Collected Short Fiction, page 51
“That’s wonderful,” Alice said, her eyes glowing. “Tell Dad. He can recognize a good idea when he hears it. He won’t think you’re so dumb then.”
“I could probably like him,” Jim said, “except he won’t give me the chance. Not unless we find the constant. I guess I’ll just have to play my heart out tomorrow.”
“You can’t do it, darling. You’d have to shoot in the fifties!”
“A golf ball takes some funny bounces,” Jim said. He turned to the window and stuck his hands moodily in his pockets. He started. It was as simple as that.
“There is a constant,” he said exultantly, swinging around. “Look, Al. Here’s the key to my locker. Get my caddy and Saul’s. I think you’ll have more luck with the boy than I would. Give him—oh, five or ten dollars. And here’s what I want you to do . . .” In the middle of the explanation, Alice caught fire, too. As he finished, she gave Jim a quick, proud kiss and hurried out. Jim’s eyes followed her admiringly for a moment, and then he reluctantly turned toward the dining room.
Jim dragged Dave Simpson, the tournament official, protestingly away from a hearty meal. “I’ve just had a wonderful idea,” he said. “Why don’t you put Saul and me together for tomorrow’s round.”
“What!” Dave exclaimed.
“Think of the crowds, Dave,” Jim urged.
“But what about you? What chance will you have, playing with a man who has you down six strokes?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Jim said bravely. “I don’t mind. But if you’re not interested . . .”
Jim moved to turn away. Dave caught him by an elbow.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. If it’s all right with you, I don’t think anyone else will object.”
Jim thought of Hatcher. “No,” he said, “I don’t think they will.”
Jim walked away, whistling.
THE reaction set in when he strode onto the tee next morning. The crowd was immense and noisy. It was all very well to plan something like this in the abstract. But, in the clutch, would his nerve fail him, as it had failed him before?
Alice was waiting for him, cool and lovely and infinitely desirable. She put her hand on his arm and warmed him with a smile.
On the other side of the broad tee, Hatcher’s smile was mocking. Beside him, Saul, the robot, waited impassively. Jim knew then that it wasn’t going to be as easy as he had thought.
It wouldn’t be enough to hope that he had thrown a wrench into Saul’s machinery. He would have to fight grimly, determinedly. He would have to play the greatest game of his life today, if he wanted to win.
The crowd was partisan. Like most Americans, they were pulling for the underdog. Jim knew they wanted him to play brilliantly, if only to narrow the gap and make the match thrilling and that, if he failed to come through for them, they would swing to Saul.
Even realizing all this, it warmed him as they cheered him up to the tee—knowing that what they really wanted was to see golfing history made. God willing, that was what they would see.
Jim’s drive took a tail-end hook. It dived into the rough behind a clump of trees. He stepped back, grimacing. He would have appreciated a happier start.
As Jim watched closely, Saul took a ball from his caddy, teed it up, settled himself and swung.
The ball sailed straight down the fairway, forty or fifty yards beyond the 300-yard marker. The crowd gasped. Jim smiled.
When he saw his lie, the smile was wiped away. Sensible golf would have been to play it safe, out onto the fairway, where he could hope to play his third shot straight enough for a par.
Sensible golf wouldn’t win. Jim took out his two-iron, sighted through a small hole in the trees and swung at the almost-hidden ball. It whipped through the opening and rolled to a stop just in front of the green.
Saul’s easy four-iron shot was dead on the pin all the way, but the crowd moaned sympathetically as the ball hit the back edge of the green and hopped into the rough.
Hatcher looked puzzled as he stood beside the green. Jim’s close approach set up an easy putt for a birdie. Saul’s recovery was long, and two putts gave him a par.
Jim smiled grimly. That was one of the six strokes he needed.
Jim’s game sparkled—Saul kept finding trouble. While Jim was getting down in two on the next hole, Saul was over the green again and back for a par three.
The third hole was shared in birdies, the fourth in pars, the fifth in birdies again. Then Jim eagled the par-5 sixth, and Saul played back and forth across the green for a 5.
