While Mortals Sleep: Unpublished Short Fiction

by Kurt Vonnegut

  “All right, wise guy,” said Gribbon haughtily, “tonight you’re going to see what kind of a citizen J. Sprague Fleetwood is.”

  It was a world of vague forms and shades of blue in the snowy yard of J. Sprague Fleetwood, alias Mad Dog Gribbon. It was midnight and Hackleman and I stamped our feet and blew on our hands to keep warm, while Gribbon and three servants hurried about the yard, tightening electrical connections and working over what seemed to be statues with screwdrivers and oil cans.

  Gribbon insisted that we stand far away from the display in order to get the impact of the whole, whenever it was ready to be turned on. We couldn’t tell what it was we were about to see, and were particularly tantalized by what the butler was doing—filling an enormous weather balloon from a tank of gas. The balloon arose majestically, captive at the end of a cable, as the butler turned the crank of a winch.

  “What’s that for?” I whispered to Hackleman.

  “Sending for final instructions from God,” said Hackleman.

  “What’d he get sent to prison for?”

  “Ran the numbers in town for a while, and had about twenty people killed so he could keep his franchise. So they put him away for five years for not paying his income taxes.”

  “Lights ready?” bawled Gribbon, standing on a porch, his arms upraised, commanding a miracle.

  “Lights ready,” said a voice in the shrubbery.

  “Sound ready?”

  “Sound ready, sir.”

  “Balloon ready?”

  “Balloon aloft, sir.”

  “Let ’er go!” cried Gribbon.

  Demons shrieked from the treetops.

  Suns exploded.

  Hackleman and I cowered, instinctively threw our arms across our faces.

  We uncovered our eyes slowly, fearfully, and saw stretching before us, in blinding, garish light, a life-sized nativity scene. Loudspeakers on every side blared earsplitting carols. Plaster cattle and sheep were everywhere, wagging their heads, while shepherds raised and lowered their right arms like railroad-crossing gates, jerkily pointing into the sky.

  The Virgin Mary and Joseph looked down sweetly on the child in the manger, while mechanical angels flapped their wings and mechanical wise men bobbed up and down like pistons.

  “Look!” cried Hackleman above the din, pointing where the shepherds pointed, where the balloon had disappeared into the sky.

  There, over the salmon-pink palace of Mad Dog Gribbon, hung in the Christmas heavens from a bag of gas, shone an imitation of the star of Bethlehem.

  Suddenly, all was black and still again. My mind was numb. Hackleman stared blankly at the place where the star had been, speechless.

  Gribbon trotted toward us. “Anything else in town that can touch it?” he panted proudly.

  “Nope,” said Hackleman bleakly.

  “Think it’ll win?”

  “Yup,” murmured Hackleman. “Unless somebody’s got an atomic explosion in the form of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.”

  “People will come from miles around to see it,” said Gribbon. “Just tell ’em in the newspaper story to follow the star.”

  “Listen, Gribbon,” said Hackleman, “you know there isn’t any money that goes with the first prize, don’t you? Nothing but a lousy little scroll worth maybe a buck.”

  Gribbon looked offended. “Of course,” he said. “This is a public service, Hackleman.”

  Hackleman grunted. “Come on, kid, let’s call it a night, eh?”

  It was a real break, our finding the certain winner of the contest a week before the judging was to take place. It meant that the judges and assistants like myself could spend most of Christmas Eve with our families, instead of riding around town for hours, trying to decide which was the best of twenty or so equally good entries. All we had to do now was to drive to Gribbon’s mansion, be blinded and deafened, shake his hand and give him his scroll, and return home in time to trim the tree, fill the stocking, and put away several rounds of eggnog.

  As thoughts of Christmas made Hackleman’s neurotic staff gentle and sentimental, and the preposterous rumor that he had a heart of gold gained wide circulation, Hackleman behaved in typical holiday fashion, declaring that heads were going to roll because Mad Dog Gribbon had been out of prison and back in town for a year without a single reporter’s finding out about it.

