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The Man in the Globe
A Guest Quarters Story
By
Jeffery Scott Sims
 Allen Gerrold suffered an unnerving experience when he arrived for the gala dinner. It was being held, as it turned out, in what he couldn't help considering as the wrong part of town: a grimy, low rent, semi-industrial area; dark, with a faint haze of chemical smoke in the murky air. Despite explicit verbal directions, he had begun to dread getting lost. As he pulled into the lightless parking lot another car had charged out of the gloom, veered sharply toward his vehicle, almost clipping the bumper, then raced away; not before, however, the driver had shrieked to a halt, leaned out of his window and shouted, "Makes you think, doesn't it?" Motorist and car then vanished as quickly as they came.
It distressed him that what might well prove to be his big night should start in such a fashion. Still, he had arrived, and his fortunes could only improve as the evening progressed. Gerrold parked his car with all the others in the silent lot. The other vehicles were much grander than his. This must be the place, even if no one was in sight, and the building wasn't quite what he expected. A nondescript pile which had seen better days, it appeared to date from the turn of the century; the previous turn, that is. He approached the only visible door with diffidence. Then it was thrown open from within, light blazed out, and all was well.
"Your name, please?" inquired the elderly, extremely well dressed guardian of the gate. "Ah, yes, Mr. Gerrold. Mr. Benchley said you were expected." Gerrold liked that. The greeter ushered him into a low hall which immediately opened upon the main room.
Given the shabby, anonymous outside aspect of the structure, the interior positively dazzled him. The vast space before him teemed with elegant people and elegant furnishings. Perhaps a former ball room or theater from the olden days, freshened and refurbished. The ancient gas fixtures now glowed with electric light, including the baroque chandeliers overhead. Painted images adorned the ceiling, too worn with age to be made out except as sweeping surfaces of color. The expansive hard wooden floor (with nary a creak) had been given over to numerous small, cozy dining tables, where some-- guests, members? -- were already seated. Mainly the ladies; the wives of important men, no doubt. Others, mostly sharp looking or distinguished men, stood or strode about the tables, engaged in swirling conversations. Ornate oak-mantled doors graced both sides of the room. Through the one which stood open he spied a busy kitchen. Beyond all loomed the high stage, stretching from wall to wall, scaled by short flights of steps at both ends. Heavy ruffled curtains, crimson with sprawling gold tassels, concealed the performance area.
"Who are you?" demanded a brash voice as he drifted uncertainly into the room. The owner of the voice, a stocky young fellow with drink in hand, broke away from his clique and confronted the newcomer. "Gerrold? Gerrold. The name's Blakefield. Pleased to meet you. Of course, Benchley told us all about you. I'm glad you made it. Very glad. Your first time, eh?"
"It is," Gerrold replied.
"No problem. Come right in. Join us, or find a seat. There's one for everybody. Hey, Benchley!"
Mr. Benchley approached. Gerrold felt relief at finding someone he recognized; his superior at the firm, the man who had invited him, in fact.
"Gerrold, it's a pleasure to see you," said Mr. Benchley, extending a firm hand. An older, heavyset man, he exuded quiet assurance and avuncular good will. "I am so happy you came. I hoped you would, but it wouldn't do to count on such an important eventuality. Still, here you are, and that gives me great hopes for a fine and productive evening. I am sure that all of our members will benefit from your appearance."
The reference to members meant something to Gerrold, but had only done so since the morning of the previous day. Until that time he had never heard of the Global Visions Society. Called to the boss's office, he had entered with trepidation. Gerrold hadn't been with this outfit long, he had just lost the important Markland account (through no fault of his own, he was ready to insist), and he dreaded a dressing down, at least. Nothing of the sort happened. Mr. Benchley airily dismissed the subject, which his subordinate had hesitantly broached, and embarked upon a glowing description of this unknown club.
