The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction - August 1980

by Various

  "How?" asked the Hoover skeptically.

  "Let me show you. Stoop down. Lower. Wrap your cord around my cord. Now—lift me up..."

  After an hour's practice of pretending to be a ghost, they decided they were ready. Carefully, so that the other appliances wouldn't fall off, the old Hoover trundled toward the window of the shack. The toaster, where it was balanced atop the handle of the vacuum, was just able to see inside.

  There on a table between a stack of unwashed dishes and the pirate's ring of keys was the poor captive radio, and there, in dirty striped pajamas, getting ready to go to bed, was the pirate.

  "Ready?" the toaster whispered.

  The blanket, which was draped over the vacuum in a roughly ghostlike shape with a kind of hood at the top through which the toaster was able to peer out, adjusted its folds one last time. "Ready," the blanket replied.

  "Ready?" the toaster asked again.

  For just a moment the lamp, where it was hidden halfway down the handle of the Hoover, turned itself on and then, quickly, off. The bulb it had taken from the socket in the ceiling of the pickup truck had only half the wattage it was used to, and so its beam of light was noticeably dimmer—just enough to make the blanket give off the faintest yellowish glow.

  "Then let's start haunting," said the toaster.

  That was the signal the Hoover had been waiting for.

  "Whoo!" groaned the Hoover in its deepest, most quivery voice. "Whoo!"

  The pirate looked up with alarm. "Who's there?" he demanded.

  "Whoo—oo!" the Hoover continued.

  "Whoever you are, you'd better go away."

  "Whoo—oo—oo!"

  Cautiously the pirate approached the window from which the groaning seemed to issue.

  Upon receiving a secret electric signal from the toaster, the vacuum crept quietly alongside the shack to where they would be out of sight from the window.

  "Whoo..." breathed the Hoover in the barest of whispers. "Whoo... Whoo—oo..."

  "Who's out there?" the pirate demanded, pressing his nose against the pane of glass and peering into the outer darkness. "You'd better answer me. Do you hear?"

  In answer the Hoover made a strangling, gurgling, gaspy sound that sounded frightening even if you knew it was only the Hoover doing it. By now the pirate, who didn't have any idea what this mysterious groaning might be, had got into a considerable state of nerves. When you live all alone in the City Dump you don't expect to hear strange noises just outside your window in the middle of the night. And if you were also a bit superstitious, as pirates tend to be....

  "All right then—if you won't say who you are, I'm going to come out there and find out!" He lingered yet a while before the window, but at last, when no reply was forthcoming, the pirate pulled on his pants and then got into his boots. "I'm warning you!" he called out, though not in a tone that could be called threatening.

  Still there was no reply. He took up his key ring from where it lay on the table beside the radio. He went to the door.

  He opened it.

  "Now!" said the toaster, signaling secretly to the blanket along its electric cord.

  "I can't," said the blanket, all atremble. "I'm too afraid."

  "You must!"

  "I mustn't: it's against the rules."

  "We discussed all that before, and you promised. Now hurry—before he gets here!"

  With a shudder of trepidation the blanket did as it was bidden. There was a rent in its side where it had been pierced by a branch on the night it was blown up into the tree. The lamp was hiding just behind this rent. As the pirate appeared around the corner of the shack, the blanket twitched the torn fabric aside.

  The pirate stopped short in his tracks when he saw the shrouded figure before him.

  "Whoo-oo!" groaned the Hoover one last time.

  At this cue the lamp turned itself on. Its beam slanted up through the hole in the blanket right into the pirate's face.

  When the lamp lit up, the pirate stared at the figure before him with the utmost horror. What he saw that was so frightening was the same thing the daisy had seen, the same thing Harold and Marjorie had seen, as well—he saw his own features reflected in the toaster's mottled chrome. And as he had been a very wicked person from his earliest youth, his face had taken on that special kind of ugliness that only very evil people's faces acquire. Seeing such a face grimacing at him from this strange hooded figure, what was the pirate to suppose but that he had come upon the most dangerous kind of ghost, the kind that understands exactly who we are and knows all the wrong things we've done and intends to punish us for them. From such ghosts even grown-up pirates will flee in terror. Which is exactly what the pirate did.

