Intangibles, Inc Read online

  Intangibles, Inc.

  Brian Aldiss

  “Always seems to be eating time in this house," Mabel said.

  She dumped the china salt- and pepper-shakers down at Arthur's end of the table and hurried through to the kitchen to get the supper. His eyes followed her admiringly. She was a fine figure of a young girl; not too easy to handle, but a good-looker. Arthur, on the other hand, looked like a young bull; none too bright a bull either.

  "Drink it while it's hot," she said, returning and placing a bowl of soup before him.

  Arthur had just picked up his spoon when he noticed a truck had stopped outside in the road. Its hood was up, and the driver stood with his head under it, doing no more than gazing dreamily at the engine.

  Arthur looked at his steaming soup, at Mabel, and back out of the window. He scratched his scalp.

  “Feller's going to be stranded in the dark in another half-hour," he said, half to himself.

  "Yep, it's nearly time we were putting the lights on," she said, half to herself.

  "I could maybe earn a couple of dollars going to see what was wrong," he said, changing tack.

  "This is food like money won't buy or time won't improve on,' my mother used to say," Mabel mur­mured, stirring her bowl without catching his eye.

  They had been married only four months, but it had not taken Arthur that long to notice the obliquity of their intentions. Even when they were apparently conversing together, their two thought-streams seemed never quite to converge, let alone touch. But he was a determined young man, not to be put off by irrelevancies. He stood up.

  "I'll just go see what the trouble seems to be out there," he said. And as a sop to her culinary pride, he called, as he went through the door, "Keep that soup warm—I'll be right back.”

  Their little bungalow, which stood in its own untidy plot of ground, was a few hundred yards beyond the outskirts of the village of Hapsville. Nothing grew much along the road except billboards, and the sta­tionary truck added to the desolation. It looked threadbare, patched and mended, as if it had been traveling the roads long before trains or even stage­coaches.

  The coveralled figure by the engine waited till Arthur was almost up to it before snapping the hood down and turning around. He was a small man with specta­cles and a long, long face which must have measured all of eighteen inches from crown of skull to point of jaw. In among a mass of crinkles, a likable expres­sion of melancholy played.

  "Got trouble, stranger?" Arthur asked.

  "Who hasn't?" His voice, too, sounded like a mass of crinkles.

  "Anything I can do?" Arthur inquired. "I work at the garage just down the road in Hapsville."

  "Well," the crinkled man said, "I come a long way. If you pressed me I could put a bowl of steaming soup between me and the night."

  "Your timing sure is good!" Arthur said. "You better come on in and see what Mabel can do. Then I’ll have a look-see at your engine."

  He led the way back to the bungalow. The crinkled man scuffled his feet on the mat, rubbed his specta­cles on his dirty overalls, and followed him in. He looked about curiously.

  Mabel had worked fast. She'd had time, when she saw through the window that they were coming, to toss their two bowls of soup back into the pan, add water, put the pan back to heat on the stove, and place a clean apron over her dirty one.

  "We got a guest here for supper, Mabel" Arthur said. “I’ll light up the lamp."

  "How d'you do?" Mabel said, putting out her hand to the crinkled man. "Welcome to our hospitality."

  She said it just right: made it really sound welcom­ing, yet, by slipping in that big word "hospitality," let him know she was putting herself out for him. Mabel was educated. So was Arthur, of course. They both read all the papers and magazines. But while Arthur , just poured over the scientific or engineering or mechanical bits (those three words all meant the same thing to Mabel), she studied psychological or educa­tional or etiquette articles. If they could have drawn pictures of their idea of the world, Arthur's would have been of a lot of interlocking cogs, Mabel's of a lot of interlocking school marms.

  They sat down at the table, the three of them, as soon as the diluted soup warmed, and sipped out of their bowls.

  "You often through this way?" Arthur asked his visitor.

  "Every so often. I haven't got what you might call a regular route."

  "Just what model is your truck?"

  "You're a mechanic down at the garage, eh?"

