Mack Reynolds: Earth Unaware

Ed Wonder said morosely, “This is getting to be a swell evening. We’re sitting here arguing politics and religion. What do you say we amble on, Helen? There’s still time to take in a show. I’ve got a couple of tickets to—”

Helen was saying heatedly, “You sound like an atheist!”

The reporter did a burlesque bow. “An agnostic with atheistic tendencies.” He grunted ruefully. “Actually, I can’t make any claims to intellectual superiority. My mother came from a long-time family of agnostics, and my father, though born a Seventh Day Adventist became one of those street corner atheists. You know, great for cornering some poor sincere Baptist and demanding if Adam and Eve were the only people in the world, who did Cain marry? So I was raised in an atmosphere that lacked belief in any organized religion. I became an agnostic for the same reason you became a Methodist or Presbyterian…”

“I’m an Episcopalian!” Helen snapped, not placated by his wry self-deprecation.

“Like your parents? And suppose a trick of fate had you born into a Moslem family? Or a Shintoist one. What do you think you’d be? Nope. Miss Fontaine—you really are Helen Fontaine, eh?—I am afraid we both lack originality.”

“Well, anyway that doesn’t apply to me,” Ed said. “My people were both Baptists and I switched to Episcopalian.”

Buzz De Kemp grunted. “You know, Little Ed, I suspect that under that fawning, pyramid-climbing exterior which you present to the world, beats a heart of pure brass. Let’s face up to cruel reality. You’re an opportunist. It’s all the thing to be an Episcopalian.”

Ed Wonder awoke from no deep dream of peace and groaned the words that had to be said to register with the voco-alarm and turn it off. The action brought back to mind that he was going to have to check his credit balance. The Volkshover wasn’t paid for yet, not to speak of this far out TV-stereo-radio-phono-tape recorder-alarmclock built into his apartment wall.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and scratched his wisp of a mustache. He moaned gently as he came to his feet and started for the bathroom. He stared into the mirror. Thirty-three years. When did you start getting middleaged? Maybe at forty. You couldn’t exactly call yourself young anymore at forty. He looked into his face for wrinkles, realizing he’d been doing that more often recently. He didn’t hare any wrinkles to speak of. And that merest touch of gray at his temples was on the plus side. Gave him some dignity. That was one of the advantages of a roundish face, slightly on the plump side. The wrinkles didn’t show like they did on a thin, long face.

He skinned back his lips so he could see his teeth. That was one of his unsolved problems, whether or not to have his lower front teeth straightened a bit for TV appearance. But then, there was such a thing as too perfect teeth. The twitches tuned in figured they were false.

And how about his mustache? Should he shave it off completely or let it grow heavier? He was presently wearing a thin line of a mustache currently popular among the bright young executive types. The trouble was, a thin mustache made him look like a stereotype Parisian gigolo. He probably wasn’t suited for a mustache at all, he decided gloomily. A mustache went with a face that had quite a space between the upper lip and the nose.

If he ever got the program on TV and off this kooky late hour radio arrangement, he’d have to settle about both teeth and mustache. You can’t go switching your appearance once you get to be a TV personality. The viewers get used to the way you look and they want you to continue looking that way. They don’t have brains enough to put up with switches. It irritates them.

He opened the jar of NoShav depilatory and began spreading it over his right cheek, rubbing it in well. Quite a few of the boys in TV had resorted to having their beards permanently removed. You couldn’t take chances of your public image. What was the name of that presidential candidate, way back, who supposedly lost the election because on camera he looked like he hadn’t shaved? The idea made Ed Wonder uncomfortable. Removing the hair from his face each morning was an act of masculinity. Had a way of making you feel, well, like a man. However, you couldn’t take chances with your public image. You couldn’t afford to look like a hooligan if you got your program onto TV.

The question of his credit balance came up again. Trying to keep up to Helen’s pace was getting to him. He wished he had the gumption to ask her to marry him. He had an unhappy suspicion that the idea would fracture her. But he had to do it sooner or later. The son-in-law of Jensen Fontaine. Holy smokes.

Maybe he should have asked her the night before. She was gay there for a while. And at one time, depressed. He’d never seen her before with her hair combed straight and her face completely free of makeup. Come to think of it, she had a certain wistful appeal, looking that way. He had to laugh inwardly. That old coot, what was his name? Tubber. Ezekiel Joshua Tubber. He had something with that able-to-swell personality of his. He’d evidently set Helen back with that cursing vanity, or whatever it was he had cursed.

Ed reached for a towel to wipe away the NoShav .

Ed Wonder parked his little hover car in the Fontaine Building’s cellar parking area and made his way to the elevators. There was only one fellow passenger in the elevator, a dowdily dressed, plain-faced young woman. She evidently didn’t care much about her appearance. Ed wondered vaguely who she worked for and who, in the swank Fontaine Building, would put up with such a drab.

It was none of his business. He didn’t bother to wait for her to call her floor first. He said, “Twentieth,” and the auto-operator said, “Twentieth, yes sir.” The girl called her own floor, in a throaty slur of a voice that vibrated warmth.

Ed Wonder looked at her with slightly more interest. With a voice like that, she belonged on the air. He took in her features. Why any beautician could go to town on that face. You could…

He pulled himself up, startled.

He said, “Oh. Pardon me. I didn’t recognize you, Miss Malone. I didn’t even know you were in Kingsburg.”

She took him in, disinterestedly. “Hello, uhh, Little Ed, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” he told her eagerly. “I caught your network program Monday night. Real sharpy.”

“Thanks, Little Ed. I came up for a special program. What are you doing these days? I don’t believe I’ve seen you since you helped with the commercials on the—let’s see…”

“The Sophisticated Heure show,” Ed reminded her, wagging his tail at the recognition. “I’ve got my own program now.”

Her eyebrows went up and she tried to project interest. “Really? How nice. Well, I’m afraid this is my floor.”

When she was gone, he scowled in perplexity. Then his face cleared. She was incognito. That was the way to handle avoiding the fans. Why, not even he recognized her. When he had a name like Mary Malone’s, maybe he’d have to figure out ways to keep his public off too.

He strolled down the corridor to his desk, his mind on the program to come. He’d had a letter from a swami, or yoga, or whatever he was, that might be a lead. He hadn’t had any Hindus on the show for some time. Indians went over pretty well. They sounded authentic. He noted vaguely that someone else was sitting at Dolly’s desk. Maybe the girl was ill. That’d be a pain. Dolly was his part-time assistant, his program not calling for a full secretary. She did most of the drudgery, and had been with him since he’d first got Mulligan’s okay for his offbeat show.

Ed Wonder pulled up before her desk and began to inquire who this newcomer was, then shut his mouth with an audible pop.