With difficulty he said, "Get that thing off me, Al."
Al shrugged. And the thought, which had invaded Ian's mind from without, gradually withdrew. And yet, a residue remained. He was no longer sure of his position.
"It's nothing compared to what Nicole's machinery can accomplish," Al pointed out, seeing the expression on his face. "One papoola here and there, and that planet-wide instrument that Nicole has made out of TV – there you have the real danger, Ian. The papoola is crude; you know you're being worked on. Not so when you listen to Nicole. The pressure is so subtle and so complete -"
"I don't know about that," Ian said, "I just know that unless we're successful, unless we get to play at the White House, life as far as I'm concerned isn't worth living. And nobody put that idea in my head. It's just the way I feel; it's my own idea, dammit." He held the door open, and Al passed on into the auditorium, carrying his jug by the handle. Ian followed, and a moment later the two of them were on the stage, facing the partially-filled hall.
"Have you ever seen her?" Al asked.
"I see her all the time."
"I mean in reality. In person. So to speak, in the flesh."
"Of course not," Ian said. That was the whole point of their being successful, of getting to the White House. They would see her really, not just the TV image; it would no longer be a fantasy – it would be true.
"I saw her once," Al said. "I had just put the lot down, Jalopy Jungle No. 3, on a main business avenue in Shreveport, La. It was early in the morning, about eight o'clock. I saw official cars coming; naturally I thought it was the police – I started to take off. But it wasn't. It was a motorcade, with Nicole in it, going to dedicate a new apartment building, the largest yet."
"Yes," Ian said. "The Paul Bunyan." The football team from Abraham Lincoln played annually against its team, and always lost. The Paul Bunyan had over ten thousand residents, and all of them came from administrative-class backgrounds; it was an exclusive apartment building of active Party members, with uniquely high monthly payments.
"You should have seen her," Al said thoughtfully as he sat facing the audience, his jug on his lap. He tapped the papoola with his foot; it had taken up a position beneath his chair, out of sight. "Yes," he murmured, "you really should. It's not the same as on TV, Ian. Not at all."
Ian nodded. He had begun to feel apprehensive, now; in a few minutes they would be introduced. Their test had come.
Seeing him gripping his jug tautly, Al said, "Shall I use the papoola or not? It's up to you." He raised a quizzical brow.
Ian said, "Use it."
"Okay," Al said, reaching his hand inside his coat. Leisurely, he stroked the controls. And, from beneath his chair, the papoola rolled forth, its antennae twitching drolly, its eyes crossing and uncrossing.
At once the audience became alert; people leaned forward to see, some of them chuckling with delight.
"Look," a man said excitedly. It was old Joe Purd, as eager as a child. "It's the papoola!"
A woman rose to her feet to see more clearly, and Ian thought to himself, Everyone loves the papoola. We'll win, whether we can play the jug or not. And then what? Will meeting Nicole make us even more unhappy than we are? Is that what we'll get out of this: hopeless, massive discontent? An ache, a longing which can never be satisfied in this world?
It was too late to back out, now. The doors of the auditorium had shut and Don Klugman was rising from his chair, rapping for order. "Okay, folks," he said into his lapel microphone. "We're going to have a little display of some talent, right now, for everyone's enjoyment. As you see on your programs, first in order is a fine group, the Duncan Brothers and their Classical Jugs with a medley of Bach and Handel tunes that ought to set your feet tapping." He beamed archly at Ian and Al, as if saying, How does that suit you as an intro?
Al paid no attention; he manipulated his controls and gazed thoughtfully at the audience, then at last picked up his jug, glanced at Ian and then tapped his foot. "The Little Fugue in G Minor" opened their medley, and Al began to blow on the jug, sending forth the lively theme.
Bum, bum, bum. Bum-bum bum-bum bum bum de bum. DE bum, DE bum, de de-de bum… His cheeks puffed out red and swollen as he blew.
The papoola wandered across the stage, then lowered itself, by a series of gangly, foolish motions, into the first row of the audience. It had begun to go to work.
The news posted on the communal bulletin board outside the cafeteria of the Abraham Lincoln that the Duncan Brothers had been chosen by the talent scout to perform at the White House astounded Edgar Stone. He read the announcement again and again, wondering how the little nervous, cringing man had managed to do it.
There's been cheating, Stone said to himself. Just as I passed him on his political tests… he's got somebody else to falsify a few results for him along the talent line: He himself had heard the jugs; he had been present at that program, and the Duncan Brothers, Classical Jugs, were simply not that good. They were good, admittedly… but intuitively he knew that more was involved.
Deep inside him he felt anger, a resentment that he had falsified Duncan's test-score. I put him on the road to success, Stone realized; I saved him. And now he's on his way to the White House.
No wonder Duncan did so poorly on his political test, Stone said to himself. He was busy practicing on his jug; he has no time for the commonplace realities which the rest of us have to cope with. It must be great to be an artist, Stone thought with bitterness. You're exempt from all the rules, you can do as you like.
He sure made a fool out of me, Stone realized.
Striding down the second floor hall, Stone arrived at the office of the building sky pilot; he rang the bell and the door opened, showing him the sight of the sky pilot deep in work at his desk, his face wrinkled with fatigue. "Urn, father," Stone said, "I'd like to confess. Can you spare a few minutes? It's very urgently on my mind, my sins I mean."
Rubbing his forehead, Patrick Doyle nodded. "Jeez," he murmured. "It either rains or it pours; I've had ten residents in today so far, using the confessionator. Go ahead." He pointed to the alcove which opened onto his office. "Sit down and plug yourself in. I'll be listening while I fill out these 4-10 forms from Boise."
Filled with wrathful indignation, his hands trembling, Edgar Stone attached the electrodes of the confessionator to the correct spots of his scalp, and then, picking up the microphone, began to confess. The tape-drums of the machine turned as he spoke. "Moved by a false pity," he said, "I infracted a rule of the building. But mainly I am concerned not with the act itself but with the motives behind it; the act merely is the outgrowth of a false attitude toward my fellow residents. This person, my neighbor Mr. Duncan, did poorly in his recent relpol test and I foresaw him being evicted from Abraham Lincoln. I identified with him because subconsciously I regard myself as a failure, both as a resident of this building and as a man, so I falsified his score to indicate that he had passed. Obviously, a new relpol test will have to be given to Mr. Duncan and the one which I scored will have to be voided." He eyed the sky pilot, but there was no reaction.
That will take care of Ian Duncan and his Classical Jug, Stone said to himself.
By now the confessionator had analyzed his confession; it popped a card out, and Doyle rose to his feet wearily to receive it. After a careful study he glanced up. "Mr. Stone," he said, "the view expressed here is that your confession is no confession. What do you really have on your mind? Go back and begin all over; you haven't probed down deeply enough and brought up the genuine material. And I suggest you start out by confessing that you misconfessed consciously and deliberately."
"No such thing," Stone said, but his voice – even to him – sounded feeble. "Perhaps I could discuss this with you informally. I did falsify Ian Duncan's test score. Now, maybe my motives for doing it -"