Question of Comfort

Question of Comfort, by Les
Collins

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Question of Comfort, by Les Collins
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Question of Comfort
Author: Les Collins
Release Date: September 14, 2007 [EBook #22597]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUESTION
OF COMFORT ***

Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

QUESTION OF COMFORT
By LES COLLINS

The Gravity Gang was a group of geniuses--devoting its brilliance to
creating a realistic Solar System for Disneyland. That was the story,
anyway. No one would have believed all that stuff about cops and
robbers from outer space.
My job, finished now, had been getting them to Disneyland. The
problem was bringing one in particular--one I had to find. The timing
was uncomfortably close.
I'd taken the last of the yellow pills yesterday, tossing the bottle away
with a sort of indifferent frustration. I won or lost on the validity of my
logic--and whether I'd built a better mousetrap.
The pills had given me 24 hours before the fatal weakness took hold;
nevertheless, I waited as long as I could. That left me less than an hour,
now; strangely, as I walked in the eerie darkness of an early morning,
virtually deserted Disneyland, I felt calm. And yet, my life depended on
the one I sought being inside the Tour building.
I was seeking a monster of terrible potential, yet so innocuous looking
that he'd not stand out. I couldn't produce him, couldn't say where in the
world he was. Nevertheless he was the basis, the motivation second
only to mine. I took the long, hard way--three years--making him come
to me.
Two years were devoted to acclimatization, learning, and then swinging
this job: just to put the idea across.
Assigned to Disneyland Public Relations in the offices at Burbank, I'd
begun with the usual low-pay, low-level jobs. I didn't, couldn't mind; at
least I had a foot in the right door. Within six months, I reached a point
where I could present the idea.
It had enough merit. My boss--35 years' experience enabled him to
recognize a good idea--took it to his boss who took it to The Boss.
Tomorrowland is the orphan division of Disneyland, thrown in as sop
to those interested more in the future than the past. My idea was to sex

up Tomorrowland: Tour the Solar System.
Not really, but we'd bill it that way. The Tour of the Solar System
Building was to be large. Its rooms would reproduce environments of
parts of the System, as best we knew them.
* * * * *
I'll never forget the first planning session when we realists were
underdogs, yet swung the basic direction. By then, the Hollywood
Mind had appeared. The Hollywood Mind is definitely a real thing, a
vicious thing, a blank thing, that paternalistically insists It knows what
the public wants.
There was general agreement on broad outlines. Trouble began over
Venus.
"Of course," said one of the Minds, "we'll easily create a swampy
environment--"
I burst out with quiet desperation: "May I comment?"
The realists were churning. Right there, sides were being chosen. I let
all know my side immediately.
"Venus is hot, but it's desert heat. Continuous dust storms with fantastic
winds--"
"People'd never go for that junk," interrupted the Mind. "Everyone
knows Venus is swampy."
"Everyone whose reading tastes matured no further than Edgar Rice
Burroughs!"
The Mind, with a if-you-know-so-much-why-aintcha-rich look, sneered,
"How come you know all about it?"
Speechless, I spread my hands. This joker was leading with his chin,
forcing the fight. I had to hit him again; if I lost, I lost good. "A

person," I said slowly and rhythmically, "with normal intelligence and
a minute interest in the universe, will keep step with the major sciences,
at least on an elementary level. I must stress the qualification of normal
intelligence."
The Mind, face contorted, was determined to get me. I was in a very
vulnerable spot; more important, so was the idea.
Mind began an emotional tirade, and mentally I damned him. It
couldn't have mattered to him what environment we used, but he was
politicking where he shouldn't.
There was silence when he stopped. This was the crux; The Boss would
decide. I held my breath.
He said, "We'll make it hot and dusty." The realists had won; the rest
climbed on the bandwagon but quick; and the temple was cleansed.
It was natural--because at the moment I was fair-haired--for the project