Four strokes, Jim thought, and cast a glance at Hatcher whose face was worried and confused. Maybe now he was having doubts about his perfect machine.
BUT Saul matched pars with Jim on the next two, then got back a stroke on the ninth with a long putt while Jim was scrambling for a par.
Jim took a long breath as they walked to the tenth tee to begin the second nine, the crucial nine. He had come in with a scorching 30, while Saul had shot his worst nine of the tournament, a 33, If Jim hadn’t been terrific, he wouldn’t have picked up a stroke. It was going to be tough to keep up that pace.
When Alice lit his cigarette for him, her hand was shaking. He held the hand firmly and looked steadily into her eyes. In a moment the shaking stopped. “Thanks,” she said.
“Nothing to it,” Jim said, and hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
Jim breathed a little easier when Saul’s two-iron bounced far down the back edge of the tenth green. Jim played it carefully, landing on the front edge and sticking. Saul took a long recovery shot and two putts for his first bogey. Jim’s two putts gave him a par. He was only two strokes behind.
They shared birdies on the eleventh and pars on twelfth. On the next, however, Jim got his second eagle, with a chip shot that dribbled to the lip, trembled and finally dropped. Unperturbed, Saul holed his putt for a birdie.
One stroke behind? Jim muttered hoarsely to himself. The strain was beginning to tell. He had to steel himself before each shot to keep from trembling.
They each took pars on 14, birdie threes on 15. On the short sixteenth, Jim’s 7-iron dropped 10 feet in front of the pin, Saul’s 11 feet behind. Saul’s putt was straight in.
Jim’s hand shook as he lined up the putt. If he missed this, he would be two strokes behind again with only two holes to go. He could never hope to catch up. He jabbed at the ball. It trickled off to the right, stopping a full foot from the hole. He steadied himself and dropped the next.
For a moment, he could feel the old, familiar sense of despair and rage creep through him. Then Alice put her arm confidently through his as they walked to the seventeenth tee. Fiercely, Jim drove his longest wood of the day. It still lacked 30 yards of Saul’s.
Saul overshot the green by 40 yards and ended with a par-five. Jim calmed himself to make a 50-foot approach putt stop within 3 feet of the pin, but left himself a sharp downhill slope. He tapped the second one gingerly. The ball trickled to the lip and dropped with a cheerful thunk.
He was no Tod Winters, Jim told himself wryly, but he had his moments. Once more he was only one stroke behind. One stroke, and one hole to go. Pick up a stroke and tie, two strokes and win. Win Alice or lose her. It was like losing the world. A tie would be no good. There were excellent reasons why Saul’s game wouldn’t be off on the morrow. He had to get two strokes on this hole, somehow.
JIM’S drive sliced behind a fringe of trees that divided the first and eighteenth fairways. Saul’s drive, as usual, was long and straight. Jim wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was pain not to relax, not to quit, scream and curse.
The green was hidden, 130-yards away. He had to shoot over the trees blind. He swung easily, smoothly. The ball cleared the trees and dropped from sight. He barely heard the smattering of applause.
Jim watched Saul’s approach land over the crowd at the back of the green. Jim walked up slowly. When he had forced his way through the spectators, he saw that his ball had landed on the green—but 25 feet from the cup.
The crowd formed a lane for Saul’s third shot. It hit the green and scooted, coming to rest on the front edge. His putt was straight for the hole all the way. The hush broke into a moan. The ball had rimmed.
Jim figured it up. That would give Saul a five. He could win with a three. He studied the green carefully, noting the slopes, the lay of the grass. After a minute he decided on his line. He took his stance. Once more, an unnatural silence settled over the crowd.
Jim stroked the ball. It ran swiftly at first, then slowing, trickling over the last slope, nearing the cup, gently turning. Eternities passed, and the ball hesitated on the lip, toppled, disappeared.
