Ordeal by Terror. Lloyd Biggle jr.
they sucker us Adelle’s first day on the job and save the three weeks’ salary they’ve paid us since then? Or—to take a better question—why didn’t they do it my first day, with the typist they had when I came here? Or on Mondor’s first day, with the typist and writer they had then? Was it because this setup wasn’t finished? In that case, why hire anyone at all until they were ready? Nothing about this makes sense.”
“The writer they had when they hired me had been here one week,” Mondor said. “They fired him at the end of his second week and hired another. They hired a word processor when they hired me, and the two of us replaced people they fired. There may have been others before them. Why didn’t they kidnap three of them? You’re right—this makes no sense from any angle. But nothing about Z-R Publications has ever made any sense.”
“I wonder,” Adelle said.
“You wonder what?” Dolan demanded.
“I wonder if this doesn’t make sense. I think Madam’s flea-brained mannerisms were carefully calculated to cover up a frighteningly cold logic, and everything about Z-R Publications has had a purpose.”
“I suppose Madam had a perfectly sensible reason for giving us those ridiculous jobs and paying us inflated wages,” Dolan said.
“Of course she did. Just because we don’t know what it was doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.”
Dolan turned to Mondor. “We’re fortunate to have such a brilliant Researcher/Word Processor. Now listen carefully, and she’ll explain what we’re doing down here.”
“Obviously Madam wanted people who met certain requirements,” Adelle said impatiently. “She kept hiring and firing until she found them, and she didn’t sucker us my first day on the job because she wanted to make certain I was the person—all three of us were the persons—who met her requirements. Now she’s certain, and here we are. What other reason could there be? As for what the requirements were, and why they put us down here—I wouldn’t want to solve all the problems and leave you two sitting there with your brilliant minds running in neutral.”
Dolan sipped his beer and carefully preened his beard. Mondor hunched over his can of pop and let his hair flop forward again.
“Touche’,” Dolan said finally. “The girl has a point. They kept trying different combinations of people until they got the three they wanted, and we were the lucky winners. They paid us inflated wages to make certain we’d stick around, no matter how imbecilic the jobs seemed, until they were sure they had the right combination.”
He again sipped beer. “What a devastating development this is! I was stupidly thinking they valued me for my writing talent. Before I came to Ann Arbor, I always avoided jobs involving writing, and I refused to write anything at all merely for money. Just once, when I needed cash desperately, I managed to convince myself that an integrity as noble as mine could survive the sale of a few stories to the crassly commercial fiction markets. It was as though an ugly, frigid woman were to decide that turning a trick or two in a time of dire financial necessity wouldn’t make her a whore. The fiction markets’ lack of interest in my virtue was total, whether I was willing to prostitute myself or not.”
“So how did you justify prostituting yourself with Z-R Publications?” Mondor asked.
“My motives were pure. I only intended to work long enough to earn the money I needed to drive back to Chicago. The job was a revelation. I found to my surprise that with very little effort I can turn out expository prose that’s a model of clarity. I don’t even have to put my mind in gear to do it. I was afraid it would sap my creative energy, but I’ve been able to work evenings on my novel and fatten my bank balance during the day. This is the first time I’ve ever held a job for four consecutive weeks. Now it’s gone. So are those huge paychecks. Regardless of what happens, I’m sure none of us will ever work for Z-R Publications again.” He shrugged resignedly. “What were we talking about?”
“Why they chose us,” Adelle said. “I know one of their requirements. They wanted three people who didn’t like each other. Look how Madam tiptoed around trying to stir up trouble between us with her malicious gossip.”
“Right on,” Dolan agreed. “Would you like some beer?”
“No, thanks,” Adelle said. “Beer short circuits the brain’s power supply, and you’re the horrible example that proves it. I’ll stick to pop.”
“Assorted flavors in the refrigerator,” Dolan said, gesturing. “Help yourself. I’m a firm believer in Women’s Lib. Did you notice the reserve stock under the sink? Along with the wine, scotch, bourbon, vodka, gin, and several liqueurs? They didn’t leave us much food, but they certainly provided for drowning our sorrows.”
Adelle went to the refrigerator. Dolan got up and turned on the oven light to inspect the steaks. As Adelle opened her can of cola, he said to her, “How about making like a domestic female and adding something to our dinner?”
She stared at him—not from resentment, since he was broiling the steaks, but because the situation was so unreal. She should have been home by this time even if traffic was unusually heavy. She probably wouldn’t have felt like cooking—she usually didn’t. Right now she would be putting a frozen TV dinner or pizza in the microwave. Then bath, book, and bed. Instead, she had this.
She sipped her pop for a moment. Then she went to the refrigerator, and from the freezer compartment she took the package of frozen vegetables and the pie. The pie she put into the oven in its aluminum container. She searched for cooking utensils, found a saucepan, and measured water into it for the vegetables. After looking through the cupboards again, she announced the menu.
“Steak, mixed vegetables, synthetic mashed potatoes with synthetic gravy, blueberry pie for desert. With instant coffee, tea, or cocoa. If either of you prefers creamer with your coffee, that’s synthetic, too. Or you can have fresh milk.”
Dolan was back at the table sipping beer. “It falls a bit short of being a feast,” he observed, “but it could be much worse.”
“It probably will be before they’re through with us,” Mondor said gloomily.
“Thanks for those cheerful words,” Adelle told him. “As a reward—if we’re really stuck here—you can get breakfast.”
“You’ll be sorry,” Mondor said. He tilted his chair back, held his can of pop in front of him, gazed at it through his drooping hair as though it were a crystal ball, and directed a question at the universe. “Just what the devil are they trying to do?”
CHAPTER 4
Adelle pushed her coffee cup aside and leaned back with her eyes closed. Her grandmother, her mother’s mother—of blessed memory—had preached devoutly that every dark night had, somewhere, a glowing candle, every cloud a silver lining, it was always darkest just before the dawn, good luck followed bad, providence rewarded the deserving. Adelle felt deserving enough not to have deserved this, but she had her suspicions about Mondor and Dolan.
They were arguing about mazes—open mazes, T and Y mazes, linear and circular mazes, spatial and temporal mazes. All it proved to Adelle was that Mondor had an excellent retentive memory for obscure information, and she already knew that. Also, that Dolan considered ignorance no handicap in an argument, and she already knew that, too. The pair of them made an odd study in contrasts: Dolan robust, blond, blue-eyed, heavily bearded; Mondor slight, clean-shaven, with dark complexion and dark hair and eyes. Mondor argued defensively, searching his memory for facts. Dolan argued for the fun of it, playing tricks with words.
Adelle turned her thoughts to her plans for the weekend. Bath, book, and bed. Tomorrow, Greenfield Village. Sunday, her date. These two asses were going to argue interminably while she missed all of it.
During one of their infrequent lulls, she remarked absently, “I hope this place doesn’t have fleas.” Dolan turned a frowning, bearded, sideburned face in her direction. “I’m thinking of the amount of acreage you’d be providing for a playground,” she went on.