Two Weeks in August
By FRANK M. ROBINSON
Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction February 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The humblest events sometimes result from the
most grandiose beginnings. You'd never imagine
space travel starting this way, for instance!
I suppose there's a guy like McCleary in every office.
Now I'm not a hard man to get along with and it usually takes quite abit more than overly bright remarks from the office boy to bother me.But try as I might, I could never get along with McCleary. To be asdisliked as he was, you have to work at it.
What kind of guy was he? Well, if you came down to the office one dayproud as Punch because of something little Johnny or Josephine hadsaid, it was a sure cinch that McCleary would horn in with somethinghis little Louie had spouted off that morning. At any rate, whenMcCleary got through, you felt like taking Johnny to the doctor to findout what made him subnormal.
Or maybe you happened to buy a new Super-eight that week and werebragging about the mileage, the terrific pickup, and how quickly sheresponded to the wheel. Leave it to McCleary to give a quick run-downon his own car that would make you feel like selling yours for junk atthe nearest scrap heap.
Well, you see what I mean.
But by far the worst of it was when vacation time rolled around. Youcould forgive a guy for topping you about how brainy his kids are, andyou might even find it in your heart to forget the terrific bargain hedrove to work in. But vacation time was when he'd really get on yournerves. You could pack the wife and kids in Old Reliable and roll outto the lake for your two weeks in August. You might even break the bankand spend the two weeks at a poor man's Sun Valley. But no matter whereyou went, when you came back, you'd have to sit in silence and listento McCleary's account of his Vacation in the Adirondacks, or his Trampin the Canadian Wilds, or maybe even the Old French Quarter.
The trouble was he always had the photographs, the ticket stubs, andthe souvenirs to prove it. Where he got the money, I'll never know.Sometimes I'd tell the wife about it and she'd sniff and wonder whatkind of shabby house they lived in that they could afford all the otherthings. I never looked him up myself. Tell you the truth, I was afraidI'd find the McClearys lived on Park Avenue.
Now you look forward to a vacation all year, but particularly duringthe latter part of July, when, what with the heat and the stuffyoffice, you begin to feel like a half-done hotdog at a barbecue. I wasfeeling even worse than usual as I was faced with spending my two weeksin my own backyard, most of my vacation dough having gone to pay thedoctor. The only thing I minded was having McCleary find out about itand seeing that phony look of sympathy roll across his fat face whilehe rambled on about the vacation he was going to have.
It was lunch time and we had just finished talking about the latest ontelevision and what was wrong with the Administration and who'd win thepennant when Bob Young brought up the subject of vacations. It turnedout he was due for a trip to the Ozarks and Donley was going afterwall-eye pike in northern Wisconsin. I could sense McCleary prick uphis ears clear across the room.
"How about you, Bill?" Donley asked me. "Got any plans?"