"A gathering of movers and shakers," he explained. "Businessmen, philosophers, government types, all getting together in order to think big thoughts and discuss grand ideals." They were an eclectic group, who pushed a number of advanced ideas concerning various contemporary issues. He assured Gerrold that the Society had performed some very good work, behind the scenes, in a quiet way. "Of course we don't spend all of our time formulating policy," Mr. Benchley went on. "We at Global Visions make things happen, play a part in the world. And then, there is the aspect of bonhomie to consider. A delightful atmosphere of camaraderie reigns at our annual meetings, of which I am fortunate to be the host this year. When all is said and done, we like to amuse ourselves."
Then he tendered the offer to attend, which Gerrold accepted happily. It couldn't hurt, and it might do him a lot of good to rub shoulders with the bigwigs. Mr. Benchley cautioned him to dress appropriately for a gala occasion, which led to his renting of a tuxedo for the first time since high school. If observation served him, he gathered that no one else here needed to rent.
Duty called Mr. Benchley away to other attendees, but not before he considerately directed the young man to the drinks table. There Gerrold fortified himself, as he saw virtually everyone else had done before him. He needed to put himself at ease and make himself comfortable, for he wasn't accustomed to moving in such circles. As far as he could tell, everybody here knew everybody else. He strove to catch their words without appearing to do so. Their conversations weren't private, and he awaited an opportunity to join in and become one of the boys, but the esoteric subjects formed a barrier to easy entry. In small knots and clusters they pontificated, debated, or exchanged views on vast, weighty matters. Here the topic was the utility of religion in an international economy; there it was education as a tool for industrial planning; behind him, someone spoke passionately on the fate of the individual in a rationally organized future. Gerrold really didn't know where to begin. He felt dampness forming under the tight suit as he pondered the prospect of remaining odd man out for the entire evening.
An angel saved him. "Mr. Gerrold, isn't it?" A very pretty, classy girl accosted him. "How do you do? I'm Leonora Forsythe. This is my first time here. My father is the medical director for the state hospitals. You've probably heard of him. We've all heard about you recently."
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Leonora. You may call me Allen. What could you possibly have heard about me?"
"Come sit with me. Dinner will be served in a moment." Well, this was more like it. They crossed the room and sat down by themselves at a table ornately laid for four, front and center before the hidden stage. She didn't take her place until he held her chair. "Oh, Mr. Benchley-- a great friend of my father-- told us lots and lots," she continued. "He said you were aiming to be an up and coming associate of the company, that maybe you even hoped to be a partner one day."
"He said that?" Gerrold hadn't previously sensed that degree of respect from those above him. They thought him up and coming, partner material. That must explain his presence here tonight. "He flatters me."
"He said you would be simply perfect for this evening's festivities," Leonora gushed. "I agree with him. You will make a superb star attraction."
"How about that," Gerrold muttered vaguely. While he attempted to frame half a dozen questions in his mind which would elicit more information, a ponderous fellow approached, with a large black cigar clamped between his teeth and a withered woman at his side. They took seats at the table.
"It's time to eat," said the man.
"Father, Mother, this is Mr. Gerrold."
"Allen, please."
"You're going to entertain us tonight," Mrs. Forsythe cried.
"Gerrold," Mr. Forsythe grumbled. "Yes, I've heard a thing or two about you. Entertainment is hardly the word for it, my dear. This is serious business, and I expect Gerrold to so treat it."
"I assure you I will," their guest said hastily, "and it's nice to meet you both. I get the impression that something special is required of me tonight, but I don't know what it is. Nobody has told me anything."
"Nothing is required of you," Mr. Forsythe growled. "You can do what you like. If you choose to cooperate, however, the meeting will be a memorable success. Benchley made a big deal out of how we could count on you."
"Dinner is served." An army of white coated waiters, laden with dishes and trays, descended on the tables, one at a time. Gerrold noted with glee that they came straight to his table first. That might be an honor due to his hosts, he reflected, but he cheered himself by thinking that the honor was his own. He didn't quite recognize the courses-- they looked frenchified-- but shame at his ignorance kept him from asking. The portions were small, but it was pretty good stuff. Tasty wine flowed freely. During the meal conversation rarely rose above small talk, most of it confined to the other three, although Leonora made a point of addressing him at intervals, mainly to praise the food.
