Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories Page 19
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Introduction to
GENTLEMEN, BE SEATED by Frank M. Robinson
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There was a time, not too long ago, when people talked about short stories and television shows-that is, the individual stories on television shows-with as much enthusiasm as they do today about movies or the latest novel by Stephen King or, for that matter, the most recent Batman or Superman universe. They really did. "Did you read that story by Bradbury in the Saturday Evening Post? The one about the dinosaur and the foghorn?" "Did you catch Harlan Ellison in the recent Rogue? The girl who only carries folding money and doesn't have a dime for an emergency phone call?" "Did you watch Twilight Zone last night? Where the old lady tries to escape Mr. Death?" It was during the fifties and the late sixties and short stories were one of the major pillars of popular culture. We talked about them, we told the plots to one another, we waited for the magazines when they hit the newsstand and, of course, we never missed Twilight Zone. That was a period when the men's magazines were a little racy and a lot of fun (before they traded in a casual wink and a chuckle for short courses in gynecology and exercises in "personal journalism') and the last mass market for short fiction. There were giants in those days and their names were Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont and Rod Serling. . Then Twilight Zone died in 1 965 and Charles Beaumont died in 1967 and when they were gone, an era started to die. Night Gallery, Serling's last anthology series, died in 1972 and about the same time, fiction as a mainstay of the mass market men's magazines also began to vanish. (Everybody knew the magazines sold because of the stapled-in-the-navel nudes and the latest exhaustive interview with some transient VIP. Fiction was given the old heave-ho. None of the publishers noticed that when you took out the works, the old watch might look the same but it no longer kept time very well. By the mid-80's, circulation had plummeted. Readers turned on by soft-core porno were renting the real thing to watch on their VCR's) Of all the disasters to hit the short fiction market, one of the saddest was the decline and death of Charles Beaumont. A mainstay of Twilight Zone, he was also a mainstay of Playboy and Rogue. He was a prolific talent and a unique one. Every writer reaches into himself for his characters, mines his own childhood for dramatic nuggets that he can adapt for his latest story. Charlie's talent was broader than that. He could reach beyond his own life-he could reach into the hearts of the friends he knew and the people he met and construct his characters and stories from the living tissue of the everyday life around him. Some musicians are credited with "soul," which is a very personal, internal thing. Charlie had that but he also had empathy, which is external. If you were hurting, he knew it. More importantly than that, he knew why-without you ever saying a word. It was this quality that gave his characters life, a quality that enabled his characters to engage the reader in a way those of few other writers could. In the science.fiction and fantasy field, dominated by mechanical plots and senseless action with cardboard cut outs going through the motions, stories by Charlie Beaumont stood out in vivid contrast. It's with a great deal of bitter personal regret that I have to admit that both soul and empathy were not the sort of qualities that two-fifteen-year-olds in Chicago would notice in one another. I had to wait until my 30s to discover them in Charlie. Harlan Ellison was largely responsible for Charles Beaumont appearing as "C.B. Loveh ill" in the old Rogue. We loved his stories and we bought every one he submitted (Playboy had first pick-they paid more-and we took the leavings. But Beaumont was so consistently good that purchase by Playboy reflected editorial taste more than innate quality). Of all the stories we published, I especially loved, "Gentlemen, Be Seated." Dated only slightly, it deals with the death of humor and the Society for the Preservation of Laughter and could serve more as a metaphor for the late 1 980s than for the early I 960s, when it was written. A clever idea… Bur far more than that, it's the pathetic story of man who finally Got It (like most of us)-one day too late.
