The Best of L. Sprague de Camp
- Автор: Де Камп Лайон Спрэг
- Год: 1978
- Язык: английский
- Год: Del Rey / Ballantine
- ISBN: 0-345-25474-0
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Best of L. Sprague de Camp». Краткое содержание книги:
Ross settled down at his new desk to read the Taylor article, the burden of which seemed to be that to get ahead one should practice abject submission to one's employer's slightest whim. While he was absorbing the eminent engineer's advice, one of the girls came in and placed on his desk a big ring binder containing last year's accumulation of file copies of The Garment Gazette, which he read.
What Mr. Hoolihan really needed, he thought, was a multiple telagog set by which he could control all his employees all at once and all the time.
During the lunch hour, Ovid Ross telephoned the Telagog Company and asked for Gilbert Falck. After some delay a voice said:
"Falck speaking."
"This is Ross, Ovid Ross. Say, it worked! I got the job!"
"Oh, I know that. I monitored you for a half-hour after you shut me off, and cut in on you at odd minutes later."
"Oh. But say, I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciated it. Uh. It's wonderful. Could I—could I blow you to a drink this evening after work?"
"Wait till I look at my schedule ... Okay, five to six is free. Drop by on your way from work, eh?"
Ovid Ross did. He found Falck, in line with his role as professional man-of-the-world, cordial but not unduly impressed by his accomplishment in getting Ross a job. When the first pair of drinks had been drunk, Falck bought a second round. Ross asked:
"What I don't see is, how on earth do you do it? I have a hard enough time managing things like that for myself, let alone for some other guy."
Falck made an airy motion. "Experience, my lad, practice. And balance. A certain mental coordination so you automatically roll with the punch and shoot for every opening. I've got rather a tough case coming up tomorrow. Client wants to put over a merger, and it'll take all my savoir faire to see him through it." He sipped. "Then, too, the fact that it's not my job or my business deal or my dame helps. Gives me a certain detachment I mightn't have about my own affairs."
"Like surgeons don't usually operate on their own kinfolk?"
"Exactly."
Ovid Ross did some mental calculations, subtracting the employment agency's fee and the charges of the Telagog Company from his assets, and decided that he could afford to buy one more round. By the time this had been drunk, he was in excellent spirits. He told Falck of Hoolihan's quirks. Falck commented:
"Why, the damned little Napoleon! If he said that to me, I'd tell him where to stick his job." Falck glanced at his watch. "What's next on your agenda?"
"I don't think I'll need any control for the next day or two, but as soon as I get oriented they're liable to send me out on an interview. So you better stand by."
"Okay. Try to call me a little in advance to brief me. I want to cut Bundy in on your sensory circuits in case he has to substitute for me."
When he got to the Y.M.C.A. where he lived, Ovid Ross telephoned a White Plains number and got an answer in a strong Russian accent:
"Who is cullink, pliz?"
"Mr. Ross would like to—uh—speak to Miss La Motte."
"Oh. Vait." Then after a long pause: "Is that you, Ovid?"
"Uh. Sure is. Know what? I got the job!"
"Splendid! Are you working now?"
"Yeah. It's a high-powered place as trade journals go. I only hope I can stick the boss."
"Don't you like him?"
"No, and neither does anybody else. But it's money. Say, Claire!"
"Yes?"
"I met a swell guy. Name of Falck. A real man-of-the-world. Knows his way around."
"Good. I hope you see more of him."
"How are the wild Russians?"
"About the same. I had a terrible row with Peshkova."
"Yeah? How come?"
"I was teaching the boys American history, and she claimed I wasn't putting enough dialectical materialism into it. I should have explained that the American Revolution was a plot by the American bourgeoisie to acquire exclusive exploitation of the masses instead of having to share it with the British aristocracy. And I said a few things about if even the Russians had given up that line, why should I teach it? We were yelling at one another when Peshkov came in and made peace."
"Has he made any more passes?" asked Ross anxiously.
"No, except to stare at me with that hungry expression all the time. It gives me the creeps."
"Well, someday ..." Ross's voice trailed off. He wanted to say something like: "Someday I'll marry you and then you won't have to tutor an exiled ex-commissar's brats anymore."
But, in the first place, he was too shy; in the second, he did not know Claire La Motte well enough; and, in the third, he was not in a position to take on costly commitments.
"Did you say something?" inquired Claire.
"No—that is—uh—I wondered when we'd get together again."
"I know! Are you busy Sunday?"
"Nope."
"Then come on up here. The Peshkovs will be gone all weekend, and the hired couple are going down to Coney. Bring your friend Mr. Falck, and his girl friend if he has one."
"Uh? Swell idea! I'll ask him."
Claire La Motte gave Ross directions for reaching the estate which the Peshkovs had bought in Westchester County. After they had hung up, Ovid Ross sat staring at the telephone. He had been hoping for such an invitation. Ever since he had met Claire the previous winter, she had promised to have him to the Peshkovs' place in May or June, and now June was almost over. The Peshkovs had never absented themselves long enough.
Then his old fear of embarrassment—erythrophobia, a psychologist had told him-rose up to plague him. Suppose Falck rebuffed his invitation? The thought gave him shivers. If only he could tender the invitation while under telagog control! But since Falck was his regular controller, he could hardly work it that way. And, having promised Claire, he would have to go through with this project.
Through Wednesday and Thursday, orientation continued at The Garment Gazette. Ross read proof, helped Sharpe with makeup, and wrote heads: AUSTRALIAN WOOL DOWN; FALL FASHIONS FEATURE FUCHSIA; ILGWU ELECTS KATZ. Friday morning Addison Sharpe said:
"We're sending you out this afternoon to interview Marcus Ballin."
"The Outstanding Knitwear man?"
"Yes."
"What about? Anything special?"
"That's what you're to find out. He called up to say he was planning something new in shows. First he talked to Mr. Hoolihan, who got mad and passed the call on to me. Ballin asked if we'd like to run a paragraph or two on this show, so I said I'd send a man.
Heffernan's out so you'll have to take care of it."
"I'll do my best," said Ross.
Sharpe said: "It's about time we ran a feature on Marcus anyway. Quite a versatile and picturesque character."
"What's his specialty?"
"Oh, he plays the violin. He once went on an expedition he financed himself to find some bug in South America. Take the portrait Leica along and give him the works. His place is at 135 West Thirty-seventh Street."
Ovid Ross telephoned the Telagog Company and made a luncheon date with Gilbert Falck. During lunch he told what he knew of his impending ordeal. Falck found a spot on his schedule when he could take charge of the interview.
Ross also screwed up his nerve to pass on Claire's proposal for the weekend to Falck, who said:
"Thanks, rather. I shall be glad to. Shall we go in your car or mine?"
"Mine, since I made the invitation."
"Fine. I'll get a girl."
"Hey!" said Ross. "If you come along to Westchester you can't be in your booth controlling me if I run into an embarrassing situation."
Falck raised his blond eyebrows. "What's embarrassing about a picnic with your best girl?"
"Oh, you know."
"No I don't, unless you tell me."
Ross twisted his fingers. "I don't know her awfully well, but I think she's—she's— uh—well, I suppose you'd say I was nuts about her. And—-and I always feel like I'm making a fool of myself."