Look at you, afraid even to stand here listening. Afraid to.
In a nervous voice the man said to his wife, ‘We'd better ... go.'
‘Oh no,' the boy said pleadingly. ‘I mean, gee, how often do you get to talk to a papoola? It must belong to that jalopy jungle there.' The boy pointed, and Al found himself under the man's keen, observing scrutiny.
The man said, ‘Of course. They brought it here to sell jalopies. It's working on us right now, softening us up.' The enchantment visibly faded from his face. ‘There's the fellow sitting in there operating it.'
But the papoola thought, what I tell you is still true. Even if it is a sales pitch. You could go there, to Mars, yourself. You and your family can see with your own eyes -- if you have the courage to break free. Can you do it? Are you a real man? Buy a Loony Luke jalopy; buy it while you still have the chance, because you know that some day, maybe not so long from now, the NP is going to crack down. And there will be no more jalopy jungles. No more crack in the wall of the authoritarian society through which a few -- a few lucky people -- can escape.
Fiddling with the controls at his mid-section, Al turned up the gain. The force of the papoola's psyche increased, drawing the man in, taking control of him. You must buy a jalopy, the papoola urged. Easy payment plan, service warranty, many models to choose from. This is the time to sign; don't delay. The man took a step towards the lot. Hurry the papoola told him. Any second now the authorities may close down the lot and your opportunity will be gone forever.
‘This -- is how they work it,' the man said with difficulty. ‘The animal snares people. Hypnosis. We have to leave.' But he did not leave; it was too late: he was going to buy a jalopy, and Al, in the office with his control box, was reeling the man in.
Leisurely, Al rose to his feet. Time to go out and close the deal. He shut off the papoola, opened the office door and stepped outside on to the lot. And he saw a once-familiar figure threading its way among the jalopies, towards him. It was his one-time buddy, Ian Duncan and he had not seen him in years. Good grief, Al thought. What's he want? And at a time like this!
‘Al,' Ian Duncan called, gesturing. ‘Can I talk with you a second? You're not too busy, are you?' Perspiring and pale, he came closer, looking about in a frightened way. He had deteriorated since Al had last seen him.
‘Listen,' Al said, with anger. But already it was too late; the couple and their boy had broken away and were moving rapidly on down the sidewalk.
‘I didn't, um, mean to bother you,' Ian mumbled.
‘You're not bothering me,' Al said as he gloomily watched the three prospects depart. ‘Well, what's the trouble, Ian? You sure as hell don't look very well. Are you sick? Come on inside the office.' He led him inside and shut the door.
Ian said, ‘I came across my jug. Remember when we were trying to make it to the White House? Al, we have to try once more. Honest to god, I can't go on like this. I can't stand to be a failure at what we agreed was the most important thing in our lives.' Panting, he mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief, his hands trembling.
‘I don't even have my jug any more,' Al said presently.
‘You must. Well, we could each record our parts separately on my jug and then synthesize them on one tape, and present that to the White House. This trapped feeling, I don't know if I can go on living with it. I have to get back to playing. If we started practising right now on the "Goldberg Variations" in two months we -- ‘
Al broke in, ‘You still live at that place? That big Abraham Lincoln establishment?'
Ian nodded.
‘And you still have that job with that Bavarian cartel? You're still a gear inspector?' He could not understand why Ian Duncan was so upset. ‘Hell, if worst comes to worst you can emigrate. Jug-playing is out of the question. I haven't played for years, since I last saw you, in fact. Just a minute.'
He dialled the knobs of the mechanism which controlled the papoola; near the sidewalk the creature responded and began to return slowly to its spot beneath the sign.
Seeing it, Ian said, ‘I thought they were all dead.'
‘They are,' Al said.
‘But that one out there moves and -- ‘
‘It's a fake,' Al said, ‘a simulacrum, like those things they use for colonizing. I control it.' He showed his old-time buddy the control box. ‘It brings in people off the sidewalk. Actually, Luke is supposed to have a genuine one on which these are modelled. Nobody knows for sure and the law can't touch Luke. The NP can't make him cough up the real one, if he does have it.' Al seated himself and lit his pipe. ‘Tail your relpol test,' he said to Ian. ‘Lose your apartment and get back your original deposit. Bring me the money and I'll see that you get a damn fine jalopy that'll take you to Mars. How about it?'
‘I tried to fail my test,' Ian said, ‘but they won't let me. They doctored the results. They don't want me to get away. They won't let me go.'
‘Who's "they"?'
‘The man in the next apartment at The Abraham Lincoln. Edgar Stone, his name is -- I think. He did it deliberately. I saw the expression on his face. Maybe he imagined he was doing me a favour ... I don't know.' He glanced around him. ‘This is a nice little office you have here. You sleep in it, don't you? And when it moves, you move with it.'
‘Yes,' Al said, ‘we're always prepared to take off.' The NP had almost got him a number of times, even though the lot could obtain orbital velocity in six minutes. The papoola detected their approach, but not sufficiently far in advance for a comfortable escape; generally it was hurried and disorganized, with part of his inventory of jalopies being left behind.
‘You're barely one jump ahead of them,' Ian mused. ‘And yet, it doesn't bother you. I guess it's all in your attitude.'
‘If they get me,' Al said, ‘Luke will bail me out.' So what did he have to worry about? His employer was a powerful man; the Thibodeaux clan limited their attacks on him to deep-think articles in popular magazines harping on Luke's vulgarity and the shoddiness of his jalopies.
‘I envy you,' Ian said. ‘Your poise. Your calmness.'
‘Doesn't your building have a skypilot? Go talk to him.'
Ian said bitterly, ‘That's no good. Right now it's Patrick Doyle and he's as badly off as I am. And Don Tishman, our chairman, is even worse off; he's a bundle of nerves. In fact our whole building is shot through with anxiety. Maybe it has to do with Nicole's sinus headaches.
Glancing at him, Al saw that he was actually serious. The White House and all it stood for meant that much to him; it still dominated his life, as it had years ago when they had been buddies in the Service. ‘For your sake,' Al said quietly, ‘I'll get my jug out and practice. We'll make one more try.
Speechless, Ian Duncan gaped at him.
‘I mean it,' Al said, nodding.
With gratitude, Ian whispered, ‘God bless you, Al.'
Sombrely, Al Miller puffed on his pipe.
Ahead of Chic Strikerock the small factory at which he worked grew to its full but meagre proportion; this was as large as it was going to get -- this hatbox-like structure -- of late a light green, modern enough if one's standards were not too critical. Frauenzimmer Associates. Soon he would be in his office, at work, and fussing with the blinds of the window in an effort to restrict the bright morning sun. Fussing, too, at Miss Greta Trupe, the elderly lady secretary who served both him and Maury.