“Then I heard Sansoni’s voice. He was perhaps a hundred yards off, but I could hear him talking to Collins—or to me, perhaps, if Collins was already dead. ‘It’s useless in the dark,’ he was saying. ‘Most likely it’s asleep. We’ll have to wait and look for its nest in the morning. I’ll tell them.’ He spoke briefly in Japanese, and I heard the men laugh. For all I knew, he had told them to kill us. I froze where I was, and forgetting that the bird was mute, I reached inside my shirt and grabbed its beak. This only made it thrash the more. I think it bit me. Quietly as I could I removed the bird and set it down on the ground. ‘Go,’ I whispered to it, and shoved it away. I heard the soldiers taking off their packs, and after a while their heavy breathing as they slept.
“The bird wouldn’t leave me—don’t ask me why—so I sat with it in my lap and waited till morning, and all that night I could think of no plan.
“Just after dawn I heard the soldiers getting up and Sansoni organizing them, telling them what to look for. There was a heavy mist and I couldn’t see them very well. I examined my chest where the bird had bit me and thought of the dodo’s extinct germs working in my blood.
“Finally I stood up. The bird was in my arms. ‘The search is over,’ I shouted. ‘I have it. It’s mine.’
“A Japanese came out of the fog and smiled and called out to the others. I could hear the word go round the forest. They were about two hundred feet from me when Collins pushed through the vanguard. Though I had thought him dead, I was not surprised to see him. I was very detached about everything.
“‘You found it?’ he yelled.
“I held it up.
“‘They’ll take it. Run. Go on—get going.’
“‘They can’t shoot. You said so yourself.’
“‘Run!’
“The Japanese were still coming toward me. They were only twenty-five yards away now.
“‘They’re going to take the bird!’ Collins screamed.
“They were fifty feet off.
“‘Kill it,’ he yelled.
“‘What?’
“‘Kill the damn thing. They mustn’t have it. Kill it!’
“‘What good will that do?’
“‘That’s an order, Sergeant.’ Collins was pointing his pistol at me. ‘Kill it or I’ll kill you.’
“‘It bit me,’ I said lazily.
“‘Kill it.’ The Japanese had stopped where they were. They were looking first at Collins, then at me. ‘Kill it, Goddamn you. Kill it!’
“‘I have no gun.’ The loudness of my voice surprised me.
“Sansoni began to plead with me. ‘If you let it live we’ll treat you as a prisoner. My word. Geneva conventions. My word on that. Sergeant.’
“‘Kill it,’ Collins screamed. ‘Kill it, or I promise I’ll shoot you.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out something black and threw it toward me. He was very excited. ‘Here,’ he shouted. ‘Pick up the knife. Wring its neck. Cut its throat.’
“‘Please, my dear Sergeant,’ Sansoni said. ‘We’ll let you off. We’ll allow you both to return to the garrison. All we want is the dodo.’
“‘I’m going to count to three, Sergeant,’ Collins yelled. ‘I’ll shoot you. I swear it.’
“The knife had landed at my feet. ‘One …’ Collins shouted. ‘Two …’
“I bent down and picked up the knife. I turned it in my hand and examined it. I opened it.
“‘Good,’ Collins said. ‘They mustn’t get their hands on it. Remember what we’re fighting for.’
“‘It’s only a bird. Everybody. Hey, it’s only a bird.’
“‘Kill it!’
“I slit its throat. I heard them gasp. It was as if I’d pressed the blade to their own throats.
“‘Ah,’ Collins sighed.
“I looked down. Its blood was all over me. The Japanese were weeping. Holding the bird against my breast, I started walking toward them. ‘It’s only a bird,’ I said. ‘Don’t you see? It’s just a bird.’
“Then the bird was in the air! They fell away from me. Collins was shrieking, they all were. The bird was in the air and the soldiers screamed. Some tried not to look at me, but they couldn’t turn away their heads. The bird came down against my breast and then rose again—higher this time. And then, falling again, it rose a third time. The Japanese were keening with grief and ecstasy. I moved toward them and they hid from me.
