“What apartment house does his brother live in?” Klugman asked. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between the Abraham Lincoln and the other building.
“None. He sells jalopies for that Loony Luke—you know. Those cheap little ships that get you just barely to Mars. He lives on one of the lots, I understand. The lots move around; it’s a nomadic existence. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yes,” Klugman agreed, “and it’s totally out of the question. We can’t have that act on our stage, not with a man like that involved in it. There’s no reason why Ian Duncan can’t play his jug; it’s a basic political right and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a satisfactory act. But it’s against our tradition to have an outsider participate; our stage is for our own people exclusively, always has been and always will. So there’s no need even to discuss this.” He eyed the sky pilot critically.
“True,” Doyle said, “but it is a blood relative of one of our people, right? It’s legal for one of us to invite a relative to watch the talent shows … so why not let him participate? This means a lot to Ian; I think you know he’s been failing, lately. He’s not a very intelligent person. Actually, he should be doing a manual job, I suppose. But if he has artistic ability, for instance this jug concept—“
Examining his documents, Klugman saw that a White House scout would be attending a show at the Abraham Lincoln in two weeks. The best acts at the building would of course be scheduled that night… the Duncan Brothers and Their Baroque Jug Band would have to compete successfully in order to obtain that privilege, and there were a number of acts which—Klugman thought—were probably superior. After all, jugs…and not even electronic jugs, at that.
“All right,” he said aloud to Doyle. “I agree.”
“You’re showing your humane side,” the sky pilot said, with a grin of sentimentality which disgusted Klugman. “And I think we’ll all enjoy the Bach and Vivaldi as played by the Duncan Brothers on their inimitable jugs.”
Klugman, wincing, nodded.
On the big night, as they started into the auditorium on floor one of Abraham Lincoln Apartments, Ian Duncan saw, trailing along behind his brother, the flat, scuttling shape of the Martian creature, the papoola. He stopped short. “You’re bringing that along?”
Al said, “You don’t understand. Don’t we have to win?”
After a pause, Ian said, “Not that way.” He understood, all right; the papoola would take on the audience as it had taken on sidewalk traffic. It would exert its extra-sensory influence on them, coaxing out a favorable decision. So much for the ethics of a jalopy salesman, Ian realized. To his brother, this seemed perfectly normal; if they couldn’t win by their jug-playing they would win through the papoola.
“Aw,” Al said, gesturing, “don’t be your own worst enemy. All we’re engaged in here is a little subliminal sales technique, such as they’ve been using for a century—it’s an ancient, reputable method of swinging public opinion your way. I mean, let’s face it; we haven’t played the jug professionally in years.” He touched the controls at his waist and the papoola hurried forward to catch up with them. Again Al touched the controls—
And in Ian’s mind a persuasive thought came, Why not? Everyone else does it.
With difficulty he said, “Get that thing off me, Al.”
Al shrugged. And the thought, which had invaded Ian’s mind from without, gradually withdrew. And yet, a residue remained. He was no longer sure of his position.
“It’s nothing compared to what Nicole’s machinery can accomplish,” Al pointed out, seeing the expression on his face. “One papoola here and there, and that planet-wide instrument that Nicole has made out of TV—there you have the real danger, Ian. The papoola is crude; you know you’re being worked on. Not so when you listen to Nicole. The pressure is so subtle and so complete—”
“I don’t know about that,” Ian said, “I just know that unless we’re successful, unless we get to play at the White House, life as far as I’m concerned isn’t worth living. And nobody put that idea in my head. It’s just the way I feel; it’s my own idea, dammit.” He held the door open, and Al passed on into the auditorium, carrying his jug by the handle. Ian followed, and a moment later the two of them were on the stage, facing the partially-filled hall.
“Have you ever seen her?” Al asked.
“I see her all the time.”
“I mean in reality. In person. So to speak, in the flesh.”
“Of course not,” Ian said. That was the whole point of their being successful, of getting to the White House. They would see her really, not just the TV image; it would no longer be a fantasy—it would be true.
“I saw her once,” Al said. “I had just put the lot down, Jalopy Jungle No. 3, on a main business avenue in Shreveport, La. It was early in the morning, about eight o’clock. I saw official cars coming; naturally I thought it was the police—I started to take off. But it wasn’t. It was a motorcade, with Nicole in it, going to dedicate a new apartment building, the largest yet.”
“Yes,” Ian said. “The Paul Bunyan.” The football team from Abraham Lincoln played annually against its team, and always lost. The Paul Bunyan had over ten thousand residents, and all of them came from administrative-class backgrounds; it was an exclusive apartment building of active Party members, with uniquely high monthly payments.
“You should have seen her,” Al said thoughtfully as he sat facing the audience, his jug on his lap. He tapped the papoola with his foot; it had taken up a position beneath his chair, out of sight. “Yes,” he murmured, “you really should. It’s not the same as on TV, Ian. Not at all.”
Ian nodded. He had begun to feel apprehensive, now; in a few minutes they would be introduced. Their test had come.
Seeing him gripping his jug tautly, Al said, “Shall I use the papoola or not? It’s up to you.” He raised a quizzical brow.
Ian said, “Use it.”
“Okay,” Al said, reaching his hand inside his coat. Leisurely, he stroked the controls. And, from beneath his chair, the papoola rolled forth, its antennae twitching drolly, its eyes crossing and uncrossing.
At once the audience became alert; people leaned forward to see, some of them chuckling with delight.
“Look,” a man said excitedly. It was old Joe Purd, as eager as a child. “It’s the papoola!”
A woman rose to her feet to see more clearly, and Ian thought to himself, Everyone loves the papoola. We’ll win, whether we can play the jug or not. And then what? Will meeting Nicole make us even more unhappy than we are? Is that what we’ll get out of this: hopeless, massive discontent? An ache, a longing which can never be satisfied in this world?
It was too late to back out, now. The doors of the auditorium had shut and Don Klugman was rising from his chair, rapping for order. “Okay, folks,” he said into his lapel microphone. “We’re going to have a little display of some talent, right now, for everyone’s enjoyment. As you see on your programs, first in order is a fine group, the Duncan Brothers and their Classical Jugs with a medley of Bach and Handel tunes that ought to set your feet tapping.” He beamed archly at Ian and Al, as if saying, How does that suit you as an intro?
Al paid no attention; he manipulated his controls and gazed thoughtfully at the audience, then at last picked up his jug, glanced at Ian and then tapped his foot. “The Little Fugue in G Minor” opened their medley, and Al began to blow on the jug, sending forth the lively theme.
Bum, bum, bum. Bum-bum bum-bum bum bum de bum. DE bum, DE bum, de de-de bum … His cheeks puffed out red and swollen as he blew.
The papoola wandered across the stage, then lowered itself, by a series of gangly, foolish motions, into the first row of the audience. It had begun to go to work.