“For the money you need.”
“Money? Who are you representing, Art?”
“I’m one of those liaison fellows from Washington.”
“Liaison? Between whom?”
“Between the public and private sectors.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ha ha, you might well ask.” His young-old face, I notice, goes instantly serious between laughs. “In this case it is between the National Institute of Mental Health in the public sector and the Ford, Carnegie, and Rockefeller foundations in the private sector.”
“Good.”
“It does sound impressive, doesn’t it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Actually, I’m a glorified errand boy.”
“Is that so?” I say gloomily, trying to read my watch.
“We of N.I.M.H. and”—for a moment his words are lost in a clap of thunder—“you may have come up with the most important integrative technique of our time.”
“What’s that?” I say. The wind shifts and a fine mist blows in the doorway. There is a smell of wet warm brick.
“You’ve done it, Dr. More!”
“Done what?”
“You’ve come up with a technique that maximizes and unites hardware and software capabilities.”
“How’s that?” I ask inattentively. What to make of this fellow who talks like a bureaucrat but looks — and smells — like a hard-working detail man? “What technique are you talking about?”
“The More Qualitative-Quantitative Ontological Lapsometer,” says Art Immelmann, laughing. “What a mouthful. Everybody at the office calls it the MOQUOL. Sounds like a hole in the ground, doesn’t it?”
I set down my toddy. My hand, feeling light and tremulous, levitates. I put it in my pocket.
“Surprised, eh, Doc?”
After a moment I decide to fix a drink. Though my hand feels normal, I decide to hold the glass in both hands.
“What I don’t understand is how you knew about it.”
“Think about it a moment Doc, and you’ll see.”
I see in the next lightning flash. Either the Director has approved my article, or Brain has accepted it or both, and either or both have leaked the news to N.I.M.H.
“You’ve won, Doctor,” says Art gravely. Again the hand comes across the desk. We shake hands. Again comes the intricate canceled sweat-and-deodorant smell.
I’ve won.
Now I know how Einstein felt when the English astronomers flashed the news from Venezuela that sure enough, Arcturus’s light had taken a little bend as it swept past the sun.
Victory.
I sit back and listen to the steady rain and the peepers turning up in the ox-lot What to do now? I recall my uncle’s advice: guard against the sadness of hubris. How to do that? By going to the Little Napoleon and having a drink with Leroy Ledbetter.
“We’re interested in funding truly innovative techniques. Yours is truly innovative.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got your own built-in logistical factor. The results, moreover, are incremental.”
“Yes.” What in hell is he talking about? It doesn’t matter. I’ve won.
“You are aware of the national implications?”
“Yes, I am.”
“For the first time the behavioral sciences have a tool for dealing with the heretofore immeasurable and intangible stresses that are rending the national fabric.”
“Yes.”
“Dr. More.” Again Art stands up, not to shake hands again I hope, no, but again there is the heavy mollified protein smell.
“Yes?”
“We’re prepared to fund an interdisciplinary task force and implement a crash program that will put a MOQUOL in the hands of every physician and social scientist in the U.S. within one year’s time.”
“You are?” Why don’t I feel excited? My eyes don’t blink.
“As you know better than I, your MOQUOL has a multilevel capacity. It is operative at behavioral, political, and philosophical levels. I would even go so far as to say this, Doc—” Art pauses to hawk phlegm and adjust his crotch with an expert complicated pat.
“What’s that, Art?”
“If the old U. S. of A. doesn’t go down the drain in the next year, it will be thanks to your MOQUOL.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but—”
In the last flash of lightning, a legal-size blue-jacketed document appears under my nose and a pen is pointed at my breastbone.
“What’s this, Art?”
“A detail. A bureaucratic first step, ha ha.” Art laughs his instant laugh and goes as sober as a mortician.
“Hey, this is a transfer of patent rights!”
“Boilerplate, Doc. Standard procedure for any contract with the private sector. And look at your return!” Expertly he flips pages. “Seventy-five percent!”
“Yeah, but I mean, goddamn, Art—!” I begin, but Art Immelmann turns white and falls back a step.
“Pardon. I only meant to say that the money doesn’t interest me.” Art must be a Holy Name man or a hard-shell Baptist.
“I told them you’d say that. But let’s don’t worry about it. The important thing is to get the MOQUOL distributed in time.”
“Well, I’ve already got a hundred production models.”
“Where?” Art nearly comes across the desk.
I sit back in surprise. “In a safe place. Don’t worry.”
“You don’t want to leave something like MOQUOL lying around. Doc.”
“I know.” I tell him of my plans, my appointment with the Director Monday, the submission of my article to Brain. “I just don’t see the necessity of signing over my patent rights.”
“You know, you could be disappointed, Doc,” says Art thoughtfully but beginning, I see with relief, to put the application forms back in his case.
“Well, I’m hopeful.”
“You know how people resist a really radical innovation.”
“Yes, but this thing works, Art.”
“I know. Tell you what, Doc,” says Art cheerfully, snapping up his attaché case. “I’ll drop in next week.”
“Cant the funding be arranged without signing over control of the MOQUOL?”
“No doubt. But I’ll be seeing you in a day or two. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case you hit a snag. You never know about people, Doc,” says Art mysteriously.
“Very true,” I say, anxious only to get rid of him and get over to the Little Napoleon, a snug and friendly haven in any storm.
Some seconds pass before I realize that Art left by the back door, striking out across the dark ox-lot. I shrug. Perhaps he’s taking the short cut to the old Southern Hotel, where a few drummers and detail men still put up.
But how would he know about the short cut?
JULY SECOND
My mother’s house
10:00 A.M. / SUNDAY, JULY 2
SUNDAYS I EAT BREAKFAST WITH MY MOTHER. But today is special. Yesterday was my birthday. Today is Property Rights Sunday. My mother, who is president of the altar society and also of the Business & Professional Women, is leading an ecumenical delegation to Saint Pius VII Church (A.C.C.). (A.C.C. = American Catholic Church.)
The Summer Moonlight Tour of the Champs is in full swing. The fish fry will be held this afternoon. Later this morning the Kaydettes corps of Christian baton-twirlers will give a performance. Tuesday they leave for the nationals at Oxford, Mississippi.
It seems I promised to go to church with Mother — because it is my birthday, because it is Property Rights Sunday, and because she wants me to “come back to the Church.”
We are sitting on a terrace overlooking the golf links where we are served a hearty breakfast by Eukie, Mother’s little black houseboy. His white jacket is too dazzling to be looked at. The pile of steaming grits is also white and glittering in the morning sunlight. I’ve already had my warm Tang plus duck eggs plus vodka, and my pulse races along at a merry clip. I am both alert and shaky.