The scene was bedlam. Alice grabbed his arm with one hand, thrust the score-card in front of his nose and jumped up and down screaming happily. Jim steadied the card long enough to read the score. Another 30—a 60 for the day. A 7 2-hole total of 255. A flock of broken records.
When the new U.S. Open champion walked to Saul’s caddy and removed the ball from the boy’s fingers, Hatcher was at his side. He was frowning.
“How did you do it?” he shouted.
Hatcher had ceased to awe Jim. Hatcher was not infallible.
“Under certain, extremely restricted sets of circumstances,” Jim said, “a machine is better than a man. But, over the long run, over the gamut of situations, a machine doesn’t have a chance. It just can’t compete.”
Hatcher was still frowning. “I still don’t understand.”
“Here,” Jim said, handing him the golf ball Saul had been using.
Hatcher stared at it. “This isn’t Saul’s regular ball.”
“That’s right.” Jim laughed. “It’s a new one, guaranteed to add twenty yards to the average drive.”
Slow understanding crossed Hatcher’s face. “But that’s unfair,” he said. “That’s . . .” He began to smile, and the smile broke into a chuckle. “I’ll be damned!” he said.
“There are no perfect golfers,” Jim said. “There are only good ones and better ones. I’ll be around in a few days to talk about men and machines—and competition. I have $50,000 to invest in our new business—making robots—useful robots.”
Sine of the Magus
Being an usual private eye, Casey could spell . . . but he couldn’t spell his way out of enhancement and murder!
THE white letters on the corrugated blackboard spelled out—COVENTION—October 30 and 31—Crystal Room.
I chuckled. Hotel bulletin boards are like movie marquees. Often as not, there is something misspelled on them.
My smile faded and I glanced around uneasily, but my man hadn’t come in. There was no reason to be uneasy, except that I didn’t like the job. Not that it promised to be tough. It was too simple, really, and the old lady was paying too much, and I felt as if there were eyes watching me—which was a good switch and enough to give any private detective a neurosis and . . .
Hell! Why should anyone pay me a thousand bucks just to find out a guy’s name?
I walked across the wide polished-marble floor to the desk. I rigged myself against it so that I could watch the door, and the clerk looked up. You know the type. Thin, thirtyish, his embittered bald head gleaming even brighter than the floor, obsequious to his superiors, vindictive toward those placed under him. It was my misfortune that he knew me.
“Hello, Charlie,” I said.
“Casey,” he said suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
“Business.”
“No trouble, Casey,” he said warily, “or I’ll have you tossed out of here. The management won’t have you raiding rooms and snapping pictures. Our guests pay—”
“No trouble,” I said. “It’s not that kind of assignment.”
HE subsided, but his eyes were restless on my face. “Since when have you handled anything but divorce cases?”
“I’ve come up in the world, Charlie. Who puts the notices on the board over there?”
“I do,” he said. “Why?”
“Can’t spell, either, eh?” I said.
He glanced at the board and then back at me, his face serious. “There’s nothing misspelled there,” he said.
“You know,” I told him, “I’ve always wanted to attend a covention.” It started as a joke but, when I got to the key word, my voice broke, and a shiver ran up my back.
“Now’s your chance,” Charlie said, “because that’s what it is. He insisted on it being spelled that way.”
“A nice story,” I said, “but it would never stand up in court.”
“There he is now, coming through the door,” Charlie told me.
I turned my head and froze. He was a tall man, with dark hair and graying temples, slim and distinguished in evening clothes. And in his lapel, as he passed, was a five-pointed star, small, golden and engraved. The description checked. This was my man.
I started after him.
“Casey . . .” Charlie began. He was warning me.
I waved a reassuring hand back at him and followed the dark back that moved straight and purposefully toward the elevator bank.
One car was almost full. My quarry stepped into it and turned around. The doors started to close in front of my face. He looked directly at me for a long moment before the doors slid together.
His eyes were deep and black and speculative. And I got a foolish impression that they continued to stare at me through the closed brass doors, seeing, weighing, and discarding contemptuously, before they turned their speculative depth on something more worthy.