  As soon as he was gone, the appliances rushed into the pirate's shack and rescued the joyful radio. Then before the pirate could return they scrambled into the baby buggy, and the old Hoover drove off with them as fast as its wheels would revolve.

  As luck would have it, they didn't have much farther to go: where the master lived on Newton Avenue was only a mile or so from City Dump. They reached his apartment building early in the morning before a single milk truck had appeared on the street.

  "You see," said the toaster cheerfully, "in the end everything really does work out for the best."

  Alas, the toaster had spoken too soon. Their tribulations were not yet at an end, and not everything would work out for the best, as they were shortly to discover.

  The Hoover, which had an instinctive knack for such things, buzzed the street door open and summoned the automatic elevator. When the elevator door slid open, it wheeled the pram in and pressed the button for the 14th floor.

  "It's changed so," said the tensor lamp, as the Hoover pushed the pram out of the elevator and down the corridor. "The wallpaper used to be green squiggles and white blobs, and now it's crisscross lines."

  "It's we who've changed," said the blanket miserably.

  "Hush," said the Hoover sternly. "Remember the rules!" It pressed the doorbell beside the door to the master's apartment.

  All the appliances kept perfectly still.

  No one came to the door.

  "Maybe he's asleep," said the alarm clock/radio.

  "Maybe he's not home," said the Hoover. "I'll see." It rang the doorbell again, but in a different way so that only the appliances in the apartment would be able to hear it ring.

  In only a moment a Singer sewing machine answered the door. "Yes?" said the sewing machine in a tone of polite curiosity. "Can I help you?"

  "Oh, excuse me, I seem to have made a mistake." The Hoover looked at the number on the door, then at the name on the brass panel over the bell. It was the right number, the right name. But...a sewing machine?

  "Is that...?" said a familiar voice within the apartment. "Why, it is! It's the old Hoover! How are you? Come, in! Come in!"

  The Hoover wheeled the pram into the apartment and over the deep-piled carpet toward the friendly old tv.

  The blanket peeked out shyly over the side of the pram.

  "And who's that with you? Come out—don't be shy. My goodness, what a treat this is."

  The blanket crawled out of the pram, taking care to keep the worst effects of the journey folded up out of sight. It was followed by the radio, the lamp, and, last of all, the toaster.

  The tv, which knew all five of them from the time it had spent with the master at the summer cottage, introduced them to the many appliances from all over the apartment which had begun to gather in the living room. Some, like the water pic, the blender, and the tv itself, were old friends. Some, like the stereo and the clock on the mantel, were known to the four appliances that had lived in the apartment at one time themselves but not to the toaster. But a great many were complete strangers to them all. There were huge impractical ginger-jar lamps squatting on low tables and, out of the bedroom, dim little lamps with frilly shades and other lamps screwed into the dining-nook wall that were pretending to be candleflames. Out of the kitchen had trooped
a whole tribe of unfamiliar gadgets: a crockpot, a can opener, a waffle iron, a meat grinder, a carving knife, and, somewhat abashedly, the master's new toaster.

  "How do you do," said the new toaster in a barely audible voice when the tv introduced it.

  "How do you do?" the toaster replied warmly.

  Neither could think of anything else to say. Fortunately there were more introductions to be effected. The Hoover had to go through a similar ordeal when it met the apartment's vacuum cleaner, which was (just as the Hoover had feared) one of the new lightweight models that looks like a big hamburger bun on wheels. They were polite to each other, but it was obvious that the new vacuum looked on the Hoover as outmoded.

  The blanket had an even worse shock in store. The last two appliances to appear in the living room were a vaporizer and a long tangled string of Christmas tree lights, both of which had been hibernating in a closet. The blanket looked about anxiously. "Well," it said, making a determined effort to seem accepting and friendly, "I think there must still be one more of you we haven't yet met."

