"I told you, to find guys who know about TV."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"I can try. Why don't you explain what you're after—specifically? Maybe I can help you."
"You can't do nothing for me; you're a girl."
"We have our uses. At least I can listen. You can trust me, Jim. Aren't we chums? Tell me about it."
Well, when the blast come (Mayo said) I was up in the Berkshires with Gil Watkins. Gil was my buddy, a real nice guy and a real bright guy. He took two years from M.I.T. before he quit college. He was like chief engineer or something at WNHA, the TV station in New Haven. Gil had a million hobbies. One of them was spee—speel—I can't remember. It meant exploring caves.
So anyway, we were up in this flume in the Berkshires, spending the weekend inside, exploring and trying to map everything and figure out where the underground river comes from. We brought food and stuff along, and bedrolls. The compass we were using went crazy for like twenty minutes, and that should have give us a clue, but Gil talked about magnetic ores and stuff. Only when we come out Sunday night, I tell you it was pretty scary. Gil knew right off what happened.
"By Christ, Jim," he said, "they up and done it like everybody always knew they would. They've blew and gassed and poisoned and radiated themselves straight to hell, and we're going back to that goddamn cave until it all blows over."
So me and Gil went back and rationed the food and stayed as long as we could. Finally we come out again and drove back to New Haven. It was dead like all the rest. Gil put together some radio stuff and tried to pick up broadcasts. Nothing. Then we packed some canned goods and drove all around: Bridgeport, Waterbury, Hartford, Springfield, Providence, New London … a big circle. Nobody. Nothing. So we come back to New Haven and settled down, and it was a pretty good life.
Daytime, we'd get in supplies and stuff and tinker with the house to keep it working right. Nights, after supper, Gil would go off to WNHA around seven o'clock and start the station. He was running it on the emergency generators. I'd go down to the Body Slam, open it up, sweep it out, and then start the bar TV set. Gil fixed me a generator for it to run on.
It was a lot of fun watching the shows Gil was broadcasting. He'd start with the news and weather, which he always got wrong. All he had was some Farmer's Almanacs and a sort of antique barometer that looked like that clock you got there on the wall. I don't think it worked so good, or maybe Gil never took weather at M.I.T. Then he'd broadcast the evening show.
I had my shotgun in the bar in case of holdups. Anytime I saw something that bugged me, I just up with the gun and let loose at the set. Then I'd take it and throw it out the front door and put another one in its place. I must have had hundreds waiting in the back. I spent two days a week just collecting reserves.
Midnight, Gil would turn off WNHA, I'd lock up the restaurant, and we'd meet home for coffee. Gil would ask how many sets I shot and laugh when I told him. He said I was the most accurate TV poll ever invented. I'd ask him about what shows were coming up next week and argue with him about … oh … about like what movies or football games WNHA was scheduling. I didn't like Westerns much, and I hated them high-minded panel discussions.
But the luck had to turn lousy; it's the story of my life. After a couple of years, I found out I was down to my last set, and then I was in trouble. This night Gil run one of them icky commercials where this smart-aleck woman saves a marriage with the right laundry soap. Naturally I reached for my gun, and only at the last minute remembered not to shoot. Then he run an awful movie about a misunderstood composer, and the same thing happened. When we met back at the house, I was all shook up.
"What's the matter?" Gil asked.
I told him.
"I thought you liked watching the shows," he said.
"Only when I could shoot 'em."
"You poor bastard," he laughed, "you're a captive audience now."
"Gil, could you maybe change the programs, seeing the spot I'm in?"
"Be reasonable, Jim. WNHA has to broadcast variety. We operate on the cafeteria basis; something for everybody. If you don't like a show, why don't you switch channels?"
"Now that's silly. You know damn well we only got one channel in New Haven."
"Then turn your set off."
"I can't turn the bar set off; it's part of the entertainment. I'd lose my whole clientele. Gil, do you have to show them awful movies, like that army musical last night, singing and dancing and kissing on top of Sherman tanks, for Jezus' sake!"
"The women love uniform pictures."
"And those commercials; women always sneering at somebody's girdle, and fairies smoking cigarettes, and—"
"Aw," Gil said, "write a letter to the station."
