"Which company you you president of?" said the woman into the telephone. She got her answer. "Magnum Opus," she said. "Ransom K. Fern of Magnum Opus," she said. president of?" said the woman into the telephone. She got her answer. "Magnum Opus," she said. "Ransom K. Fern of Magnum Opus," she said.

"Tell him- tell him I'll call him back," said Constant.

The woman told Fern, got another message to relay to Constant. "He says he's quitting."

Constant stood unsteadily, rubbing his face with his hands. "Quitting?" he said dully. "Old Ransom K. Fern quitting?"

"Yah," said the woman. She smiled hatefully. "He says you can't afford to pay his salary any more. He says you better come in and talk to him before he goes home." She laughed. "He says you're broke."

Back in Newport, the racket of Beatrice Rumfoord's outburst had attracted Moncrief the butler to Skip's Museum. "You called, Mum?" he said.

"It was more of a scream, Moncrief." said Beatrice.

"She doesn't want anything, thank you," said Rumfoord. "We were simply having a spirited discussion."

"How dare dare you say whether I want something or not?" said Beatrice hotly to Rumfoord. "I'm beginning tocatch on that you're not you say whether I want something or not?" said Beatrice hotly to Rumfoord. "I'm beginning tocatch on that you're not nearly nearly as omniscient as you pretend to be. It so happens I want something very much. I want as omniscient as you pretend to be. It so happens I want something very much. I want a number of things a number of things very much." very much."

"Mum?" said the butler.

"I'd like you to let the dog in, please," said Beatrice. "I'd like to pet him before he goes. I would like to find out if a chrono-synclastic infundibula kills love in a dog the way it kills love in a man."

The butler bowed and left.

"That was a pretty scene to play before a servant," said Rumfoord.

"By and large," said Beatrice, "my contribution to the dignity of the family has been somewhat greater than yours."

Rumfoord hung his head. "I've failed you in some way? Is that what you're saying?"

"In some some way?" said Beatrice. "In way?" said Beatrice. "In every every way!" way!"

"What would you have me do?" said Rumfoord.

"You could have told me this stock-market crash was coming!" said Beatrice. "You could have spared me what I'm going through now."

Rumfoord's hands worked in air, unhappily trying on various lines of argument for size.

"Well?" said Beatrice.

"I just wish we could go out to the chrono-synclastic infundibula together," said Rumfoord. "So you could see for once what I was talking about. All I can say is that my failure to warn you about the stock-market crash is as much a part of the natural order as Halley's Comet- -and it makes an equal amount of sense to rage against either one."

"You're saying you have no character, and no sense of responsibility toward me," said Beatrice. "I'm sorry to put it that way, but it's the truth."

Rumfoord rocked his head back and forth. "A truth- but, oh G.o.d, what a punctual truth," he said.

Rumfoord retreated into his magazine again. The magazine opened naturally to the center spread, which was a color ad for MoonMist Cigarettes. MoonMist Tobacco, Ltd., had been bought recently by Malachi Constant.

Pleasure in Depth! said the headline on the ad. The picture that went with it was the picture of the three sirens of t.i.tan. There they were- the white girl, the golden girl, and the brown girl. said the headline on the ad. The picture that went with it was the picture of the three sirens of t.i.tan. There they were- the white girl, the golden girl, and the brown girl.

The fingers of the golden girl were fortuitously spread as they rested on her left breast, permitting an artist to paint in a MoonMist Cigarette between two of them. The smoke from her cigarette pa.s.sed beneath the nostrils of the brown and white girls, and their s.p.a.ce-annihilating concupiscence seemed centered on mentholated smoke alone.

Rumfoord had known that Constant would try to debase the picture by using it in commerce. Constant's father had done a similar thing when he found he could not buy Leonardo's "Mona Lisa" at any price. The old man had punished Mona Lisa by having her used in an advertising campaign for suppositories. It was the free-enterprise way of handling beauty that threatened to get the upper hand.

Rumfoord made a buzzing sound on his lips, which was a sound he made when he approached compa.s.sion. The compa.s.sion he approached was for MalachiConstant, who was having a far worse time of it than Beatrice.