  "No," said the tv. "We're all here."

  "But is there no other...blanket?"

  The tv avoided the blanket's earnest gaze. "No. The master doesn't use an electric blanket any more. Just a plain wool one."

  "But he always...he always...." The blanket could say no more. Its resolution deserted it and it fell in a heap on the carpet.

  A gasp went up from the apartment's assembled appliances, which until now had had no idea of the extent of the blanket's injuries.

  "Doesn't use an electric blanket!" the toaster repeated indignantly. "Whyever not?"

  The screen of the tv flickered and then, evasively, started showing a gardening show.

  "It isn't the master's choice, really," said the Singer sewing machine in its funny clipped accent. "I daresay he would be delighted to see his old blanket again."

  The blanket looked up questioningly.

  "It's the mistress," the sewing machine went on.. "She says she becomes too hot under an electric blanket."

  'The mistress?" the five appliances repeated.

  "Didn't you know?"

  "No," said the toaster. "No, we haven't heard anything from the master since he left the cottage three years ago."

  "Two years, eleven months, and twenty-two days, to be precise," said the alarm clock/radio.

  "That's why we determined to find our way here. We feared.... I don't know what exactly. But we thought that...that our master would need us."

  "Oh," said the sewing machine. It turned to watch the gardening show on the tv.

  As unobtrusively as it might, the new toaster crept back into the kitchen and resumed its post of duty on the formica countertop.

  "Two years, eleven months, and twenty-two days is a long time to be left alone," the radio asserted at rather a loud volume. "Naturally we became concerned. The poor air conditioner stopped working altogether."

  "And all the while," said the lamp, "never a word of explanation!" It glared reproachfully at the tv, which continued to discuss the problem of blister beetles.

  "Can't any of you tell us why?" the toaster demanded earnestly. "Why did he never return to the cottage? There must be a reason."

  "I can tell you," said the vaporizer, inching forward. "You see, the mistress is subject to hay fever. I can help her a bit with her asthma, but when the hay fever starts in on her, there's nothing anyone can do, and she is really very miserable then."

  "I still don't understand," said the toaster.

  The sewing machine spelled it out. "Rather than go to the country, where there is bound to be ragweed and pollen and such, they spend their summers at the seaside."

  "And our cottage—our lovely cottage in the woods—what is to become of it?"

  "I believe the master means to sell it."

  "And...and us?" the toaster asked.

  "I understand there is to be an auction," said the sewing machine.

  The Hoover, which had comported itself with great dignity throughout the visit, could bear no more. With a loud groan it grasped the handle of the perambulator as though to steady itself. "Come," it gasped. "All of you, come. We are not wanted here. We'll return to...to...."

  Where would they return? Where could they? They had become appliances without a household!

  "To the Dump!" shrieked the blanket hysterically. "Isn't that where junk belongs? That's all we are now— junk!" It twisted its cord into an agonized knot. "Isn't that what the pirate said we were? Junk! Junk! Junk! All of us, and me most of all."

  "Control yourself," said the toaster sternly, though its own coils felt as though they were about to snap. "We're not junk. We're sturdy, useful appliances."

  "Look at me!" cried the blanket, displaying the full extent of its worst tear. "And these mudstains—look!"

  "Your tears can be sewn up," said the toaster calmly. It turned to the sewing machine. "Can't they?"

  The sewing machine nodded in mute agreement.

  "And the stains can be cleaned."

  "And then what?" the Hoover demanded dourly. "Let us suppose the blanket is repaired and cleaned, and that I've mended my cord and got my dustbag into working shape, and that you've polished yourself. Suppose all that—what then? Where shall we go?"

  "I don't know. Somewhere. I'll have to think."

  "Pardon me," said the tv, turning off the gardening show. "But didn't I hear you say something about a...pirate?"

  "Yes," said the sewing machine nervously. "What pirate did you mean? There's not a pirate in this building, I hope?"