  Thus deflected, Arthur said, "Why, no, I didn't call myself that, did I? I'm just a hand down there, but I'm learning, I'm learning fast."

  He was about to put the question about the truck again, but Mabel decided it was time she spoke.

  "What product do you deal in, sir?" she asked.

  The long face wrinkled like tissue paper.

  "You can't rightly say I got a product," he said, leaning forward eagerly with his elbows on the bare table. "Perhaps you didn't see the sign on my vehicle: 'Intangibles, Inc.' It's a bit worn now, I guess."

  "So you deal in tangibles, eh?" Arthur said. "They grow down New Orleans way, don't they? Must be interesting things to market."

  "Dearie me!" exclaimed Mabel crossly, almost blushing. "Didn't you hear the gentleman properly, Arthur? He said he peddles intangibles. They're not things at all: surely you knew that? They're more like—well, like something that isn't there at all.”

  She came uncertainly to a halt, looking confused. The little man was there instantly to rescue both of them.

  "The sort of intangibles I deal in are there all right," he said. "In fact, you might almost say they're the things that govern people's lives. But because you can't see them, people are apt to discount them. They think they can get through life without them, but they can't."

  "Try a sample of this cheese," Mabel said, piling up their empty bowls. "You were saying, sir...."

  The crinkled man accepted a square of cheese and a slab of home-baked bread and said, "Well, now I'm here, perhaps I could offer you good folks an intangi­ble?"

  "We're mighty poor," Arthur said quickly. "We only just got married, and we think there may be a baby on its way for next spring. We can't afford luxuries, that's the truth."

  "I'm happy to hear about the babe," the crinkled man said. "But you understand I don't want money for my goods. I reckon you already gave me an intan­gible: hospitality; now I ought to give you one."

  "Well, if it's like that," Arthur said. But he was thinking that this old fellow was getting a bit whimsi­cal and had better be booted out as soon as possible. People were like that They were either friendly or unfriendly, and unfortunately there were as many ways of being objectionable while being friendly as there were while being unfriendly.

  Chewing hard on a piece of crust, the crinkled man ramed to Mabel and said, "Now let us take your own :ase and find out which intangibles you require. What is your object in life?"

  "She ain't got an object in life," Arthur said flatly. "She's married to me now."

  At once Mabel was ready with a sharp retort, but somehow her guest was there first with a much mild­er one. Shaking his head solemnly at Arthur, he said, "No, no, I don't quite think you've got the hang of what I mean. Even married people have all sorts of intangibles, ambition and whatnot—and most of them are kept a dead secret." He turned to look again at Mabel, and his glance was suddenly very penetrat­ing as he continued. "Some wives, for instance, take in into their pretty heads very early in marriage al­ways to run counter to their husbands' wishes. It gets to be their main intangible, and you can't shake 'em out of it."

  Mabel said nothing to this, but Arthur stood up angrily. The words had made him more uneasy than he would confess even to himself.

  "Don't you g
o saying things like that about Mabel!" he said in a bull-like voice. "It's none of your business, and it ain't true! Maybe you'd better finish up that bread and go and see anybody don't pinch your truck!"

  Mabel was also up.

  "Arthur Jones!" she said. "That's not polite to a guest. He wasn't meaning me personally, so just you sit down and listen to a bit of conversation. It isn't as if we get so much of that!"

  Squelched, Arthur sat down. The crinkled man's long crinkled face regarded him closely, immense compassion in the eyes.

  "Didn't mean to be rude," Arthur muttered. He fiddled awkwardly with the salt shaker.

  "That's all right. Intangibles can be difficult things to deal with—politeness, for one. Why, some people never use politeness on account of it's too difficult. The only way is to use willpower with intangibles." He sighed. "Willpower certainly is needed. Have you got willpower, young man?"

  "Plenty," Arthur said. The crinkled man seemed unable to understand how irritated he was, which of course made the irritation all the greater. He spun the salt shaker at a furious speed.

  "And what's your object in life?" persisted the crin­kled man.