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GENTLEMEN, BE SEATED
by Charles Beaumont
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Of course, Kindaid's first thought was: I'm going to be sacked. A vision of disgrace, endless wandering, and inevitable death by starvation floated before his mind. Then, to his surprise, he relaxed. The terror vanished, and he found himself thinking: Well, at least I won't have to look at his stupid face any more. That's something. And I won't have to say yes to him when I mean no, hell no, you're as wrong as it's possible to get, you miserable fathead! He pushed away from his desk and walked down the long aisle of drafting tables to a little gray door marked, simply: William A. Biddle-District Manager. He stood there a moment, wondering how he had sinned, not doubting that he had, for why else would he have been summoned? Then, swallowing, he knocked. "Come in." Kinkaid turned the plain metal knob and walked inside. The room, Model 17-B, "Regional Executive," was scientifically-designed for comfort and efficiency, but Kinkaid did not feel either comfortable or efficient. The Mov-E-Mural, depicting a wind-rippled mountain lake, the scent of rain and forests (#8124-"Huntsman"); the Day-Lite; and the distant strains of music (La Gioconda)-all chosen to keep the mind undeflected from its ordained course-served only to upset him further. He walked across the Earth 'n-Loam floor to the desk. It was a perfectly ordinary desk, uncluttered by items of memorabilia, solid as a butcher's block, functional as the State. Yet it frightened Kinkaid. Perhaps because of the way it seemed to be not in the room but of it, perhaps because of the way it seemed to grow vertically from the floor and horizontally from the paunch of William A. Biddle. "Sit down." Kinkaid perched on the edge of the Relax-O-Kushion and met the gaze of his superior. Biddle drum-rolled his fingers on the Teletalk and frowned. Presently he spoke, in the unlubricated voice Kinkaid had come to despise: "I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come in." "Yes, sir." Biddle opened a drawer and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "I have here," he said, "a dossier. It contains a full report on your life to date." He flipped through the lightgreen pages. "I see that you were born in 1952, that you are unmarried, and that you have been employed at Spears' Research Laboratories for seven years. At no time have you arrived at the office late or left early. You are a member of Rotary, and attend the Young Men's Political Forum every other Tuesday. Outside interests and hobbies; none. Is this correct?" "Yes, sir." "You are, in short, the perfect employee." "I do what I can, sir." "Precisely. No more and no less. One could scarcely tell you from a billion other laborers. Yet I believe there is a difference." Biddle continued to frown. "You may recall that on the way to my office yesterday morning, I tripped." "Yes, sir." "What was your reaction?" "Regret, sir." "Indeed?" Very slowly, Biddle removed a cigar from his breast pocket. He skinned off the cellophane wrapping and moistened the tip. "It's a serious world we live in," he said, "and that is why we are serious people." He touched a spring on his silver lighter and sucked flame into the cigar. "Don't you agree?" Kinkaid nodded. "Definitely, sir." "Definitely," said William Agnew Biddle, whereupon the cigar in his mouth exploded. Kinkaid leapt to his feet. He stared at his superior, whose face was now covered with the splayed ends of the demolished cigar, and then felt a curious constriction in his chest and a peculiar, uncontrollable force which caused the corners of his mouth to stretch upward. "What are you doing?" asked Biddle, suddenly. Kinkaid's hands twitched in a futile gesture. The more Kinkaid looked at his superior, the greater and more uncontrollable the constriction, the higher the corners of the mouth. It was a frightening sensation. "I don't know," he said. "Then I'll tell you," said Biddle, scraping the tobacco from his blackened face. "You're doing the same thing you did when I tripped. You're grinning." "Sir, I assure you" "Kinkaid, I have eyes in my head, and I say you're grinning! Why?" "I don't know, sir!" Biddle took a step closer. "I do, You're amused, Kinkaid. That's why. An incident has just occurred which might have caused blindness or permanent injury to my face. I ask you, is there anything funny in that?" "No, sir." "And yet you grinned." "It was involuntary." "That hardly matters, Kinkaid. The point is, you d
