Motorman

by David Ohle

  36]

  Eagleman's moon, the first moon, had been a shadow game, a projection of zero on a screen of gas. A mock month before it went up Moldenke learned of it in a letter from Burnheart:

  Dear Moonless,

  You will soon have a reason to take a look at the night sky again. Eagleman has a moon on the drafting table. The concept of it is difficult even for me to grasp, the way he explains it. Actually, what it amounts to is not much more than a photograph, a slide picture of the old original moon projected against the gassier layers. And he's provided for changing your slides for the various phases and so on. A very efficient, quite portable moon, Moldenke. The man is a repository of mechanical wisdom, a swarm of intelligent thoughts in his head. Some day we'll all look to Eagleman to get us through. Mind what I say. And keep your eye on the sky.

  Hopefully yours,

  Burnheart

  37]

  He found himself standing at the foot, one of four such feet, at the base of the legs of a weather tower. The wind picked up, the weather was changing. He shaded his eye and looked up to the top of the tower. There was a windsock, windfilled, a weathercock spinning, and a brace of antennae. He turned up his collar, snorted, blinked his eye. One sun went down behind the tower.

  A bank of brown clouds erased the other sun and forced an early night. Too bad, Moldenke thought, and it isn’t quite noons yet. The jellyheads had learned to sleep at will, could doze whenever an unexpected night came on. Moldenke couldn't.

  He strapped himself in the lift chair and pressed the buzzer. A voice came down the slot: “Good morning and good night, Moldenke. I saw you coming. Fill up your lung and I'll bring you up. Try to hold the stomach in so we won't spill any food. Have you tied the footstraps?”

  Moldenke said, “You know me?” The voice in the talk tube had sounded familiar, but Moldenke couldn't place it with a body, or a face, or a name.

  “I knew your name and I knew you were in the area. How many walkers do you ever see in these parts? Who ever crosses the bottoms these days? How many people do I see wearing a trenchcoat, trenchpants, carrying a sidepack and a backpack and wearing purple-view goggles? Who else could it be but you, Moldenke? I said I knew you were coming. I didn't say I knew you socially. My name is Shelp. How do you do? I'm the weatherman.”

  Moldenke remembered the radio voice, the weather reports.

  “You're Shelp? The weatherman?”

  “Didn't I say that? I remember saying that.”

  “Yes. Glad to know you. Call me Moldenke.”

  “Shall I send the lift chair up, Moldenke? ”

  “Shelp?”

  “Yes?”

  “You said to fill my lung. You used the singular. You know me fairly well, don't you?”

  “Not at all, Moldenke. I only know a few of your anomalies. I'll bring you up now. Have you got the crotch buckle tightened?”

  “Yes, I'm ready.”

  “Breathe in.”

  Circuits opened and closed in a box on the arm of the lift chair and he went up. At the deck he unstrapped himself, cricket and prune knotting in his stomach. The ride up had loosened his shoes. He knelt and rebuttoned them.

  Shelp took his elbow and showed him into the weather room. A wood fire burned in a floor pit. Moldenke sat in a chair. Shelp threw genuine oak on the fire.

  Shelp pointed at the floor pit: “This is where I cook my cat weenies, and sometimes I'll put a naked toe in the coals to clean out my head. You know the old expression?”

  “Yes,” Moldenke said. “Out of mind, out of sight... Oh, pain, the soap of thought...and so on. I've heard them.”

  Shelp said, “How do you feel, Moldenke?”

  Moldenke said, “Odd and a little rattled, but comfortable, exactly the way I should feel. Shouldn't I?”

  Shelp said, “You should. Why shouldn't you?”

  Moldenke said, “I shouldn't. I don't know you.”

  “You may be dizzy, Moldenke. I may have brought you up too fast. Hold out your tongue.”

  Moldenke held out his tongue. Shelp placed a green spansule on it. “There, that will bring you down.” He poured a cup of cherry water. Moldenke washed down the spansule.

  The fire whistled.