Throughout the dinner Gerrold attempted to remain chipper, but a gnawing concern nagged at him. From the elusive comments he feared that they all did want something from him, and he knew, with mounting, dreadful certainty, that what they wanted was a speech. The very thought sickened him. He did not excel at public speaking; he was terrible at it, and tried to avoid the embarrassment at all costs. It pained him enough when he had a chance to prepare for the miserable moment. An impromptu presentation-- on what subject, anyway? -- would devastate him. He knew from experience how foolish he could sound. Please, God, he pleaded silently, anything but that. He would tolerate anything the night had in store, if he didn't have to stand up and talk in front of all these people.
It was actually a relief when nature began to demand attention. He excused himself and wended his way among the tables toward the clearly marked bathrooms. It seemed as if all eyes were upon him as he proceeded.
"Where do you think you're going?" He turned at the harsh voice to see a man springing quickly from his chair. Fairly young, self assured, hard looking, he strode right up into Gerrold's face as if to bar the way. "Trouble with the service?"
"Is there a problem?" Mr. Benchley asked pleasantly, appearing from nowhere. "Mr. Gerrold, is there anything we can do for you?"
"I'm just making a pit stop," he stammered.
"Certainly. We have every facility. Jones, meet Gerrold. Jones, in addition to his vocation as a highly esteemed policy chief for the administration, works as a consultant for the Society."
"I thought it was him," Jones said decisively. "I didn't want him cutting out on us before the big time. We'd all regret that. Hi, Gerrold. It's a thrill to have you here."
"It's a thrill to be here." Gerrold attempted to control his cold tone. "Haven't we met somewhere?"
"I doubt it, but I count it a privilege now. You could be important to us. You have no idea how important you are capable of becoming."
"Thanks for the kind thoughts. Pardon me, gentlemen."
"Don't be too long or you will miss the fun," Jones called. He and Mr. Benchley whispered among themselves as their guest hurriedly broke away. Gerrold wouldn't swear to it-- he granted that a mistake was possible-- but Jones strikingly resembled the man who had cut him off at the parking lot entrance. The hot eyes, the strong jaw, the ferocious stare, all fitted. Surely it was him... but it couldn't be more than a chance resemblance. The harrowing experience had been fleeting. Of course it wasn't him. That wouldn't make any sense, any more than his paranoiac sense that many pairs of watchful eyes followed him as he crossed the floor to his destination.
Gerrold entered the men's room, a bright, polished affair of glass, metal, and tile, rather different from the old-fashioned dining room. He took refuge within a closed stall. Scarcely had he settled himself and begun to concentrate upon immediacies than he heard the startlingly noisy entry of several others. The rest room door opened with a crash, bodies seemed to blunder about against the walls and each other, and what sounded like a murmur of conversation, caught in media res, ran unchecked. Within seconds it appeared that the other stalls were full, and that the urinals and the faucets at the counter were all in operation.
They continued to chatter among themselves. A stream of running water muffled the words, but now they were talking back and forth across the room, and he picked up snatches of intelligible speech.
"--Well and good to save the world, but we must confront the issue of fate," a faceless voice opined.
"--Reality determined by the clash of opposites--" said another, perhaps in response.
"Black and white, rich and poor, daring and cautious, life and-- what?"
"--Critical moment comes to us all--"
"How to act?"
"--Decision to be made--"
"--Stands outside of the world, looking in--"
"--Or is sealed within it--"
"--False move, without hope of escape--"
"--Human condition--"
"Checkmate."
Gerrold flushed the commode. At that instant came a clatter of metal panels, more sounds of bodies against bodies, hurried footsteps, the swinging of the door. When he exited the cubicle he found the room absolutely empty. An overlooked faucet still poured, the water spiraling fast into the drain. He shut it off.
