Irrational Numbers by George Alec Effinger

Author:George Alec Effinger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 1976-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

HARD TIMES

It was still early, not even eleven o'clock. The office of Justin Benar-cek was quiet, calmer than it had been in many weeks. He heard no voices, just the rapid clicking of Miss Brant's typewriter beyond his richly stained door. Justin stood and stretched leisurely, taking a deep breath and letting an unfamiliar mood of well-being sweep over him. He went to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes.

Beyond the window it was a bright, clear August day. Sunlight streamed through the glass; the office was decorated in somber colors and dark woods, but the light overcame the oppressive atmosphere. The austere browns and heavy blues of his law books seemed more than just a shelter for the grim philosophy within. For no other reason than the beauty of the day, Justin felt happy. He was smiling, and he slapped the narrow windowsill in his good humor.

On an impulse he turned back to his desk. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

"Yes, Mr. Benarcek?" she said.

"Miss Brant," he said, assuming a formal tone, "I was wondering if you had an unbreakable date for lunch this afternoon."

Miss Brant hesitated, no doubt expecting a sudden burden of work from her boss. "No, sir," she said slowly.

"Then let's go down to the Shalibet," he said. "Maybe we could take the rest of the afternoon off and do something." Miss Brant said nothing for a moment, and then told him that she'd love to.

"All right, then. Call and make the reservations." Justin sat in his expensive leather chair, closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling while it lasted. The sun was warm on his neck. For a while he dozed, until the intercom woke him.

"Mr. Benarcek?"

"Yes, Miss Brant," he said, yawning. "Did you make those reservations?"

"Yes, sir. For one o'clock."

"What time is it now?"

"Twelve, sir. But there's a gentleman to see you."

"He doesn't have an appointment, does he? I thought I was pretty well free today." Justin was annoyed at the man already, for dispersing the warm, clinging, and rare sense of joy.

"No, sir. But he says that it's important. And he said to ask you if you remember "The Trog.' He said you'd know."

The Trog! Bo Staefler, from his freshman year at Yale. It had been at least fifteen years since he'd even heard from Bo.

"It's all right, Miss Brant. I'll see him now. And don't worry; I'll be sure to get through before one. Give me a call in a half hour."

Justin ran a hand through his ruffled hair and straightened his tie. In a short while the door opened and Bo Staefler came into the office. He was balder, a lot heavier, but still the same huge, grinning man Justin had known so well in college. Justin stood and came around his desk to shake hands.

"Say, Justin, how are you?" asked Staefler.

"All right, Bo. Things are going okay. How are you?" Staefler just nodded. Justin suspected that his old friend was paying more than just a social call.

The two men sat down and talked about their shared foolishnesses of twenty years ago.

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