The Rule of the Door and Other Fanciful Regulations. Lloyd Biggle jr.
back up the hill. Dork was entertaining a guest—a female guest. Skarn slipped up the stairway unnoticed and activated the living room viewer. He had carefully avoided the native females in his own tests. Their psychology seemed infinitely more complex than that of the males, and their motives shrouded in fantastic obscurity.
After a brief discussion Dork gave money to his female specimen, and she walked resolutely to the Door and shoved against it. It failed to open. A violent argument followed, and she flung the money at Dork and left.
Dork did not offer to discuss the incident, and Skarn did not ask him about it.
* * * *
The stores were not yet open when Skarn reached Centertown the next morning. He walked the length of Main Street and back again, surprised at the number of familiar faces that he met. Jim Adams was slouched in front of the Center Bar, and when Skarn passed him a second time he squinted uncertainly and wiped a trembling hand across his eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.
“Nice morning, isn’t it?” Skarn found that he slipped into the native pattern of conversation with disconcerting ease. “This place will open in a few minutes. May I buy you a drink?”
Adams said nothing. They were the first customers, and Skarn followed Adams to the bar, paid for the drink he ordered, and watched as he downed it greedily.
“Another?” Skarn suggested.
Adams wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared blankly at him. Skarn nodded at the bartender, who refilled the glass. Slumped over the bar, Adams gazed at it dumbly. Suddenly he clutched it and flung the contents into Skarn’s face.
“I’m killing myself fast enough,” he said bitterly. “I don’t need your help.”
Skarn accepted a paper napkin from the bartender and dried his face. “Let’s sit down,” he said. “Is there something you’d rather have? Food, maybe?”
He led Adams over to a booth.
Adams said incredulously, “You ain’t sore?”
“I think,” Skarn said, “that you are a very sick man.”
Adams buried his face in his arms and sobbed. “When I ain’t drunk, I’m a louse because I want to get drunk. And when I’m drunk I’m a louse.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do about it?”
“In this hick town? Big cities got Alcoholics Anonymous and things like that. Here there ain’t nothing. Doc Winslow says go in the hospital and get cured, but that costs money an’ I ain’t got money. Won’t ever have none unless I get cured, an’ I can’t get cured unless I have some. So I drink myself to death. Who the hell cares?”
Skarn got to his feet and took a firm grip on Adams’s arm. “Let’s go and talk with your Doctor Winslow,” he said.
Doctor Winslow made a series of long-distance telephone calls and struggled valiantly to describe hospital expenses in terms understandable to Skarn. Then he jovially slapped Adams on the back and shook Skarn’s hand. And at noon Skarn was at the railroad station seeing that a somewhat bewildered Adams got aboard the train that would take him to a hospital.
Mrs. Adams was there, a slight, pale-faced woman, and with her were the seven Adams children. Mrs. Adams sank to her knees before Skarn and clutched his legs tearfully. Skarn gently raised her to her feet.
“It’s all right,” Skarn said. “Jim is going to come back cured. Aren’t you, Jim?”
“I sure am,” Adams promised.
“He’s been a sick man, but he’s going to be all right. And then your worries will be over.”
“God bless you,” Mrs. Adams sobbed. Skarn patted her shoulder awkwardly. “If you need anything in the meantime,” he heard himself say, “don’t hesitate to call on me.”
As soon as the train left Skarn walked over to the Centertown Bank and arranged to have a weekly allowance paid to the Adams family. Coming out of the bank he met Chief of Police White.
White’s hand clamped painfully on Skarn’s. “I heard about what you did,” he said
They walked together along Main Street. The president of the bank stopped to shake hands with Skarn. Faces familiar and unfamiliar smiled and spoke pleasantly. In one block Skarn was offered seven free beers, three dinners and a lodge membership.
“What’s happened?” he asked bewilderedly. White grinned at him. “In a town this size, word gets around fast. Jim Adams has been kind of a civic problem for years. Everyone felt responsible for him, but nobody knew what to do about him. You solved the problem at one crack. That’s what’s happened.”
They paused in front of the city hall, and White gripped Skarn’s hand again. “These small towns are peculiar places,” he said. “A person can come from the outside and live in one for years and never make the grade. And then sometimes—well, whether you like it or not, you’re one of us.”
Mayor Schwartz lumbered up, breathing heavily. “I chased you a block,” he panted. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“No, I didn’t” Skarn said. “I’m very sorry if—”
“Heard what you did for Jim Adams. Wonder why we didn’t think of it years ago. Look. We’ve got a vacancy on the planning commission and I think you’re just the man for it. I’ve talked with the council members, and if it’s all right with you we’ll make it official at the meeting tonight.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Skarn confessed.
“It’s nothing complicated. The commission meets once a month and mostly just talks. But you’re a newcomer and you might see things the rest of us have been overlooking for years, like Jim Adams. Why not give it a try? You can always resign if it’s too much of an imposition.”
Skarn looked at Chief White. White nodded gravely.
“Why, yes,” Skarn said. “I’d be honored.”
He found Elmer Harley at work in Merrel’s Garage. Harley slammed down a wrench and went over to wash up before he would accept Skarn’s hand.
“Naw, nobody will care if I have a beer with you,” he said, when Skarn timidly extended the invitation.
They crossed the street to the Center Bar. The bartender brought the beers to their booth, and Skarn took a sip and grimaced.
“I heard what you did for Jim Adams,” Harley said. “And—hell, it was a fine thing to do.”
“Do you think he’ll reform?” Skarn asked.
“With half a chance, I’m sure he will.”
“Then it was time someone did something about it.”
Harley nodded and took another gulp of beer. “Jim wasn’t a bad guy,” he said. “He was weak and he got himself trapped. You thinking of reforming me?”
“I had given it some thought,” Skarn conceded.
“I suppose it’s time somebody did something about that, too,” Harley said.
“I was thinking of opening a garage. An honest garage. Do you think there’s a place for one here?”
“There’s a place for an honest garage anywhere.”
“Do you think you could run one for me?”
“Try me!”
“See if you can find a place for it, and let me know what you’d need.”
“Right away,” Harley said. “Just as soon as I tell Merrel to go to hell.”
The house was dark when Skarn returned, dark upstairs and down. He moved easily through the darkness to the laboratory, heard Dork’s quick breathing, and settled