The Naked Storm. C.M. Kornbluth

      PASSENGER JOAN LUNDBERG

      “Madame Chairlady!” said Joan Lundberg.

      Mrs. Quist winced and mumbled shyly: “Chair recognizes Miss Lundberg.” The ladies of the Scandia Women’s Democratic Club settled down or twisted uncomfortably, according as they thought Joan Lundberg was a capable and zealous party worker or a humorless fanatic.

      Joan rose and said deliberately: “It seems to me that there’s been a certain amount of mismanagement and last-minute maneuvering here. It’s a simple question of electing one delegate to the National Conference of Democratic Women’s Clubs in San Francisco. Three names have been put in nomination and we’re deadlocked. Well and good; that’s the American way of doing things.

      “What I don’t like, and I’m sure the majority of clear-thinking ladies present are with me on this point, is the way grave issues are being slurred over. We’ve got to send somebody to San Francisco who will make the voice of the midwest Democratic woman voter heard on such vital issues as me-tooism, squandermania, realistic curbs on the power of the labor bosses—oh, I could go on for hours!

      “And what are we debating instead of these vital issues? We are debating over who will put up the better appearance. Over who will impress the ladies in San Francisco not by her determination to put a Democrat in the White House but by her clothes. Through this debate is running an ugly undertone of mink-coatism!”

      They gasped at the words. The reporter from the Chicago Sun-Times drowsing in the back abruptly jerked to life and began scribbling.

      “In all humbleness,” said Miss Lundberg, “I ask that some friend who puts devotion to principle above appearance place my name in nomination as delegate to the National Conference of Democratic Women’s Clubs. And I want to add that I’ll back up my stand by paying full expenses for the trip myself and will not expect to be reimbursed by one penny for my service to the party.”

      There was a relieved sigh.

      Mrs. Quist, too shy to run a meeting properly but serving traditionally because Mr. Quist was First Deputy Chief of the Cook County Sheriff’s Police, asked timidly: “Do I hear such a nomination?”

      Grinning, Edith Larsen rose and proposed Miss Lundberg as delegate. Mary Holm glared at her. Mary Holm was one of the three deadlocked candidates and knew perfectly well why Edith Larsen was spoiling her party. Edith thought Mary was making a play for her fat slob of a husband just because she’d been decently polite to him. Well, her duty was clear. Mary Holm got up, withdrew her candidacy and warmly seconded the candidacy of Joan Lundberg (the blonde frump).

      Joan was elected by a comfortable margin over the required two-thirds. Most of the ladies were relieved that the treasury had been spared the burden. Joan herself was mightily relieved. Not only would she be able to show the ladies in San Francisco what a real fighting midwest Democratic clubwoman was like, but she wouldn’t have to undergo the embarrassment of returning her ticket and canceling her reservation aboard the Golden Gate. Leaving nothing to chance, she had picked up the reservation that morning at Union Station. Wait too long and there might be no room left, she had sternly told herself. Take a chance—that was how our republic grew great.

      The meeting adjourned for coffee and coffee-cake, and Joan was surrounded by a buzz of congratulations. Blonde, petite Mrs. Holm said gently: “I was so glad I could withdraw in favor of some really responsible person, Joan dear. You know what a burden the trip would have been for me—baby sitters, the place in a mess when I got back—Joe’s a darling, but he’s a bear in a den about picking up and dusting …”

      (Translation: “You may have stolen my ’Frisco joy-ride from me, you blonde frump, but I’ve got a husband and children and you haven’t.”)

      “I’ve got to pack,” Joan said abruptly. “Excuse me, girls.” She found her good cloth coat among the minks and leopards, and an unseen sneer curled her lip.

      The reporter—he was unbelievably young—caught her at the door. “Congratulations,” he said cheerily. “I’d just like to check the spelling.”

      She spelled her name and he put it down in block letters on a long Western Union press message form. “Do you think they’ll put it on the wire?” she asked.

      “Well, probably not, Miss Lundberg. We just grab a handful of these when we go out on assignment…age?”

      “Thirty-two,” she said.

      “That was swell about mink-coatism,” he said. “I’m going to put it in my lead.”

      “Don’t bother,” she said. “They’ll take it out. Advertisers.”

      “Oh,” said the young man. “I never thought of that. Are you on a paper, Miss Lundberg?”

      “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to pack. My train leaves at 9:05 tomorrow morning. Good-bye.”

      She walked from the church basement into the icy wind from the Lake, and breathed deeply. She tied on a bright, flapping babushka that softened the grim lines of her hair-do, and the wind brightened her face. Joan strode off confidently down the street. The neighborhood, unfortunately, was Republican—the staid, Scandinavian northwest side—but a woman could walk at night without being accosted. She thought of the Loop (Democratic and dangerous for women), the dreary Polish and Bohemian acres of the west side (Republican machine and dangerous) and the polyglot, pinko south side, with a shudder.

      Five minutes bucking the wind brought her, flushed and panting, to the square, stark-white, red-roofed Nilsen home, no different from the other square, stark-white, red-roofed homes on both sides of the gentle-curving suburban street. She went down the little flight of concrete steps, fumbled out her key and stepped into the smothering warmth of the basement flat. They’d been closing windows again, slipping in while she was gone.

      She snapped on the light and strode from one casement window to another, swinging each open a precise two inches.

      Her apartment occupied half the basement. The other half contained the furnace, coal bin, a ping-pong table and usually a Nilsen or two, breathing heavily and rattling the pages of the Chicago Tribune loudly enough to be heard through the beaverboard and oak veneer of the partition.

      A mumbling dialogue went on as she took off her coat, babushka, scarf and gloves.

      “So she’s home now, so what should I do?”

      “So go tell her, lazy lump.”

      “So whose idea it was somebody should tell her?”

      “It isn’t enough I wash and cook and scrub and make over clothes for myself I have to collect the rent?”

      Stertorous breathing and the rattling of the Chicago Tribune answered that. After a pause there was a firm rapping on the door between the apartment and the Nilsen commons-room.

      Joan Lundberg unlocked it—the lock was a farce; Nilsen had keys both to this door and the front door, and used them whenever her back was turned—and jerked the door open viciously. “Yes, Mrs. Nilsen?” she asked.

      “Please,” said Mrs. Nilsen. “The rent?”

      “We’ve been over this once, Mrs. Nilsen,” Joan said. “I don’t see how I could have put it plainer. I’m going to be two weeks behind in the rent because I have a fixed income and a sudden expense came up which I can’t avoid. In two weeks I’ll catch up and until then there’s no use talking about it. Do you want me to get out?”

      “I thought maybe something would come up,” Mrs. Nilsen said vaguely. “What for’s the expense? Maybe I can find it cheaper if it’s buying.”

      There was a snort and a rattle of newsprint offstage.

      “Nothing like that, thanks,” Joan said. “I’m going on a little trip tomorrow morning and I’ll be back in five days. That’s all there is to it.” She felt oddly reluctant to invoke politics in connection with the rent.

      “Ah,”