Question of Comfort | Page 2

to become mine. God knows, I worked hard for it. I'd have to watch the
Mind, though; he would make things as difficult as possible.
However, he'd proved he was the one person I wasn't seeking. One
down and 2,499,999,999 to go.
Within a few days, a new opposition coalition formed, headed by the
Mind. Fortunately, they helped. I'd hesitated on one last point. Pushed.
I gambled the momentum of the initial enthusiasm would carry it.
* * * * *
Originally the plan was a series of rooms, glassed off, that people could
stare into. There was something much better; engineering and I spent
36 hours straight, figuring costs, juggling space and equipment, until
the modification didn't look too expensive--juggling is always possible
in technical proposals. For the results, the cost was worth it. I
hand-carried the proposal in.

Why not take people through the rooms? We could even design a
simulated, usable spacesuit. There'd be airlock doors between the
rooms for effectiveness, insulation, economy. No children under ten
allowed; no adults over 50. They'd go through in groups of 10 or 11.
Sure, I realized this was the most elaborate, most ambitious concession
ever planned. The greatest ever attempted in its line, it would
cost--both us and the public. But people will pay for value. They'd go
for a buck-and-a-half or even two; the lines of those filing past the
windows, at 50 cents a crack, would also bring in the dough.
They bought it. Not all--they nixed my idea of creating exact
environmental conditions; and I didn't insist, luck and Hollywood being
what they are.
From the first, I established a special group to work on one problem.
They were dubbed the Gravity Gang, and immediately after, the GG. I
hired them for the gravity of the situation, a standard gag that, once
uttered, became as trite as the phrase. The Tour's realism would be
affected by normal weight sensations.
The team consisted of a female set designer--who'd turn any male
head--from the Studio, a garage mechanic with 30 years' experience, an
electronics engineer, a science fiction writer, and the prettiest
competent secretary available. I found Hazel, discovering with delight
she'd had three years of anthropology at UCLA.
As soon as they assembled, I explained their job: find a way to give the
illusion of lessened gravity.
Working conditions would be the best possible--why I'd wanted the
women pretty--and their time was their own. I found the GG responded
by working 10 hours a day and thinking another 14. They were that
sort.
I couldn't know the GG was foredoomed to failure by its very collective
nature; nor could I know, by its nature, the GG meant the difference
between my success and failure.

The opposition put one over; we'd started referring to the job as Tour of
the System Project. Next day, it was going the rounds as TS project.
Words, words, and men will always fight with words.
Actually, the initials were worthy of the name. The engineering
problems mounted like crazy. Words, words, and one of them got to the
outside world. Or maybe it was the additional construction crew we
hired.
One logical spot for the building was next to the moon flight. The Tour
building now would be bigger than first planned, so we extended it
southeasterly. This meant changing the roadbed of the Santa Fe &
Disneyland R.R. It put me up to my ears in plane surveying--and gave
me a nasty shock.
I looked up at someone's shout, in time to see a ton of cat rolling down
the embankment at me.
* * * * *
What we were doing was easy. Using a spiral to transition gradually
from tangent to circular curve and from circular curve to tangent. Easy?
Yeah. Sure.
If this was my baby, I'd damned well better know its personality traits. I
was out with the surveyors, I was out with the construction gang, I was
out at the wrong time.
As the yellow beast, mindless servant of man, thundered down, I dove
for the rocks. Thank God for the rocks--we'd had to import them: the
soil in Orange County is fine for oranges, but too soft for train
roadbeds.
Choking on the dust, I rolled over. The cat perched, grinning drunkenly,
on the rocks. The opposition or an accident? Surely the Mind wasn't
that desperate. But I was; I had to keep the idea alive, for myself as
well as completion of the original mission.

Several million hands pulled me out; several million more patted away
the dust. Motionless, I'd just seen the driver of the cat. Seen him--and
was sorry.
He stood tall but hunched over; gaunt, with pasty skin, vapid eyes, and
a kind of yellow-nondescript hair.
It wasn't the physical characteristics, very similar to