What had just happened spooked him. He couldn't shake the crazy feeling that the bizarre episode had been staged for his benefit. Something about those words got under his skin. It wasn't their meaning, not exactly-- he couldn't be sure if he had determined their meaning, from the bits and pieces he overheard-- but rather the manner of their being projected. Yes, what he heard had sounded like a recitation, a catechism, of mysterious significance. Something to do with the club? Involved members might have their secret words or phrases of importance. Perhaps they had been rehearsing for a later event.
He departed the shelter of the bathroom. Most of the diners' attention now focused on the stage, where Mr. Benchley stood before the curtain speaking, reading glasses perched on his nose, a sheaf of papers in hand. So the meeting had finally come to the point. Gerrold rejoined the Forsythes. Dishes and utensils were being collected by the efficient waiters. He hadn't finished, but he didn't make a fuss about it. The wine and the goblets remained.
"I thought you'd taken out a lease on that room," said the father with a frown.
"Everything is fine, dear," the mother soothed.
"I was afraid you were going to miss the good parts," said Leonora.
"Not for the world," replied Gerrold.
These good parts, if such they be, proved somewhat tedious. Mr. Benchley was in the process of reading some brief personal messages from members who hadn't been able to attend. Some of them were off in far corners of the globe, masterminding public works of vital import to regional health, education, and welfare, and regretted being unable to tear themselves away. All made a point of offering special wishes for a rewarding meeting. There were quite a number of these, and Gerrold grew restless. He was not alone.
"All right, already," muttered Mr. Forsythe, still scowling. "I don't want to be here until dawn. Let's get this show on the road."
"It's always done this way," Mrs. Forsythe observed.
"Benchley just likes to hear himself talk. Now last year--" He stopped as Mr. Benchley cleared his throat and shifted gears.
"So much for preliminaries," said the speaker. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Global Visions Society exists to foster a cohesive approach to solving the ills which plague our world. We combine unity of purpose with a broad spectrum of method. Conceptual acuity, harnessed to good old practical diligence, enables us to make our mark. GVS stands for action! The lessons of the past, filtered through the experience of the present, constitute the hope of the future--"
And so on. Some members of the audience-- Leonora, for one-- seemed rapt by the performance, while others, such as her father, exhibited signs of impatience. Gerrold didn't derive much benefit from the speech. It sounded to him like conventional after dinner maundering, the sort of thing he still feared they expected from him.
"What exactly does the GVS do?" he asked quietly of the girl beside him.
"Absolutely amazing things," she whispered back.
"Such as?"
"Instill a rewarding frame of mind," she said, barely paying attention to him.
"--Bold, forthright advance into the new millennium. We will not be left behind. We will not keep pace. We do not follow; we lead, by example. All ideas are on the table. Our strength lies in choosing our servings with care. Mere action, for the sake of action, is not our way. That is foolish, wasteful. It is the mark of the beast. We choose to march, not wander. The compass of talent and skill points the direction--"
"I trust that the clock points him in the right direction," Mr. Forsythe quipped. Gerrold, much to his distress, felt a growing need to use the bathroom once more. It wouldn't be good form, of course; also, now that he thought about it, he didn't want to go back in there again.
"--Broad strokes, but with due consideration for the critical details. No half measures at GVS! Where others give up, there we pick up the ball. What they call accomplishments, we call the bare beginnings. Civilization progresses through unswerving determination to identify and achieve rational goals, with rational means, for rational ends." Mr. Benchley stopped. A weighty pause ensued. He placed his hands behind his back, then brought them forward gradually into an attitude of prayer. His gaze swept, by degrees, the entire gathering.
"Is this it, Father?" asked Leonora.
"At last," Mr. Forsythe responded. Gerrold sat erect and waited.
"Let me be clear about one thing," Mr. Benchley said presently. "We are not pie-in-the-sky utopians. We deal with the real world as we see it, as we find it. We don't kid ourselves about the difficulties, the costs. We are realists. We face reality!"
"We accept reality!" thundered the group in unison. Gerrold jumped in his seat.
"We seek the truth!"