  “By God,” he said, “I’m going to have to go out on the street again, or the paper’ll fold up for want of news.” And, during the next two days, the paper would have done just that, if it hadn’t been for news from the wire services, because Hackleman sent out almost everybody to find out what Gribbon was up to.

  Desperate as Hackleman made us, we couldn’t find a hint of skulduggery in Gribbon’s life since he’d left prison. The only conclusion to draw was that crime paid so well that Gribbon could retire in his early forties, and live luxuriously and lawfully for the rest of his days.

  “His money really does come from stocks and bonds,” I told Hackleman wearily at the end of the second day. “And he pays his taxes like a good boy, and never sees his old friends anymore.”

  “All right, all right, all right,” said Hackleman irritably. “Forget it. Never mind.” He was more nervous than I’d ever seen him be before. He drummed on his desk with his fingers, and jumped at unexpected sounds.

  “You have something special against him?” I asked. It wasn’t like Hackleman to go after anyone with such zeal. Ordinarily, he never seemed to care whether justice or crime won out. What interested him were the good news stories that came out of the conflict. “After all, the guy really is going straight.”

  “Forget it,” said Hackleman. Suddenly, he broke his pencil in two, stood up, and strode out, hours before his usual departure time.

  The next day was my day off. I would have slept till noon, but a paper boy was selling extras under my bedroom window. The headline was huge and black, and spelled one terrible word: KIDNAPPED! The story below said that plaster images of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph had been stolen from Mr. J. Sprague Fleetwood, and that he had offered a reward of one thousand dollars for information leading to their return before the judging of the Annual Christmas Outdoor Lighting Contest on Christmas Eve.

  Hackleman called a few minutes later. I was to come to the office at once to help trace down the clues that were pouring in.

  The police complained that, if there were any clues, hordes of amateur detectives had spoiled them. But there was no pressure at all on the police to solve the robbery. By evening the search had become a joyful craze that no one escaped—that no one wanted to escape. And the search was for the people to make, not for the police.

  Throngs went from door to door, asking if anyone had seen the infant Jesus.

  Movie theaters played to empty houses, and a local radio giveaway program said mournfully that nobody seemed to be home in the evenings to answer the telephone.

  Thousands insisted on searching the only stable in the city, and the owner made a small fortune selling them hot chocolate and doughnuts. An enterprising hotel bought a full-page ad, declaring that if anyone found Jesus and Mary and Joseph, here was an inn that would make room for them.

  The lead story in every edition of the paper dealt with the search and every edition was a sellout.

  Hackleman remained as sarcastic and cynical and efficient as ever.

  “It’s a miracle,” I told him. “By taking this little story and blowing it up big, you’ve made Christmas live.”

  Hackleman shrugged apathetically. “Just happened to come along when news was slow. If something better comes along, and I hope it will, I’ll drop this one right out of sight. It’s about time somebody was running berserk with an automatic shotgun in a kindergarten isn’t it?”

  “Sorry I opened my mouth.”

  “Have I remembered to wish you a merry Saturnalia?”

  “Saturnalia?”

  “Yeah—a nasty old pagan holiday near the end of December. The Romans used to close the schoo
ls, eat and drink themselves silly, say they loved everybody, and give each other gifts.” He answered the phone. “No, ma’am, we haven’t found Him yet. Yes, ma’am, there’ll be an extra if He turns up. Yes, ma’am, the stable’s already been checked pretty carefully. Thank you. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  The search was more a spontaneous, playful pageant than an earnest hunt for the missing figures. Realistically, the searchers didn’t have much of a chance. They made a lot of noise, and went only where they thought it would be pleasant or interesting to go. The thief, who was apparently a nut, would have had little trouble keeping his peculiar loot out of sight.

  But the searchers were so caught up in the allegory of what they were doing that a powerful expectation grew of its own accord, with no help from the paper. Everyone was convinced that the holy family would be found on Christmas Eve.