The after-image vanished. I looked up quickly. The arrow was slowing. It came to a stop on C, there hesitated before it began swinging again.
“Going up?” someone asked, almost in my ear.
I jumped and caught myself, then stepped through the open doors of the car on my right. The doors closed. “C,” I said.
We silently slid upward. Bricks alternated with painted metal in the frames of the small windows. M, A, B, went by. The first stop was mine. The doors parted in front of me, and I was in a carpeted hall facing a cream-colored corridor wall. Painted in gold, was an arrow pointing to my right. Above it, were two words—Crystal Room.
THE Crystal Room had double doors, but only one of them was open. There was a dark back just going through it. A young man stood beside the door, nodding respectfully to the man who entered. A doorkeeper—the party was private.
Keeper of the crystal door. Inside was something called a covention that sent unreasonable shivers up my back. And inside, too, was a nameless man—I couldn’t mistake that erect back—whose name was worth a thousand dollars to me, and who had eyes like polished black obsidian daggers.
I pushed the flat automatic in my shoulder holster into a more comfortable position and started after my thousand bucks. I nodded familiarly to the doorkeeper, who had broad shoulders, a crew-cut and a pleasant sunburned face, and started through the doorway.
I felt as if I had walked into a glass wall. I stopped and rubbed my nose ruefully.
“Where’s your name card?” the doorkeeper asked.
“Name card?” I said aimlessly. I snapped my fingers. “I knew I forgot something. But you know me. Casey from Kansas City? Met you last year. Don’t you remember my face?”
He frowned. “How would I remember your face?”
That stopped me. Why wouldn’t he remember my face—outside of the fact that he had never seen it before? He didn’t recognize me, but, apparently, that was all right.
He didn’t expect to!
“Maybe I’ve stuck the card in one of my pockets,” I said.
I began rummaging hopefully through my gray flannel suit. There was only one way to go from here—back, the way I came—but I could make it graceful. Then, I felt something slick and rectangular in my right-hand coat pocket. Slowly, I pulled it out. It was a name card.
The young man looked at it and nodded. “Gabriel,” he said. “Wear it from now on. I can’t let anybody in without a card.”
I nodded mechanically and walked cautiously into the large room. The invisible wall was gone. Just inside the door, I stopped and turned the card over.
In the center was a circular seal. Imprinted over it in black, were two lines of type. Call me GABRIEL, I read, or pay me five dollars.
That was funny enough, but it wasn’t the funniest part. The card had no business in my pocket. No one could have put it there. The suit had just come back from the cleaners. I put it on just before I left home this morning.
“Gabriel,” I muttered to myself. Gabriel was one of the archangels, the one who carried messages and blew trumpets. That was a hell of a name for a man.
Covention—brass doors with eyes in them—invisible walls—archangels! I shivered.
The Crystal Room was pleasant enough. It wasn’t the largest ballroom in the hotel, but it was one of the most attractive. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. Two smaller ones flanked it on either side. The ceiling and walls were painted a deep rose. The carpet on the floor was dark burgundy.
A MAKESHIFT stage had been put up at the other end of the room. It was draped in black with black hangings behind it. Several chairs were lined up neatly at the back of the stage. In front of them, was a lectern. Between me and the platform, were rows of wooden chairs—I counted thirteen rows of thirteen chairs each. A few of the the chairs were occupied, but most of the people in the room were standing, clustered in small groups, chatting. I looked them over carefully, but my man wasn’t among them.
The scene was typical of hundreds of professional meetings that take place in hundreds of rooms daily, all over the country. Once a year, they assemble to discuss their single shared interest, to talk shop, to listen to the latest advances, to raise standards. And, to indulge in some heavy drinking, character assassination and idle—or not so idle—flirtations.
The men here were well dressed—although none of them were in evening clothes—and distinguished. The women—there were fewer of them—were all young and beautiful. I’d never seen so many beautiful women in one room before, not even the time I tailed one wandering spouse backstage at a Broadway musical.