"Have I heard your whole defense?" said Beatrice, coming behind Rumfoord's chair. Her arms were folded, and Rumfoord, reading her mind, knew that she thought of her sharp, projected elbows as bullfighter's swords.

"I beg your pardon?" said Rumfoord.

"This silence- this hiding in the magazine- this is the sum and total of your reb.u.t.tal?" said Beatrice.

"Reb.u.t.tal- a punctual word if there ever was one," said Rumfoord. "I say this, and then you rebut me, then I rebut you, then somebody else comes in and rebuts us both." He shuddered. "What a nightmare where everybody gets in line to rebut each other."

"Couldn't you, this very moment," said Beatrice, "give me stock-market tips that would enable me to gain back everything I lost and more? If you had one shred of concern for me, couldn't you tell me exactly how Malachi Constant of Hollywood is going to try to trick me into going to Mars, so I could outwit him?"

"Look," said Rumfoord, "life for a punctual person is like a roller coaster." He turned to shiver his hands in her face. "All kinds of things are going to happen to you! Sure," he said, "I can see the whole roller coaster you're on. And sure- I could give you a piece of paper that would tell you about every dip and turn, warn you about every bogeyman that was going to pop out at you in the tunnels. But that wouldn't help you, any."

"I don't see why not," said Beatrice.

"Because you'd still still have to take the roller-coaster ride," said Rumfoord. "I didn't design the roller coaster, I don't own it, and I don't say who rides and who doesn't. I just know what it's shaped like." have to take the roller-coaster ride," said Rumfoord. "I didn't design the roller coaster, I don't own it, and I don't say who rides and who doesn't. I just know what it's shaped like."

"And Malachi Constant is part of the roller coaster?" said Beatrice.

"Yes," said Rumfoord.

"And there's no avoiding him?" said Beatrice.

"No," said Rumfoord.

"Well- suppose you tell me then, just what steps bring us together," said Beatrice, "and let me do what little I can."

Rumfoord shrugged. "All right- if you wish," he said. "If it would make you feel better- "At this very moment," he said, "the President of the United States is announcing a New Age of s.p.a.ce to relieve unemployment. Billions of dollars are going to be spent on unmanned s.p.a.ce ships, just to make work. The opening episode in this New Age of s.p.a.ce will be the firing of The Whale The Whale next Tuesday. next Tuesday. The Whale The Whale will be renamed will be renamed The Rumfoord The Rumfoord in my honor, will be loaded with organ-grinder monkeys, and will be fired in the general direction of Mars. You and Constant will both take part in the ceremonies. You will go on board for a ceremonial inspection, and a faulty switch will send you on your way with the monkeys." in my honor, will be loaded with organ-grinder monkeys, and will be fired in the general direction of Mars. You and Constant will both take part in the ceremonies. You will go on board for a ceremonial inspection, and a faulty switch will send you on your way with the monkeys."

It is worth stopping the narrative at this point to say that this c.o.c.k-and-bull story told to Beatrice is one of the few known instances of Winston Niles Rumfoord's having told a lie.

This much of Rumfoord's story was true: The Whale The Whale was going to be renamed and fired on Tuesday, and the President of the United States was going to be renamed and fired on Tuesday, and the President of the United States was was announcing a New Age of s.p.a.ce. announcing a New Age of s.p.a.ce.

Some of the President's comments at the time bear repeating- and it should be remembered that the President gave the word "progress" a special flavor by p.r.o.nouncing it prog-erse prog-erse. He also flavored the words "chair" and "warehouse," p.r.o.nouncing them cheer cheer and and wirehouse wirehouse.

"Now, some people are going around saying the American economy is old and sick," said the President, "and I frankly can't understand how they can say such a thing, because there is now more opportunity for progerse on all fronts than at any time in human history.

"And there is one frontier we can make particular progerse on and that is the great frontier of s.p.a.ce. We have been turned back by s.p.a.ce once, but it isn't the American way to take no for an answer where progerse is concerned.