So I did, and a week later I got an answer. It said: Dear Mr. Mayo: We are very glad to learn that you are a regular viewer of WNHA, and thank you for your interest in our programming. We hope you will continue to enjoy our broadcasts. Sincerely yours, Gilbert O. Watkins, Station Manager. A couple of tickets for an interview show were enclosed. I showed the letter to Gil, and he just shrugged.
"You see what you're up against, Jim," he said. "They don't care about what you like or don't like. All they want to know is if you are watching."
I tell you, the next couple of months were hell for me. I couldn't keep the set turned off, and I couldn't watch it without reaching for my gun a dozen times a night. It took all my willpower to keep from pulling the trigger. I got so nervous and jumpy that I knew I had to do something about it before I went off my rocker. So one night I brought the gun home and shot Gil.
Next day I felt a lot better, and when I went down to the Body Slam at seven o'clock to clean up, I was whistling kind of cheerful. I swept out the restaurant, polished the bar, and then turned on the TV to get the news and weather. You wouldn't believe it, but the set was busted. I couldn't get a picture. I couldn't even get a sound. My last set, busted.
So you see, that's why I have to head south (Mayo explained)—I got to locate a TV repairman.
There was a long pause after Mayo finished his story. Linda examined him keenly, trying to conceal the gleam in her eye. At last she asked with studied carelessness, "Where did he get the barometer?"
"Who? What?"
"Your friend, Gil. His antique barometer. Where did he get it?"
"Gee, I don't know. Antiquing was another one of his hobbies."
"And it looked like that clock?"
"Just like it."
"French?"
"I couldn't say."
"Bronze?"
"I guess so. Like your clock. Is that bronze?"
"Yes. Shaped like a sunburst?"
"No, just like yours."
"That's a sunburst. The same size?"
"Exactly."
"Where was it?"
"Didn't I tell you? In our house."
"Where's the house?"
"On Grant Street."
"What number?"
"Three fifteen. Say, what is all this?"
"Nothing, Jim. Just curious. No offense. Now I think I'd better get our picnic things."
"You wouldn't mind if I took a walk by myself?"
She cocked an eye at him. "Don't try driving alone. Garage mechanics are scarcer than TV repairmen."
He grinned and disappeared; but after dinner the true purpose of his disappearance was revealed when he produced a sheaf of sheet music, placed it on the piano rack, and led Linda to the piano bench. She was delighted and touched.
"Jim, you angel! Wherever did you find it?"
"In the apartment house across the street. Fourth floor, rear. Name of Horowitz. They got a lot of records, too. Boy, I can tell you it was pretty spooky snooping around in the dark with only matches. You know something funny? The whole top of the house is full of glop."
"Glop?"
"Yeah. Sort of white jelly, only it's hard. Like clear concrete. Now look, see this note? It's C. Middle C. It stands for this white
key here. We better sit together. Move over …"
The lesson continued for two hours of painful concentration and left them both so exhausted that they tottered to their rooms with only perfunctory good nights.
"Jim," Linda called.
"Yeah?" he yawned.
"Would you like one of my dolls for your bed?"
"Gee, no. Thanks a lot, Linda, but guys really ain't interested in dolls."
"I suppose not. Never mind. Tomorrow I'll have something for you that really interests guys."
Mayo was awakened next morning by a rap on his door. He heaved up in bed and tried to open his eyes.
"Yeah? Who is it?" he called.
"It's me. Linda. May I come in?"
He glanced around hastily. The room was neat. The hooked rug was clean. The precious candlewick bedspread was neatly folded on top of the dresser.
"Okay. Come on in."
Linda entered, wearing a crisp seersucker dress. She sat down on the edge of the four-poster and gave Mayo a friendly pat. "Good morning," she said. "Now listen. I'll have to leave you alone for a few hours. I've got things to do. There's breakfast on the table, but I'll be back in time for lunch. All right?"
"Sure."
"You won't be lonesome?"
"Where you going?"
"Tell you when I get back." She reached out and tousled his head. "Be a good boy and don't get into mischief. Oh, one other thing. Don't go into my bedroom."
