Was the world ready for apfi?
Behind the gas station, in the field, he saw something that distracted him from conjecture momentarily: a helicopter! What was it doing here?
"Mr. Zephyr!" It was the old mechanic. Was there news about his car already?
He entered the lighted station. It was cluttered with the usual paraphernalia: dented oil cans, tires, rusty carburetors, wrenches, auto manuals, and mechanical bric-a-brac. A pay telephone nestled on the wall next to a small cash register. "You got my car out?"
The man shook his head negatively, looking at him speculatively. "None of my business, but are you staying long?"
"No longer than I can help. But if there's no road out—"
"I saw old Ezra Hopping, the hotel man, cleaning his shotgun. His eyesight is way too poor for hunting, but he's a pretty sharp businessman. Not much goes on he don't know about. Now, I'm not offering you any advice, but—"
But old Uncle Ezra might well be anxious to protect his niece's reputation, and that of his hotel. And to acquire a capable in-law to help out. Yes. So he was cleaning his shotgun. "Is that phone in working order?"
"Yep." The mechanic discreetly stepped outside. "You can make change from the cash register; it's open," he said as he disappeared.
Zether did just that, marveling at the man's trusting nature. He fed the orifice and dialed the number of a companion worker who could keep his mouth shut. "Don, I'm in a bind," he said hurriedly. "My car is out of commission, and I can't walk far, and there's a marriage-minded female—look, I can't explain now, but can you rent a tractor and come down here in a hurry? I'll make it worth your while...."
"Bill, what are you up to? Where are you?"
Zether gave a brief geographical rundown.
"That's five hundred miles!" Don exclaimed. "I'm a white-collar wage-earner; I just can't take off in the middle of the week! Why can't you hire someone local to bail you out?"
He thought about making the necessary arrangements for an escape from Schist Crick and rescue of his car, without giving away his interest in apfi. No one in Schist Crick would cooperate, of course, since they would figure he was running out on shut season. As he was, among other things. No one outside would understand, let alone rely on the credit of a secretive, telephoning stranger. It had to be Don.
"Say," Don said. "There's something else funny. The supe was poking into your desk the other day as though he was looking for something. Wanted to know what the locked file was for...."
Oh, no! That was the apfi research file he should have hidden. If anybody got into that before he got back, he could kiss goodbye to his plans. And the grasping supervisor would gladly use the pretext of his late return to snoop. "Don, believe me—this is urgent. Take that file out and bring it with you. Don't let anyone at it! Take an emergency leave and get down here with some cash...."
"Bill, I just can't do that, I'd be fired! If only you'd explain—"
"When you get here, Don; when you get here! I can't talk about it over the phone. Just trust me..." But he knew it wouldn't work. Don was honest to a fault, but conservative; he wasn't greedy, but he had to know all the facts before he acted, and he never gambled. He would consider apfi at best a gamble, and at worst a theft from the company.
Someone was approaching the shop; he couldn't talk any more. "I guess you're right, Don. Sorry I bothered you."
He hung up and turned away from the phone as a man in the uniform of the forest service entered. "I need some gas," the ranger said.
"Sorry, I'm not the proprietor. He—" Zether paused. "That copter—that yours?"
The man nodded. "I ran low on fuel, or I wouldn't have put down here at all. Must have a leak somewhere. Have to move out again in a few minutes, get back to my base."
"Got room for a passenger?" His heart was pounding.
"It's against regulations, sorry," the ranger said. "No passengers. Where's the gasman?"
"I'm desperate," Zether said. "I have some very important business, and the roads are closed." He pulled out his wallet and removed a twenty-dollar bill and pressed it into the ranger's hand.
The man looked doubtfully at the bribe, then made his decision. "All right. I'll be through here soon's I find the attendant. That must be him outside. Five minutes, then I'll rev up and take off. You get out of sight and come out to intercept me as I walk to the copter, as though you had a message for me. If no one notices, I'll take you aboard. But I won't wait; if you don't meet me right on time, I'll have to take off without you. Can't risk my job. Got that?"
"Got it. Five minutes on the nose or bust. Thanks."
Zether stepped outside and spied a public rest room behind the station. He headed for it. He should be able to see the ranger from its window.
The sign hanging just inside the dirty pane said VIOLET—UP SCHIST CREEK Nothing like a geographical identifier, he thought with a smile as he entered. Visitors would know exactly where they had paused.
Inside the cramped and smelly compartment he felt a sudden call of nature. Perhaps it was the availability and suggestion of toilet facilities, or possibly the abrupt release of tension. He decided to make good use of his five minutes.
His mind remained preoccupied with the larger problem. He could become rich from apfi, supervising its national promotion and marketing. But was it ethical? How would the courts see it? Was it possible that the social consequences would offset the dollar profit? Complete sexual freedom, the act performed as readily as a handshake....
Two minutes remained. Yes, he was on his way home, and in time. Proper exploitation of apfi would make his fortune. The hell with social ethics; money was far more important. Let the fuddy-duds scream; they could not halt progress. There was not one single reason apfi would not conquer the commercial world! The question was now not whether he would be a multibillionaire, but how soon. Ten years? Five?
One minute. Nicely timed. Both shotgun and supervisor had been foiled. He had grabbed his only chance to preserve his basic interests: his bachelordom and his billions.
He reached for the toilet paper without getting up. All that conjecture and experimentation must certainly have shaken up his digestion, because he had just relieved himself voluminously.
Two things occurred to him in nightmare sequence as he tore off a suitable strip. First, he was still wearing the suit. Second, he did not know how to loosen the neck loop so as to let the suit down.
Extraordinarily elastic apfi might be, so that its resistance was hardly perceptible—but it remained impervious to the passage of solids. Though a square yard of it could encompass an automobile without breaking or tearing, it would not pass so much as a grain of sand through its membrane, and liquid, for practical purposes, penetrated it only in the vapor state. He had neither the time nor the resources to stretch it the enormous amount necessary to alleviate even a portion of his problem. He heard the footfalls of the ranger returning to his copter.
William Zether remained sitting, paper in hand, afraid to move. His despairing gaze caught the reverse face of the sign hanging in the cobwebbed window. Words were printed thereon, forming a message awesome in its relevance and profundity: WITHOUT A PADDLE.
THE WHOLE TRUTH
My title was "Not That Good," which relates to the theme of the story. I have an acute consciousness of titling; I consider the title to be an important element of the story. Editors, as a class, have abysmal title sense, as I may have mentioned several times before. I wrote this one for Harry Harrison's original anthology Nova in 1968; he had solicited taboo-busting fiction from me but balked at "Up Schist Crick," "The Bridge" and "On the Uses of Torture." So I sent him one that was not that good, and he published it. A writer learns how to manage editors. Naturally he missed the point. Harry is a good writer; he just needs to stick to his lathe. Nevertheless, his "Hole Truth" pun has merit, as you will see.