speaking, or rather shouting. Silence fell over the Skinners’ party, every member of which had been listening to her.
5
I T WAS THE DAY BEFORE Thanksgiving, but in Mar Vista the perpetual summer continued. Babies rode barefoot in their strollers, front lawns were wet and green under the rotating sprinklers, or scorched brown by the heat, depending on the attentions of their owners, for water is expensive in Los Angeles. Only the angle of the sun through the palms, and the early dark, suggested that the winter equinox was approaching.
Paul still sat at his desk behind a growing heap of books and papers. He had finished the first section of his work on N.R.D.C., a brief historical description of Mar Vista from prehistoric times to the establishment of the Nutting plant in 1940. He had thrown in enough dinosaurs and conquistadores to keep the interest of the lay reader, while presenting sequentially the basic geographic and historical facts. Still, he was impatient to get on to the real subject. He tapped his foot on the synthetic floor, and his pencil on the desk top. Only now his impatience was more general; he just wanted to get through the next half-hour. Nutting was letting everyone off at three for the holiday, and he had an appointment.
He was going to have a cup of coffee with Ceci O’Connor. That was how he put it to himself; it sounded better than to say that he had an assignation with a waitress. Anyhow, she was not really a waitress: he was convinced of that. And it was not an assignation: they were going to have a cup of coffee, and talk about books, because there was no chance to talk at the Aloha Coffee Shop.
“Hey, Cattleman!” Fred Skinner put his chimpanzee’s face round the frosted-glass partition. “Wait till you hear this. All our problems are solved.” He sat on the corner of Paul’s desk, knocking over a pile of books. “Hell. Sorry. Look at this.” He spread out a glossy brochure.
UnDat
it read in multicolor, three-dimensional letters on a gold background.
The Universal Data Processor
Below, in the center of a gold aureole, was portrayed a streamlined green and silver machine, roughly the shape, and about twice the size (to judge by the pretty girl who stood with her arm about it, smiling erotically), of a large wringer washer.
“We’ve got it made,” Skinner said. “No more incinerators, no more sifting ashes, no watching the janitors all afternoon.”
“You mean this machine is going to get rid of the classified trash for you?” Paul asked.
“For us, pal. You’ve got to start identifying with the corporate image. Our problems are your problems, Cattleman.”
“Yeah. How’s it going to do that?”
“Well, like it says here.” Fred unfolded the brochure. “‘Materials placed in the hopper are first treated with a unique bleaching and dissolving agent which removes all traces of text, whether written—’ Wait a moment. ‘Five distinct tearing and shredding arms then rapidly reduce the—’ Here we are. ‘The UnDat is capable of completely processing all forms of paper, cardboard, and celluloid in a matter of minutes. For maximum efficiency of operation, large metal fasteners and rings should be removed before insertion.’ Great, isn’t it?”
“So you put all your, I mean we put all our classified trash into this machine; and what comes out?”
“It’s a kind of green sludge. Looks like damp shredded wheat, sort of. I had a sample of it, but I had to leave it with Howard Leon. He’s investigating the possibility that Bob Kinsman might be able to use some of it to pack components over in the plant.”
“We’re really going to get one of these things?”
“It looks pretty definite,” Skinner said with satisfaction.
“Goddamn.” Paul laughed. “Crazy.”
“What’s so crazy about it? Listen, most of the big companies on government contract have already put in something like this—Sylvania, Ramo-Woolbridge—everybody.” Paul continued laughing.
5
I T WAS THE DAY BEFORE Thanksgiving, but in Mar Vista the perpetual summer continued. Babies rode barefoot in their strollers, front lawns were wet and green under the rotating sprinklers, or scorched brown by the heat, depending on the attentions of their owners, for water is expensive in Los Angeles. Only the angle of the sun through the palms, and the early dark, suggested that the winter equinox was approaching.
Paul still sat at his desk behind a growing heap of books and papers. He had finished the first section of his work on N.R.D.C., a brief historical description of Mar Vista from prehistoric times to the establishment of the Nutting plant in 1940. He had thrown in enough dinosaurs and conquistadores to keep the interest of the lay reader, while presenting sequentially the basic geographic and historical facts. Still, he was impatient to get on to the real subject. He tapped his foot on the synthetic floor, and his pencil on the desk top. Only now his impatience was more general; he just wanted to get through the next half-hour. Nutting was letting everyone off at three for the holiday, and he had an appointment.
He was going to have a cup of coffee with Ceci O’Connor. That was how he put it to himself; it sounded better than to say that he had an assignation with a waitress. Anyhow, she was not really a waitress: he was convinced of that. And it was not an assignation: they were going to have a cup of coffee, and talk about books, because there was no chance to talk at the Aloha Coffee Shop.
“Hey, Cattleman!” Fred Skinner put his chimpanzee’s face round the frosted-glass partition. “Wait till you hear this. All our problems are solved.” He sat on the corner of Paul’s desk, knocking over a pile of books. “Hell. Sorry. Look at this.” He spread out a glossy brochure.
UnDat
it read in multicolor, three-dimensional letters on a gold background.
The Universal Data Processor
Below, in the center of a gold aureole, was portrayed a streamlined green and silver machine, roughly the shape, and about twice the size (to judge by the pretty girl who stood with her arm about it, smiling erotically), of a large wringer washer.
“We’ve got it made,” Skinner said. “No more incinerators, no more sifting ashes, no watching the janitors all afternoon.”
“You mean this machine is going to get rid of the classified trash for you?” Paul asked.
“For us, pal. You’ve got to start identifying with the corporate image. Our problems are your problems, Cattleman.”
“Yeah. How’s it going to do that?”
“Well, like it says here.” Fred unfolded the brochure. “‘Materials placed in the hopper are first treated with a unique bleaching and dissolving agent which removes all traces of text, whether written—’ Wait a moment. ‘Five distinct tearing and shredding arms then rapidly reduce the—’ Here we are. ‘The UnDat is capable of completely processing all forms of paper, cardboard, and celluloid in a matter of minutes. For maximum efficiency of operation, large metal fasteners and rings should be removed before insertion.’ Great, isn’t it?”
“So you put all your, I mean we put all our classified trash into this machine; and what comes out?”
“It’s a kind of green sludge. Looks like damp shredded wheat, sort of. I had a sample of it, but I had to leave it with Howard Leon. He’s investigating the possibility that Bob Kinsman might be able to use some of it to pack components over in the plant.”
“We’re really going to get one of these things?”
“It looks pretty definite,” Skinner said with satisfaction.
“Goddamn.” Paul laughed. “Crazy.”
“What’s so crazy about it? Listen, most of the big companies on government contract have already put in something like this—Sylvania, Ramo-Woolbridge—everybody.” Paul continued laughing.
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