"Why should I?"
"Just don't anyway."
She smiled and was gone. Moments later, Mayo heard the jeep start and drive off. He got up at once, went into Linda's bedroom, and looked around. The room was neat, as ever. The bed was made, and her pet dolls were lovingly arranged on the coverlet. Then he saw it.
"Gee," he breathed.
It was a model of a full-rigged clipper ship. The spars and rigging were intact, but the hull was peeling, and the sails were shredded. It stood before Linda's closet, and alongside it was her sewing basket. She had already cut out a fresh set of white linen sails. Mayo knelt down before the model and touched it tenderly.
"I'll paint her black with a gold line around her," he murmured, "and I'll name her the Linda N."
He was so deeply moved that he hardly touched his breakfast. He bathed, dressed, took his shotgun and a handful of shells, and went out to wander through the park. He circled south, passed the playing fields, the decaying carousel, and the crumbling skating rink, and at last left the park and loafed down Seventh Avenue.
He turned east on 50th Street and spent a long time trying to decipher the tattered posters advertising the last performance at Radio City Music Hall. Then he turned south again. He was jolted to a halt by the sudden clash of steel. It sounded like giant sword blades in a titanic duel. A small herd of stunted horses burst out of a side street, terrified by the clangor. Their shoeless hooves thudded bluntly on the pavement. The sound of steel stopped.
"That's where that bluejay got it from," Mayo muttered. "But what the hell is it?"
He drifted eastward to investigate, but forgot the mystery when he came to the diamond center. He was dazzled by the blue-white stones glittering in the showcases. The door of one jewel mart had sagged open, and Mayo tipped in. When he emerged, it was with a strand of genuine matched pearls which had cost him an I.O.U. worth a year's rent on the Body Slam.
His tour took him to Madison Avenue, where he found himself before Abercrombie & Fitch. He went in to explore and came at last to the gun racks. There he lost all sense of time, and when he recovered his senses, he was walking up Fifth Avenue toward the boat pond. An Italian Cosmi automatic rifle was cradled in his arms, guilt was in his heart, and a sales slip in the store read: I.O.U. 1 Cosmi Rifle, $750.00. 6 Boxes Ammo. $18.00. James Mayo.
It was past three o'clock when he got back to the boathouse. He eased in, trying to appear casual, hoping the extra gun he was carrying would go unnoticed. Linda was sitting on the piano bench with her back to him.
"Hi," Mayo said nervously. "Sorry I'm late. I … I brought you a present. They're real." He pulled the pearls from his pocket and held them out. Then he saw she was crying.
"Hey, what's the matter?"
She didn't answer.
"You wasn't scared I'd run out on you? I mean, well, all my gear is here. The car, too. You only had to look."
She turned. "I hate you!" she cried.
He dropped the pearls and recoiled, startled by her vehemence. "What's the matter?'
"You're a lousy, rotten liar!"
"Who? Me?"
"I drove up to New Haven this morning." Her voice trembled with passion. "There's no house standing on Grant Street. It's all wiped out. There's no Station WNHA. The whole building's gone."
"No."
"Yes. And I went to your restaurant. There's no pile of TV sets out in the street. There's only one set, over the bar. It's rusted to pieces. The rest of the restaurant is a pigsty. You were living there all the time. Alone. There was only one bed in back. It was lies! All lies!"
"Why would I lie about a thing like that?"
"You never shot any Gil Watkins."
"I sure did. Both barrels. He had it coming."
"And you haven't got any TV set to repair."
"Yes, I do."
"And even if it is repaired, there's no station to broadcast."
"Talk sense," he said angrily. "Why would I shoot Gil if there wasn't any broadcast?"
"If he's dead, how can he broadcast?"
"See? And you just now said I didn't shoot him."
"Oh, you're mad! You're insane!" she sobbed. "You just described that barometer because you happened to be looking at my clock. And I believed your crazy lies. I had my heart set on a barometer to match my clock. I've been looking for years." She ran to the wall arrangement and hammered her fist alongside the clock. "It belongs right here. Here. But you lied, you lunatic. There never was a barometer."