"Now, people of faint heart come to see me every day at the White House," said the President, "and they weep and wail and say, 'Oh, Mr. President, the wirehouses are all full of automobiles and airplanes and kitchen appliances and various other products,' and they say, 'Oh, Mr. President, there is nothing more that anybody wants the factories to make because everybody already has two, three, and four of everything.'

"One man in particular, I remember, was a cheer manufacturer, and he had way overproduced, and all hecould think about was all those cheers in the wirehouse. And I said to him, 'In the next twenty years, the population of the world is going to double, and all those billions of new people are going to need things to sit down on, so you just hang on to those cheers. Meanwhile, why don't you forget about those cheers in the wirehouse and think about progerse in s.p.a.ce?'

"I said to him and I say to you and I say to everybody, 's.p.a.ce can absorb the productivity of a trillion planets the size of earth. We could build and fire rockets forever, and never fill up s.p.a.ce and never learn all there is to know about it.

"Now, these same people who like to weep and wail so much say, 'Oh, but Mr. President, what about the chrono-synclastic infundibula and what about this and what about that?' And I say to them, 'If people listened to people like you, there wouldn't ever be any progerse. There wouldn't be the telephone or anything. And besides,' I tell them and I tell you and I tell everybody, 'we don't have to put people in the rocket ships. We will use the lower animals only.'"

There was more to the speech.

Malachi Constant of Hollywood, California, came out of the rhinestone phone booth cold sober. His eyes felt like cinders. His mouth tasted like horseblanket puree.

He was positive that he had never seen the beautiful blond woman before.

He asked her one of the standard questions for times of violent change. "Where is everybody?" he said.

"You threw 'em all out," said the woman.

"I did?" said Constant.

"Yah," said the woman. "You mean you drew a blank?"

Constant nodded weakly. During the fifty-six-day party he had reached a point where he could draw almost nothing else. His aim had been to make himself unworthy of any destiny- incapable of any mission- far too ill to travel. He had succeeded to a shocking degree.

"Oh, it was quite a show," said the woman. "You were having as good a time as anybody, helping shove the piano in the pool. Then, when it finally went in, you got this big crying jag."

"Crying jag," echoed Constant. That was something new.

"Yah," said the woman. "You said you had a very unhappy childhood, and made everybody listen to how unhappy it was. How your father never even threw a ball to you once- any kind of ball. Half the time n.o.body could understand you, but every time somebody could understand you, it was about how there never was any kind of ball.

"Then you talked about your mother," said the woman, "and you said if she was a wh.o.r.e, then you were proud to be a son of a wh.o.r.e, if that's what a wh.o.r.e was. Then you said you'd give an oil well to any woman who'd come up to you and shake your hand and say real loud, so everybody could hear, 'I'm a wh.o.r.e, just like your mother was.'"

"What happened then?" said Constant.

"You gave an oil well to every woman at the party," said the woman. "And then you started crying worsethan ever, and you picked me out, and you told everybody I was the only person in the whole Solar System you could trust. You said everybody else was just waiting for you to fall asleep, so they could put you on a rocket ship and shoot you at Mars. Then you made everybody go home but me. Servants and everybody.

"Then we flew down to Mexico and got married, and then we came back here," she said. "Now I find out you haven't got a pot to p.i.s.s in or a window to throw it out of. You better go down to the office and find out what the h.e.l.l is going on, on account of my boyfriend is a gangster, and he'll kill you if I tell him you aren't providing for me right.

"h.e.l.l," she said, "I had an unhappier childhood than you did. My mother was a wh.o.r.e and my father never came home, either- but we were poor poor besides. At least you had billions of dollars." besides. At least you had billions of dollars."

In Newport, Beatrice Rumfoord turned her back to her husband. She stood on the threshold of Skip's Museum, facing the corridor. Down the corridor came the sound of the butler's voice. The butler was standing in the front doorway, calling to Kazak, the hound of s.p.a.ce.

"I know a little something about roller coasters, too," Beatrice said.

"That's good," said Rumfoord emptily.

