When Day is Done
By ARNOLD CASTLE
If there is a bit of the jungle
in every man—why not put every
man into a bit of the jungle?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was three in the afternoon and quitting time at Utopian Appliances,Inc. Bertram J. Bernard, the firm's stocky, thick-jawed president,waited discreetly at his desk for a few minutes, then closed the filehe had been studying, bid his secretary a pleasant evening, and strodecalmly out of the office.
He did not want to appear eager, and succeeded superbly in that.Joining several junior executives, he conversed genially with themas they descended to the rapid-transit floor. Three of the bright,confident young men decided to stop for a quick one at the building'splush saloon. Well, that was okay—Bernard had been a late-runner inhis youth. But now, well into middle age, he had learned that life hadother demands and pleasures.
"Have a good run, B. B.," said Watkins, the treasurer, at the rap-trangate. "Gloria's coming in on the three-thirty and we're going to dinnerand then some musical or other she's been dying to see."
So Bernard entered the rap-tran alone, though surrounded by scores ofpushing, jabbering strangers. Finding a seat on the aisle, next to aelectronics company vice-president whom he knew slightly, he engagedin trade conversation during the five minutes it took the monorail toreach his stop. He and the electronics executive got off, as did abouthalf of the rap-trans passengers, mostly middle-aged men like himself.Early-runners.
The escalator from the monorail stop descended directly into theJungle Station beneath. In the large lobby the crowd dispersed andBernard was again alone when he reached the dressing rooms. This wasnot surprising, he reflected; not many members of his Jungle Stationcould afford the elaborate private locker unique to this wing of thebuilding. He pressed his thumbprint to the lock and the door slid back.
Inside, he undressed completely, noting with critical satisfaction thestrength and color of his body in the full-length mirror at one end ofthe locker. He quickly packed his clothes, shoes, and briefcase into asmall suitcase, with delivery instructions on the top. Then he climbedinto his jungle suit—knee-length shorts, sweat shirt, rubber-soledshoes, and hip holster.
He checked the frequency setting on the sonic pistol, adjusting it tothe panthers who were reported in ascendancy. As a last thought, merelya whim, he glanced down at the station emblem on his sweat shirt, justto enjoy the sense of pride he derived from the large red "U-F" aboveit.
Of course there were getting to be more and more ulcer-frees thesedays, but that did not make it any less a matter for pride. And anywayseveral factions were pressing determinedly for a neurosis-freeinsignia. Though there were complications there. Oh, well, theimportant thing's the run, he remembered.
In the lobby again he deposited his suitcase at the delivery window.Then he stopped at the bulletin board to read the ascendancy ratingsfor the day. These were official, therefore several days outdated, butone could extrapolate. Panthers were dropping into third position,behind polar bears, with giraffes at the top by a good margin.
Outside the building he ran into a tipster and decided he had best buya dope sheet. He gave the seedy little man a