Ballenger's People
The radios in the wall came on with a click, and a moment later African drum music issued into the bedroom. Bart Ballenger was instantly awake.
He took a vote, and the consensus was it's Thursday.
He arose and stood before the window and breathed deeply. Thursday was the day to settle accounts with a lawyer on Wilshire Blvd.
Air and sunlight said spring. This, too, was verified democratically.
Ballenger completed the early morning routine against the sound of music. He moved about his two-bedroom apartment checking. All was as the previous evening. No one had entered during the night. The smaller bedroom was in order against the arrival of guests who never came.
He sat at the counter-top divider, between living room and kitchen, eating eggs, drinking coffee. The radios around him, all switched on, played the same music as in the bedroom. He bobbed his head to the rhythm, visualized The Star Walkers. He was in love with the middle drummer, a girl named Angelique Roust.
Ballenger had seen Angelique on TV and instantly fallen in love with her. She replaced his previous love, Miss Terri Paul, flutist, a person, in retrospect, with no bust worthy of mention.
Now it seemed, over the eggs and coffee in the natural brightness of morning, fantastic that such a collection as Miss Terri Paul could have attracted even his momentary attention, much less captivated him for a single minute, let alone nearly five whole months. He vowed against eternity that he would never, never, never show Miss Terri Paul's TV tapes again, and if he heard her on radio, he would refuse to listen. This would be proof of his love for Angelique.
He finished his coffee. The news was coming on, blaring out over the sounds of cool jazz. There were, in the world, the nations of crime and the nations of law and order; he belonged to the latter. All were democracies, whether they knew it or not, but some were insane. This was scarcely surprising when you considered evolution.
Out came the letter: Final Notice! The amount, including postage, was twenty-three dollars and forty-seven cents.
"Ballenger" began the letter, omitting the customary salutation—"your actions indicate you have no intention of paying the enclosed bill. If this bill is not paid immediately, I will be forced to institute legal action, which may involve your employer. You will be liable for all costs incurred in collection. To avoid embarrassment and the extra expense, your check in the amount of $23.47 must be received by return mail. I mean business. This is the last notice I will send before forwarding the bill to the California Courts for collection. F. Terrace Watson, Attorney at Law."
The bill was clearly illegal. Watson had been given every chance to prove his case and had failed dismally.
Item one: Jury trial.
Item two: Superior court review.
Item three: Supreme court decision.
All favored Ballenger. Watson did not care enough even to present his case on the appeal, and Ballenger, out of a sense of fairness, had continued the proceedings on his own initiative. Now this man, Watson, was threatening the very nation itself.
Ballenger folded the letter and replaced it in his inner suit-coat pocket. Breakfast finished, he put the dishes in the machine. Seven-twenty in the morning. Normally time to leave for work. Switchboard opens in exactly thirty-five minutes. Time was a rubber band, stretching out.
He removed his credit-card receipts. We will audit the accounts this morning. Prudent financial management is the foundation of the nation. The Secretary of the Treasury was summoned.
Two dollars and fifty-nine cents, plus tax, for a six-pack of half-quart cans of beer. Five cans were still in the refrigerator. The supply would last another month. The Secretary of the Treasury waived the right to appeal and agreed the expense was reasonable. Three dollars and eighty-nine cents for dry cleaning: an unavoidable expense. Ten dollars, thirteen cents: a lube and oil job, rotors adjusted, fuel tank filled. No argument there. Forty-seven cents for a large chocolate bar. They called in the Surgeon General on that one. To the bathroom scale. Ballenger had picked up four ounces by the scale. Back to the accounts. Let's watch that candy. Ballenger agreed.
Four dollars and ten cents, including tips, for dinner in the restaurant last night. This Wednesday's expense was sanctioned by tradition, and recent polls showed it was approved by eighty-three percent of the citizens. Of the twenty-five dollars he allowed himself for the period, he still had three dollars plus change. Close enough. The Secretary of the Treasury was satisfied.
Snap! went the rubber band. Five minutes before eight.
Ballenger phoned the switchboard.
"Thank you for calling Merritt and Finch," said the recording. "Space research is our specialty."