  "Oh, why should you worry?"

  "Everyone's happier with an object in life," the crinkled man said. “It don't do to have time passing without some object in life, otherwise I'd be out of business."

  This sounded to Mabel very like the maxims she read in her magazines, the founts of all wisdom. Pleas­ure shared is pleasure doubled; a life shared is life immortal. Caring for others is the best way of caring for yourself. Cast your bread upon the waters: even sharks got to live. Mabel was not too happy about this little man in overalls, but obviously he could teach her husband a thing or two.

  "Of course you got an object in life, honey," she said.

  Honey raised his bovine eyes and looked at her, then lowered them again. A crumpled hand slid across the table and removed that fidgeting salt shaker from his grasp. Arthur had a distinct feeling he was being assailed from all sides.

  "Sure, I got objects ... make a bit of money ... raise some children ..." he muttered, adding, "and knock a bit of shape into the yard."

  "Very commendable, very honorable," the crinkled man said in a warm tone. "Those are certainly fine objectives for a young man, fine objectives. To culti­vate the garden is especially proper. But those, after all, are the sort of objectives everyone has. A man -needs some special, private ambition, just to distinguish himself from the herd."

  “I’m never likely to mistake myself for anyone else, mister," Arthur said unhappily. He could tell by Mabel’s silence that she approved of this interrogation. Seizing the pepper shaker, he began to twirl that. "That yard—always full of duckweed...."

  "Haven't you got any special, private ambitions of your own?"

  Not knowing what to say without sounding stupid, Arthur sat there looking stupid. The crinkled man politely removed the twirling pepper shaker from his hand, and Mabel said with subdued ferocity, "Well, go on then, don't be ashamed to admit it if you've got no aim in life."

  Arthur scraped back his chair and lumbered up from the table.

  "I can't say any more than what I have. I don't reckon there's anything in your cargo for me, mister!"

  "On the contrary," said the crinkled man, his voice losing none of its kindness. "I have just what you need. For every size of mentality I have a suitable size of intangible."

  "Well, I don't want it," Arthur said stubbornly. “I’m happy enough as I am. Don't you go bringing those things in here!"

  "Arthur, I don't believe you've taken in a word this...."

  "You keep out of this!" Arthur told her, wagging a finger at her. "All I know is, this traveling gentleman's trying to put something over on me, and you're help­ing him."

  They confronted each other, the crinkled man sit­ting nursing the two shakers and looking at the hus­band and wife judiciously. Mabel's expression changed from one of rebellion to anguish; she put a hand to her stomach.

  "The baby's hurting me," she said.

  In an instant, Arthur was around the table, his arms about her, consoling her, penitent. But when she peeped once at the crinkled man, he was watching her hard, and his eyes held that penetrating quality again. Arthur also caught the glance and, misinterpret­ing it, asked guiltily, "Do you reckon I ought to get a doctor?"

  "It would be a waste of money," the crinkled man said.

  This obviously relieved Arthur, but he felt bound to say, "They do say Doc Smallpiece is a good doctor."

  "Maybe," said the crinkled man. "But doctors are no use against intangibles, which is what you're dealing with here.... Ah, a human soul is a wonder­ful intricate place! Funny thing is, it could do so much, but it's in such a conflict it can do so little."

  But Arthur was feeling strong again now that he was touching Mabel.

  "Go on, you pessimistic character," he scoffed. "Ma­bel and me're going to do a lot of things in our life."

  The crinkled man shook his head and looked ineffa­bly sad. For a moment they thought he would cry.

  "That's the whole trouble," he said. "You're not. You're going to do nothing thousands of people aren't doing exactly the same at exactly the same time. Too many intangibles are against you. You can't pull in one direction alone for five minutes, never mind pull­ing together."

  Arthur banged his fist on the table.

  "That ain't true, and you can get to hell out of here! I can do anything I want. I got willpower!"

  "Very well."

