Avram Davidson - No Fire Burns

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No Fire Burns

by Avram Davidson

Doctor Colles was a thin, pale man with receding hair. Mr. Melchior's chauffeured car had picked him up

at his stuffy little office, crowded with papers. He had begun to talk almost at once, and he was still at it

now. While waiting for the traffic light to change and listening to Doctor Colles' conversation, Mr.

Melchior took a long green cigar from his case and lit it.

"A breakdown of function and structure," said Colles. "An absolute lack of communication. Isn't it so?"

Mr. Taylor, a trim, blond young man, who looked like an ad for expensive shirts, listened carefully, said

nothing. Melchior looked impressed—and uncomprehending. Colles took his arm just above the elbow,

pressed it. "Look at that fellow over there," he said. "The one in the brown suit—see? Now: can I

communicate with him? Or can you? On any save the most primitive level? No. Impossible, I assure you.

I've only to look at him to know." The crowd flowed across the street. The men in the car watched the

vanishing brown suit.

"We think of, let us say, world problems. He thinks of bowling. We discuss art and letters. He watches

the dog acts on TV. We are concerned with our vanishing natural resources. He wonders if he can put a

dollar-fifty cab bill on his swindle sheet. Am I correct?" The car moved forward. "What do you think?"

Mr. Melchior thought he agreed one hundred percent. Taylor smiled faintly. "Just the same," Melchior

said, "there has to be some way of reaching these type people, getting inside of them."

Dr. Colles cleared his throat. "Psychology," he began.

"Good!" said Melchior. "Good. Go ahead—Oh. Here we are. You'll have to explain this to me when

we're inside, Doctor."

They went up the steps of what appeared to be a small parochial school, but which was, in fact, a

club—and not the sort at which members were fined for not using first names in addressing one another.

The guests' dining room was small and dark. "A brandy to begin with, Doctor?"

"I hold with the ancient grammarian," Dr. Colles said, suddenly jovial. "It is better to decline six nouns

than one drink. Ha Ha!"

Melchior rolled his eyes toward Taylor, who nodded. It was so ordered. "Would you believe it, Doctor,"

said Melchior, after the second sip, "I never tasted brandy till I was twenty-five years old? Times change

… Ah. Good. Here's the menu. Anything you especially like."

The food came. They ate slowly, with grave pleasure appropriate. "Times change," Melchior repeated,

presently. "Take, for example, business: When my business began to get too big for me to handle the

paper work myself, I hired my brother-in-law's cousin to keep the books. But that family-style operation

is outmoded. So now I have my personnel manager, Mr. Taylor here, he's a college man himself, help me

select the top men from the accountants' college for Melchior Enterprises. Taylor knows what the score

is."

Dr. Colles inquired the precise nature of these enterprises. His host said that they included importing,

manufacturing and distributing.

"Well, that covers just about the whole range of commerce, doesn't it? Except for credit."

"We do that, too."

Colles chuckled, but seeing his host react with faint surprise, coughed. "Now, about these tests," he said.

And he proceeded to talk about the tests with young Mr. Taylor, while Mr. Melchior listened, nodding.

After a while the personnel manager said, "Well, that seems to be all right, then, about the standard tests.

Now, Mr. Melchior would like to discuss with you the possibility of setting up another test, one which

would have to be personally constructed."

"Oh?" Dr. Colles raised his eyebrows. "A special test. Well."

Melchior rubbed his thin lips with his napkin. "We got—" He paused. "We have certain problems

concerned with personnel procurement—maybe disprocurement is the right word, huh, Taylor? And we

think you might be just the man to deal with them."

"Well, that's very flattering. 'Disprocurement'? Ha ha. And challenging, too. Go on, go on."

· · · · ·

Joe Clock looked up from his lathe. It was that pest, Aberdeen, again. "Whaddaya want, Ab?" he asked.

"Come on, come on—"

Ab smiled ingratiatingly. "Whaddaya want, for crysake?" Joe demanded.

The man looked around, nervously. "Uh. Look Joe, when you told me you needed that money couple

weeks ago, you said you needed it so bad, I told you that I, uh, I, uh, could let you have it, sure, I mean,

glad to help, I, uh—"

"Will ya quit needling me, for crysake? I told ya I'd pay it back."

Ab smirked, weakly. "Yeah, but, uh, Joe, I told you then it was the, uh, rent money, so I'd, uh, I'd need

it back in a week. And that was the truth, I mean … well, Joe, the, uh, the rent, I mean it was due a, a

week ago, and I got to have it Joe. So—"

Joe turned back to his lathe. "You'll get it. Tell ya landlord to keep his pants on, because I don't have it

now. So quit needling me."

Ab started to protest, explain, plead, but Joe wasn't paying any attention to him. Finally, with a helpless

shrug he moved off, looking back over his shoulder with a puzzled expression, at the oblivious Joe

Clock, who—after the other man was well out of sight—took a stroll down to the drinking fountain.

He was greeted there by a man with a wart between his eyes. "You get them new power tools for your

cellar yet, that you were talking about?" the man asked.

Joe wiped his dripping mouth. "Yeah. Ordered 'em two weeks ago and they finally came couple a days

ago," he said. "Beautiful stuff. Come on down and have a look some Sundy."

The man with the wart between his eyes said, thanks, he might do that. "What was Aberdeen doing over

at your machine just now?" he asked. "He look like he was gonna bust out crying."

Joe frowned. "Who? Oh, Aberdeen. Aah, I dunno what he wanted." He nodded, moved off. In the

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Avram Davidson - No Fire Burns

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