He said, "Ballenger from Accounting. I have some personal business to take care of this morning. I'll be in after lunch."
"Thank you for your message, Mr. Ballenger," said the machine.
· · · · ·
Traffic above Los Angeles would begin breaking in another fifteen minutes. It
was a twenty-minute flight to the office of F. Terrace Watson, Attorney at Law.
Leave at eight-fifteen, be there at twenty-five before nine.
Ballenger checked the day-shift workers. Everyone seemed at his job. Pulse was good, heartbeat steady, respiration normal. Swing shift would be going to bed in another hour. Most of the night shift probably hadn't gone back to sleep after voting on the day of the week. They should be up stirring. Should try to get all of today's major business out of the way before nine, nine-thirty, so the swing shift could get their rest.
Some sort of a proxy agreement really must be worked out, if it can be done democratically. We've got to send legislation to that effect up to the next Congress. Note: Cabinet meeting on Sunday should discuss this.
Meanwhile, one of the problems was too many important decisions. The executive himself could do something about that. Should definitely cut down on the number of major decisions, keep them to a bare minimum, try to get them all out of the way before nine o'clock. No excuse for decisions in the middle of the day. A well-run country shouldn't have emergencies.
Yet the evils of dictatorships are too well known to review: an evolutionary failure of the organism. Strange so few saw this very point with the clarity of Ballenger.
Promptly at eight-twelve, he buzzed the garage of his departure and left the apartment, checking to be sure the door latch was set to lock. Two minutes later, he was on the roof. The morning rush having passed, the mechanical attendant had already assembled the blades. He stepped in, and the radios came on with the ignition. He hummed in time, tapping the control bar.
Airborne, the Security Forces relaxed. Once again he had remembered to lock the door. The day-shift technicians, well rested, began to supervise the complicated motor activity connected with flying. The pilot stood at the bridge, in command, studying meaningful lights as they flashed their careful traffic patterns, responding with the necessary movements.
Ballenger again wished there were some way to introduce more automation. Perhaps he should take it up with his Scientific Advisory Group. But if the SAG could work out a way, what about unemployment, long solved among nations, but an ever-present internal danger?
No! Better to have jobs for all than to have to worry about chronic unemployment. The thing to avoid was overtime. The union was very difficult when it came to overtime. Four hours off for each hour on. Once, after a very difficult week at the office, he had spent all of Friday in bed to catch up.
The blades joined traffic.
· · · · ·
At eight-thirty, between commercials, came the newsbreak. It was the one thing
he really did not like about the station. Ballenger frowned in annoyance. The
nations of crime seemed to have the upper hand: an aggression in Florida, a war
on the streets of Los Angeles. Incomprehensible. Pointless.
He checked again with his legal staff. There was no possible question that Watson's demand was completely illegal. There was no legal way Ballenger could be made to pay. Still, this being a foreign affair, rather than a domestic one, you could never be entirely sure of results.
Ballenger had long fought a mental battle with other nations for territorial integrity. To the things of the flesh, flesh; to the things of the spirit, spirit. It was difficult to know whether or not he was being ignored completely, for no other nation ever made a sign of having heard him on this matter. He called in the Secretary of State. We'll rest our case, said the Secretary, on external law. We will negotiate, but we will not arbitrate.
Music came back on. He wished they'd play one of Angelique's records. It would be good to know she was backing him in this matter.
But of course she was. Angelique was a nation like himself: a hater of injustice everywhere. Hadn't she already proved that, time after time? Hadn't she whispered it to him over TV? Of course she supported him. With the total resources of her body.
Ballenger thought of his job at Merritt and Finch. Wisely, the citizens had expressed their will to him: never talk to anyone at Merritt and Finch unless absolutely necessary. If you don't talk to them, we don't have to be always making decisions. You don't have to be bothering the citizens all the time, getting the swing shift out of bed with emergency votes.
So Ballenger kept busy with his punch cards and forms and rows of figures and files. Feeding the computer. Which was composed of an almost infinite number of little things going yes and no. With such uncomplicated fundamentals as that, it was a mystery the thing could even add.
