Damon Knight: Orbit 14

Fields said, “Everybody knows creativity isn’t going to solve your problems for you.”

“I said point the way,” the man objected.

Someone else said, “What creativity is going to do for you in the way of problem study is point the way to new ways of seeing your problem.”

“Not necessarily successful,” the first man said.

“Not necessarily successful,” the second man said, “if by successful what you mean is permitting you to make a non-trivial elaboration of the problem definition.”

Someone else said, “Personally I feel problem definitions don’t limit creativity.”

Fields said, “I think we’re all agreed on that when they’re creative problem definitions. Right, Ned?”

“Of creative problems.”

“Right, of creative problems. You know, Ned told me one time when he was talking to somebody about what we do at these meetings this fellow said he thought we’d just each take a lump of clay or something and, you know, start trying to make some kind of shape.” There was laughter, and Fields held up a hand good-naturedly. “Okay, it’s funny, but I think we can all learn something from that. What we can learn is, most people when we talk about our creativity group are thinking the same way this guy was, and that’s why, when we talk about it we got to make certain points, like for one thing creativity isn’t ever what you do alone, right? It’s your creative group that gets things going—hey, Ned, what’s the word I want?”

“Synergy.”

“Yeah, and teamwork. And second, creativity isn’t about making new things—like some statue or something nobody wants. What creativity is about is solving company problems—”

Franklin called, “Hey, I’ve got this ready now.”

“Just a minute. Like you take the problem this company had when Adam Bean that founded it died. The problem was—should we go on making what we used to when he was alive, or should we make something different? That problem was solved by Mr. Dudley, as I guess everybody knows, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it without a lot of good men to help him. I personally feel that a football team is about the most creative thing there is.”

Someone brushed Forlesen’s sleeve; it was Miss Fawn, and as Fields paused she said in her rather shrill voice, “Mr. Fields! Mr. Fields, you’re wanted on the telephone. It’s quite important.” There was something stilted in the way she delivered her lines, like a poor actress, and after a moment Forlesen realized that there was no telephone call, that she had been instructed by Fields to provide this interruption and thus give him an excuse for escaping the meeting while increasing the other participants’ estimate of his importance. After a moment more he understood that Franklin and the others knew this as well as he, and that the admiration they felt for Fields—and admiration was certainly there, surrounding the stocky man as he followed Miss Fawn out—had its root in the daring Fields had shown, and in the power implied by his securing the cooperation of Miss Fawn, Mr. Freeling’s secretary.

Someone had dimmed the lights. Creativity Means Jobs flashed on the screen, then a group of men and women in what might have been a classroom in a very exclusive school. One waved his hand, stood up, and spoke. There was no sound, but his eyes flashed with enthusiasm. When he sat down an impressive-looking woman in tweeds rose, and Forlesen felt that whatever she was saying must be unanswerable, the final word on the subject under discussion; she was polite and restrained and as firm as iron, and she clearly had every fact at her fingertips.

“I can’t get this damn sound working,” Franklin said. “Just a minute.”

“What are they talking about?” Forlesen asked.

“Huh?”

“In the picture. What are they discussing?”

“Oh, I got you,” Franklin said. “Wait a minute. They’re talking about promoting creativity in the educational system.”

“Are they teachers?”

“No, they’re actors—let me alone for a minute, will you? I want to get this sound going.”

The sound came on, almost coinciding with the end of the picture. While Franklin was rewinding the film Forlesen said, “I suppose actors would have a better understanding of creativity than teachers would, at that.”

“It’s a re-creation of an actual meeting of real teachers,” Franklin explained. “They photographed it and taped it, then had the actors reproduce the debate.”

Forlesen decided to go home for lunch. Lunch ours were one hundred twenty to one hundred forty-one—twenty-one ours should be enough, he thought, for him to drive there and return, and to eat. He kept the pedal down all the way, and discovered that the signs with HIDDEN DRIVES on their faces had SLOW CHILDREN on their backs.

The brick house was just as he remembered it. He parked the car on the spot where he had first seen it (there was a black oil stain there) and knocked at the door. Edna answered it, looking not quite as he remembered her. “What do you want?” she said.

“Lunch.”

“Are you crazy? If you’re selling something we don’t want it.” Forlesen said, “Don’t you know who I am?”

She looked at him more closely. He said, “I’m your husband Emanuel.”

She seemed uncertain, then smiled, kissed him, and said, “Yes, you are, aren’t you. You look different. Tired.”

“I am tired,” he said, and realized that it was true.

“Is it lunchtime already? I don’t have a watch, you know. I haven’t been able to keep track. I thought it was only the middle of the morning.”

“It seemed long enough to me,” Forlesen said. He wondered where the children were, thinking that he would have liked to see them.

“What do you want for lunch?”

“Whatever you have.”

In the bedroom she got out bread and sliced meat, and plugged in the coffeepot. “How was work?”

“All right. Fine.”

“Did you get promoted? Or get a raise?”

He shook his head.

“After lunch,” she said. “You’ll get promoted after lunch.”

He laughed, thinking that she was joking.

“A woman knows.”

“Where are the kids?”

“At school. They eat their lunch at school. There’s a beautiful cafeteria—everything is stainless steel—and they have a dietician who thinks about the best possible lunch for each child and makes them eat it.”

“Did you see it?” he asked.

“No, I read about it. In here.” She tapped Food Preparation in the Home.

“Oh.”

“They’ll be home at one hundred and thirty—that’s what the book says. Here’s your sandwich.” She poured him a cup of coffee. “What time is it now?”

He looked at the watch she had given him. “A hundred and twenty-nine thirty.”

“Eat. You ought to be going back soon.”

He said, “I was hoping we might have time for more than this.”

“Tonight, maybe. You don’t want to be late.”

“All right.” The coffee was good, but tasted slightly oily; the sandwich meat was salty and dry and flavorless. He unstrapped the watch from his wrist and handed it to her. “You keep this,” he said. “I’ve felt badly about wearing it all morning—it really belongs to you.”

“You need it more than I do,” she said.

“No, I don’t; they have clocks all over, there. All I have to do is look at them.”

“You’ll be late getting back to work.”

“I’m going to drive as fast as I can, anyway—I can’t go any faster than that no matter what a watch says. Besides, there’s a speaker that tells me things, and I’m sure it will tell me if I’m late.”

Reluctantly she accepted the watch. He chewed the last of his sandwich. “You’ll have to tell me when to go now,” he said, thinking that this would somehow cheer her.