id grin. I knew it!" "Sir?" "How did it feel?" Kinkaid shifted on the Relax-O-Kushion. "I'm afraid I don't understand," he said. "Did it feel… strange?" "Yes." "But not unpleasant?" Kinkaid shook his head. "Good! Splendid!" Biddle wiped the remaining patches of soot from his face. "Kinkaid," he said, "what are you doing tonight?" "Nothing in particular." "Would you care to spend an evening with me?" "That would be fine, sir. But-" "No buts! Meet me at Kelly's, Ninth and Spring, at eight o'clock. Your questions will be answered then. In the meantime, say nothing of this episode-to anyone. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir." Kinkaid rose. "Kinkaid." "Yes, sir?" "Why do firemen wear red suspenders?" "I don't know, sir." "Poor boy," said Biddle. "You will." Kelly's was unlike any restaurant Kinkaid had ever seen; except, of course, in the historicals. Entering, he felt peculiarly suspect. Instead of the usual bright light, there was darkness. Instead of the normal cataract of voices, silence. Instead of the endless rows of tables, emphasizing Togetherness, a few booths by the wall. At the last booth, he stopped. William Agnew Biddle was seated before a glass which contained a colorless fluid. "James, I'm so glad you decided to come. Thought I saw you changing your mind by the door." Kinkaid sat down across from his superior. Somehow Biddle was different. His voice was no longer dry and mechanical. His eyes seemed to have little lights in them. "Ever been to a real restaurant?" "Like this? No." "Pity. I can't say the food is particularly health-giving-but once you've tried it, you can't go back to the lab stuff. Care to try?" "I'm not very hungry, sir, to tell the truth." "Oh. Well, you won't mind if I go ahead." Biddle drained the glass, then snapped his fingers. A man in a red jacket appeared out of the shadows. "A nice porterhouse, Sam. Salad, with roquefort. My usual." "Yes, sir," the man said, and vanished. "Being waited on is agreeable, too," said Biddle. "Now. I suppose at this point you're thinking: Poor old boy, he's flunked his mentals." "Oh, no, sir. It's just that I'm a little-" "Confused. Yes. And with good reason. First it appears you're going to be fired, then it appears you're being subjected to some sort of test. As it happens, neither is the case." Kinkaid said, "Oh." "You see, James, I've had my eyes on you for quite a while. Not that there was ever anything overt, anything one could put one's finger on… But I sensed something about you." The man in the red jacket reappeared, bearing trays. He set many dishes in front of Biddle. Then he vanished again. Biddle began to eat. "They'll tell you there's no such thing as intuition," he said, between bites, "but they're wrong. I knew, somehow, that you'd grin when the cigar exploded. Of course, I'd hoped for a laugh, but we can't have everything can we? How did I know about the grin?" He shrugged, cocking his sparse-haired, pink-fleshed head to one side. "For a long time I've felt your hatred. Highly unscientific! But I've felt it nonetheless. The way you say 'good morning,' for instance. It's not a greeting, it's a curse. What you mean is: 'I hate you, Mr. Biddle. I hate everything about you.' Am I right?" "Well…" "Of course I'm right!" Biddle chewed lustily. "The district manager of Spear's Research is, by and large, a horse's ass. He is pompous and rude and officious and cold. But he is also highly competent, and therefore above suspicion. The authorities would believe him, no matter what they were told. No matter what. Remember that." "All right," said Kinkaid. Biddle glanced at his watch, then snapped his fingers again, loudly. The man in the red jacket materialized. "Check, Sam," said Biddle. Then, rising: "Come along, James. It's just about that time." They rode the moving belts to the dark north end of the city, then they walked. Soon Kinkaid's legs began to hurt. He wanted to stop and rest, but pride prevented him. Biddle, who was over seventy, appeared to be totally unaffected by the exertion. After a while, the district manager said: "Been out this way before?" Kinkaid shook his head. "It's called No Man's Land. They'll have it torn down in a few years, torn down, swept away, forgotten." Biddle sighed. "All these lovely, impractical buildings…" He pointed to a huge, dark, sightless structure, untenanted for decades, poised, it seemed, on the fine edge of collapse. "A lot of unhappiness there, James. But a lot of happiness, too. Stop a moment. Close your eyes. Can't you almost hear the crying and the laughter?" Kinkaid closed his eyes. He heard nothing but the hum of the city. "It will come. Don't force it." Biddle reached into his pocket. "Now I'll have to ask you to cooperate." He withdrew a pair of glasses, opened them, and hooked them on Kinkaid's ears. "Can you see?" "No." "Good." Kinkaid felt himself being revolved. Dizziness set in immediately. "It's necessary the first time," said Biddle. "In case you're rejected." Feeling slightly ill, Kinkaid walked what he considered a terrible distance, turning innumerable corners, doubling back, climbing steps. After perhaps an hour of this, Biddle said: "Take 'em off." They were in an alcove of some sort. Biddle winked, walked to the paint-peeling door and knocked three times. There was a pause. Then a panel slid open and a face appeared. "Why does