“‘It’s the miracle!’ Collins screamed. ‘Oh, my God, it’s the miracle! I didn’t want them to have it. I didn’t want them to have their symbol. I never thought … Oh, Jesus, it’s the miracle.’
“Now the bird fell. I reached out my arms and it settled against my breast for the last time. I carried it to its nest and placed it inside the spongy ring. When I turned I saw that the Japanese had lined up on two sides, making a sort of aisle in the forest. I walked through them. Collins fell in beside me, crying. The soldiers threw down their weapons and I could hear them murmuring. Rosichicho, they were saying. Invincible—I was invincible. When we were a few hundred yards past, I heard a sudden burst of machine-gun fire. It was the garrison. They charged into the forest and killed them all—every last Japanese. They’ve been clearing them out on the other islands too; the battle’s been raging for two days now. Casualties are enormous, on the British side as well. I, of course, am rosichicho.
“Oh, by now I think I’ve pieced together what’s happened here. Why Collins and I were assigned to Mauritius. It was the equipment, wasn’t it? It was a test of the equipment. Am I getting warm? You wanted to check its range, and you picked a place where not much was happening in the event these broadcasts were intercepted. They were meant to be meaningless. It was our presence on the plane from Lisbon that attracted the enemy. They sent men to check up on us. That’s when they discovered the dodo and sent for the ornithologist. Then they sent out more men because they figured we knew about the bird too. Then we built up our forces to match theirs. But it was all meant to be meaningless. But that’s very hard, you know? Meaning is everywhere, even in Mauritius.
“Collins is dead. Everyone is. ‘Dead as a dodo.’ We have that expression. I, of course, am rosichicho.
“Only don’t bet on it. I tossed the bird. I flung him up myself. With my wrists. It’s all in the wrists.”
Part II
* * *
Hartford Daily Intelligencer
Tuesday, March 3, 1959
12:00 Midnight
WGR Witching Hours (Music & News)
WHCN The Dick Gibson Show (Talk)
WLLD The World Tmrw
Dick’s guests that night were Dr. Jack Patterson, Associate Professor of English at Hartford Community College; Bernard Perk, a pharmacist, probably the ablest proponent of fluoridation in all New England; Pepper Steep of the Pepper Steep Charm School; and rounding out the panel, Mel Son, the Amherst disc jockey whose experiences with the powerful Democratic machine when he’d tried to run for state office had once earned him Special Guest status. They’d all been on the show before but only Mel had ever been the Special Guest, it being a principle with Dick to choose his panels from the community—panelists were, after all, something like jurors and, as such, surrogates for the audience—but to import his Special Guests from outside.
Tonight his Special Guest was the psychologist Edmond Behr- Bleibtreau. Behr-Bleibtreau did the flying saucer bit from the mass- hysteria angle but was also known for his advocacy of the psychic phenomena people, as well as for some of the new things. As Dick understood it from the little of Behr-Bleibtreau’s book that he had read, the man’s major emphasis was the old business of mind over matter, though Behr-Bleibtreau called mind “will.” Dick had heard that he was a very forceful man, as formidable as any guest on late- night radio. It was also said that he sometimes used his knowledge of psychology in unusual, if unspecified, ways. Despite the expense, Dick considered himself lucky to get him. Special Guests were not paid, but some of them, though they probably collected again from the organizat
ions they represented or from their publishers, insisted on “expenses.” Behr-Bleibtreau had presented the station with a bill for his first-class air fare from Los Angeles, and even though the man had been with Long John Nebel on WOR in New York the previous night, WHCN had agreed to pay it. They were also picking up the tab for his Holiday Inn suite. Everything would come out of Dick’s tiny budget for the show. For a month or so there’d probably be nothing left over for the loners, those characters who’d written no books and represented no organizations and who really needed to be helped out with expenses. When he’d told Behr-Bleibtreau this, the man had patted his arm to reassure him. “In that case,” he said, “I shall have to give you a good show. Something very special.”