"When I was ten years old," said Beatrice, "my father got it into his head that it would be fun for me to ride a roller coaster. We were summering on Cape Cod, and we drove over to an amus.e.m.e.nt park outside of Fall River.

"He bought two tickets on the roller coaster. He was going to ride with me.

"I took one look at the roller coaster," said Beatrice, "and it looked silly and dirty and dangerous, and I simply refused to get on. My own father couldn't make me get on," said Beatrice, "even though he was Chairman of the Board of the New York Central Rail-road.

"We turned around and came home," said Beatrice proudly. Her eyes glittered, and she nodded abruptly. "That's the way to treat roller coasters," she said.

She stalked out of Skip's Museum, went to the foyer to await the arrival of Kazak.

In a moment, she felt the electric presence of her husband behind her.

"Bea-" he said, "if I seem indifferent to your misfortunes, it's only because I know how well things are going to turn out in the end. If it seems crude of me not to hate the idea of your pairing off with Constant, it's only an humble admission on my part that he's going to make you a far better husband than I ever was or will be.

"Look forward to being really in love for the first time, Bea," said Rumfoord. "Look forward to behaving aristocratically without any outward proofs of your aristocracy. Look forward to having nothing but the dignity and intelligence and tenderness that G.o.d gave you- look forward to taking those materials and nothing else, and making something exquisite with them."

Rumfoord groaned tinnily. He was becoming insubstantial. "Oh, G.o.d-" he said, "you talk about roller coasters- "Stop and think sometime about the roller coaster I'm on. Some day on t.i.tan, it will be revealed to you just how ruthlessly I've been used, and by whom, and to what disgustingly paltry ends."

Kazak now flung himself into the house, flews flapping. He landed skidding on the polished floor.

He ran in place, trying to make a right-angle turn in Beatrice's direction. Faster and faster he ran, and still he could get no traction.

He became translucent.

He began to shrink, to fizz crazily on the foyer floor like a ping-pong ball in a frying pan.

Then he disappeared.

There was no dog any more.

Without looking behind, Beatrice knew that her husband had disappeared, too.

"Kazak?" she said faintly. She snapped her fingers, as though to attract a dog. Her fingers were too weak to make a sound.

"Nice doggy," she whispered.

Chapter 3.

United Hotcake Preferred "Son- they say there isn't any royalty in this country, but do you want me to tell you how to be king of the United States of America? Just fall through the hole in a privy and come out smelling like a rose."

- Noel Constant Magnum Opus, the Los Angeles Corporation that managed Malachi Constant's financial affairs, was founded by Malachi's father. It had a thirty-one-story building for its home. While Magnum Opus owned the whole building, it used only the top three floors, renting out the rest to corporations it controlled.

Some of these corporations, having been sold recently by Magnum Opus, were moving out. Others, having been bought recently by Magnum Opus, were moving in.

Among the tenants were Galactic s.p.a.cecraft, Moon-Mist Tobacco, Fandango Petroleum, Lennox Mono-rail, Fry-Kwik, Sani-Maid Pharmaceuticals, Lewis and Marvin Sulfur, Dupree Electronics, Universal Piezo-electric, Psychokinesis Unlimited, Ed Muir a.s.sociates, Max-Mor Machine Tools, Wilkinson Paint and Varnish, American Levitation, Flo-Fast, King O'Leisure Shirts, and the Emblem Supreme Casualty and Life a.s.surance Company of California.

The Magnum Opus Building was a slender, prismatic, twelve-sided shaft, faced on all twelve sides with blue-green gla.s.s that shaded to rose at the base. The twelve sides were said by the architect to represent the twelve great religions of the world. So far, no one had asked the architect to name them.

That was lucky, because he couldn't have done it.

There was a private heliport on top.

The shadow and flutter of Constant's helicopter settling to the heliport seemed to many of the people below to be like the shadow and flutter of the Bright Angel of Death. It seemed that way because of the stock-market crash, because money and jobs were so scarce- And it seemed especially that way to them because the things that had crashed the hardest, that had pulled everything down with them, were the enterprises of Malachi Constant.