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Weill said, "Frank, I started on quality and I'm staying there. Maybe
you're right. Maybe dream palaces are the coming thing. If so we'll
open them, but we'll use good stuff. Maybe Luster-Think
underestimates ordinary people. Let's go slowly and not panic. I have
based all my policies on the theory that there's always a market for
quality. Sometimes, my boy, it would surprise you how big a market."
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"Boss-"
The sounding of the intercom interrupted Belanger.
"What is it, Ruth?" said Weill.
The voice of his secretary said, "It's Mr. Hillary, sir. He wants to
see you right away. He says it's important."
"Hillary?" Weill's voice registered shock. Then, "Wait five
minutes, Ruth, then send him in."
Weill turned to Belanger. "Today, Frank, is definitely not one of
my good days. A dreamer's place is in his home with his thinker. And
Hillary's our best dreamer so he especially should be at home. What
do you suppose is wrong with him?"
Belanger, still brooding over Luster-Think and dream palaces,
said shortly, "Call him in and find out."
"In one minute. Tell me, how was his last dream? I haven't tried
the one that came in last week."
Belanger came down to earth. He wrinkled his nose. "Not so
good."
"Why not?"
"It was ragged. Too jumpy. I don't mind sharp transitions for
the liveliness, you know, but there's got to be some connection, even if
only on a deep level."
"Is it a total loss?"
"No Hillary dream is a total loss. It took a lot of editing, though.
We cut it down quite a bit and spliced in some odd pieces he'd sent us
now and then. You know, detached scenes. It's still not Grade A, but it
will pass."
"You told him about this, Frank?"
"Think I'm crazy, boss? Think I'm going to say a harsh word to a
dreamer?"
And at that point the door opened and Weill's comely young
secretary smiled Sherman Hillary into the office.
Sherman Hillary, at the age of thirty-one, could have been
recognized as a dreamer by anyone. His eyes, unspectacled, had
nevertheless the misty look of one who either needs glasses or who
rarely focuses on anything mundane. He was of average height but
underweight, with black hair that needed cutting, a narrow chin, a
pale skin and a troubled look.
He muttered, "Hello, Mr. Weill," and half-nodded in hangdog
fashion in the direction of Belanger.
Weill said heartily, "Sherman, my boy, you look fine. What's the
matter? A dream is cooking only so-so at home? You're worried about
it? ... Sit down, sit down."
The dreamer did, sitting at the edge of the chair and holding his
thighs stiffly together as though to be ready for instant obedience to a
possible order to stand up once more.
He said, "I've come to tell you, Mr. Weill, I'm quitting."
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"Quitting?"
"I don't want to dream any more, Mr. Weill."
Weill's old face looked older now than at any time in the day.
"Why, Sherman?"
The dreamer's lips twisted. He blurted out, "Because I'm not
living, Mr. Weill. Everything passes me by. It wasn't so bad at first. It
was even relaxing. I'd dream evenings, weekends when I felt like, or
any other time. And when I felt like I wouldn't. But now, Mr. Weill,
I'm an old pro. You tell me I'm one of the best in the business and the
industry looks to me to think up new subtleties and new changes on
the old reliables like the flying reveries, and the worm-turning skits."
Weill said, "And is anyone better than you, Sherman? Your little
sequence on leading an orchestra is selling steadily after ten years."
"All right, Mr. Weill. I've done my part. It's gotten so I don't go
out any more. I neglect my wife. My little girl doesn't know me. Last
week, we went to a dinner party--Sarah made me-and I don't
remember a bit of it. Sarah says I was sitting on the couch all evening
just staring at nothing and humming. She said everyone kept looking
at me. She cried all night. I'm tired of things like that, Mr. Weill. I
want to be a normal person and live in this world. I promised her I'd
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