Question of Comfort | Page 3

allowed the luxury of nervous reaction. Our spacesuit man wanted an Ok on design changes. Changes? What changes?... Oh, yes, go ahead.
A materials man wanted to know about weight. I told him where to go--for the information.
A written progress report from the GG briefly, sardonically, said: "All the talk about increased costs and lowered budget has decided us to ask if any aircraft, missile, or AEC groups have come up with anti-gravity. It'd be a lot simpler that way. Love and kisses."
I shrugged, wrote them a memo to take a week off for fishing, wenching, or reading Van Es on the Pleistocene stratigraphy of Java. I didn't care, as long as they returned with a fresh point of view.
Things were hectic already, less than four months after we'd started. And we hadn't much to show, except a shift in the roadbed of the SF & D RR. The opposition, growing stronger each day, could sit back and rest the case, with nothing more than a smug, needling, I-told-you-so look.
The day finally came when we broke ground for the building. It was quite an achievement, and I invited the GG to dinner. I'd been drawn to the bunch of screwballs--the only name possible--more and more. Maybe because they were my brain-child, or maybe because lately they were the only human company in which I could relax.
The Hotel is about a half-mile south of Disneyland. I arrived early, hoping to grab a ginger ale. Our set designer, Frank--christened Francis--caught me at the door.
"Wanted to buy you a drink. This is the first time we've met socially."
That was true; it was equally true something bothered her. Damn it! Trapped, I'd have to drink. We ordered, and I mulled it over. Waited, but she said nothing.
* * * * *
The drinks came. I shook several little, bright-yellow pills from the bottle, swallowed them, then drank. Frank cocked her head inquisitively.
"If you must know, they're for my ulcer."
"Didn't know you had one."
"Don't, but I'll probably get one, any day."
She laughed, and I drank again. I should do my drinking alone because I get boiled incredibly fast. It happened now. One second I was sober; the next, drunk.
Resting a cheek on a wobbly palm-and-elbow, I said, "Has everyone ever said you are the most beautiful--"
"Yes, but in your present state, it isn't a good idea for you to add to that number."
I shifted to the other forearm. "Frank, things might be different if I weren't a thin, sallow lecher."
"What a nice compliment--"
"Uh huh."
"Especially since I work for you, nominally anyway--"
"Uh huh, nominally."
"Bosses should not make passes At gals who work as lower classes."
"Uh, huh, familiar."
"But you are, and getting more so daily--"
"Uh hu--are what?" I asked in surprise.
"Thin, tired: the GG has decided you're working too hard."
"Because I don't use Vano." I grinned, having waited long to put that one across.
"Be serious and listen--"
"You listen: if I'm working too hard, it's to finish. I must, and soon."
"This compulsion," she paced her words, "will kill you if you let it."
"It'll kill me if I don't let it--"
"Here comes Harry."
It was time. Blearily, I fumbled with the pills, spilled the bottle. Frank helped me gather them up, as Harry arrived.
He said, a look of worry on his gaunt, gray features, "The rest of us are waiting."
Concerned, Frank asked, "Think you're able?"
"Anytime you say," I answered, in a cold-sober monotone.
She flushed, knowing I was sober, not knowing certainly if I were serious.
* * * * *
When we were seated, I said enthusiastically, "Chateaubriand tonight, gangsters."
The GG did not react as expected.
Dex, the electronics engineer, said quietly, "If it's steak when the ground is broken, what'll it be when the thing is finished?"
"A feast, for all the animals in the world--just like Suleiman-bin-Daoud." This, from the GG writer, Mel.
Their faces showed the same thing that bothered Frank.
Harry said, "We have something to do."
"Well, do it!" I tried weak joviality: "It can't be anything of earth-shaking gravity."
Hazel, long since accepted as a GG member, replied, "It's just that we're ... resigned."
"What?"
"We've produced nothing in months of sustained effort. That's why we're resigning," Dex replied disgustedly.
Frank touched my arm, said softly, "We've examined every angle. With the money available, it's just impossible to give a sensation of changed weight. And we know they've been pressuring you about us being on the payroll."
"Wait"--desperately--"if you pull out, everything will go. The opposition needs only something like this. Besides, the GG is the one bit of insanity I can depend on in a practical world, the prop for my judgment--"
Harry: "Clouded judgment."
Mel: "Expensive prop."
Having grown used to their friendly insults, I sensed their resolution weakening, felt the pendulum swinging back.
The waitress interrupted with news of an urgent phone call. It was the worst possible time for me to leave. And the news I got threw