Part 2 (1/2)

”That so?” said Fuzz.

”Yes,” said Francine. In all innocence, Francine Pefko now spoke a simple sentence that was heartbreakingly poetic to Fuzz. The sentence reminded Fuzz, with the ruthlessness of great poetry, that his basic misgivings about Francine were not occupational but erotic.

What Francine said was this: ”I came here straight from the Girl Pool.” ”I came here straight from the Girl Pool.” In speaking of the Girl Pool, she was doing no more than giving the proper name to the reception and a.s.signment center maintained by the company for new woman employees. In speaking of the Girl Pool, she was doing no more than giving the proper name to the reception and a.s.signment center maintained by the company for new woman employees.

But when Fuzz heard those words, his mind whirled with images of lovely young women like Francine, glistening young women, rising from cool, deep water, begging aggressive, successful young men to woo them. In Fuzz's mind, the desirable images all pa.s.sed him by, avoided his ardent glances. Such beautiful creatures would have nothing to do with a man who was fubar.

Fuzz looked at Francine uneasily. Not only was she, so fresh and desirable from the Girl Pool, going to discover that her supervisor had a very poor job. She was going to conclude, as well, that her supervisor wasn't much of a man at all.

The normal morning workload in the General Company Response Section was about fifteen letters. On the morning that Francine Pefko joined the operation, however, there were only three letters to be answered.

One letter was from a man in a mental inst.i.tution. He claimed to have squared the circle. He wanted a hundred thousand dollars and his freedom for having done it. Another letter was from a ten-year-old who wanted to pilot the first rocket s.h.i.+p to Mars. The third was from a lady who complained that she could not keep her dachshund from barking at her GF&F vacuum cleaner.

By ten o'clock, Fuzz and Francine had disposed of all three letters. Francine filed the three letters and carbons of Fuzz's gracious replies. The filing cabinet was otherwise empty. The General Company Response Section had lost all its old files in the Building 181 fire.

Now there was a lull.

Francine could hardly clean her typewriter, since her typewriter was brand new. Fuzz could hardly make busywork of shuffling gravely through papers, since he had only one paper in his desk. That one paper was a terse notice to the effect that all supervisors were to crack down hard on coffee breaks.

”That's all for right now?” said Francine.

”Yes,” said Fuzz. He searched her face for signs of derision. So far there were none. ”You-you happened to pick a slack morning,” he said.

”What time does the mailman come?” said Francine.

”Mail service doesn't come out this far,” said Fuzz. ”When I come to work in the morning, and again when I come back from lunch, I pick up our mail at the company post office.”

”Oh,” said Francine.

The leaking showerheads next door suddenly decided to inhale noisily. And then, their nasal pa.s.sages seemingly cleared, they resumed their dribbling once more.

”Is it real busy around here sometimes, Mr. Littler?” said Francine, and she shuddered because the idea of being thrillingly busy pleased her so much.

”Busy enough,” said Fuzz.

”When do the people come out here, and what do we do for them?” said Francine.

”People?” said Fuzz.

”Isn't this public relations?” said Francine.

”Yes-” said Fuzz.

”Well, when does the public come?” said Francine, looking down at her eminently presentable self.

”I'm afraid the public doesn't come out this far,” said Fuzz. He felt like a host at the longest, dullest party imaginable.

”Oh,” said Francine. She looked up at the one window in the office. The window, eight feet above the floor, afforded a view of the underside of a candy wrapper in an areaway. ”What about the people we work with?” she said. ”Do they rush in and out of here all day?”

”I'm afraid we don't work with anybody else, Miss Pefko,” said Fuzz.

”Oh,” said Francine.

There was a terrific bang from a steam pipe upstairs. The huge radiator in the tiny office began to hiss and spit.

”Why don't you read your pamphlets, Miss Pefko,” said Fuzz. ”Maybe that would be a good thing to do,” he said.

Francine nodded, eager to please. She started to smile, thought better of it. The crippled smile was Francine's first indication that she found her new place of employment something less than gay. She frowned slightly, read her pamphlets.

Fuzz whistled reedily, the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

The clock on the wall clicked. Every thirty seconds it clicked, and its minute hand twitched forward microscopically. An hour and fifty-one minutes remained until lunchtime.

”Huh,” said Francine, commenting on something she'd read.

”Pardon me?” said Fuzz.

”They have dances here every Friday night-right in this building,” said Francine, looking up. ”That's how come they've got it all so decorated up upstairs,” she said. She was referring to the fact that j.a.panese lanterns and paper streamers were strung over the basketball court. The mood of the next dance was apparently going to be rural, for there was a real haystack in one corner, and pumpkins and farm implements and sheaves of corn stalks were arranged with artistic carelessness along the walls.

”I love to dance,” said Francine.

”Um,” said Fuzz. He had never danced.

”Do you and your wife dance a lot, Mr. Littler?” said Francine.

”I'm not married,” said Fuzz.

”Oh,” said Francine. She blushed, pulled in her chin, resumed her reading. When her blus.h.i.+ng faded, she looked up again. ”You bowl, Mr. Littler?” she said.

”No,” said Fuzz quietly, tautly. ”I don't dance. I don't bowl. I'm afraid I don't do much of anything, Miss Pefko, but take care of my mother, who's been sick for years.”

Fuzz closed his eyes. What he contemplated within the purple darkness of his eyelids was what he considered the cruelest fact of life-that sacrifices were really really sacrifices. In caring for his mother, he had lost a great deal. sacrifices. In caring for his mother, he had lost a great deal.

Fuzz was reluctant to open his eyes, for he knew that what he would see in Francine's face would not please him. What he would see in Francine's heavenly face, he knew, would be the paltriest of all positive emotions, which is respect. And mixed with that respect, inevitably, would be a wish to be away from a man who was so unlucky and dull.

The more Fuzz thought about what he would see when he opened his eyes, the less willing he was to open them. The clock on the wall clicked again, and Fuzz knew that he could not stand to have Miss Pefko watch him for even another thirty seconds.

”Miss Pefko,” he said, his eyes still closed, ”I don't think you'll like it here.”

”What?” said Francine.

”Go back to the Girl Pool, Miss Pefko,” said Fuzz. ”Tell them about the freak you found in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Building 523. Demand a new a.s.signment.”

Fuzz opened his eyes.

Francine was pale and rigid. She shook her head slightly, incredulous, scared. ”You-you don't like me, Mr. Littler?” she said.

”That has nothing to do with it!” said Fuzz, standing. ”Just clear out of here for your own good!”

Francine stood, too, still shaking her head.