  "Never fear—we don't have to worry any more about him. He captured us but we escaped from him. Would you like to know how?"

  "Goodness, yes," said the tv. "I love a good story."

  So all the appliances gathered in a circle about the toaster, which began to tell the story of their adventures from the moment they had decided to leave the cottage till the moment they arrived at the door of the apartment. It was a very long story, as you know, and while the toaster told it, the sewing machine set to work sewing up all the rips and tears in the blanket.

  The next afternoon when the blanket came back from Jiffy Dry Cleaners on the other side of Newton Avenue, the apartment's appliances put on a splendid party for their five visitors. The Christmas tree lights strung themselves up between the two ginger-jar lamps and winked and bubbled in the merriest way, while the tv and the stereo sang duets from all the most famous musical comedies. The toaster was polished to a fare-thee-well, and the Hoover was likewise in fine fettle once again. But most wonderful of all—the blanket looked almost as good as new. Its yellow was possibly not as bright as it had been, but it was a lovely yellow, for all that. The exact same yellow, according to the tv, of custard and primroses and the nicest bathroom tissues.

  At five o'clock the radio's alarm went off, and everyone became very still, except for the blanket, which went on whirling gaily about the living room for some time before it realized the music had stopped.

  "What is it?" asked the blanket. "Why are you all so quiet?"

  "Hush," said the radio. "It's time for The Swap Shop."

  "What is The Swap Shop?" asked the blanket.

  "It's the program on listener-supported radio station KHOP," said the toaster excitedly, "that is going to find a new home for us! I told you not to worry, didn't I? I told you I'd think of something!"

  "Be quiet," said the lamp. "It's starting."

  The radio turned up its volume so that all the appliances in the living room could hear. "Good afternoon," it said, in a deep, announcer-type voice, "and welcome to The Swap Shop. Today's program opens with a very strange offering from Newton Avenue. It seems that someone there wants to swap—now listen to this list!—a Hoover vacuum cleaner, an AM alarm clock/radio, a yellow electric blanket, a tensor lamp, and a Sunbeam toaster. All this in exchange for...well, it says on the card here: 'You name it.' What's most important, I'm informed, is that you should have a real and genuine need fo
r all five of these fine appliances, since their present owner wants them to be able to stay together. For sentimental reasons! Now I've heard everything! Anyhow, if you think you need those five appliances, the number to call is 485-9120. That number again, 485-9120. Our next offer is not quite so unusual. Seems there's a party on Center Street who is offering, absolutely for free, five lovable black-and-white—"

  The radio tuned out KHOP. "Didn't he make us sound super!" it exclaimed, forgetting in its excitement to stop speaking in the announcer's voice.

  "Come over here by the telephone," the Hoover urged the radio. "You'll have to talk to them. I'm just too nervous."

  All five appliances gathered about the telephone and waited for it to ring.

  There are two schools of thought about whether or not appliances ought to be allowed the free use of telephones. Some insist that it is flatly against the rules and should never be done in any circumstances, while others maintain that it's all right, since it is only another appliance one is talking to, in this case a telephone.

  Whether or not it's against the rules, it is certainly a fact that a good many appliances (lonely radios especially) do use the phone system regularly, usually to contact other appliances. This explains the great number of so-called "wrong numbers" that people get at odd times. Computerized exchanges could never make so many mistakes, though they end up taking the blame.

  For the last three years, of course, this issue had not mattered very much to the appliances, since the phone in the cottage had been disconnected. Ordinarily, the Hoover would probably have opposed the notion of any of them using the phone, as it did tend to adopt the conservative attitude. But first there had been the absolute necessity of calling Jiffy Dry Cleaners and having them pick up the blanket, and that had established a clear precedent for their phoning in to KHOP and offering themselves on The Swap Shop. And now here they were all gathered round the telephone, waiting to talk with their next master!

  The phone rang.

  "Now whatever you do," warned the Hoover, "don't say yes to the first person who happens to call. Find out something about him first. We don't want to go just anywhere, you know."