  But on that eve, no new star shone over the city save the five-hundred-watt lamp hung from a balloon over the mansion of J. Sprague Fleetwood, alias Mad Dog Gribbon, the victim of the theft.

  The mayor, the president of a big manufacturing company, and the chairman of the Real Estate Board rode in the back seat of the mayor’s limousine, while Hackleman and I sat on the jump seats in front of them. We were on our way to award the first-prize scroll to Gribbon, who had replaced the missing figures with new ones.

  “Turn down this street here?” said the chauffeur.

  “Just follow the star,” I said.

  “It’s a light, a goddamn electric light that anybody can hang over his house if he’s got the money,” said Hackleman.

  “Follow the goddamn electric light,” I said.

  Gribbon was waiting for us, wearing a tuxedo, and he opened the car door himself. “Gentlemen—Merry Christmas.” His eyes down, his hands folded piously across his round belly, he led us down a path, bounded by ropes, that led around the display and back to the street again. He passed by the corner of the mansion, just short of the point where we would be able to see the display. “I like to think of it as a shrine,” he said, “with people coming from miles around, following the stars.” He stepped aside, motioning us to go ahead.

  And the dumbfounding panorama dazzled us again, looking like an outdoor class in calisthenics, with expressionless figures bobbing, waving their arms, flapping their wings.

  “Gangster heaven,” whispered Hackleman.

  “Oh, my,” said the mayor.

  The chairman of the Real Estate Board looked appalled, but cleared his throat and recovered gamely. “Now, there’s a display,” he said, clinging doggedly to his integrity.

  “Where’d you get the new figures?” said Hackleman.

  “Wholesale from a department-store supply house,” said Gribbon.

  “What an engineering feat,” said the manufacturer.

  “Took four engineers to do it,” said Gribbon proudly. “Whoever swiped the figures left the neon halos behind, thank God. They’re rigged so I can make ’em blink, if you think that’d look better.”

  “No, no,” said the mayor. “Mustn’t gild the lily.”

  “Uh … do I win?” said Gribbon politely.

  “Hmmm?” said the mayor. “Oh—do you win? Well, we have to deliberate, of course. We’ll let you know this evening.”

  No one seemed able to think of anything more to say, and we shuffled back to the limousine.

  “Thirty-two electric motors, two miles of wire, nine hundred and seventy-six lightbulbs, not counting neon,” said Gribbon as we pulled away.

  “I thought we were going to just hand him the scroll right then and there,” said the real estate man. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

  “I just couldn’t bring myself to do it then,” sighed the mayor. “Suppose we could stop somewhere for a stirrup cup.”

  “He obviously won,” said the manufacturer. “We wouldn’t dare give the prize to anyone else. He won by brute force—brute dollars, brute kilowatts, no matter how terrible his taste is.”

  “There’s one more stop,” said Hackleman.

  “I thought this was a one-stop expedition,” said the manufacturer. “I thought we’d agreed on that.”

  Hackleman held up a card. “Well, it’s a technicality. The official deadline for entries was noon today. This thing came in by special delivery about two seconds ahead of the deadline, and we haven’t had a chance to check it.”

  “It certainly can’t match this Fleetwood thing,” said the mayor. “What could? What’s the address?”

  Hackleman told him.

  “Shabby neighborhood out on the edge of town,” said the real estate man. “No competition for our friend Fleetwood.”

  “Let’s forget it,” said the manufacturer. “I’ve got guests coming in, and …”

  “Bad public relations,” said Hackleman gravely. It was startling to hear the words coming from him, enunciated with respect. He’d once said that the three most repellent forms of life were rats, leeches, and public relations men … in descending order.

  To the three important men in the back seat, though, the words were impressive and troubling. They mumbled and fidgeted, but didn’t have the courage to fight.

  “Let’s make it quick,” said the mayor, and Hackleman gave the driver the card.

  Stopped by a traffic signal, we came abreast of a group of cheerful searchers, who called to us, asking if we knew where the holy family was hidden.

