“Part of personal collection,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Much fooled around in vainglorious swift-draw practicing and firing, in spare hours. Admit to compare favorably with other enthusiasts in contest-timing. But mature use heretofore delayed.” Holding the gun in correct fashion he pointed it at the office door. And sat waiting.
At the bench in their basement workshop, Frank Frink sat at the arbor. He held a half-finished silver earring against the noisily turning cotton buff; bits of rouge spattered his glasses and blackened his nails and hands. The earring, shaped in a snail-shell spiral, became hot from friction, but Frink grimly bore down even more.
“Don’t get it too shiny,” Ed McCarthy said. “Just hit the high spots; you can even leave the lows completely.”
Frank Frink grunted.
“There’s a better market for silver if it’s not polished up too much,” Ed said. “Silverwork should have that old look.”
Market, Frink thought.
They had sold nothing. Except for the consignment at American Artistic Handcrafts, no one had taken anything, and they had visited five retail shops in all.
We’re not making any money, Frink said to himself. We’re making more and more jewelry and it’s just piling up around us.
The screw-back of the earring caught in the wheel; the piece whipped out of Frink’s hands and flew to the polish shield, then fell to the floor. He shut off the motor.
“Don’t let those pieces go,” McCarthy said, at the welding torch.
“Christ, it’s the size of a pea. No way to get a grip.”
“Well, pick it up anyhow.”
The hell with the whole thing, Frink thought.
“What’s the matter?” McCarthy said, seeing him make no move to fish up the earring.
Frink said, “We’re pouring money in for nothing.”
“We can’t sell what we haven’t made.”
“We can’t sell anything,” Frink said. “Made or unmade.”
“Five stores. Drop in the bucket.”
“But the trend,” Frink said. “It’s enough to know.”
“Don’t kid yourself.”
Frink said, “I’m not kidding myself.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning it’s time to start looking for a market for scrap.”
“All right,” McCarthy said, “quit, then.”
“I have.”
“I’ll go on by myself.” McCarthy lit the torch again.
“How are we going to split the stuff?”
“I don’t know. But we’ll find a way.”
“Buy me out,” Frink said.
“Hell no.”
Frink computed. “Pay me six hundred dollars.”
“No, you take half of everything.”
“Half the motor?”
They were both silent then.
“Three more stores,” McCarthy said. “Then we’ll talk about it.” Lowering his mask he began brazing a section of brass rod into a cuff bracelet.
Frank Frink stepped down from the bench. He located the snail-shell earring and replaced it in the carton of incomplete pieces. “I’m going outside for a smoke,” he said, and walked across the basement to the stairs.
A moment later he stood outdoors on the sidewalk, a T’ien-lai between his fingers.
It’s all over, he said to himself. I don’t need the oracle to tell me; I recognize what the Moment is. The smell is there. Defeat.
And it is hard really to say why. Maybe, theoretically, we could go on. Store to store, other cities. But—something is wrong. And all the effort and ingenuity won’t change it.
I want to know why, he thought.
But I never will.
What should we have done? Made what instead?
We bucked the moment. Bucked the Tao. Upstream, in the wrong direction. And now—dissolution. Decay.