a chicken cross the road?" inquired a voice. "To get to the other side," said Biddle. The door opened. Kinkaid followed his superior into a plush-hung hallway. Standing in the hallway, blocking a second door, was a tall man in a peppermint-striped suit. His face was glistening black, except for the mouth, which was broadly outlined in white. His hair was short and kinky. He held a circular, bangled instrument which Kinkaid recognized as an ancient tambourine. "Good evening, Mister Bones," said Biddle. "Good evenin'," said the man with the black face. "Is he in?" "Yassuh." "Tell him member seven-oh-nine is here, with the recruit." "Yassuh, boss!" said the man. He tapped the tambourine, turned and walked out the doorway. Within moments he was back. "Dis yere way." Kinkaid and Biddle accompanied the man up a long, narrow flight of stairs to a small red door and there they stopped. The man with the black face pressed a button. From an overhead speaker a voice called: "Why does the fireman wear red suspenders?" "To keep his pants up," said the tambourine man, flipping a toggle. "So make the scene." There was a sharp buzzing sound. The door swung open. Kinkaid and Biddle followed their guide in. Instinctively, Kinkaid gasped and clutched at Biddle for support. His first impression had been that the room was upside down. He closed his eyes. Slowly, he opened them. The impression remained. Biddle made a peculiar noise in his throat. "Don't be alarmed," he said. "This is known as a gag." "A gag?" Kinkaid stared up at what could only be the floor. He saw a couch, a chair, a table, and even a small sleeping dog. "Exactly. It will be explained." Biddle marched across the ceiling, from which sprouted a long chain topped by an antique light bulb. "Come along." Taking care to look straight ahead, Kinkaid made his way forward. His employer pressed a second button and a panel slid back, exposing a second room. It was hardly a comfort. Here there were mirrors, stationed along the four walls. As Kinkaid passed them, he saw himself turn fat, slim, big-headed, pin-headed, three-faced, and invisible. "Deposit the can titherwards, ofay," said the man know as Mister Bones, gesturing. "How's that?" Kinkaid looked at the chair which had been pulled up. "Oh." He sat down. As he sank into the frayed brown cushion, there was a loud, embarrassing noise. "Yak, yak!" said Mister Bones. Kinkaid rose, unsteadily. "I think," he said, "that I'd better go." "Too late," said Biddle. "Boo!" Kinkaid jumped backward, colliding with a large desk. When equilibrium returned, he found himself staring at a figure alongside which the man with the black face seemed absolutely humdrum. This figure reflected a hundred times throughout the room, wore a golden mask and a skin-tight suit of many colors, each color in the shape of a diamond, each diamond a different hue from the other. The figure approached, and as it did so, the tiny bells attached to its ankles and to its wrists and to its high-peaked cap tinkled wildly. "What goes up the chimney down but not down the chimney up?" "I don't understand the question," said Kinkaid. "Would you repeat it?" "No," said the belled figure. Pointing the stick at Biddle: "Tell him." "An umbrella," said Biddle. The man with the black face slapped his knees. Peculiar noises issued from his throat. They were, Kinkaid thought, like the noises of the Laff-Tracks on TV; but also not like them. "Mister Bones," said the belled figure, "it's toodle-oosville, s'il vous plait." The man with the black face tapped his tambourine, turned and walked headlong into the wall. Again Kinkaid felt the s
trange constriction in his chest. The ends of his mouth curled upwards as the man crashed to the floor, rolled, picked himself up and staggered through the doorway. "I don't know, Biddle," said the harlequin figure. Kinkaid could feel hot eyes staring upon him from behind the golden mask. "I'm very dubious." "He smiled," said Biddle, frowning. "Yes, but that was a yok. We've got to be so careful." "Of course. I know that. That's why I waited to be sure." Biddle put his arm around Kinkaid's shoulder. "Understand, he's a beginner. And he was amused by the trick cigar." The bells tinkled. "Was he?" "He very nearly laughed." "Well!" Silence. Then, once more, the bells; louder; much louder. The figure reached across the desk. "Good to meet up with ya, podnuh!" Hesitantly, Kinkaid accepted the hand. There was a loud buzz, followed by a painful tickling sensation on his palm. He jerked away. The Laff-Track noise again, from Biddle's throat. Listening, Kinkaid was hardly aware of the lava-hot ball gathering and expanding inside him. When it burst, he was as surprised as the others. "That's it!" he shouted, slamming his fist down on the desk. "I don't know what the hell all of this is about, but I know one thing-I don't want any part of it. You hear? You people-you're psycho! You know that? Psycho!" He strode angrily to the door. It was locked. "You see!" said Biddle. "Emotion." "Yes," said the belled figure. "That's encouraging, though far from conclusive." He gestured. "Mister Kinkaid, please calm yourself. This is all quite necessary." "For what?" "Membership. Do sit down, but take care to remove the Whoopee-Cushion. Now. I gather Mister Biddle has told you nothing." "That's right," said Kinkaid, still annoyed. "Then I'll explain. You are in the headquarters of the S.P.O.L.