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Blake came with the beers and plunked it down on the table and waited pointedly for Hart to do the expected thing.
Hart paid him and he waddled off.
"Have you heard about Jasper?" Angela asked.
Hart shook his head. "Nothing recent," he said. "Did he finish his book?"
Angela's face lit up. "He's going on vacation. Can you imagine that? — Him- going on vacation!"
"I don't see why not," Hart protested. "Jasper has been selling. He's the only one of us who manages to stay loaded week after week."
"But that's not it, Kemp. Wait until I tell you — it simply is a scream. Jasper thinks he can write better if he goes off on vacation."
"Well, why not? Just last year Don went to one of those summer camps. That Bread Loaf thing, as they call it."
"All they do there," she said, "is brush up on mechanics. It's a sort of refresher course on the gadgetry of yarners. How to soup up the old heap so it'll turn out fresher stuff."
"I still don't see why Jasper can't take a vacation if he can afford it."
"You're so dense," said Angela. "Don't you get the point at all?"
"I get the point all right. Jasper thinks there's still a human factor in our writing. He's not entirely satisfied to get his facts out of a standard reference work or encyclopedia. He's not content to let the yarner define an emotion he has never felt or the color of a sunset he has never seen. He was nuts enough to hint at that and you and the rest of them have been riding him. No wonder the guy is eccentric. No wonder he keeps his door locked all the time."
"That locked door," Angela said cattily, "is symbolic of the kind of man he is."
"I'd lock my door," Hart told her. "I'd be eccentric too — if I could turn it out like Jasper. I'd walk on my hands. I'd wear a sarong. I'd even paint my face bright blue."
"You sound like you believe the same as Jasper does."
He shook his head. "No, I don't think the way he does. I know better. But if he wants to think that way let him go ahead and think it."
"You do," she crowed at him. "I can see it in your face. You think it's possible to be independently creative."
"No, I don't. I know it's the machines that do the creating — not us. We're nothing but attic tinkers. We're literary mechanics. And I suppose that's the way it should be. There is, naturally, the yearning for the past. That's been evident in every age. The "good old days" complex. Back in those days a work of fiction was writ by hand and human agony."
"The agony's still with us, Kemp."
He said, "Jasper's a mechanic. That's what's wrong with me. I can't even repair that junk-heap of mine and you should see the way Jasper has his clunk souped up."
"You could hire someone to repair it. There are firms that do excellent work."
"I never have the money." He finished his beer.
"What's that stuff you're drinking?" he asked. "Want another one?"
She pushed her glass away. "I don't like that mess," she said. "I'll have a beer with you, if you don't mind."
Hart signaled to Blake for two beers.
"What are you doing now, Angela?" he asked. "Still working on the book?"
"Working up some films," she said.
"That's what I'll have to do this afternoon. I need a central character for this Irving stuff. Big and tough and boisterous — but not too uncouth. I'll look along the riverfront."
"They come high now, Kemp," she said. "Even those crummy aliens are getting wise to us. Even the ones from — way out-. I paid twenty for one just the other day and he wasn't too hot, either."
"It's cheaper than buying made-up films."
"Yes, I agree with you there. But it's a lot more work."
Blake brought the beer and Hart counted out the change into his waiting palm.
"Get some of this new film," Angela advised. "It's got the old stuff beat forty different ways. The delineation is sharper and you catch more of the marginal factors. You get a more rounded picture of the character. You pick up all the nuances of the subject, so to speak. It makes your people more believable. I've been using it."
"It comes high, I suppose," he said.
"Yes, it's a bit expensive," she admitted.
"I've got a few spools of the old stuff. I'll have to get along with that."
"I've an extra fifty you can have."
He shook his head. "Thanks, Angela. I'll cadge drinks and bum meals and hit up for a cigarette, but I'm not taking a fifty you'll need yourself. There's none of us so solvent we can lend someone else a fifty."
"Well, I would have done so gladly. If you should change your mind —»
"Want another beer?" Hart asked, cutting her short.
"I have to get to work."
"So have I," said Hart.
Hart climbed the stairs to the seventh floor, then went down the corridor and knocked on Jasper Hansen's door.
"Just a minute," said a voice from within the room. He waited for three minutes. Finally a key grated in the lock and the door was opened wide.
"Sorry I took so long," apologized Jasper. "I was setting up some data and I couldn't quit. Had to finish it."
Hart nodded. Jasper's explanation was understandable. It was difficult to quit in the middle of setting up some data that had taken hours to assemble.
The room was small and littered. In one corner stood the yarner, a shining thing, but not as shiny as the one he'd seen that morning in the uptown showroom. A typewriter stood on a littered desk, half covered by the litter. A long shelf sagged with the weight of dog-eared reference works. Bright-jacketed books were piled helter-skelter in a corner. A cat slept on an unmade bed. A bottle of liquor stood on a cupboard beside a loaf of bread. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink.
"Heard you're going on vacation, Jasper," Hart said.
Jasper gave him a wary look. "Yes, I thought I might."
"I was wondering, Jasper, if you'd do something for me.
"Just name it."
"When you're gone, could I use your yarner?"
"Well, now, I don't know, Kemp. You see —»
"Mine is busted and I haven't the cash to fix it. But I've got a line on something. If you'd let me use yours, I could turn out enough in a week or two to cover the repair bill."
"Well, now," said Jasper, "you know I'd do anything for you. Anything at all. But that yarner — I just can't let you use it. I got it jiggered up. There isn't a circuit in it that has remained the way it was originally. There isn't a soul but myself who could operate it. If someone else tried to operate it they might burn it out or kill themselves or something."
"You could show me, couldn't you?" Hart asked, almost pleadingly.
"It's far too complicated. I've tinkered with it for years," said Jasper.
Hart managed a feeble grin. "I'm sorry, I thought —»
Jasper draped an arm around his shoulder. "Anything else. Just ask me anything."
"Thanks," said Hart, turning to go.
"Drink?"
"No, thanks," said Hart, and walked out of the door.
He climbed two more flights to the topmost floor and went into his room. His door was never locked. There was nothing in it for anyone to steal. And for that matter, he wondered, what did Jasper have that anyone might want?
He sat down in a rickety chair and stared at his yarner. It was old and battered and ornery, and he hated it.
It was worthless, absolutely worthless, and yet he knew he would have to work with it. It was all he had. He'd slave and reason with it and kick it and swear at it and he'd spend sleepless nights with it. And gurgling and clucking with overweaning gratitude, it would turn out endless reams of mediocrity that no one would buy.
He got up, and walked to the window. Far below lay the river and at the wharfs a dozen ships were moored, disgorging rolls of paper to feed the hungry presses that thundered day and night. Across the river a spaceship was rising from the spaceport, with the faint blue flicker of the ion stream wisping from the tubes. He watched it until it was out of sight.