Chapter Two

Either it's important, or it's not important. There are very few things that are universally recognized as not being important, and equally few unanimously acclaimed as being important. The vast remainder of things, then, lay somewhere along the variegated spectrum spanning the gap, and must be dealt with according to human understanding and wisdom.

This is where we get into trouble.

Understanding is an elusive little scooter, but it is pretty much agreed that it is important. It is much sought after, and hard won, but generally neglected when obtained, if not downright misused, and consequently garners little concrete worth, and dies a lonely death.

Wisdom, on the other hand, is everywhere. However, as no one bothers to harvest it, or indeed to look for it, or notice when it is missing, or recognize it when it shows, wisdom resignedly lays down beside understanding's corpse and follows into oblivion.

Happily, the human race appeared and set about to confer a little sorely needed definition upon these two unhappy concepts in the ironic attempt to achieve just the converse; that is, to nail some definition onto the human race and its relation to, well, things, in terms of human understanding and wisdom.

Fascinatingly, this process feeds upon itself without any apparent injury or progress. Human understanding and wisdom, in pursuit of human understanding and wisdom, casts off as ballast human understanding and wisdom, thus simultaneously hastening the pace of the process and retreating from its goal, perpetuating a net nil. The thought of the hue and cry having chased through the ages (with a general dearth of success) the resolution of the human condition, is as incompatible with understanding as humankind obviously is with wisdom.

Oh, sure, maybe the general doesn't translate to the particular verbatim. Admittedly, the individual can often be observed to exhibit a degree of understanding, or of wisdom, when the aggregate doesn't. But the half-worm found is always that the observation is more apt to be at fault than the observed is apt to be enlightened. Which brings up a crucial point in this bowl of spaghetti: all judgements are based on perceptions of reality; perceptions which, being individual, are often at odds, if not in actuality mutually exclusive.

An altogether maddening development, this. But highly entertaining, as it allows for the that one great constant of the human condition, the baling wire of civilisation, the glue of society - verily, the Reason for Life Itself:

conflict.

Perceptions being identical, human interrelation with equal allotments of understanding, or wisdom, or (dare we even think it?) both, would be stultifying raised to the power of infinity. Probably even unnecessary. Life itself would become merely a means to measure Time, even moreso than it is now. Crime, of course, would be non-existent, including war - as would be drama, art, conversation, marriage, and all greater and lesser institutions based on conflict.

This, then, seems to be the goal of humans of conscience: to elevate our species above the tangles of conflict and directly into the blandorama blades of the cosmic lawnmower, homogenizing equal parts understanding and wisdom. The punchline is, of course, that this ideal equality already exists in humans of no conscience, in that zero equals zero. The humans that buy this stuff, for instance -

Ed closed the binder and was handing the manuscript back to Horace.

"The people who buy this kind of stuff - Horsie! are you with me here? The people who buy this stuff will simply eat it up! Eat it alive!" Mr. Turr leaned forward on the couch and turned to face Horace. Leather pants creaked against leather upholstery. "Congratulations, Horsie! You've done it again!"

Horace blinked. His manuscript had somehow animated itself, only to be devoured by People Who Buy This Stuff, plaid stretch polyester. "Yes, Ed," he confessed, "I've done it again. I've bashed out a hundred and forty pages of absolute rubbish. I've established a new benchmark for banality. I've taken my adoring hordes soaring to dizzying heights of contrivance and expediency. Leave me alone to bask in my glory."

"You've bashed out a hundred and forty pages of absolutely profitable rubbish," corrected Ed. "I'm already looking forward to the next one." Ed stood, pulled the seat of his pants off his rump, walked the length of the rather long room, and drew open a drawer. "Here," he said, walking back, holding a check in his hand. "Perhaps this will ease the artistic pain."

Horace numbly took the check and gazed at it through unseeing eyes. "I don't deserve to consider myself an artist on the basis of the creation of Willie Smith, for crying out loud. Taking this check only confirms my prostitution." Horace's face was red. His hands were suddenly damp.

"Hey, Horsie, no problem - I can take back the check if you really feel that way!"

Horace aimed his glazed eyes at Ed. Take back the check. Take the check back. White woodwork outlined the powder blue room. Sunlight eased past the blinds in the line of tall, narrow windows in the long wall, repainting yellow trapezoids on the white carpet and white ones on the opposite powder blue wall. Ed's grotesque white desk belonged in this room, somehow, when it would have been burned as an affront to the dignity of desks anywhere else. The huge potted plant to the left of the desk looked real. Ed, standing there grinning at him, didn't. Horace thought about giving the check back. He knew Ed was only kidding, of course, but he was serious. He could just return the check, get up, walk out of the room, and not say a word. Ed wouldn't know what to do. He looked at the check again. His cheeks burned, his hands were clammy. "This happens every time I feel like doing anything on principle," he thought. "I freeze up, and chicken out." A white hen fluttered frantically out of the path of an oncoming 'forties Dodge, feathers flying, dust billowing.

"No, no, I'll take the check, of course," he finally said, accepting the inevitable. "I guess I earned it. I may not have produced Art, but I produced what you wanted and satisfied our contract. Business is business." He folded the check and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

"I'm very relieved to hear you take that attitude," Ed said. "I have something here I want you to look over." He walked back to his desk and returned with what was obviously a lengthy contract proposal.

"I don't want to see it, Ed," Horace forced out with warmth. "I know what it is."

"Horsie, it's a dream come true, that's what it is! Five Willie Smith novels, Horsie, set your own timetable - within limits, of course - look at the numbers here, Horsie!" Ed eagerly leafed back a couple of pages and pointed. "And look at this!" he added, flipping on to an addendum of columns of figures. "For you!"