-the Society for the Preservation of Laughter. We're a secret organization, running counter to established law. Most of what we do is either frowned upon or strictly forbidden. We are, in short, outlaws." Kinkaid glanced at Biddle, then struck a cigarette, nervously. "I," said the belled figure, "am known as the Grand Jester. Mister Biddle, here, is one of our Interlocutors. Should you be accepted, you would start as a Schlock. It is no disgrace: we were all Schlocks, once. After six months, however, you would be entitled to apply for a raise in status. Assuming a positive vote, you would then ascend to the Second Degree, that of Hipster. And so forth. Am I making myself clear?" "Not exactly," said Kinkaid. "Well, then, skipping the parliamentary jazz for the mo," said the Grand Jester, "it should be enough to say that our title explains our purpose. The world has forgotten how to laugh, Mister Kinkaid. Some of us regret that fact. Unlike the authorities we feel that laughter is sufficiently important to be preserved, despite the grave psychological risk. You dig?" "I didn't know there was any psychological risk in laughter." "Then you have not been with it, friend-o. Most humor, you see, had its roots in cruelty. In stamping out cruelty, we have automatically stamped out humor. Therefore, there ain't much to laugh at no more. "This is the story," continued the man in the golden mask. "Once upon a time, the world was a basically bad scene. We had disease and war and oppression and prejudice, and all that scam. The worst! How did the people endure it? By laughing. They worked out all their beefs with boffs, so to speak. Then the psychologists and the censors came on. We got sophisticated. Conditions improved. And humor vanished." With his jeweled stick he pressed a number of buttons on the desk. "It's a fragile thing, humor. Analysis can kill it. But we are an analytical people now, so you'll have everything explained to you-once-to eliminate psychological after-blast. Now. I trust you understand the trick cigar episode?" Before Kinkaid could answer, Biddle said: "I thought it best to wait." He turned. "James, it was simply that a figure of authority was momentarily rendered ridiculous. Sort of a consummation." The Grand Jester shook his head, causing the bells to ring. "Leave him alone," he said. "Mister Kinkaid, what about the man who walked into the wall?" Kinkaid thought a while. "What about him?" "He was painted to represent a Negro. Negroes constitute a minority race. Somewhere deep inside you, you are prejudiced against minority races. You wish them ill. When ill befalls them, you laugh." "That's absurd," said Kinkaid. "Yes," said the Jester, "but partially true. If your mother had walked into the wall, you would not have grinned. Ergo and thus. How else do you account for the disappearance of Negro humor? Of all racial humor, for that matter? It's basically prejudicial, cruel." "The upside-down room is another example," said Biddle. "Precisely," said the Jester. "I have a peep-hole through which I observe visitors. As they stumble about in discomfort, or panic, I laugh. You, Mister Kinkaid, made me laugh quite heartily. It was endsville." "The peculiar words," said Biddle, "amuse because they are an expression of individuality. They may be interpreted as a form of rebellion against organized society." The Jester reached into his desk, withdrew four oranges and began to juggle them. "I don't think he gets it." "Give him time!" "All right." The oranges fell to the floor. "My own costume harks back to a figure of great pathos, the Court Jester. He was usually a dwarf or a cripple. Funeee!" A buzzer sounded. The man in the golden mask picked up a microphone. "What has four wheels and flies?" he shouted. "A garbage truck!" returned a chorus of voices. "Make it!" The door opened. Five figures entered the room. The first was clad in a billowing polka-dot suit, the second in dark rags, the third in long underwear, the fourth in a toga, while the fifth and last was mother naked. The figures lined up in front of Kinkaid and regarded him speculatively. "First degree interlocutors," said Biddle. "Your judges." The naked man stepped forward. "Have you heard the one about the little moron who tried to look through a screen and strained his eyes?" Kinkaid said, "No." There was a pause. The naked man stepped back. The ragged man took his place. In a high-pitched sing-song voice, he said: "Roses are red, daisies chartreuse. If you will bend over, I'll give you a