The Essential Works of Cyril M. Kornbluth. Cyril M. Kornbluth

dress you'self and we go someplace for biftek."

      When Clifton appeared—shaved, dressed, and subdued—Lilly was still in the bedroom, putting on finishing touches. The two men had another martini apiece.

      "What about the contracts?" Novak asked.

      Clifton understood. "If they try to hold us to them we could just lie down on the job and let them pay us. Hate to work it like that, though. It'd be dull."

      "It's still the craziest business I ever heard of."

      Lilly appeared, looking sexy in a black dinner dress with a coronet of blonde hair swept up from her creamy neck. Clifton let out a long, loud wolf-howl and said: "The hell with the beefsteaks and the meeting. Let's——"

      "Later," said Lilly firmly.

      As the maroon Rolls thundered down the canyon, Clifton said casually: "I may quit the space hounds, Mama."

      "So what you gonna do for a yob?"

      "Buy you a red dress and turn mack, I guess. Nah, ya too old and ugly. Maybe I'll open a radio shop or ship out again for an electrician; I guess I still got my card. I kinda hate to leave my best girl out there in the desert, but the whole thing's a joke. She's pretty, but she'll never amount to a damn."

      Novak knew why he was lying about the reason. I understand in these cloak-and-dagger things they kill you if you find out too much.

      CHAPTER VI.

       Table of Contents

      They had dinner at a downtown restaurant and were at the A.S.F.S.F. meeting hall by 8.30. Novak was alarmed when the building turned out to be the Los Angeles Slovak Sokol Hall, rented for the occasion.

      "Foreigners!" he exclaimed. "Does the A.S.F.S.F. go around looking for jams to get into?"

      "Relax, Mike," Clifton told him. "The Sokol's strictly American by now. They got a long anti-Communist record."

      Still, fretted Novak, foreigners—Slavic foreigners. The building was in the same run-down area that housed the Society's business office. It was liberally hung with American flags and patriotic sentiments. Inconspicuous on the lobby walls were a few photographs of group calisthenics and marchers in Czech national costumes, from decades ago.

      A well-worn placard on an easel said that the A.S.F.S.F. meeting was being held at 8.30 in the main hall, straight ahead and up the stairs.

      About a score of people in the lobby were having final smokes and talking. Novak could divide them easily into two types: juvenile space hounds and employed hobbyists. The hobbyists were what you'd see at any engineers' convention: pipe-smokers, smiling men, neat, tanned. The space hounds were any collection of juvenile enthusiasts anywhere—more mature than an equal number of hot-rod addicts, perhaps, but still given to nervous laughter, horse-play, and catchwords.

      Their entrance had been the signal for the younger element to surround Clifton and bombard him with questions.

      "Cliff, how she coming?"

      "Mr. Clifton, need a good carpenter at the field?"

      "How's the acceleration couch coming, Cliff?"

      "Could we get that boring mill at South Bend?"

      "Shaddap!" said Clifton. "Leave a man breathe, will ya!" They loved him for it. "What's the movie tonight?"

      "A stinker," one girl told him. "Pirates of the Void, with Marsha Denny and Lawrence Malone. Strictly for yocks."

      "They show a space-flight movie," Clifton explained to Novak. "There ain't enough business to kill the time and send everybody home in the proper state of exhaustion." He towed his wife and Novak up the stairs, where a youngster at a card table challenged their membership. They were clamourously identified by a dozen youngsters and went in. The hall seated about four hundred and had a stage with a movie screen and more American flags.

      "Better sit in the back——" began Clifton, and then: "For God's sake!" It was Anheier, smiling nervously.

      "Hello," said the Security man. "I thought I'd combine business with pleasure. Marsha Denny's a great favourite of mine and I understand there's going to be a preview tonight."

      "Well, enjoy yourself," Clifton said coldly. He took Lilly and Novak to the left rear corner of the auditorium and they sat down. He told his wife: "An A.E.C. guy we met. A creep."

      MacIlheny climbed to the stage and called to stragglers in the back of the hall: "Okay, men. Let's go." They found seats.

      Crack went the gavel. "The-meeting-is-called-to-order. The-chair-will-entertain-a-motion-to-adopt-the-standard-agenda-as-laid-down-in-the-organization's-byelaws."

      "So move," said somebody, and there was a ragged chorus of seconds.

      "All-in-favor-signify-by-raising-one-hand-any-opposed? The-motion-seems-to-be-and-is-carried. First-on-the-agenda-is-the-reading-of-previous-meetings-minutes."

      Somebody stuck his hand up, was recognized, and moved that the minutes be accepted as read. The motion was seconded and carried without excitement. So were motions to accept and adopt reports of the membership, orbit computation, publications, finance, structural problems and control mechanisms committees.

      "Making good time," Clifton commented.

      Under "good and welfare" a belligerent-looking youngster got recognized and demanded the impeachment of the secretary-treasurer. There was a very mild, mixed demonstration: some applause and some yells of "Sit down!" and "Shuddup!" MacIlheny rapped for order.

      "The motion is in order," he wearily announced. "Is there a second?" There was—another belligerent kid.

      "In seconding this motion," he said loudly, "I just want to go over some ground that's probably familiar to us all. With due respect to the majority's decision, I still feel that there's no place for salaried employees in the A.S.F.S.F. But if there has to be a paid secretary-treasurer, I'm damned if I see why an outsider with no special interest in space flight——"

      Friml was on his feet in the front row, clamouring for recognition on a point of personal privilege.

      "Damn it, Friml, I wasn't insulting you——"

      "That's for the chair to decide, Mr. Grady! I suggest you pipe down and let him."

      "Who're you telling to——"

      MacIlheny hammered for silence. "Chair recognizes Mr. Friml."

      "I simply want a ruling on the propriety of Mr. Grady's language. Thank you."

      "The chair rules that Mr. Grady's remarks were improper and cautions him to moderate his language."

      Breathing hard, the youngster tried again. "In seconding this motion to impeach, I want to point out that there are members with much more seniority in the organization than Mr. Friml and with a long-demonstrated record of interest in space flight which he cannot match."

      MacIlheny called for debate and recognized one of the engineer-types.

      "It should be evident to all of us," the engineer said soothingly, "that the criterion for the secretary-treasurer's office ought to be competence. We're not playing with marbles any more—I'm happy to say. And I for one am very much relieved that we have the services of a man with a B.B.A., an M.B.A., and a C.P.A. after his name.

      "Now, I may have more organizational experience than Mr. Grady, since I've been somewhat active in the A.S.M.E. and the aeronautical societies. I name no names—but in one of those groups we were unwise enough to elect a treasurer who, with all the good will in the world, simply didn't know how to handle the job. We were rooked blind before we knew what hit us, and it took a year to straighten the records out. I don't want that to happen to the A.S.F.S.F., and I seriously urge that the members here vote against the impeachment. Let's not monkey