PRESTON SOCIETY
Main offices at rear
This was the back entrance, the loading platform. Cartwright opened the back of the car and began dragging out cartons of mailing literature.
He trundled a heavy wood carton down the narrow walk and into the gloomy storage room of the building. A single atronic bulb was fastened to the ceiling; it glowed feebly in the dank silence. Supplies were stacked on all sides, towering columns of crates and wire-bound boxes. He found an empty spot and set down his load.
He passed through the hall and into the cramped front office. Nobody was there; the office and its barren reception room were empty. The front door of the building was standing wide open, as usual. Cartwright picked up a heap of letters, sat down on the sagging couch and spread them out on the table, after pushing aside a dog-eared copy of John Preston's third book, Flame Disc.
He opened a letter and removed a five-dollar bill and a long note in a shaky handwriting. There were a few more microscopic contributions. Adding them up, he found the Society had received thirty dollars. Bills added up to over five hundred dollars. He folded the money and crossed to the counter to snap on the ancient ipvic.
"What's the exact time?" he asked the mechanical clerk.
"Nine fifty-two, sir or madam."
Cartwright set his pocket watch and wandered about the office. He stood for a moment in the narrow doorway; the sunlight was cold and pleasant, and it made him sleepy. He yawned and relaxed against the door jamb.
"They're getting restless," Rita O'Neill said behind him. "Stop putting it off."
"I'm waiting because I have to," he answered, without turning round.
"You're not afraid of them, are you?"
"I'm afraid, but not of them." Cartwright turned back into the office. He moved down the narrow hall and Rita O'Neill hurried after him, into the gloomy inner passage that ran parallel to the ordinary corridor.
"Any more funds come in today?" she asked.
"Thirty dollars."
"Don't turn up your nose at that. It'll buy us another crate of protine."
Cartwright passed on to Doctor Flood, sitting on a stool in the shadows beyond the turn of the corridor. The air was musty and dark; cobwebs and rubbish littered the passage. Somewhere in the rat-scratched depths creaky ventilation equipment wheezed laboriously. Beyond the sealed doorway at the end of the corridor came a crack of light and the low murmur of voices.
"You certainly took your time getting here," Doctor Flood complained. A sullen mound of a man, thick-fingered, with watery red eyes, he grinned a sour gold-toothed leer at Cartwright. "What were you doing—waiting for more members?" He chuckled wetly. "There won't be any because this is all there is. This is the total organization."
Cartwright and Rita O'Neill pushed open the metal door and entered the meeting chamber.
The people waiting glanced up as the door opened. Talk ceased abruptly and all eyes were on Cartwright. An eager hope mixed with fright shuddered through the room; relieved, a few people edged towards him. The murmur boiled up again and became a babble; now they were all trying to get his attention. A ring of excited, gesturing men and women formed round him as he moved through the room. For one another they had uneasy, hostile glares. The parallel-club system had been successfuclass="underline" to one another they were strangers.
"Can we start?" Ralf Butler demanded.
"Soon," Cartwright answered. He moved on among them, aware of the tension. But another ten minutes wouldn't make any difference.
Jack McLean glanced up and grinned at Cartwright. "Not long? It's about time."
Cartwright felt in his pockets. Somewhere he had a crumpled, often-folded list of names. And on the back was a short speech he planned to deliver before the line of cars hidden in the underground garage lumbered off.
"What are you looking for?" Mary Uzich asked. "A writer?"
He found the list and carefully unfolded it. Names had been entered, crossed off, and re-entered. He smoothed it out and made an attention-attracting sound. It was unnecessary; he was surrounded by a ring of eager faces.
A bewildering variety of people. Mexican labourers mute and frightened. A hard-faced urban couple. A jet stoker. Japanese workmen. A red-lipped girl. The middle-aged owner of a retail store that had failed. An agronomy student. A salesman. A cook. A nurse. A carpenter. All of them perspiring, shoving, listening, watching intently.
These were people with skill in their hands, not their heads. Their ability had come from years of practice, from direct contact with work. They could grow plants, sink foundations, repair leaking pipes, maintain machinery, weave clothing, cook meals. According to the classification system they were failures.
"I think everybody's here," Rita O'Neill said. "You can go ahead."
Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and raised his voice.
"I want to say something before the cars leave. The ship has been checked over and it's supposed to be ready for deep-space flight."
"That's correct," Captain Groves said impassively. He was a stern-faced Negro, big and solemn and dignified.
Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metal foil.
"Well, this is it. Anybody want to back out?"
Excitement and tension, but none of them stirred.
"This is what we've been working for. Now the parallel-club system can be disbanded; you're seeing each other face to face. During the flight you'll get to know each other. I hope you get along."
Faint, nervous smiles.
"This is the Society." Cartwright managed to get a half-joking note in his voice. "You people are it. This is all of us."
They peered good-naturedly at each other. Opinions were forming fast; perhaps too fast.
"You'll be jammed in tight," Cartwright continued. "This isn't a pleasure ship; it's a run-down General Motors ore freighter ready for the scrap heap. But it's all we could afford. Maybe if some rich woman had given a few million more..."
No smiles. It was too bitterly painful. The money had been squeezed out of these people dollar by dollar; it had been turned over to the Society with hope, faith and agonizing doubts.
"I wish John Preston were here," Cartwright said. "He'd be glad to see this, if he were alive. He knew it would come, some day." He examined his watch and then finished what he had to say. "Good luck! You're on your way. Hold your charms and let Groves do the steering."
It took a moment to sink in. Then the roar of shock billowed up and slapped him violently.
"You son of a bitch!" Ralf Butler screamed in terror. "You're not coming with us!"
It was amazing, Cartwright thought in a detached way, how fast the mood of a group could change.
"You're afraid!" Butler shouted. "You want us to go out there but you won't come with us."
"What's going on?" Bill Konklin demanded suspiciously. There was apprehension, mixed with growing anger. "Explain, Leon."
"I'm not coming," Cartwright admitted. "You'll be in Groves's hands. He's a good navigator."
"Isn't there anything out there?" Janet Sibley asked anxiously. "Don't you believe any more? Have you changed your mind, Mr. Cartwright?"
"You know the reason," Jack McLean snorted. "Nobody wants to die out there in dead space. Nobody wants to wander around with those space monsters."