And Ballenger smiled, and he answered questions, and he never went out to lunch with anyone.
Twenty before nine: a commercial. Traffic was unusually heavy. He had hovered almost motionless for nearly five minutes. Now a lane was open. The building was less than a quarter of a mile away, and he entered the descent level, checking visually. He tensed as an idiot pilot dropped too rapidly. Probably an emerging nation. What's the hurry?
Moments later, he was parked safely. He surrendered the blades to an attendant for a claim check. The check looked all right.
He walked quickly to the elevator and checked the directory posted on the wall. It told him the enemy was on the third floor: Suite 315.
Down he went.
· · · · ·
F. Terrace Watson was seated behind his desk in the inner office, surrounded by
file cabinets, an addressograph machine, a postage meter, a voice typer, and a
computer with memory storage.
Watson looked up from his desk in the inner office when he heard the corridor door open. It was too early for the mail drop. Who could it be at this hour? His part-time secretary, an expensive extravagance which flattered his ego, would not be in until after lunch for the mailing, so he arose and went through the door to greet the visitor, presumably a salesman.
Ballenger stood nervously beside the vacant receptionist's desk. He was dressed in a conservative suit, a style which had not changed appreciably for the last sixty years, in contrast to the vacillation of women's fashions; he was short, had a receding hairline and weighed no more than one hundred and twenty pounds.
Watson was a tall man, many pounds Ballenger's superior, with a face that was heavy from rich foods and the eyes of a dictator.
Suppose the unsupposable, Ballenger's Chief of Planning Operations whispered. Consider every possibility, no matter how remote. A nation prepares for all contingencies. Merritt and Finch would demand an explanation for his refusal to pay this illegal bill.
"You are F. Terrace Watson?" he asked. "My name is Bart Ballenger."
And if Ballenger, as Chief Executive, allowed the job at Merritt and Finch to be lost, the citizens would most certainly revolt and throw him out of office. With no one to run the nation, it would become very sick.
"Yes?" asked Watson. "What can I do for you? If it's about employment—"
"You don't know me?" asked Ballenger in amazement. "You are F. Terrace Watson, the attorney?" Ballenger was disturbed by the development. How could the attorney, who had written him so many letters, each signed with a savage flourish, fail to recognize the name Bart Ballenger? There was a mystery here. What did the Secretary of Defense think?
Watson searched his thoughts. Someone from one of his ex-wives? Someone from Ernie, trying to collect the little bit he still owed from the Santa Anita meeting? A process server?
Ballenger brought out the letter.
Ballenger had been with Merritt and Finch for eleven years; he could never find another job as good. So Watson, at all costs, must be stopped from notifying them. How could Ballenger present a legal brief to Mr. Herreras in defense of his refusal to pay this illegal bill? Mr. Herreras did not even know that he was one nation, under God, with all kinds of people inside him, and it isn't safe to talk to fascists who don't even understand that elementary fact. Evolution decrees their defeat, but natural selection is a slow process.
"It's about this," said Ballenger.
Instantly Watson assumed the stern countenance and demeanor appropriate to the profession. "Let's see, Mr. Ballenger. I believe it's about the overdue account that you wish to see me?" He reached out for the letter and glanced at the amount. "Twenty-three dollars and forty-seven cents."
"I want to talk to you about that."
"Well, let's just step into the office, here, Mr. Ballenger. I'm glad you realize just how serious this matter is. I'm glad to see you've come down in person to straighten it out. Please sit down."
As Watson walked around his desk to his chair, a tiny doubt opened a crevasse in his thoughts and uneasiness leaked out. In the memory of his profession, which was long and honorable, had anyone ever called personally? Not that he was aware of. This was the most mail order of all businesses, composed of fleshless names, first-class postage stamps, white paper, black print, stern taped warnings for the larger delinquents. Human breath sent it into disarray, and Watson felt uncomfortable in his own office. Let us explore the situation, which may be delicate or fraught with annoyance.