  Shelp said, “Concentrate on the fire, Moldenke. Regard the flame as a reflection of itself. Think of it as hot and cold as well. Play the game. You must have noticed that certain flames do not reflect in certain mirrors. Have you? Moldenke? Are you down yet?”

  The teaboil whistled.

  “Are you down, Dink?”

  “I think so.”

  “I'll prod the teaboil. We'll have some tea.”

  Shelp opened a cabinet. “Your choice, Dink: moth-wing, ginger root, banana flower-—what? ”

  “Banana flower.” Moldenke crossed his legs and loosened his backpack. “I used to be a banana man at the Trop Garden.”

  “I know,” Shelp said.

  “Of course,” Moldenke said. “Mind if I smoke?” He lit a cigar.

  Shelp said, “No,” that he didn't mind. “I'll have one myself.” He lit a brown cigar.

  Moldenke said he hadn't seen a brown cigar since before the mock War. Shelp agreed they were rare.

  They drank tea and smoked.

  Shelp said, “I work for Bunce.” Moldenke threw his tea in the fire and stood up.

  “You work for Bunce? ”

  “Be easy, Moldenke. Sit down. You're safe here.”

  “You said you worked for Bunce.”

  “I didn't mean to excite you. I know it's hard on the hearts. In fact, the tower belongs to Bunce. In that sense I work for him. Frankly, I've never seen the man. I just live here and do my job. He calls me sometimes and we talk about the weather.”

  On one wall weather gauges gave readings. They watched the needles move.

  “They aren't accurate,” Shelp said. “Bunce prefers it that way.”

  A strong wind blew against the tower. The wind gauge read calm.

  Shelp said, “You'll have to pardon me now. I have to do the weather.” He sat at a table under the weather gauges, spoke into a microphone:

  Roving chuff clouds, floxiness hovering above L.A. unpredictable, nothing verified, minimum forecast, probable extensive sunsout, birdfall index high per hundredcount, earlier reports not reliable, premature, lofty hopes for a sunsy weekout, otherwise rain and sleet.

  Moldenke slept intermittently. Shelp stood over the teaboil. The wind whistled. The fire in the floor pit died.

  “Do you recognize time, Moldenke?”

  Moldenke sat up, eye wide. “Where is it?” He blinked away a forming daydream, although outside the night was early.

  “Consider the future, Moldenke. Do you imagine we'll ever get there? Some folks see it as a k-bus trip. You get there, you get off, set down the packages, and talk about the chuckholes. I wonder about the quality of that. Moldenke?”

  38]

  When the government moons went up, Eagleman's moon came down.

  39]

  Moldenke had postponed the matter of booster hearts until one of his lungs had collapsed.

  Burnheart had written a letter:

  My Dear Declining Dink,

  It's not an altogether cheering prospect, you moonchild. I sat back and let you be overtaken by a flotilla of polyps. The physician's ethical silence, in deference to your feelings. I couldn't sleep. Never again, son. Where it pertains to you, nature drives in rearward gear. I've watched the teeth rot out, the eye close, and now the heart is down to a slug's crawl. In this case I will not sit back and let the long Moldenke line run out of ink.

  May I suggest a set of booster hearts?

  The surgery is child's work. You swallow the pill and dream about a necklace of planets, or whatever.

  I'll install the hearts myself. I admit, I wouldn't mind putting on the rubbers again. It's been a number of seasons. And when it's all over, when you've got four little pumpers helping the big one along, we'll each take home two sheep for the barbecue. Look a
t it that way.

  Your Doctor,

  Burnheart

  40]

  “Another cup of tea, Moldenke?”

  Moldenke slept.

  Shelp spooned banana flowers into the teaboil. The wind died. The wind gauge needle lurched to ninety klicks per.

  Moldenke sat up empty.

  “More tea, Moldenke?”

  “Thank you. I'm down now.”

  “Not below the normal level I hope?”

  “No, not much below. Yes, I'd like tea. What time is it, Shelp? ”

  “You do recognize it, then? ”

  “Yes, I remember the question. You asked it earlier.”

