at the plant gate long enough for Auberson to buzz his office and tell Sylvia that he would be gone at least an hour and a half. While she was waiting, Annie put the convertible top down and pulled a pale blue scarf from her purse. She was putting it on when he came back.

Auberson couldn't help but notice that she'd lowered the top of his car. He laughed, a genial good-natured sound, “Well, that's a good idea—” but underneath the laugh was an unspoken, half-formed thought.
Hm? Isn't that awfully possessive of her?
He shrugged it away and put the car into gear. As they rolled away from the plant, he asked, “Where're we going?”

“How about the Tower Room?”

“Uh-uh. Too many of the wrong kind of people.” He paused, then added in explanation, “Company people.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. If not there, where?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Let's drive into the city and see. You're not pressed for time, are you?”

She shook her head.

“Good,” He clicked on the stereo and eased the car into the light midday traffic.

She looked over at him. He was a relaxed driver, not like so many who hunch frightenedly over the steering wheel. Auberson enjoyed driving. The line of his jaw tightened momentarily as he concentrated on the road ahead. With one hand he maneuvered a pair of sunglasses out of his coat pocket and onto his nose. The wind whipped at his hair and his tie.

The feel of the road changed abruptly as they swung onto the freeway—the sell-conscious rolling of city-laid concrete became the smooth floating glide of state-sculptured asphalt. The tugging fingers of the wind grew stronger as Auberson gunned the little sports car up to sixty-five miles per hour.

She waited until he had slid into the far left lane before she asked, “What's wrong with company people?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I just don't want to be seen by them, that's all.” The stereo mumbled softly to itself, something about fixing a hole where the rain comes in. He turned it down to a whisper and added, “It wouldn't be a good idea. The two of us, I mean.”

“You're afraid people will talk?”

He shrugged again. “I don't know. They are already, I guess.” He frowned at a momentary lumpiness in the stream of traffic.

And then they were moving again, gliding past the rooftops of cluttered suburbia—black roofs and red, three-car garages and station wagons parked in front—green-pea lawns and a cacophony of architectural voices: Early American-Almost-Slum next door to Ancient-Gingerbread-With-Original-Icing, followed by Plastic-Cracker-Box and Spanish-Tiled-Pseudo-Elegant. They gave way to little stucco boxes; white walls stained with brown streaks and greasy smoke from kitchen windows; rust-outlined screens on brown faded apartment buildings.

From their vantage point above they could see housewives with fat thighs hanging damp sheets on wire lines, and blue-gray mailmen with heavy brown bags, white-filled with envelopes. Children, too small to be in school, chased after dogs bigger than they were and too smart to be caught. Collies and poodles and black-and-brown mutts—

—were replaced by shopping centers, elegant plastic arches and bright, gaudy frills—great glass windows, full of wishes and temptations. Then more houses, more shopping centers, neon-glaring, harsher and shriller—then taller buildings, stucco-sided offices and billboards with torn paper flapping—and warehouses, big and featureless and ugly—more office buildings, this time concrete-and-glass-sided slabs—and then even taller buildings. They slid down an off ramp between two of the biggest, a narrow canyon with sun-glaring walls. Down into the rough, potted street—it hadn't been resurfaced in years.

Abruptly, Auberson realized where he was heading—the Red Room, the restaurant where they had gone on their first date.
Now, why did I do that?
It was too late to change his mind, though—he swung around a corner and they were there.

They didn't get the same booth, though. At least he was spared that uncomfortable parallel.
Uncomfortable? Why should it be uncomfortable?

She didn't mention the choice of restaurant; instead she seemed to accept it as an inevitable spot for the two of them. After they had ordered, she looked at him sharply. Her green eyes were deep. “What's the matter?” she asked.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Nothing, I guess. I just say that sometimes.”

“Oh.” He said it like he understood, but he didn't.

She decided to talk about something else. “I hear you've been having trouble with HARLIE again.”

“With HARLIE? No, not
with
HARLIE—
because of
HARLIE.”

“Well, you know what I mean. The whole company is in an uproar. Something about some unauthorized specs—I haven't had a chance to pay too much attention to it. I've been troubleshooting the annual report for Dorne.”

“Oh? I thought it was finished already.”

“Well, it was supposed to be—but the statistics keep coming out wrong. Er, that is, they keep coming out right.”