Jack Finney - Time and Again

For Marg, who liked it

I N SHIRT-SLEEVES , the way I generally worked, I sat sketching a bar of soap taped to an upper corner of my drawing board. The gold-foil wrapper was carefully peeled back so that you could still read most of the brand name printed on it; Id spoiled the wrappers of half a dozen bars before getting that effect. This was a new idea, the product to be shown ready for what the accompanying copy called fragrant, lathery, lovelier you use, and I had the job of sketching it into half a dozen layouts, the bar of soap at a slightly different angle in each.

It was just exactly as boring as it sounds, and I stopped to look out the window beside me, down twelve stories at Fifty-fourth Street and the little heads moving along the sidewalk. It was a sunny, sharply clear day in mid-November, and Id have liked to be out in it, the whole afternoon ahead and nothing to do; nothing I had to do, that is.

Over at the paste-up table Vince Mandel, our lettering man, thin and dark and probably feeling as caged-up today as I was, stood working with the airbrush, a cotton surgical mask over his mouth. He was spraying a flesh-colored film onto a Life magazine photo of a girl in a bathing suit. The effect, when he finished, would be to remove the suit, leaving the girl apparently naked except for the ribbon she wore slanted from shoulder to waist on which was lettered MISS BUSINESS MACHINES . This kind of stunt was Vinces favorite at-work occupation ever since hed thought of it, and the retouched picture would be added to a collection of others like it on the art-department bulletin board, at which Maureen, our nineteen-year-old paste-up girl and messenger, refused ever to look or even glance, though often urged.

Frank Dapp, our art director, a round little package of energy, came trotting toward his partitioned-off office in the northeast corner of the artists bullpen. As he passed the big metal supply cabinet just inside the room he hammered violently on its open door, yodeling at full bellow. It was an habitual release of unused energy like a locomotive jetting steam, a starting eruption of sound. But neither Vince nor I nor Karl Jonas at the board ahead of mine glanced up. Neither did anyone in the typists pool outside, I knew, although strangers waiting in the art-department reception room just down the hall had been known to leap to their feet at the sound.

It was an ordinary day, a Friday, twenty minutes till lunchtime, five hours till quitting time and the weekend, ten months till vacation, thirtyseven years till retirement. Then the phone rang.

Man here to see you, Si. It was Vera, at the switchboard. He has no appointment.

Thats okay. Hes my connection; I need a fix.

What you need cant be fixed. She clicked off. I got up, wondering who it was; an artist in an advertising agency doesnt usually have too many visitors. The main reception room was on the floor below, and I took the long route through Accounting and Media, but no new girls had been hired.

Frank Dapp called the main reception room Off Broadway. It was decorated with a genuine Oriental rug, several display cases of antique silver from the collection of the wife of one of the three partners, and with a society matron whose hair was also antique silver and who relayed visitors requests to Vera. As I walked toward it my visitor stood looking at one of the framed ads hung on the walls. Something I dont like admitting and which Ive learned to disguise is a shyness about meeting people, and now I felt the familiar slight apprehension and momentary confusion as he turned at the sound of my approaching footsteps. He was bald and short, the top of his head reaching only to my eye level, and Im an inch short of six feet. He looked about thirty-five, I thought, walking toward him, and he was remarkably thick-chested; hed outweigh me without being fat. He wore an olive-green gabardine suit that didnt go with his pink redheads complexion. I hope hes not a salesman, I thought; then he smiled as I stepped into the lobby, a real smile, and I liked him instantly and relaxed. No, I told myself, hes not selling anything, and I couldnt have been more wrong about that.

Mr. Morley? I nodded, smiling back at him. Mr. Simon Morley? he said, as though there might be several of us Morleys here at the agency and he wanted to be certain.

Yes.

He still wasnt satisfied. Just for fun, do you remember your army serial number? He took my elbow and began walking me out into the elevator corridor away from the receptionist.

I rattled it off; it didnt even occur to me to wonder why I was doing this for a stranger, no questions asked.

Right! he said approvingly, and I felt pleased. We were out in the corridor now, no one else around.

Are you from the army? If so, I dont want any today.

He smiled, but didnt answer the question, I noticed. He said, Im Ruben Prien, and hesitated momentarily as though I might recognize the name, then continued. I should have phoned and made an appointment, but Im in a hurry so I took a chance on dropping in.

Thats all right, I wasnt doing anything but working. What can I do for you?

He grimaced humorously at the difficulty of what he had to say. Ive got to have about an hour of your time. Right now, if you can manage it. He looked embarrassed. Im sorry, but... if you could just take me on faith for a little while, Id appreciate it.

I was hooked; he had my interest. All right. Its ten to twelve; would you like to have lunch? I can leave a little early.

Fine, but lets not talk indoors. We could pick up some sandwiches and eat in the park. Okay? Its not too cool.

Nodding, I said, Ill get my coat and meet you here. You interest me strangely. I stood hesitating, looking closely at this pleasant, tough-looking, bald little man, then said it. As I think you know. Matter of fact, youve been through this whole routine before, havent you? Complete with embarrassed look.

He grinned and made a little finger-snapping motion. And I thought I really had it down. Well, its back to the mirror, and more practice. Get your coat; were losing time.

We walked north on Fifth Avenue past the incredible buildings of glass and steel, glass and enameled metal, glass and marble, and the older ones of more stone than glass. Its a stunning street and unbelievable; I never get used to it, and I wonder if anyone really does. Is there any other place where an entire cloud bank can be completely reflected in the windows of one wall of only one building, and with room to spare? Today I especially enjoyed being out on Fifth, the temperature in the high 50s, a nice late-fall coolness in the air. It was nearly noon, and beautiful girls came dancing out of every office building we passed, and I thought of how regrettable it was that Id never know or even speak to most of them. The little bald man beside me said, Ill tell you what Ive come to say to you; then Ill listen to questions. Maybe Ill even answer some. But everything I can really tell you I will have said before we reach Fifty-sixth Street. Ive done this thirty-odd times now, and never figured out a good way to say it or even sound very sane while trying, so here goes.

Theres a project. A U.S. government project I guess youd have to call it. Secret, naturally; as what isnt in government these days? In my opinion, and that of a handful of others, its more important than all the nuclear, space-exploration, satellite, and rocket programs put together, though a hell of a lot smaller. I tell you right off that I cant even hint what the project is about. And believe me, youd never guess. I can and do say that nothing human beings have ever before attempted in the entire nutty history of the race even approaches this in absolute fascination. When I first understood what this project is about I didnt sleep for two nights, and I dont mean that in the usual way; I mean I literally did not sleep. And before I could sleep on the third night I had to have a shot in the arm, and Im supposed to be the plodding unimaginative type. Do I have your attention?