Several others, guests of the guests, were in the studio. They had begun to gather about a half-hour before air time. Jack Patterson had left his wife, Rose, at home to listen to him on the radio and had a girl friend with him, one of his students probably, an Annette something. One reason he came on the program was that it gave him someplace to go when he was deceiving Rose. Bernard Perk had brought his son and daughter-in-law, in from Chicago on a visit. Pepper Steep came with her sister and Mel Son had brought Victor Ash, the man who had defeated him in the primary. After the election they had become good friends. Even Edmond Behr-Bleibtreau had brought guests, a man and a middle-aged woman in an enormously long fur coat which looked as if it might have been made up for someone a full foot taller than herself. Neither of Behr-Bleibtreau’s guests had been introduced to Dick. They were all seated in a single row of theater seats along the wall opposite the control booth.
“Do you think anyone else will drop in?” Dick asked his panel. “I have to know so Jerry can phone in the order for our sandwiches.”
Behr-Bleibtreau held up his hand. “I expect someone.” He hesitated. “He may come and he may not.”
Dick opened his microphone and told his engineer to order for fifteen people. Then he explained the ground rules to his guests and obtained mike levels from each of them. “Bernie Perk,” he said, “you don’t speak that softly. Let’s hear your reaction to Jack Patterson here when Jack says that fluoridation not only doesn’t prevent tooth decay but causes cancer of the jaw.” Bernie Perk gave an exaggerated groan and the panel laughed, even Behr-Bleibtreau. “The most important thing,” Dick said, “is that you don’t all speak at once. I’ll recognize you either by looking at you directly or by calling your name. These mikes compensate for the different power levels of your voices, so everything comes at the listener at equal strength. If you speak when someone else is talking, it just sounds like babble. Nothing’s more frustrating for the listener.”
The panel knew all this, but he went through it for his guests’ guests, owing them insights. He was only sorry that the show was so much what it seemed. Those who came to the house of magic were entitled to secrets. Besides, he loved the people who saw him work. The capsule-like character of the studio, the heavy drapes hung down over solid, windowless walls, and the long voyage to dawn created in him a special sense of intimacy, as though what they were about to do together was just a little dangerous. Even more than the people who watched him work he loved the people he worked with. They were comrades. For him it was as if all place—all place—was ridiculous, a comedown, all studios makeshift, the material world itself existing only as obstacle, curiously unamiable, so that, remembered later, the night they worked together became some turned corner of the life. (A sense, up all night, of emergency, national crises kicked around the anchor desk.) There had been a thousand such comrades in the fourteen years since the war, the seven years he had been doing late-night talk shows. And all place was ridiculous, wayside, all towns tank, for him anyway. Though his voice had been heard everywhere by now, he had never been network (unless you counted the small, queer regional networks: the Billy Lee Network in Texas and the Southwest, Heartlands Broadcasting, the Mid-Atlantic Company, Gulfcoast Broadcasting System, the Northwest’s Big Sky Company), never coast-to-coast.
“We’ll be here five hours,” he said. “It’s a long time till five o’clock.” He turned to Behr-Bleibtreau. “The world looks strange when you’ve been in a studio all night and go outside. If we all last, I’ll take you to breakfast.” Now he turned to his guests’ guests. “As I say, it’s a long time till five o’clock. If any of you absolutely has to sack out there’s a cot in my office, and another in Jerry’s. Some nights I wish I could go lie down.” This wasn’t true; there had never been a show which he hadn’t wished would go on longer. Babble or not, for him the greatest moments had been when, losing their tempers or caught up in their ideas, they all spoke at once; in that instant he would feel himself physically touched by their speech, centripetally held by their cross-talk. Nor was he ever nervous, save in some impersonal sense, as now, anxious for the chemistry to be correct, like someone hoping that the fish are biting. If it all went well, if Behr-Bleibtreau found the panel to his taste—not provincial, sufficiently challenging to bother with— something could happen. A truth, or something better than a truth. “I’m here merely to moderate,” he said. “I myself am not controversial.” He was, to use Madam Modred’s term, “a control.”