  “And now you've come full circle and answered it for me. You're indirect, Moldenke. You sniff about too cautiously, like the cat and the recent turd. You parry at the body of something like a timid boxer. Let me see your nose instead of your ass. I don't know what time it is. If I had a clockpiece here it wouldn't keep the standard time, so what's the good of one? Are you in a hurry?”

  “They expect me in three days.”

  “You mean they expect you to arrive on the third day?”

  “I can't say. I'm not the one to judge.”

  “You talk like a cottonhead, Dink. Drink your tea. I'll skewer a few cat cranks. We'll eat. No sense in hurrying off. If they're expecting you on the third day, you don't want to get there before that and find the doors locked, do you?”

  Moldenke agreed that he didn't.

  41]

  Dear Moldenke,

  If you place a cup over the ear you can hear the boosters working. As your physician, in the narrow sense, I advise you to do it frequently. Monitor yourself. And, as your friend in the fullest sense, I would say avoid any avoidable excitement.

  Your friend,

  Doctor Burnheart

  42]

  Dear Doctor,

  I woke up to the sirens this morning with a chestful of nettles. I couldn't avoid it. I behaved accordingly.

  It was good to get your letter.

  Your patient,

  Moldenke

  43]

  Dear Moldenke,

  Medically speaking, you shouldn't do more than a sheep would do. The sirens can't be helped. Imagine yourself in a mock meadow, grazing. In a stable being shorn. Work on it.

  Quickly,

  Doctor Burnheart

  44]

  Dear Doctor Burnheart,

  No more than a sheep would do? Should I assume that the operation failed? I was able to do more than a sheep before, with one heart. Am I to assume that the operation did nothing?

  Anxiously yours,

  Moldenke

  45]

  Dearest Dinky,

  What we're after in this particular surgical procedure is longevity. You will probably live longer, though not as well. We're looking for quantity here. And it also has its dangers, most notably the fact that if one goes they all go. Or, be satisfied with the brighter side-—since the main one can't possibly fail until the other four in succession do, you'll have a warning, an unmeasured period of grace. We should all be so lucky.

  Yours,

  The one of hearts,

  Doc Burny

  46]

  They drank tea, smoked brown cigars, talked about the weather.

  Abruptly, as Shelp was mentioning the possibility of a flood, Moldenke tightened his backpack strap and went to the door, his trenchpants bunched at the knees, adjusting his goggles and gauze pad. “I'm leaving now, Shelp. Would you point me to the south? It's dark. I'm lost without the suns. I have enjoyed the visit. It's nice to meet someone these days who isn't leaking jelly all over. Will you show me the south? ”

  “What are you hurrying to, Moldenke? Where is it that someone could want to get to? Sit down and act easy. I'll do another weather report. Sit. Don't go off.”

  Moldenke came back, sat down on a dog bench. “It would be helpful to know the weather. I'll stay for the weather report. Then you'll point me south?”

  “Sure I will. I can tell you right now there won't be any suns up for a few days. Government economics, Dink. What can we do? Bees in the hive. You know the story. You'll be walking in the dark for a while. I wish I could help you. I'll do the report.”

  The wind fence is near completion along the coastal swamps, wind speed down, temperature de-emphasized until same time tomorrow and Sunsday, birdfall seasonal to normal...

  Shelp swiveled in his chair and looked at Moldenke.

  “Something's wrong, Dink. I'm not doing it right. Words I haven't said are coming out of me.”

  “The banana flower tea? You might be reacting?”

  “No, I don't react. I'll try again.”

  Snowslides at Modessa, blowing flox in Great Chicago metro area, enclose the animals...no fishing in the water tubs...possible flooding on the River Odorous...

  “Moldenke, it isn't right... ”

  “Well, what now?”

  “Watch the instruments.”

  Moldenke watched the instruments. All needles returned to zero. “They all went off.”

  “Bunce was listening. He turned them off.”

  “I know the story, Shelp. I've been the hero of it. The next thing to go will be the electricity, then the gas, then the water. You should get away from this place, Shelp. Come along with me. Burnheart would like you.”

  Shelp went to the telephone and waited. The telephone rang.

  “Bunce?”