"Now," said Watson, after seating himself, "Mr. Ballenger, if you'll just let me have your check for twenty-three dollars and forty-seven cents, we can put an immediate end to this matter, and you will be spared any possible embarrassment and inconvenience. If the amount is a little too much for you right now, I know we can work out a satisfactory payment plan. Many of my accounts pay as little as five dollars a week. I understand how people can get in over their heads on matters like this, and I want to be as reasonable as I can be."
"It's not the money, you know that," said Ballenger, running the words together, still standing.
Watson frowned sternly. He made it a practice of ignoring all letters from accounts which did not contain money. Had Ballenger written protesting the bill? "Do I understand there's been some mistake? From the account number, here, this is for some musical tapes, isn't it? Didn't you receive the merchandise? Was the recording poor? Fuzzy pictures? If that's the case, I'll have to go back to the company with this, and if their records are in order, and if you haven't complained within the required time—" He left unspoken any direct threat.
Ballenger observed that the attorney was introducing irrelevant material. "I received the tapes; they were satisfactory in quality," he said. Diplomatic Corps personnel came forward with advice, prepared with documents. The Secretary of State cleared his throat. "I think you will have to agree, as an attorney and a specialist, that asking us to pay for these Miss Terri Paul tapes is the equivalent of demanding we pay alimony. You have no proof whatever that indicates we have ever been married."
Watson rolled the key to the voice typer between thumbs and forefingers. The accounts, of whom this man was one, were purchases at twenty-five cents on the dollar in blocks of one thousand. A few were always totally uncollectable because of legitimate reasons: merchandise returned and not credited, defective merchandise, incorrect merchandise, unordered merchandise … Out of this group of ten to twenty in each block of accounts, one or two might threaten legal or other action upon receipt of dunning letters. Standard practice ignored them. They had no case; the dunning letters always complied exactly with the applicable laws of the State of California.
Such people, however, were nuisances, and Watson considered for the merest instant whether or not Ballenger might be an unusually aggressive example of that type. But any suspicion that Ballenger was contemplating a lawsuit evaporated, and Watson saw that he was dealing, instead, with a maniac. New forms of insanity were breaking out all over, as a tragic consequence of universal peace.
The sensible thing, Watson knew, was to stand from his chair, ease the man quietly from the office, lock the door, and hope Ballenger would not come back.
"You're perfectly correct, Mr. Ballenger. There is no reason for you to pay this bill. I'll see that you're not bothered by it any more. A tragic misunderstanding for which I apologize."
Watson stood up. He moved to the side of the desk. Would more reassurance be required? It was difficult to know. "I'm sure this alimony matter will work out, too," he added.
Ballenger was outweighed by one hundred pounds and was a good six inches shorter than his enemy. One equalized such contests. He looked up at the attorney. So now he was going to be threatened with alimony. What was behind that threat? He was in trouble enough already.
Better ask the Secretary of the Interior: Have we ever to your knowledge been liable for alimony? The answer, in the negative, came back. Still dissatisfied, he said, This is a very serious matter; could we be liable without our knowledge? His Scientific Advisor assured him that it was completely impossible.
"I deny any knowledge of alimony," Ballenger told Watson.
"Just don't worry about anything," said Watson, soothingly.
Ballenger realized this might be even worse than he had anticipated. What would Mr. Herreras say to this? Charges were piling up too rapidly. From his own logic, which was impeccable, sprang a new accusation.
Could this man Watson know Miss Terri Paul and her sorry collection of constituents? Was there a conspiracy, had treaties been made against him, was aggression contemplated?
Watson spoke as though to a child. "You just put it out of your mind. Go home and rest. You don't feel very good this morning."
Ballenger felt panic. The Chief Medical Officer said, I'm afraid we've run into another nut here. The world is full of such nations; they cause all the trouble.
This one, said the Chief of Security Forces, is a lawyer. Lawyers are the most dangerous of all. They can exhume treaties to the days of King John to cite against us.
Watson, looking down on the man he completely dominated physically, felt a moment of compassion. Ballenger was sick; he needed help. Watson decided to probe the extent of this post-Freudian psychosis, to divine in which direction help for the poor, disturbed man might lie. "You have some relatives here?"
