Of course, she knew why he was doing it. Trying to justify his own actions, that’s all. She wondered if it could be that girl at Ralph’s office, that Linda Sue Powers. Ralph very rarely mentioned her anymore, and when Karen had thrown the name out at breakfast that morning. Ralph had seemed to hesitate, as though maybe he felt guilty about something.
When Grace from down the hall came in for their usual midmorning coffee, Karen said to her, “Grace, sometimes a person needs a trusted friend, someone she can talk to.”
“Oh, Karen, you know me,” Grace said, looking bright and alert. “Silent as the tomb.”
So Karen told her everything. Except about putting it in the bed, of course; that was too personal and silly and hardly important anymore, anyway.
It was the first time Ralph hail taken Linda Sue Powers to lunch. “I don’t know why I should bother you with my troubles,” he said. “We’re hardly more than office acquaintances.”
“Oh, I hope you think of me as more than that,” she said. She has very nice blue eyes. “I hope you think of me as your friend,” she said.
“I’d like to,” Ralph said. And before he was done, he’d told her everything. Except about finding it in the bed, of course: that was unimportant by now and not the sort of thing to mention to a young lady.
The fight at the Cullbertsons’ party was just the climax to five weeks of border skirmishes and commando raids. The fight, which took place in front of IS exceedingly interested spectators, lasted 21 minutes and culminated this way:
Karen: “And I suppose you haven’t spent every night the past two weeks with that Powers woman?”
Ralph: “Kerning, you filthy-minded bitch, earning, not night; we’ve been working at the office. And it’s left you plenty of time to howl, hasn’t it?”
Karen: “Ralph. I want a divorce I want a divorce I want a divorce!”
Ralph: “Divorce? The way you catty on, I could practically gel an annulment!”
The lawyer said. “We always require at least this one meeting between the principals, to see if any sort of reconciliation is possible. You two are both intelligent people; maybe this marriage can still be saved. What caused the estrangement, can you tell me that? What started it?”
Karen said, “I suppose it all started with Linda Sue Powers.”
Ralph said, “I believe the name my wile is looking for is Howie Youngblood.”
The lawyer had to shout and pound on his desk before they’d quiet down.
After the divorce, they met one last time at the apartment to divide up their possessions, neither trusting the other to go in first and alone. Ralph arrived with Linda Site Powers. Karen brought along a pipe smoking chap she didn’t introduce.
They moved through the apartment together, their escorts waiting in ultimate table silence in the living room, the principals talking in monosyllables as they said, “That’s yours.” Or, “I’ll lake that,” or, “You can throw that out if you want.” There were no arguments now, no squabbles, no rousing of passion. When they got to the night table. Karen opened the drawer. “So that’s where you put it,” she said, taking it out and unwrapping the Kleenex.
“A joke,” he said. He sounded faintly bitter.
She nodded. “I know,” she said. “I put it in the bed for a joke.”
“You did?”
She frowned at the drawer. “And you—”
Then they looked at each other and they both understood; and for just a second, something very much like hope sprang up in their eyes. But then Karen shook her head and said, “No. There are things you said to me—”
Ralph said, “You accused me of some things—”
Karen said, “And there’s that woman out there.”
“Talking with that smokestack of yours.”
They looked away from each other, their faces set. “Well,” said Karen. She turned and threw it into the wastebasket.
Ralph said, “Aren’t you going to take it with you?”
“I’ve got a new one,” she said.
1970
The Winner
When the author of this story was presented with the Edgar, the award that is given by the Mystery Writers of America for the best mystery novel of the year, he responded hut briefly with the shortest acceptance speech on record. “I don’t talk, I write,” Mr. Westlake said. He does indeed. Concerning people and science, and the misuse of science. Which, after all, is what the whole world is about.
Wordman stood at the window, looking out, and saw Revel I walk away from the compound. “Come here,” he said to the interviewer. “You’ll see the Guardian in action.”
The interviewer came around the desk and stood beside Wordman at the window. He said, “That’s one of them?”
“Right.” Wordman smiled, feeling pleasure. “You’re lucky,” he said. “It’s rare when one of them even makes the attempt. Maybe he’s doing it for your benefit.”
The interviewer looked troubled. He said, “Doesn’t he know what it will do?”
“Of course. Some of them don’t believe it, not till they’ve tried it once. Watch.”
They both watched. Revell walked without apparent haste, directly across the field toward the woods on the other side. After he’d gone about two hundred yards from the edge of the compound he began to bend forward slightly at the middle, and a few yards farther on he folded his arms across his stomach as though it ached him. He tottered, but kept moving forward, staggering more and more, appearing to be in great pain. He managed to stay on his feet nearly all the way to the trees, but finally crumpled to the ground, where he lay unmoving.
Wordman no longer felt pleasure. He liked the theory of the Guardian better than its application. Turning to his desk, he called the infirmary and said, “Send a stretcher out to the east, near the woods. Revell’s out there.”
The interviewer turned at the sound of the name, saying, “Revell? Is that who that is? The poet?”
“If you can call it poetry.” Wordman’s lips curled in disgust. He’d read some of Revell’s so-called poems; garbage, garbage.
The interviewer looked back out the window. “I’d heard he was arrested,” he said thoughtfully.
Looking over the interviewer’s shoulder, Wordman saw that Revell had managed to get back up onto hands and knees, was now crawling slowly and painfully toward the woods. But a stretcher team was already trotting toward him and Wordman watched as they reached him, picked up the pain-weakened body, strapped it to the stretcher, and carried it back to the compound.
As they moved out of sight, the interviewer said, “Will he be all right?”
“After a few days in the infirmary. He’ll have strained some muscles.”
The interviewer turned away from the window. “That was very graphic.” he said carefully.
“You’re the first outsider to see it,” Wordman told him, and smiled, feeling good again. “What do they call that? A scoop?”
“Yes,” agreed the interviewer, sitting back down in his chair. “A scoop.”
They returned to the interview, just the most recent of dozens Wordman had given in the year since this pilot project of the Guardian had been set up. For perhaps the fiftieth time he explained what the Guardian did and how it was of value to society.