  “I don't like the weather forecast, Shelp. I'd like a spell of moonlight. I'm entertaining a few of the folks on my k-yacht. See what you can do. Don't be clowning. And tell my pal Moldenke to stay where he is. I'm sending a man out.”

  “My apologies, Bunce.”

  “Enough chatter. Do the report again, with moonlight this time. Get it on, Shelp.”

  Shelp hung up and went back to the microphone:

  Seven oval spheres in Scorpio according to the charts, probable deadly Friday, chance of a two-Tuesday mock week, brackish drizzles in the midlands, lozenges melting in the drugstores.

  “I'm sunk, Moldenke. It doesn't jell.”

  “I'll take you to Burnheart's. We shouldn't be piddling if he's sending a man out.”

  “I don't know where the words came from, Moldenke.”

  “Ignore it, ignore Bunce. Come south with me.”

  The lights went out. The embers of the fire allowed a dome of glow, covering Moldenke. Shelp lay in the dark.

  “As I said before, Shelp. Let's go south.”

  “No, Moldenke. I shouldn't. Someone has to stay behind and do the weather as long as the microphone is on.”

  “Shelp, the microphone is on?” He whispered.

  “It is if the pilot light is lit.” The pilot light was lit.

  “Burnheart wasn't wrong. He has flaws.” He whispered, “Shelp, is that microphone connected up with all the radios? Is it live, is it that live?”

  “I would assume so, why?”

  “Shelp!” He was too loud. He whispered again, palming the microphone. “Shelp, I'll say a few words to the folks.”

  Shelp went to the lookout and listened to the weather. Moldenke approached the microphone.

  47]

  Moldenke had been shrimping in a water tub when Eagleman's moon came down. It first fell twenty degrees of altitude and stopped, vibrated, dimmed, and returned to its original spot. Someone told Moldenke that it had been a seasonal drop, something of stellar influences, nothing to be excited about. He threw the shrimp net again, drew it in empty. Someone said, “No shrimping in the water tubs.”

  The moon grew suddenly bright, fell to the horizon, held there like a baseball in the mud, and gradually went out.

  Moldenke raised the wick of his k-lamp.

  48]

  “Folks, please pay attention to this announcement. This is not a weather report.” He imagined his voice echoing in stadiums, in dark rooms, interrupting jellyhead workers. “My friend here is Shelp. My name is Moldenke, out of Texaco City. It's tim
e we ended our backward ways. Don't be pinned like a flutterby in a camphor box. Get up, go out and mill in the street. What can they do, occupy the rooms? Everybody turn on the faucets. Open the lookouts and turn on the heaters. Heat the city. Protcher a friend in a tender place. Be good. Be sensitive to the flow, listen to the hum. As I said, this is not a weather report. This is Moldenke of Texaco City. Bloodboy, mock soldier, banana man, shrimper-—I've done my share of swallowing chuff.”

  Shelp turned from the lookout. “You're doing good, Dink. Don't get excited, though.”

  “Turn the volume up, folks. The weather is improving in spurts. Remember the old sun? The old moon? The old songs we used to sing about them? The government sent Eagleman and his moon to wane in the country, sent up its own moons. Up they went, a new mock moon every paper month, confusing the issue of tides. At least with Eagleman's moon we could get to see a sky movie every month. Now, what now? The g-boys give us gauze and goggles, encouraging indoor play. They send out a herd of jellyheads to do the mock work and the rest of us hole up in our rooms.”

  “Ease off, Moldenke. You're getting me excited. My hearts...one of them quit on me yesterday.”

  Moldenke switched off the microphone. The lights flickered and went on. The gauges came to life, gave false readings.

  “Shelp, you have hearts?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Eleven.”

  “What kind?”

  “Sheep and dog alternating, and one calf.” He opened his khaki and Moldenke saw the scar, the chest heaving, rippling, ticking. Moldenke went close and protchered a soft wattle under Shelp's chin. “I like you, Shelp. Let's go south. No more time games. He's sending a man out.”

  “I can't, Moldenke. When one of them goes-—”