selling to 'em. When Carter pulled the plug on heavy equipment exports after Afghanistan or whatever the hell it was, it all went downhill. Caterpillar, GE, even Pabst. Everybody was getting laid off for a while. It's better now."
"Oh," said Baedecker. His head hurt. He still felt the motion of the plane as it had banked in over the river. If he couldn't fly an aircraft this day, he wished that he at least could have driven a car to work the cramps out of arms and legs that ached to control something. He closed his eyes.
"You wanta go the quick way or the long way?" asked the big man at the wheel.
"The long way," Baedecker said without opening his eyes. "Always the long way."
Ackroyd obediently took the next exit off I-74 and descended into the Euclidean geometries of cornfields and county roads.
Baedecker may have dozed for a few minutes. He opened his eyes as the car stopped at a crossroads. Green signs gave direction and distance to Princeville, Galesburg, Elmwood, and Kewanee. There was no mention of Glen Oak. Ackroyd swung the car left. The road was a corridor between curtains of corn. Dark seams of tar and asphalt patched the road and provided a rhythmic undertone to the air-conditioner. The slight vibration had a hypnotic, equestrian quality to it.
"Into the heart of the heart of the country," said Baedecker.
"Hmmm?"
Baedecker sat up, surprised he had spoken aloud. "A phrase a writerâWilliam Gass, I thinkâused to describe this part of the country. I remember it sometimes when I think about Glen Oak."
"Oh." Ackroyd shifted uncomfortably. Baedecker realized with a start that he had made the man nervous. Ackroyd had assumed that they were two men, two solid men, and the mention of a writer did not fit. Baedecker smiled as he thought about the seminars the various services had given their test pilots prior to the first NASA interviews for the Mercury program. If you put your hands on your hips, make sure your thumbs are toward the back. Had Deke told him about that or had he read about it in Tom Wolfe's book?
Ackroyd had been talking about his real estate agency before Baedecker had interrupted. Now he cleared his throat and make a cupping gesture with his right hand. "I imagine you've met a lot of important people, huh, Mr. Baedecker?"
"Richard," Baedecker said quickly. "You're Bill, right?"
"Yeah. No relation to that guy on the old Saturday Night Live reruns. Lot of people ask me that."
"No," said Baedecker. He had never seen the program.
"So who was the most important, you think?"
"What's that?" asked Baedecker, but there was no way to steer the conversation a different direction.
"Most important person you ever met?"
Baedecker forced some life into his own voice. He was suddenly very, very tired. It occurred to him that he should have driven his own car from St. Louis. The stopover in Glen Oak would not have been much out of his way, and he could have left when he wished. Baedecker could not remember the last time he had driven anywhere except from his town house to the office and back. Travel had become an endless series of airhops. With a slight shock he realized that Joan, his ex-wife, had never been to St. Louis, to Chicago, to the Midwest. Their life together in Fort Lauderdale, San Diego, Houston, Cocoa Beach, the five bad months in Boston, had been near the coast, all in places where the continent clearly ended. He was suddenly curious about what Joan's impressions of this great expanse of fields, farmhouses, and heat haze would be. "The Shah of Iran," he said. "At least he was the most impressive. The court show they put on there, the protocol, and the sheer sense of power he and his retinue conveyed, they put even the White House and Buckingham Palace to shame. Little good it did him."
"Yeah," said Ackroyd. "Say, I met Joe Namath once. I was at an Amway convention in Cincinnati. Don't have time for it since I got involved in the Pine Meadows deal but used to do real well at it.
"Oh," said Baedecker. His head hurt. He still felt the motion of the plane as it had banked in over the river. If he couldn't fly an aircraft this day, he wished that he at least could have driven a car to work the cramps out of arms and legs that ached to control something. He closed his eyes.
"You wanta go the quick way or the long way?" asked the big man at the wheel.
"The long way," Baedecker said without opening his eyes. "Always the long way."
Ackroyd obediently took the next exit off I-74 and descended into the Euclidean geometries of cornfields and county roads.
Baedecker may have dozed for a few minutes. He opened his eyes as the car stopped at a crossroads. Green signs gave direction and distance to Princeville, Galesburg, Elmwood, and Kewanee. There was no mention of Glen Oak. Ackroyd swung the car left. The road was a corridor between curtains of corn. Dark seams of tar and asphalt patched the road and provided a rhythmic undertone to the air-conditioner. The slight vibration had a hypnotic, equestrian quality to it.
"Into the heart of the heart of the country," said Baedecker.
"Hmmm?"
Baedecker sat up, surprised he had spoken aloud. "A phrase a writerâWilliam Gass, I thinkâused to describe this part of the country. I remember it sometimes when I think about Glen Oak."
"Oh." Ackroyd shifted uncomfortably. Baedecker realized with a start that he had made the man nervous. Ackroyd had assumed that they were two men, two solid men, and the mention of a writer did not fit. Baedecker smiled as he thought about the seminars the various services had given their test pilots prior to the first NASA interviews for the Mercury program. If you put your hands on your hips, make sure your thumbs are toward the back. Had Deke told him about that or had he read about it in Tom Wolfe's book?
Ackroyd had been talking about his real estate agency before Baedecker had interrupted. Now he cleared his throat and make a cupping gesture with his right hand. "I imagine you've met a lot of important people, huh, Mr. Baedecker?"
"Richard," Baedecker said quickly. "You're Bill, right?"
"Yeah. No relation to that guy on the old Saturday Night Live reruns. Lot of people ask me that."
"No," said Baedecker. He had never seen the program.
"So who was the most important, you think?"
"What's that?" asked Baedecker, but there was no way to steer the conversation a different direction.
"Most important person you ever met?"
Baedecker forced some life into his own voice. He was suddenly very, very tired. It occurred to him that he should have driven his own car from St. Louis. The stopover in Glen Oak would not have been much out of his way, and he could have left when he wished. Baedecker could not remember the last time he had driven anywhere except from his town house to the office and back. Travel had become an endless series of airhops. With a slight shock he realized that Joan, his ex-wife, had never been to St. Louis, to Chicago, to the Midwest. Their life together in Fort Lauderdale, San Diego, Houston, Cocoa Beach, the five bad months in Boston, had been near the coast, all in places where the continent clearly ended. He was suddenly curious about what Joan's impressions of this great expanse of fields, farmhouses, and heat haze would be. "The Shah of Iran," he said. "At least he was the most impressive. The court show they put on there, the protocol, and the sheer sense of power he and his retinue conveyed, they put even the White House and Buckingham Palace to shame. Little good it did him."
"Yeah," said Ackroyd. "Say, I met Joe Namath once. I was at an Amway convention in Cincinnati. Don't have time for it since I got involved in the Pine Meadows deal but used to do real well at it.
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