"We know the truth!" roared back the crowd. To Gerrold, they seemed to be reciting a prepared script. He wished he knew the words.
"Great hardships go hand in hand with great achievement. In order that most may rise, some must fall. It is an inevitable consequence. We act to minimize the pain, but we can not wholly escape it. Is there anyone here unwilling to pay the price?"
"The price shall be paid!"
"And that leads us," Mr. Benchley solemnly intoned, "to our little morality play, the sacred tradition of Global Visions. Here, once every year, we remind ourselves of the price man pays for advancement. Ladies and gentlemen, behold the world!"
The speaker gestured with his right hand. Other, unseen hands began hauling on invisible cords which pulled aside the crimson curtains. Scattered applause accompanied the rustling movement. The interior of the stage lay revealed. There Gerrold saw a remarkable thing on the hardwood floor: a giant cement globe, perhaps six feet in diameter. The smooth, even polished gray surface was marred by painted black lines symbolizing latitude and longitude. Crude splashes of dull brown portrayed recognizable representations of the major continents. The Americas faced to the front. A thick circle of metal occupied the position of the North Pole. It was a weird object. If solid, he wondered how they had been able to move it onto the stage. Somebody had gone to a deal of trouble.
"This is our special globe," Mr. Benchley indicated, "the image of man's habitat. Man is of the world, man is in the world. If all present agree, we must fill it."
"We agree!" All in the audience, save one, screamed the words.
"As you know, we have with us tonight an important guest--" A wave of clapping and hammering of goblets on tables ensued as all eyes turned toward Gerrold.
This is it, he thought. There was no question as to what was coming, and he couldn't readily evade it without ruining his possibilities. He tried to think of engaging platitudes which might satisfy these people. From what he'd heard so far, they couldn't really expect too much from him. He just had to come up with something to fob them off for a while.
"Mr. Gerrold, would you join me, please?" More applause as their guest rose. Leonora touched his hand, looked worshipfully into his eyes and breathed, "I am so proud of you." Thus fortified, he made his way onto the stage.
"Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Benchley, offering his hand in a hearty clasp. "You enjoyed the dinner?"
"I did, very much."
"And the gracious company?"
"Marvelous company."
"Mr. Gerrold, you have it in your power to do us a great service. You honor us by your presence, and you may honor us further by your willing participation in our grand ceremony. I hasten to assure you that the choice is yours. If you refuse, that is the end of the matter."
"I'm not inclined," Gerrold said hesitantly, "to refuse anything to you good people. It's good of you to have me here. I'd be happy to say a few words, if that meets with your approval." Tittering laughter emanated from the crowd.
"Ah, but sir, at this moment we emphasize action over words. We desire you to act for us."
"He's already accepted," called a harsh voice. Gerrold recognized it at once.
"Only in principle, Mr. Jones," Mr. Benchley noted in return. "Our guest deserves better. Now, Mr. Gerrold, I put it to you bluntly: will you be our Man in the Globe?"
"I don't understand--"
"Come closer." Through an inviting smile and gentle pressure on the shoulder he steered the young man to the curious ball. "The sphere is hollow. This iron portal on top is a door which allows entry. There is plenty of room inside for a single man. I'm asking you-- in the name of the Global Visions Society and everyone gathered here-- to climb inside."
Gerrold was aware of the hush that had fallen upon the entire room. He heard only a dull thumping sound, perhaps blood pounding in his ears. "Inside?" His eye caught Leonora's. She nodded eagerly. "Well, what then?"
"We will take it from there. If you play your role, we will play ours."
"I want to cooperate--"
"Do you?" The elder man asked the question in all seriousness. "The decision is yours. Do you indeed?"
"Yes."
"Excellent, Mr. Gerrold. You have chosen appropriately. We shall never regret it. Let's get going!" Mr. Benchley lifted the iron ring-- which now could be seen to be a lid-- from its circular groove, and propped it against the globe. Gerrold still wasn't certain how to proceed-- the opening was an inch or two above his head-- but his thoughtful host had planned carefully. That worthy fellow drew from behind the round mass a folding stepladder. He arranged it fastidiously by the sloping side. "Up and in you go."
