Introduction
“We have society! Pinching myself. Yesterday they were primates. Grooming parasites, eating reeds. Today they’re driving! Just fifty thousand orbits? How could they evolve so quickly? I need to know. We looked for the link but nothing yet. Possible I missed something, but what? Jim’s going over the logs, maybe he’ll find it. Mind’s a blur—thoughts won’t stop—could go on all night. Need to rest, hope I can. Wish Rose could have seen this.”
-
from p.
66 of Webster’s journal.
The Concept
My legs labored to turn the pedals on the bicycle as frigid winter air bit into my cheeks and knuckles. I cursed myself for leaving my hat and gloves at the bar the night before. I rode slowly, steering with one hand while warming the other in my pocket until frostbite forced a switch. It didn’t matter how cold it was. I needed the work. My stomach reminded me that it needed food, real food. It was tired of stale crackers and cheap beer. I rode on through the frost.
I rode my bicycle everywhere. I even fashioned leather saddlebags over the front and rear tires to carry essential tools. I was the only carpenter I knew without a truck. Yet with two bags of basic tools, I could accomplish almost any job. From that, I felt some pride. I pedaled quickly past a busy construction site and endured the jeers from workers dressed in expensive coveralls, laughing at me as they leaned against new trucks, sipping their hot drinks. The aroma of fine coffee made my stomach grumble. I thought of my situation and felt a bit angry.
I wondered if I was a loser. Success meant having things like a good job, a wife and home, kids and pets. I was over thirty and had none of those. I didn’t even own a car, but I took pride in limited needs and thought the world would be a better place if more people were like me, common and somewhat content. T-shirts and jeans filled the closet in my apartment, and I liked it that way.
Certainly I wasn’t a success. Was I really a loser? It was a good question. The thought was going through my mind as I pulled up, hungry and half-frozen, to his driveway for my first meeting with Webster Adams.
Adams hired me as a handyman. He got my name from his neighbor, an elderly woman who had employed me in the past. He came out to meet me in the driveway, walking quickly in the brisk air, wearing a collar shirt and slacks. He was taller than average, thin and appeared to be late fifties with wavy black hair mixed with streaks of gray. He had very blue eyes.
Adams smiled awkwardly as he surveyed my bicycle. Then he stuck out his hand and shook mine.
“Your hand is freezing,” he observed, gripping mine harder than I wanted, not sensing the pain of near frostbite I was experiencing.