start." "What?" The polka-dot man reached into his pocket and took out a large paper, which he unrolled. It was a lined drawing of two bearded men imbedded to their chests in jungle slime. A quotation at the bottom of the picture read: 'Quicksand or not, I've half a mind to struggle.' The man in long underwear leaned on a cane, which snapped in two. From the floor he said: "There were these real wild hopheads sitting on a curb. They're smoking away. Along comes this fire engine going about a hundred miles an hour, with the bells and the siren, screaming along. It screams right by them. Wait a minute, I forgot to say they were high. Y'know? Anyway, the first hophead turns to the other hophead and says, 'Like man. I thought they'd never leave." The man in the toga raised his hand. "There was a young man from Saint Bee's, who was stung on the hand by a wasp. Said he, with a grin, as he somethingsomething, 'I'm sure glad it wasn't a hornet." The five figures then began to run about the room, singing: "He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus: 'If this should stay to dine,' he said, 'There won't be much for us!" "Won't be much for us!" cried Biddle. "Won't be much for us!" Abruptly the song stopped. The figures ceased their running. They peered at Kinkaid, who had sat frozen for the past several minutes; then they scampered, howling, from the room. The Grand Jester balanced the jeweled stick on his nose and said: "They'll vote tonight." "What do you think?" asked Biddle. "Hard to say." "I know, but what do you think?" "Won't tell," said the Jester. Biddle sighed. "All right," he said, and took Kinkaid's arm. "Nothing to do now but wait. Let's go downstairs. Maybe we can catch an orgy." They sat in heavy leather chairs, Biddle wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, Kinkaid merely sitting, waiting for the nausea to pass. A man in a white jacket paused and put glasses in their hands. "Absinthe," said Biddle. "It'll rot out your eyes if you make a habit of it. Like most sins, though, it's harmless in moderation." The thickish liquid tasted bad to Kinkaid, but appeared to settle his stomach. Biddle was mumbling. "What?" "I said, I may have made a mistake." The district manager swallowed all the liquid in his glass and belched. "No point being pessimistic, though." He rose from the chair. "Come along, it's almost show time. There are a few things I want you to see." Kinkaid followed his superior across a deep red carpet to a room. The walls of the room were lined with books. Biddle handed Kinkaid a gilt-edged book weighing at least ten pounds. Opening at rando
m, Kinkaid found a drawing which depicted communal breeding. "The Germans were great hands at pornography," Biddle said, chuckling. "They almost made an art of it. So did the Japanese. Here-this is our collection of graffiti." He reached down an impressive leather-bound volume. "You're probably not familiar with the word. It refers mainly to the scrawls one used to find on the walls of public restrooms." He flipped through the pages. "Some wonderful stuff, really. Completely uninhibited. Take this: 'Here I sit, broken-hearted-" "Mr. Biddle," said Kinkaid. "I'm not feeling very well." "Oh? That's too bad. Well, next time. In case you're alone: this section contains essays and short works of fiction; this section is devoted entirely to cartoons; that's the film vault over there. All the Chaplin pictures, Buster Keaton, W.C. Fields, Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, et al. Also a rather interesting selection of stag reels. When you decide to look at those, by the way, have one of the interlocutors help you. Personally I would recommend 'Bathroom Frolics,' though 'A Night at the Zoo' is also first rate." There was an ugly bleating sound. "The Bronx cheer," said Biddle. "That means show-time. Here go." They hurried out of the book-filled room, across the crowded bar, through a curtained doorway, to a small amphitheatre. They sat down. The lights dimmed. The curtains parted. A small man in a checkered suit walked to the center of the stage. "Anybody wanna buy a duck?" The people in the amphitheatre roared. A large man with white hair jabbed his elbow into Kinkaid's ribs. "Too much!" the man said. "Too much!" The footlights became dimmer. A man in patched clothes shuffled across the stage. A spotlight came on. The man took a short-handled broom from his pocket and tried to sweep away the spotlight. Again the roar. Two men with black faces and white gloves shambled across the stage. The tall one said: "Crony, my boy, where has you been? I ain't seen you in a long time!" The short one said: "I been in de jailhouse." "Whuffo?" asked the tall one. "Well," said the short one, "lemme ax you sumfin'. What would you do if you come home and found yo wife in bed wid anudder man?" "I would simply cut my wife's acquaintance." "Dat's all I did. An' believe me, I cut him deep!" "Yak! Yak!" "Negroes," said Biddle, "were