THE RUMBLE AND THE ROAR
BY STEPHEN BARTHOLOMEW
The noise was too much for him.
He wanted quiet—at any price.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
When Joseph got to the office his ears were aching from the noise ofthe copter and from his earplugs. Lately, every little thing seemed tomake him irritable. He supposed it was because his drafting departmentwas behind schedule on the latest Defense contract. His ears were soreand his stomach writhed with dyspepsia, and his feet hurt.
Walking through the clerical office usually made him feel better. Theconstant clatter of typewriters and office machines gave him a senseof efficiency, of stability, an all-is-well-with-the-world feeling. Hewaved to a few of the more familiar employees and smiled, but of courseyou couldn't say hello with the continual racket.
This morning, somehow, it didn't make him feel better. He supposed itwas because of the song they were playing over the speakers, "Slam BangBoom," the latest Top Hit. He hated that song.
Of course the National Mental Health people said constant music had abeneficial effect on office workers, so Joseph was no one to object,even though he did wonder if anyone could ever actually listen to itover the other noise.
In his own office the steady din was hardly diminished despitesoundproofing, and since he was next to an outside wall he wassubjected also to the noises of the city. He stood staring out of thehuge window for awhile, watching the cars on the freeway and listeningto the homogeneous rumble and scream of turbines.
Something's wrong with me, he thought. I shouldn't be feeling thisway. Nerves. Nerves.
He turned around and got his private secretary on the viewer. Shesimpered at him, trying to be friendly with her dull, sunken eyes.
"Betty," he told her, "I want you to make an appointment with mytherapist for me this afternoon. Tell him it's just a case of nerves,though."
"Yes sir. Anything else?" Her voice, like every one's, was a highpitched screech trying to be heard above the noise.
Joseph winced. "Anybody want to see me this morning?"
"Well, Mr. Wills says he has the first model of his invention ready toshow you."
"Let him in whenever he's ready. Otherwise, if nothing important comesup, I want you to leave me alone."
"Yes, sir, certainly." She smiled again, a mechanical, automatic smilethat seemed to want to be something more.
Joseph switched off.
That was a damn funny way of saying it, he thought. "I want you toleave me alone." As if somebody were after me.
He spent about an hour on routine paperwork and then Bob Wills showedup so Joseph switched off his dictograph and let him in.
"I'm afraid you'll have to make it brief, Bob," he grinned. "I've awhale of a lot of work to do, and I seem to be developing a splittingheadache. Nerves, you know."
"Sure, Mister Partch. I won't take a minute; I just thought you'd liketo have a look at the first model of our widget and get clued in on ourprogress so far...."
"Yes, yes, just go ahead. How does the thing work?"
Bob smiled and set the grey stee