Gerrold mounted the ladder slowly. At the top he could easily reach the opening. He peered inside. He saw only darkness there. He looked up and about quickly. The lights of the room seemed brighter, dazzling.
"Don't fear for your comfort," Mr. Benchley advised. "We wouldn't overlook that detail. The interior is padded with soft velvet. Also, please note the air holes drilled into the top around the entrance. You need have no worries on that score. "
Gerrold nodded, and clambered down into the globe.
Mr. Benchley retrieved the lid, climbed up and laid it into place. Then he removed from his jacket pocket a set of metal screws which, with deft motions, he used to fasten the lid securely. He came down, folded the ladder, and carried it to the side of the stage, placing it just out of sight. He then returned to the globe, faced the audience, and called in a stage voice, "Mr. Gerrold, can you hear me?"
"I hear you," replied a little mouse's voice.
"Then listen well. You rest within-- comfortably, I trust?"
"I'm all right," said the mouse.
"Very good. You rest within a complex representation of our world, a magnificent piece of engineering. The outer shell is composed of concrete, reinforced by steel: durable, unbreakable, everlasting. An inner shell of light material-- well padded, as you know-- surrounds you. But there is much more."
"Indeed there is!" cried the crowd.
"We stand for progress, achievement, enterprise. These are facets of the world in which we operate. We act to enhance the lives of as many of our fellow men as possible. No one knows, better than we, what that requires. We accept the glory of success; we acknowledge the penalties of failure. There is no perfect system."
"Not all can be saved," intoned the group.
"Not all. There are occasions in which, for the sake of the many, the one must be sacrificed. We advocate life; we recognize--"
"Death!"
"All decisions have been made, all choices accepted. We will pay the price, through you. Do you understand me, Mr. Gerrold?"
"I don't," squeaked the mouse. "What's going on?"
"You confront the final aspect of the human condition," said Mr. Benchley. He snapped his fingers and, from the wings, a man appeared, carrying a small, boxy apparatus-- sporting an ostentatious red button-- from which hung a bulky coil of thin wire. He attached leads to two screws, handed the box to the speaker, and left the stage to join the onlookers. "There is one more feature of this globe which I must bring to your attention. Packed within the inner and outer shells are several shaped charges of TNT, strategically emplaced so as to bring about an implosion. In order to illustrate the power of fate in human affairs, I shall now detonate the charges."
"Let me out," demanded the voice from within, now sounding strangely tinny.
"You shall attain a state of release," Mr. Benchley said, as he strode away, unrolling the coil.
"Let me out, let me out!" shrieked the little voice.
Mr. Benchley descended the stairs. He awaited the collective nod from the audience. It came.
"Let me out, let me out, let me out--"
Mr. Benchley pressed the red button.
There followed a crash of muffled thunder. The globe rocked. Black smoke and traces of flame geysered from the air holes, or vents, as they might be styled. The crowd exploded into a pandemonium of cheering, which lasted for many minutes as the smoke cleared. The globe, its upper surfaces marred by soot, otherwise stood as before, solid, eternal.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mr. Benchley merrily boomed, "this meeting of the GVS is adjourned. Until next year!" END
 Jeffery Scott Sims is a degreed anthropologist with an intense, life-long penchant for weird fiction. Some of his earliest memories are of seeing spooky movies, or having scary stories read to him. He began writing stories for his friends as an adolescent, continued writing and editing the school paper, later wrote for his own amusement as a sideline. Previous story sales include "Langley's Painting", "The Man Who Sought Blug", and "Night Flight". The author currently resides in the town of Surprise, a suburb of Phoenix. Arizona and the South-west constitute the focus of a passion for this inveterate traveler, and have formed the background for several of his short stories.
Story by Jeffrey Scott Sims, Copyright 2007
Image by Rory Clark, Stopped Motion Photography, Copyright 2007
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