"If there's a lunatic around here, it's you," he shouted. "You're so crazy to get this house decorated that nothing's real for you anymore."
She ran across the room, snatched up his old shotgun, and pointed it at him. "You get out of here. Right this minute. Get out or I'll kill you. I never want to see you again."
The shotgun kicked off in her hands, knocking her backward and spraying shot over Mayo's head into a corner bracket. China shattered and clattered down. Linda's face went white.
"Jim! My God, are you all right? I didn't mean to … it just went off …"
He stepped forward, too furious to speak. Then, as he raised his hand to cuff her, the sound of distant reports come, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. Mayo froze.
"Did you hear that?" he whispered.
Linda nodded.
"That wasn't any accident. It was a signal."
Mayo grabbed the shotgun, ran outside, and fired the second barrel into the air. There was a pause. Then again came the distant explosions in a stately triplet, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. They had an odd, sucking sound, as though they were implosions rather than explosions. Far up the park, a canopy of frightened birds mounted into the sky.
"There's somebody," Mayo exulted. "By God, I told you I'd find somebody. Come on."
They ran north, Mayo digging into his pockets for more shells to reload and signal again.
"I got to thank you for taking that shot at me, Linda."
"I didn't shoot at you," she protested. "It was an accident."
"The luckiest accident in the world. They could be passing through and never know about us. But what the hell kind of guns are they using? I never heard no shots like that before, and I heard 'em all. Wait a minute."
On the little piazza before the Wonderland monument, Mayo halted and raised the shotgun to fire. Then he slowly lowered it. He took a deep breath. In a harsh voice he said, "Turn around. We're going back to the house." He pulled her around and faced her south.
Linda stared at him. In an instant he had become transformed from a gentle teddy bear into a panther.
&nb
sp; "Jim, what's wrong?"
"I'm scared," he growled. "I'm goddamn scared, and I don't want you to be, too." The triple salvo sounded again. "Don't pay any attention," he ordered. "We're going back to the house. Come on!"
She refused to move. "But why? Why?"
"We don't want any part of them. Take my word for it."
"How do you know? You've got to tell me."
"Christ! You won't let it alone until you find out, huh? All right. You want the explanation for that bee smell, and them buildings falling down, and all the rest?" He turned Linda around with a hand on her neck and directed her gaze at the Wonderland monument. "Go ahead. Look."
A consummate craftsman had removed the heads of Alice, the Mad Hatter, and the March Hare, and replaced them with towering mantis heads, all saber mandibles, antennae, and faceted eyes. They were of a burnished steel and gleamed with unspeakable ferocity. Linda let out a sick whimper and sagged against Mayo. The triple report signaled once more.
Mayo caught Linda, heaved her over his shoulder, and loped back toward the pond. She recovered consciousness in a moment and began to moan. "Shut up," he growled. "Whining won't help." He set her on her feet before the boathouse. She was shaking but trying to control herself. "Did this place have shutters when you moved in? Where are they?"
"Stacked." She had to squeeze the words out. "Behind the trellis."
"I'll put 'em up. You fill buckets with water and stash 'em in the kitchen. Go!"
"Is it going to be a siege?"
"We'll talk later. Go!"
She filled buckets and then helped Mayo jam the last of the shutters into the window embrasures. "All right, inside," he ordered. They went into the house and shut and barred the door. Faint shafts of the late afternoon sun filtered through the louvers of the shutters. Mayo began unpacking the cartridges for the Cosmi rifle. "You got any kind of gun?"
"A .22 revolver somewhere."
"Ammo?"
"I think so."
"Get it ready."
"Is it going to be a siege?" she repeated.
"I don't know. I don't know who they are, or what they are, or where they come from. All I know is, we got to be prepared for the worst."
The distant implosions sounded. Mayo looked up alertly, listening. Linda could make him out in the dimness now. His face looked carved. His chest gleamed with sweat. He exuded the musky odor of caged lions. Linda had an overpowering impulse to touch him. Mayo loaded the rifle, stood it alongside the shotgun, and began padding from shutter to shutter, peering out vigilantly, waiting with massive patience.
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 Page 28
