Frederik Pohl - The Cool War

Half laughing, and half of the laughing from embarrassment, Hake said, “Let’s stick to one thing at a time, okay? I’m also interested in fads that keep people from working. How do you say that?” He was thinking of the hula-hoops, of course; and when they found a generic term for that, and for terrorism, and for filthy cities, and for dumping commodities and despoiling natural resources and two or three other things, Alys punched an “execute” code and they watched the screen generate titles, quick as a zipper, laying them line by line across the tube:

AAF Studies World Events, monograph, U.S. Govt. Prntg. Offc.

AAAS Symposium on Social Change, Am. Acdy. Adv. Sci. proceedings.

Aar und das schrecklichkeit von Erde, Der, 8vo, von E.T. Griindemeister, Koln.

Aback and Abeam, A Memoir, by C. Franklin Monscut-ter, N.Y.

Abandonment of Reason, by William Reichsleder, N.Y. Times Sun. Mag., XCIV, 22, 83-88.

Abasing the Environment—

“No good,” said Alys, leaning forward and hitting the switch that stopped the quick-time march of titles up the screen. “At that rate we’ll be here till winter and still in the As. I like manly men, Horny, that’s why I sometimes get just smothered with Walter and Ted, they’re so kind.”

“Alys, damn it!”

“Well, I just want you to know. So here’s what we’ll do. First, I’ll kill all the foreign-language entries; should have thought of that in the first place. Then I’ll set it to look for citations in five categories instead of three, how’s that?”

“You’re the expert,” Hake said. “What would happen if you programmed it for all, what is it, all nine?”

“Why not?” She tapped quickly and sat back. Nothing happened.

“Shouldn’t you start it?” he asked after a moment.

“I did start it, Horny. It’s sorting through maybe a thousand works a second, looking for one that has all the things you want. There can’t be very many, you know. You’re a lot different now than you were in Europe.”

“Oh, God, Alys,” he said, not looking away from the screen. But that was not very rewarding. They sat for a full moment, and there was no flicker at all.

“I have a friend,” said Alys thoughtfully, “who has an apartment not far from here. I have a key. There’s always something in the refrigerator, or I could pick up some kind of salad stuff and maybe a bottle of wine—”

“I’m not hungry. Listen, suppose we do find something. What do I do then, read the whole book here?”

“If you want to, Horny. Or if you want hard copy to take home, there’s a selector switch on that black thing over there, it’ll make microfiche copies for you. Or you can order the book itself on inter-library. Usually takes about a week to get them. I’m really disappointed.”

“Well,” he said, “it isn’t that I don’t like you, Alys, but—”

She laughed affectionately. “Oh, Horny! I meant the way we’re not getting anything. Let me cut back to six items, and see if we come out with a manageable number.”

And in fact they did. Eight books, about fifteen magazine and journal pieces—and real pay-dirt. A dissertation by a political-science Ph.D. candidate called The Mechanisms of Covert Power. A Johns Hopkins conference on “External Forces in National Development.” And three or four theses and monographs, all right on Hake’s target. “What I really need,” he said, surveying the mounting stack of microfiche cards, “is one of these computers for myself. I’ll be a year reading all this.”

Alys leaned back, stretched and yawned prettily, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Hake averted his eyes from the deep-necked peasant blouse with its white lacing, and remembered to look at his watch. He was due at Curmudgeon’s in forty-five minutes, and how was he going to get rid of Alys? It was a convenience to have the question posed to him in that way, because it spared him the necessity of considering whether he really wanted to get rid of her. Wine, salad and a friendly apartment sounded actually pretty nice.

“Oh, hell,” said Alys crossly, bringing her arms down. “There’s Jessie.”

Hake leaped to his feet. “Come in, come in,” he said, astonishing Jessie with his cordiality. “Alys has been showing me how to work this thing and, I must say, she’s really been marvelous about it. How are you doing, Jessie? Need any help? I’m sure Alys will give you some pointers. As for me, I’ve got a couple of errands to run. Suppose I meet you back here at, let’s see, say three-thirty? That way we can miss most of the rush hour…”

The building was fifty stories tall in a block of smaller ones; the elevator was high-speed and did not rattle, and the name on the door of the suite of offices was Seskyn-Porterous Theatrical Agency, “Through These Doors Walk Tomorrow’s Stars”

The waiting room had seats for twenty people. All were full. A dozen other prospective stars of tomorrow were standing around, pretty dancers and bearded folk singers, nervous comedians and a lot of other people who did not look like performers at all. Hake didn’t have to wait. He was shown at once into a corner office with immense plate-glass windows, and Curmudgeon was sitting at a tiny, bare, glass-topped desk, his hands folded before him.

He got up and shook hands silently, shaking his hairy head as Hake said hello. “Just a minute,” he said, walking to the windows and turning on a strange little buzzer device that rattled irregularly against each of them, and then switching on a radio behind his desk. Just loudly enough to be heard over the classical-rock music, he said, “You’re punctual, and that’s a good way to be. Your physical came through, four-oh; you’re in as good shape as you’ve ever been in your life. What do you say? Are you about ready for an assignment?”

“Well,” said Hake, “I don’t know—”

“Course you don’t know. I haven’t told you yet Let me read you something.”

He unlocked one of the desk drawers and took out a single sheet of paper in a sealed folder. “Subject, H. Hornswell Hake,” he read. “Blah, blah, blah, physical status excellent, blah, here we are. ‘Subject has displayed commendable initiative and resourcefulness. He is rated superior in the performance of his duties, and will be recommended for promotion at the first opportunity.’” He dropped the sheet into a metal wastebasket, and watched as it abruptly sprang into flame and consumed itself. Stirring the ashes, he said, “What do you say to that, Hake?”

“I guess I say thank you. What does that mean about a promotion?”

“What it says. You do good work, we reward you. Simple’s that. Is there anything you want?”

“Well— New carpets for the church,” Hake said, remembering. “Maybe a little car. And, yes, I’d like a computer terminal of my own, if that’s not too—”

“Forget the computer,” said Curmudgeon. “For now, anyway. Car, all right. Carpets, sure.” He made a note for himself on the palm of his hand. Craning to see, Hake observed that the whole left palm was covered with cryptic scribbles. “Anyway,” he said, “you won’t be needing any of that right away. The church is going to close down for the summer in a couple of weeks.” He didn’t put it as a question; he knew it as a fact. “I’ll see that the carpets are ready before Labor Day. About a car, get it yourself. Whenever you want to. I’ll arrange for financing. But right now you’re going on a vacation to a dude ranch.”

“I am? Why am I?”

“Because you’ve been given it as a ministerial perquisite,” Curmudgeon explained. “Actually, you won’t be lounging around the swimming pool and making out with the divorcees. It’s basic training for future missions. You’ll like it; you’re a health nut anyway. You report to Fort Stockton, Texas, a week from Monday for three weeks. Bring jeans, shorts, hiking clothes; bring whatever you like to make it look good, but you won’t have much need for neckties or dancing shoes. Any questions?”