Edgar Pangborn - A Mirror for Observers

“You put it very well, Mr. Meisel.”

“Doesn’t the Forward Labor Party have kind of a similar idear?”

That may have been a slip, a question slightly too intelligent for Old Man Meisel. Walker grew more watchful. He said quietly: “They have several good ideas. Better understanding of Society than the old parties. They see, same as we do, where the greatest danger is.”

I tightened my tough old Martian neck, to make a flush appear in my well-made cheeks. “I guess you mean those damn Federalists?”

It was the right noise. I think he was reassured. He said, still softly: “Worst traitors to America since the Civil War. Yes, of course…. Have you had any connection with Forward Labor, Mr. Meisel?”

“Oh no.” So far as I can tell, Drozma, he was reassured.

He made up his mind. “Like you to have a talk with Keller.

Wonderful guy, you’ll like him. If you have any doubts about what we’re doing, what we stand for, he can clear them up better than me.” Studying me sidelong as if I were a work of art, he boomed into the telephone: “Bill? How’s it?” My throat was cold. This was what I came for. Bill Keller. Billy Kell…. I strained my wicked Martian hearing, but the voice at the other end was only a wiry squeak. “Uh-huh, Bill…. Like you to meet him when you get a bit of time.” Code, I guessed, for “allow time to check on the sucker.” Presently Walker covered the mouthpiece to ask me affectionately: “Going to be free this afternoon, latish?” I was free.

He was easing me to the door. He didn’t put an arm over my shoulder because I am three inches taller; he did everything else to make me feel like the Grand Old Man of the Kennebec. “Confidentially, Bill Keller is very high up. Don’t misunderstand — just as democratic as you and me. But you see, a Leader like Joe Max, all his responsibilities, worries, he can’t give as much time to everyone as he’d like. Has to rely on a chosen few.” Walker showed me crossed fingers. “Bill Keller is right up There!” He patted my back. Old Man Meisel marched out, squaring his shoulders with a Sense of Purpose.

I didn’t think they had anyone tailing me; didn’t care much. They had my address and could smell around if they chose. I wandered all morning. Had lunch I forget where and wound up at Central Park Zoo. That March day was like a little girl fresh out of her bath, cool, sweet, ready for mischief. I could respond to it now. We’re almost human, Drozma: if you can’t find the one you love maybe an enemy is the next best.

The bears were restless with spring. An old cinnamon patrolled the front of his enclosure in neurotic pacing, ten steps left, swing of the head, ten right, talking dolorously to himself. The only other watcher at the moment was a brown-faced boy who acknowledged my presence after a while with a bothered inquiry: “What he moaning about?”

“Doesn’t like being in a cage, specially this time of year.”

“Would you turn him loose, mister? If you could?”

“No — too fond of my own skin.”

“Bet he’d chaw us plenty. Wouldn’t he?”

“Uh-huh. Couldn’t blame him.”

“Naw?”

“It was people like us who put him in there.”

“Yeah. Gee!” He strolled off, frowning at it.

It was past four when I returned to the Organic Unity offices. The lounge was crowded. Walker was busy. I sat for a quarter hour watching the coming and going of Organites. Sad, strained, introverted faces, many of them; others had the power-hungry look. Several were shabby, several prosperous. Only one clear common denominator: they all wanted something. And between a little chap with a placating smirk who probably sought a job sealing envelopes, and a lean paranoid with some brand-new design for the universe, I couldn’t find a great deal to choose.

Walker at last escorted me down complex lanes between desks to an office in the rear. Big. They measure rank as Mussolini did, by the amount of carpet between door and desk. When that door opened…

Drozma, the Martian scent was thick enough to slice.

Yet I would have known him without it, that heavy figure looming like Il Duce. He had altered his face only in the direction of maturity. Thicker cheeks; a practiced, half-genial scowl. He waited impressively before rising to greet us. An underling certainly — there’s no doubt in my mind that the grimly human Joseph Max is the fount of authority — nevertheless William Keller was bloated with power and loving it.

I had renewed scent-destroyer in a pay toilet, and my new face is good. True, Sharon had known me. But Sharon loved the memory of me, and saw my look of recognition before she ran to me. In Billy Kell (I must learn to call him William Keller) there was no recognition. He came solidly around the desk, shook hands, grandiosely tolerated Walker’s backslapping introduction, dismissed Walker with an eyebrow.

Keller didn’t spout ideology. He made me stiffly comfortable, and expected me to talk. I did. I used the lighter; I gabbled autobiography interlarded with Party catchwords. I couldn’t afford to be as crass as I had been with Walker. At length, contriving to be severe and yet respectful of my white hairs, he said: “I’m interested to know what brought you to us, Mr. Meisel. The Party’s greatest strength is among young people. We wake their crusading spirit, give them something to believe in — that’s why nothing can stop us. People with your background are more apt to be hostile. Or tired or discouraged. I’m happy you’re here, but tell me more about what made you come.”

I wondered: “What if I go around that desk and strangle you into telling all you know?” It was a moment of grueling loneliness, the full weight of nine bad years settling on me. I managed to say: “I think your Leader’s personality was a deciding factor, Mr. Keller. I’ve followed Joseph Max’s career — radio, television — and then, well, one morning I woke up wanting to do something…. I’ve studied his book….”

He nodded after stern reflection. “The bible of the movement. Can’t go wrong if you go by The Social Organism — it’s all there. And you do seem to have a grasp of the theory — actually not theory: plain social fact. What I want to be sure you understand: this is serious business. We don’t play at it, got no patience with dabblers, no time for ’em…. There are two types of Party membership: associate and sustaining. Associate membership is for anybody who cares to pay the dues and sign a card. Sustaining is something else again, given only after a period of study. And examination.”

“Seems reasonable. Don’t know if I could qualify for anything like that. But I do feel I belong at least among the rank and file of the” — I smiled most humbly — “of the Organites.”

He asked too softly: “Now where did you hear that word?”

“Why, Mr. Walker said it was to be used in the literature soon.”

“Oh….” His mask was cold as a funeral. “It happens he shouldn’t have said that.” Keller’s fingers drummed on the desk.

“Since he did, I’m obliged to tell you — that word is not going to be used. Some of the Leader’s minor advisers considered it at one time. Inappropriate, too open to ridicule. Naturally Max saw the objections at once. I suggest, Mr. Meisel, that you never heard it.”

Damn all calibrated jokes. These people are as humorless as the communazis. I stammered pathetically: “Well, of course — I didn’t realize—”

“Quite all right. You couldn’t know.”

“Mr. Keller, would it be possible for me to meet — Him?”

He watched secret meditations, shrugged, and nodded. He looked tired now, in almost a human, sympathy-stirring way. “Sure. Could be arranged. This evening if you’re free. Max — by the way, he avoids the Mister: just Max when you meet him the first time — Max has Thursday evening open house for friends of the Party. Take you up myself if you like.” He waved away thanks. “Glad to. Another thing — among other members of the Party he does like a certain formality. I think of it as a quirk of greatness. Don’t care a damn myself, but when we go there we call him Max and use the Mister for each other, you see?” I nodded reverently. “Drop by at my apartment about eight-thirty if you will. Green Tower Colony, last apartment building up the Esplanade short of the bridge. If you’re going back downtown now, a taxi on Eighth Lower Level is the best way to get back uptown to my place. Tell the driver to set the rob for Washington turnoff.” He reached for his telephone. “See you then.” As I left I heard him ask for Walker’s office.