  Now the crinkled man also stood up, pushing his chair aside. He picked up the pepper- and salt-shakers and plonked them side by side, not quite touching, on the edge of the table.

  "Here's a little test for you," he said. His voice, though still low, was curiously impressive. "I put these two shakers here. How long could you keep them here, without moving them, without touching them at all, in exactly that same place?"

  For just a moment Arthur hesitated as if grappling with the perspective of time.

  “As long as I liked," he said stubbornly.

  "No, you couldn't," the visitor contradicted.

  "Course I could! This is my place, I do what I like in it. It's a fool thing to want to do, but I could keep them shakers there a whole year if need be!"

  “Ah, I see! You'd use your willpower to keep them there, eh?"

  "Why not?" Arthur asked. "I got plenty of willpower, ir.d what's more I'm going to fix the yard and grow beans and things."

  The long face swung to and fro, the shoulders drugged.

  “You can't test willpower like that. Willpower is something that should last a lifetime. You're not enough of an individualist to have that kind of will­power, are you now?"

  "Want to bet on that?" Arthur asked.

  "Certainly."

  "Right. Then I'll bet you I can keep those shakers retouched on that table for a lifetime—my lifetime."

  The crinkled man laughed. He took a pipe out of his pocket and commenced to light it. They heard spittle pop in its stem.

  "I won't take on any such wager, son," he said, "because I know you'd never do it and then you'd be disappointed with yourself. You see, a little thing like you propose is not so simple; you'd run up against all those intangibles in the soul as I was talking about."

  "To hell with them!" Arthur exploded. His blood was now thoroughly up. "I'm telling you I could do it.”

  "And I'm telling you, you couldn't. Because why? because in maybe two, maybe five, say maybe ten years, you'd suddenly say to yourself, 'It's not worth the bother—I give up.' Or you'd say, Why should I be bound by what I said when I was young and foolish?" Or a friend would come in and accidentally knock the shakers off the table; or your lads would grow up and take the shakers; or your house would burn down; or something else. I tell you it's impos­sible to do even a simple thing with all the intangi­bles stacked against you. They and the shakers would beat you."

  "He's quite right," Mabel agreed. “It's a silly thin
g to do, and you couldn't do it."

  And that was what settled it.

  Arthur rammed his fists deep down into his pockets and stood over the two shakers.

  "I bet you these shakers will stay here, untouched, all my Me," he said. "Take it or leave it."

  "You can't," Mabel began, but the crinkled man silenced her with a gesture and turned to Arthur.

  "Good," he said. "I shall pop in occasionally—if I may—to see how things are going. And in exchange I give—I have already given—you one of my best in­tangibles: an objective in life."

  He paused for Arthur to speak, but the young man only continued to stare down at the shakers as if hypnotized.

  It was Mabel who asked, "And what is his objective in life?"

  As he turned toward the door, the crinkled man gave a light laugh, not exactly pleasant, not exactly cruel.

  "Why, guarding those shakers," he said. "See you, children!"

  Several days elapsed before they realized that he went out and drove straight away without any further trouble from the engine of his ancient truck.

  At first Mabel and Arthur argued violently over the shakers. The arguments were one-sided, since Mabel had only to put her hand on her stomach to win them. She tried to show him how stupid the bet was; sometimes he would admit this, sometimes not. She tried to show him how unimportant it all was; but that he would never admit. The crinkled man had bored right through Arthur's obtuseness and anger and touched a vital spot.

  Before she realized this, Mabel did her best to get Arthur to remove the shakers from the table. After­ward, she fell silent. She tried to wait in patience, to continue life as if nothing had happened.

  Then it was Arthur's turn to argue against the shakers. They changed sides as easily as if they had been engaged in a strange dance. Which they were.

  "Why should we put up with the nuisance of them?" he asked her. "He was only a garrulous old man making a fool of us."

  "You know you wouldn't feel right if you did move the shakers—not yet anyhow. It's a matter of psychol­ogy*

  "I told you it was a trick," growled Arthur, who had a poor opinion of the things his wife read about.