"You don't get it, do you?" Horace stood up on autopilot. "I'm sick of Willie Smith! It's such a joke! Bill Smith, P. I. was a joke, for pete's sake, like Reagan's inaugural quoting of F. D. R. When it sold, I thought the public appreciated the humor, the satire, the sarcasm. Then The Bill Smith Inquiry Hearings did well. But the movie versions of Bill Smith Walks and Dim But Deadly were popular for the action, the dialogue, the rampant stupidity and dumb luck that I thought I was parodying! You see what has happened? I have become the creation of the character I created, and I hate it. I'm not agreeing to do any more Willie Smith farces. Period." Horace's pulse was racing. He felt, he suddenly realized, like he was wearing a cummerbund.

Ed uncrossed his fingers. He had figured this was coming, sooner or later. Horace had been missing deadlines all through this, the eighth, Smith book. He had had to reject the last chapter once, when Horace had actually killed Smith off in a graphically violent sequence told in a dark, sadistic voice. "I'll tell you what, Horsie," he offered, "I'm going to hold on to this proposal for a while. I'll sit on it, all right? while you take a break. I didn't realize you were getting so wound up; so I'll tell you what: take off. Go write the book you want to write; go fishing, or travel, or whatever, all right? When you have a manuscript, whatever, whenever, bring it in here first; we'll fix you up, and talk about this," he flicked his finger against the papers with an emphatic snap! "at that time. How's that sound to you?"

Horace aimed his gaze out the window. Outside, giant watchsprings were sitting on tightly grasped documents, fluttering by like so many magic carpets, hauling precious cargoes of fishing poles and word processors. "That sounds just fine, Ed. Are you serious?" Horace hadn't expected Ed to give up this easily. He had never been given to defending his convictions, and he was surprised by the unopposed success of this trial.

"Horsie, I can read you like the directions on a soup can. I know burnout when I see it. And I know the only cure for it is some R and R. Trust Doctor Turr." Ed could feel the persuasive power of his medical knowledge work on Horace from where he stood.

Horace, however, couldn't. He checked the back of his hands for telltale printed instructions or char marks and, finding neither, uncharacteristically resolved not to trust Doctor Turr, but his own inclinations. The coincidence that his own inclinations followed the same tilt as Doctor Turr's advice he viewed as an aberration. He had, actually, for some time been thinking of taking a working vacation. "No timetable? No commitment? And especially, no contract?" Horace tested the waters. "Are you saying I'm free to go, warden?"

Ed frowned. "I didn't realize I had become such a taskmaster, Horsie. And you are right, in a way, to be skeptical, because there is a deal involved here. But no contract. Just a handshake. `Honor as gentlemen,' that kind of thing."

Horace's shoulders stiffened slightly. "What's the deal, Ed? What price freedom?"

"Really, you can cut the stifled creativity routine. I already mentioned the deal, if you had been listening. Let me rephrase it. I want the right of first refusal on your next book, whatever form it takes. Period. We've had a long and profitable relationship here, Horsie, and, frankly, I think you owe it to me to make the effort to continue to let us publish your work." Ed made his Sincere Face. He really was sincere this time, but his inured salesmanship would not allow him to relax his guard. Horace recognized the expression and was immediately suspicious.

"I owe it you, especially if you go out of your way to make me happy by, say, allowing me to write one book the way I want, is that it?" Horace could feel his cheeks roasting. "While our trade has undeniably been remunerative for both of us, it occurs to me that it may have been equally so for me if I had done business with some other house, in which case you wouldn't have seen a nickel from my books. It follows from that that you owe me to a much greater extent than I owe you!"

Ed had not expected this outburst at all. In all his previous dealings with Horace Aeioueay, Ed had found a taciturn, complacent subject who readily complied with nearly every suggestion or proposal he had made. Indeed, it seemed to everyone who met Horace that he exclusively reserved his ideas for print. Ed hardly knew how to approach Horace, now. He made his Ding Face. "Well, Horace, I'm sorry, but we just don't see it that way," he intoned. "It's a two-way street, you know. If you feel cheated in some way I really don't know what advice to give you. Call an attorney, I guess - although we have always been scrupulously fair and generous to a fault in your case." Ed knew that this last assertion was an outright lie, but he correctly guessed that Horace wasn't quite in tune with all his past contracts and their fine print. He also knew that lawsuit-baiting was a highly effective means of pleading integrity, whatever its risk.

"In my Case!" Horace ejaculated. "I really am a mere commodity to you, aren't I? Perhaps I shall call my attorney. Rest assured, Mr. Turr, you will be among the first to know when I do!"

With that emphatic declaration still thundering in his ears, Horace turned and strode to the door. As he opened it, Ed fell back into the chair behind his desk and said with a sigh of resignation, as if in afterthought, "Horsie, just think about it, all right?"

Horace had won. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on; there was no declared war, or scheduled negotiation of any kind; he hadn't intentionally thrust for an advantage, or tried some trick or ploy to out-maneuver Ed; but he had won his point, and, for perhaps the first time in his adult life he was cognizant of the sensation of being in control of a situation. Not that being in control was in itself totally alien to Horace, although to be sure he often wasn't; but being aware of the feeling of dominance at the moment that power arises was an altogether fresh and sweet taste in his mouth. It was a moment that, years hence, he would savor in retrospect as a watershed point in the landscape of his life, Horace thought - incorrectly, it turned out, but that didn't spoil the moment. And, as with conquering heroes through the ages, Horace could not resist the temptation to flaunt his magnanimity, perhaps preserving for his pitiable opponent some modicum of self-respect.

"All right, Ed," Horace said condescendingly as he left the room, "I'll think about it."

And that, of course, was all Ed had wanted in the first place.

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