"The question," said Ballenger, "is an insult to national dignity! I am perfectly capable of fighting my own wars!"
A little flicker of fear came to Watson. Against the power of a madman, his physical advantage might be canceled. Ballenger might be capable of hurting him and, beyond that, might constitute a larger menace. The idea, half formed, that it would be possible to reason Ballenger into seeking medical attention, vanished. No other avenue of assistance lay open to the attorney. In the absence of criminal conduct, only a relative could have Ballenger committed.
Watson could prefer a misdemeanor charge: But if the insanity were temporary, or if Ballenger could recover sufficiently to conceal it from the judge, then Watson himself might be in an unfortunate and vulnerable legal position: a suit for false arrest, or worse. The thing to do was definitely to get him out of the office as soon as possible.
"Come along, now," said Watson, reaching out. "Let's walk out here in the corridor." Once in the corridor, Watson could duck back in the office, slam the door, and lock it. If Ballenger stayed outside, an anonymous call to the police might then result in his detention for questioning and lead to the court sending him to the sanctuary the state provided for such disturbed people.
Ballenger shrugged off the hand. He checked to see that all his people were awake. A crisis was near. Once the man, Watson, got him into the corridor, he would be attacked. All the other nations in the building would see it, of course, but none would come to his defense. Ballenger had made no alliances here. His alliances were with the entertainment industry, in Hollywood, in New York City, in the TV industry. They were too far away to help him now! Could they even hear his cries?
What wild charges Watson would make! And could the nation, with the best legal minds available, refute them? Watson was one of the extremely mad ones: a prisoner of the past. He had not been able to escape evolution's cul de sac: specialization. Watson treated all the organic components within himself with total contempt for their civil rights. Logical thought was impossible with him. Ballenger confronted a primitive organism.
So Watson was threatening to consider it as an international matter, beyond reasonable compromise. Ballenger had come prepared for that. Was all diplomacy, forever, for nothing? Make one more try at private negotiation.
"You'll never get us before the United Nations," Ballenger said. "You know it's stacked against us; you know we wouldn't have a fair chance to defend ourselves; we're outnumbered."
Ballenger sounded the alarm. Everyone was apprised of the situation. Are you behind me, citizens? he cried. A resounding ninety-seven percent: yes!
Red alert! cried Ballenger's Secretary of Defense. To arms! To arms! Man the barricades! Prepare to repel the invasion!
Watson's hand came out once more. It fixed on Ballenger's shoulder. "Come along now. I think it's time for you to leave!"
The Secretary of Defense told Ballenger: He's getting ready for a sneak attack! Hurry!
Ballenger acted then. He declared a national emergency. The soldiers came forward, waves of them.
Scientists readied the missile launcher site and took control of the panel with flashing lights.
Get out of my way! snarled the Secretary of Defense to the Secretary of State. This is exclusively a military matter now!
Ballenger removed the missile launcher from its hidden silo and twisted to his left, firing upward, once, bang!
There was silence. The sound of Watson's body as it met the carpet. Silence.
We had to defend ourselves, he told the citizens. It was us or them. Eighty-one percent approved the action. The pacifists, less than ten percent of the population, had continued that portion of the work which had not contributed to the war effort. They now returned to full participation in the society.
Ballenger congratulated the Secretary of Defense for always being prepared and put the missile launcher in his pocket.
The Security Forces took over. He had touched nothing in the office. No fingerprint problem.
Two and a half minutes later, he was at the roof garage. He presented the printed claim check for the blades.
Ninety seconds later still, the Security Forces withdrew, and the technicians took over. He was at the control bar. The music of strings and oboes came from the radios. He looked at his watch. Just after nine. The swing shift people could get their sleep. He ended the emergency.
He asked the Secretary of the Treasury: How was that? That's the kind of war you like, isn't it? Seventy-seven cents is all it cost us this time. Seventy-five cents for parking, two cents for the bullet. I run an economical administration.
Some two hours later, when he was preparing to go to work, the Security Force people remembered the letter on Attorney Watson's desk, but by then it was too late to do anything about it but fire the Security Chief.
The End