thought to be morally lax. The humor here derives from the odd speech patterns, the misunderstanding of a common phrase, and the casual attitude toward murder. But forget that. Take it for what it is. Try!" Kinkaid tried, but he did not understand any of the things that passed before his eyes. Biddle's voice was a distant hum. The lights danced inside his mind. When they returned to the lounge, Biddle ordered drinks. They took a corner booth. "Look at it this way," Biddle said. "Humor is an escape valve for the emotions. Everybody has emotions, even today. They're building up, all over the world. Getting ready to explode. "James, listen to me," Biddle said. "This is the way it was. When television was born, censors started cracking down. Any humor that might offend-that's to say, all real humor-was banished. A new humor sprang up. It didn't offend anyone, but it didn't amuse anyone either. Nobody liked it, but that didn't matter. Vaudeville died. Burlesque died. Circuses died. The wonderful jokes that used to spread like wildfire…" Biddle sighed and peered at his glass. "It was phenomenal. You're too young to remember, James. We had jokes about everything under the sun, about insanity and disease, about sex and God and crime and marriage and-oh, nothing was sacred. And the wonder is, a lot of these jokes were good. Still are! I'm afraid it's a lost art. Everything's lost. Drink up, my boy. You're what's left." Kinkaid threw down the remains of his drink and ordered another. There was a curious loss of control in his motor muscles. He looked at all the people, listened to the roar of their voices, and returned to the booth. A naked woman sat in his lap. "Coo, ducks," she said. "Have you heard the one about the married couple and the chimpanzee?" "No," said Kinkaid. His mind was whirling now. The girl became two, then three. The voices faded. ". . . got into bed and here was this ape…" He blinked furiously. Now there was a girl in Biddle's lap, and they were making those barking, Laff-Track noises. "Get it?" said a voice. Kinkaid felt a sudden hot rush of tears on his face. "No!" he cried, pressing his hot wet face between the girl's breasts. "No, I don't get it. I don't get it!" A hand reached into his mind, then, and turned it off. The morning light was cold and harsh. Kinkaid lay on the bed unmoving for a long time. When he did move, it was an agony. His head throbbed and his stomach felt as though someone had been punching it, hard, for hours. It was not until after his shower that he remembered the previous night. Excited, he dressed, breakfasted, and took the hi-speed belt to work. "You are seven minutes, twenty seconds late," said the Time Box. "Up yours," said Kinkaid, happily. He ran the gauntlet of eyes to his desk, took out his papers and sat down. A red bulb flashed. Kinkaid walked down the aisle toward the door marked: William A. Biddle. Biddle was seated behind his desk. "Hi," said Kinkaid. "You are late." "I know. That absinthe must have got to me." "Absinthe?" "Maybe I didn't tell you, but I hadn't even tasted the stuff before last night. I'm sorry about what happened. Who took me home?" "Kinkaid, I don't know what you're talking about." "About last night. S.P.O.L." The corners of Kinkaid's lips curled upward. "Anybody wanna buy a duck?" Biddle's expression was grim. "I'll be happy to give you a goose instead," said Kinkaid. "There, how's that? That's a joke, isn't it?" "I couldn't say." "Come on, Mister Biddle. I know I was a disappointment to you, but it was all so new. I didn't understand. I wanted to, I tried… I'm willing to learn. Biddle said nothing. "They're not going to hold it against me because I didn't laugh, are they?" Kinkaid found that his heart had begun to beat rapidly. "I didn't know how. But I do now. Listen. Ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-" "Kinkaid!" "Yes, sir?" "You're fired." "What?" Kinkaid's mouth went dry. He stared at the stern man behind the desk and tried to remember how he looked with his tie loose and a naked woman in his lap. "Mister Biddle, I know the vote was against me. I know that. And I don't blame them. But, you can fix it, can't you?" "Get out." "Please! All I want is a second chance. Is that so much to ask? You people lived through the time, I didn't. I've got to learn." "I don't know what you're babbling about, Kinkaid. But I warn you. If you repeat any of it to the authorities, they'll put you away." Kinkaid stood there a moment, tense; then he sighed, turned around and walked quickly out of the building. That night, and almost every night thereafter until the final demolition, he rode the belts to No Man's Land. He walked to where the ugly sightless buildings were, and he searched, but he could never find the building he wanted. Sometimes he would stand perfectly still on the crumbling sidewalks, and listen. And once in a while it almost seemed that he could hear the distant laughter. It was a lovely, desperate sound.