And wasn’t that a night? WVW, Lockhaven, Pennsylvania. The night of the seance. The medium was the Reverend Abner Ruckensack. Shakespeare had come, the Bard of Avon. A lugubrious Shakespeare, plain-talking, curiously shy. He called Dick Mr. Gibson. It was down in the log. (He still couldn’t bear to think of his logs, tapes of all his programs. Fourteen years, seven of them doing these late-night talk shows, almost five thousand tapes. His spoken history of some of the world. The expense enormous, to say nothing of the time that went into indexing them. All but a hundred or so burned to a crisp in the fire. Dick Gibson’s burned logs.) He could still remember one part. It must have been about three in the morning. All of them tired, impatient, the Reverend Ruckensack producing dud after dud—farmers he’d known, children he’d baptized, a sinner, an enemy—and the panel sending them back, shade after shade, like failed auditioners, until he came, the Bard himself, the Divine Will:
DICK: You don’t sound like Shakespeare.
SHAKESPEARE: I’m him, all right, Mr. Gibson.
DICK: You are, eh?
SHAKESPEARE: You bet your boots, Mr. Gibson.
DICK: Well, if you’re Shakespeare, how come you don’t speak in blank verse? I always associated Shakespeare with blank verse.
SHAKESPEARE: We’re white men here, Mr. Gibson. That blank verse was just for the niggers. So’s they wouldn’t understand.
He still remembered it, and here and there other passages, but without the logs one day it would all be gone, as all conversation was always going, the word disintegrate, busted, and the air come in like a draft. Or all that remained would be the conclusions, with none of the wonderful linkings and marvelous asides. The wisdom forgotten and the madness gone, and only the silence for punctuation.
He could not depend upon his listeners; he had no notion of them. They were as faceless to him as he to them. (They didn’t even have a voice.) His panels, his Special Guests were more real. As for his listeners, he guessed they were insomniacs, cabbies, enlisted men signed out on leave at midnight driving home on turnpikes, countermen in restaurants by highways, people in tollbooths. Or he saw them in bed—they lived in the dark—lumps under covers, profiles on pillows, their skulls beside the clock radio (the clock radio had done more to change programming than even TV) while the dialogue floated above their heads like balloon talk aloft in comic strips. Half asleep, they would not follow it too closely.
No, he knew little about his listeners. They were not even mysterious; they were there, but distant as the Sioux. He knew more about the passionate extremists who used his microphones in the groundless hope of stirring those sleepers, and winning over the keepers of the booths—the wild visionaries, opponents of fluoride, palmists, astrologers, the far right and far left and far center, the dianeticians, scientologists, beatniks, ho
mosexuals from the Mattachine Society, the handwriting analysts, addicts, nudists, psychic phenomenologists, all those who believed in the Loch Ness Monster, the Abominable Snowman and the Communist Conspiracy; men beyond the beyond, black separatists who would take over Idaho and thrive by cornering the potato, pretenders to a half-dozen thrones, Krebiozonists, people from MENSA, health-food people, eaters of weed and soups of bark, cholesterolists, poly-unsaturationalists, treasure hunters, a woman who believed she held a valid Spanish land grant to all of downtown San Francisco, the Cassandras warning of poison in the white bread and cola and barbecued potato chip, conservationists jittery about the disappearing forests and the diminishing water table (and one man who claimed that the tides were a strain on the moon), would-be reformers of a dozen industries and institutions and a woman so fastidious about the separation of church and state that she would take the vote away from nuns and clergymen, capital punishers, atheists, people who wanted the abortion laws changed and a man who thought all surgery was a sin and ought to carry the same sentence as any other assault with a knife, housewives spooked by lax Food and Drug regulations, Maoists, Esperantoists, American Nazis, neo-Jaegerists, Reichians, juvenile delinquents, crionics buffs, anti-vivisectionists, witches, wizards, chief rabbis of no less than three of the twelve lost tribes of Israel, and a fellow who claimed he died the same year Columbus discovered America.
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