The Best of Science Fiction 12

"Whom would I be calling?" said Patrick. "And why?"

"You know ... for your patents."

Patrick looked blank, then frowned, then finally he smiled. "All right, John. Whether or not you're a mystic, I'll give you 'x-plus', for mystification."

After Fast had gone, Patrick and Sullivan stared at each other.

"Do you believe any of that?" said Patrick.

"I believe he thinks he saw something. A kind of self-hypnosis."

"How about the yield. You know one hundred per cent of theory is impossible."

"No, Con, I don't know that. And neither do you. Within experimental errors, he may well have got one hundred per cent. And even if he didn't, he really might have got fairly close to it. A pilot plant always does much better than a bench scale unit.

You just naturally expect the yield to be high. All the variables are optimised, easily controlled."

"So you think he just hypnotised himself into seeing the devil?"

"Why not? Actually, he's an accomplished amateur hypnotist. I'm told he is quite a parlour performer, if you can catch him."

"I know. He'll be at the party tonight, for something like that. But he's wrong about me. I'm not totally committed to my patents. It's my job, the same as it's your job. John Fast doesn't know what he's saying."

Sullivan's eyes twinkled wickedly. "You're absolutely right, Con. There are some things you would not resort to, even to save the Neol patent position. You would not sell your own grandmother into white slavery even if it would win the interference and solve the whole problem." He paused, then added maliciously, "Would you, Con?"

Patrick snorted. "Don't tempt me!"

"Are you going to change the name?" asked Sullivan.

" 'Neol'?"

"You know what I mean."

"Well, maybe. There's nothing really wrong with 'Neol'."

"Except that John Fast thinks it's wrong."

" ... Without saying how to make it right," added Patrick. "I want to think about it. And I might change it, just to be ornery."

That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

— Shakespeare

Patrick sat in his office, looking at the proofs of the 'Neol Technical Manual', and thinking hard. This was Harvey Jayne's Manual, and Jayne was trying to steal Miss Willow. But Jayne needed Patent Department clearance for his Manual. Right away, this suggested possibilities. This morning, he had it nearly figured. And then John Fast had decided the name was wrong. And what difference did it make to John Fast? He wasn't even going to ask, because tonight he was going to need the man.

But could he change the name? How sacred was this Manual to Jayne?

Patrick considered the matter.

He knew, certainly, that a technical manual prepared and published by an American chemical giant was like nothing else in the world of books. It was the strange child of the mating of the laboratory with Madison Avenue, midwifed by the corporate public relations committee. It told all. It was rich in history, process descriptions, flow sheets, rotogravures, chemical equations, and nomographs. It was comprehensive, and its back pages were filled with thousands of arrogant footnotes. The stockholders of Hope Chemical were given the impression that the sole function of the 'Neol Technical Manual' was to incite an unendurable craving for Neol in the hearts of purchasing agents throughout the country. But Patrick knew that the compiler privately harboured other motives. For that man, Harvey Jayne, it represented an opportunity for creativity that comes only when the company builds a new plant; it could not happen to Jayne twice in one lifetime.

In this manual, Harvey Jayne would have a ready-made solace for whatever disasters might lie ahead. His wife might on occasion fail to recognise his greatness; his son might fail in school; he might, alas, even be laterally transferred within the company. Yet, withal, his faith in himself would be restored, and the blood brought back into his cheeks, when he gets out his old Technical Manual, to read a little in it, to fondle its worn covers, and to look at the pictures. So doing, Harvey Jayne might murmur, with tears in his eyes, as did Jonathan Swift, rereading 'Gulliver's Travels', "God, what genius!"

So, thought Patrick, this volume will be cherished forever by Harvey Jayne. He will keep it in his office bookcase, with a spare in his den at home. When he transfers, it will be carefully packed. Years later, for presentation at his retirement dinner, his lieutenants will borrow his last copy from his wife, or perhaps steal one from the company library. They will have it bound in the company colours, blue and gold; and the chairman of the board, the president, and numerous fellow vice-presidents will autograph its pages.

Now, brooded Patrick, the whole of this immense and immemorial undertaking, this monster, this Manual, centres around the product trademark, which is as essential to it as the proton to the atom, the protoplasmic nucleus to the growing cell. The Manual is known by this name. Once thus baptised, the name is sacred. And to deny this book its name, to suggest that its name is wrong, that it should have another name, is to invite the visitation of the Furies, for this is desecration, a charge so sinister that it must rank with defamation of motherhood, or with being against J. Edgar Hoover.

Yes, there were possibilities. For personal disaster. He could not change the name of the Manual. And yet he was going to. Why? he wondered. Why am I going to do this? I am as crocked as John Fast. His mind floundered, searching. I have to fight Harvey Jayne, that's why. No. That's not why. It's something else. John Fast said the name was wrong. The new name should have five letters. He tugged briefly at his mustache, then leaned over to the intercom.

Books cannot always please.

— George Crabbe

"Con," said Cord, "it's not really bad. A few editorial changes should do the job."

Patrick's face was a blank. "How about 'Neol'?"

"It's clear. The closest thing is 'Neolan', registered for textiles."

Patrick brightened. "Clear? It's a clear case of infringement!"

Cord stared at him. "What ... what did you say?"

"I said it infringes. And I hasten to add, Cord, my boy, that you look quite strange, with your mouth open." He reached for the phone and dialed Jayne.

"Oh, hi there, Harvey ... No, I didn't call to protest about Miss Willow. We're really grateful you can do something for her, Harvey. Her place is with you, Harvey. On one condition ... It's this, Harvey, that you double her raise. She's worth every bit of it. Good, Harvey, splendid you see it our way ... Tech Manual, Harvey? Yes, we're looking at it right now. No, Harvey, I'm afraid we can't do that. There's a very close prior registration that will probably kill Neol as a trademark. No, Harvey, please get that out of your head. Miss Willow has nothing to do with it. She will transfer with our very best wishes ... That is indeed your privilege, Harvey. If you want to present the Manual to the Board on Monday morning without Patent Department clearance, go right ahead. It would, of course, be my duty to give Andrew Bleeker a memo itemising my objections, absolving the Patent Department of all responsibility for the content of the Manual. There will be carbons, of course, to ... You will? Why that's fine, Harvey." He hung up. "He's coming over."

"I'm amazed," said Cord dryly.

"Keep your fingers crossed on Willow."

"But you said the louse could have her, with a double raise," said Cord.

"Alec, you wouldn't believe me if I told you what is about to happen. So I won't waste time. We have only a few minutes before Harvey is due to show. So — Cord? "

"Yes, Con?"

"I didn't address you. I merely stated your name. It turns crisply from the tongue, like honest bacon in the griddle. A fine name. Cord, Cord, Cord. A good word to say. Here, I'll write it, too. Flows easily on paper. Cord looks good. Listens good. Charming. A man's name is the best thing about him. Like Narcissus. Hello there, you beautiful name!"