  Impulsively, the mayor leaned out of the window. “You won’t find them under that,” he said, waggling his finger at the light over Gribbon’s house.

  Another group crossed the street before us, singing:

  For Christ is born of Mary,

  And gathered all above,

  While mortals sleep, the angels keep

  Their watch of wondering love.

  The light changed, and we drove on, saying little as we left the fine homes behind, as the electric lamp over Gribbon’s mansion was lost behind black factory chimneys.

  “You sure the address is right?” said the chauffeur uncertainly.

  “I guess the guy knows his own address,” said Hackleman.

  “This was a bad idea,” said the manufacturer, looking at his watch. “Let’s call up Gribbon or Fleetwood or whatever his name is, and tell him he’s the big winner. The hell with this.”

  “I agree,” said the mayor. “But, as long as we’re this far along, let’s see it through.”

  The limousine turned down a dark street, banged over a chuckhole, and stopped. “This is it gentlemen,” said the chauffeur.

  We were parked before an empty, leaning, roofless house, whose soundest part was its splintered siding, a sign declaring it to be unfit for human habitation.

  “Are rats and termites eligible for the contest?” said the mayor.

  “The address checks,” said the chauffeur defensively.

  “Turn around and go home,” said the mayor.

  “Hold it,” said the real estate man. “There’s a light in the barn in back. My God, I came all this way to judge and I’m going to judge.”

  “Go see who’s in the barn,” said the mayor to the chauffeur.

  The chauffeur shrugged, got out, and walked through the snow-covered rubbish to the barn. He knocked. The door swung open under the impact of his fist. Silhouetted by a frail, wavering light from within, he sank to his knees.

  “Drunk?” said Hackleman.

  “I don’t think so,” murmured the mayor. He licked his lips. “I think he’s praying—for the first time in his life.” He got out of the car, and we followed him silently to the barn. When we reached the chauffeur, we went to our knees beside him.

  Before us were the three missing figures. Joseph and Mary sheltered against a thousand drafts the sleeping infant Jesus in his bed of straw. The only illumination came from a single oil lantern, and its wavering light made them live, alive with awe and adoration.

  On Christmas morning, the paper told the people where the holy family could be found.

 
; All Christmas Day the people streamed to the cold, lonely barn to worship.

  A small story inside announced that Mr. Sprague Fleetwood had won the Annual Christmas Outdoor Lighting Contest with thirty-two electric motors, two miles of wire, and nine hundred and seventy-six lightbulbs, not counting neon, and an Army surplus weather balloon.

  Hackleman was on the job at his desk, critical and disillusioned as ever.

  “It’s a great, great story,” I said.

  “I’m good and sick of it,” said Hackleman. He rubbed his hands. “What I’m looking forward to is January when the Christmas bills come in. A great month for homicides.”

  “Well, there’s still got to be a follow-up on the Christmas story. We still don’t know who did it.”

  “How you going to find out who did it? The name on the entry blank was a phony, and the guy who owns the barn hasn’t been in town for ten years.”

  “Fingerprints,” I said. “We could go over the figures for fingerprints.”

  “One more suggestion like that, and you’re fired.”

  “Fired?” I said. “What for?”

  “Sacrilege!” said Hackleman grandly, and the subject was closed. His mind, as he said, was on stories in the future. He never looked back.

  Hackleman’s last act with respect to the theft, the search, and Christmas was to send me out to the barn with a photographer on Christmas night. The mission was routine and trite, and it bored him.

  “Get a crowd shot from the back, with the figures facing the camera,” said Hackleman. “They must be pretty damn dusty by now, with all the sinners tramping through. Better go over ’em with a damp cloth before you make the shot.”

  (illustration credit 9)

  OUT, BRIEF CANDLE

  Annie Cowper thought of the letters from Schenectady as having come like a sweet, warm wind at the sunset of her life. The truth was that she was only in her middle forties when they started to come, and the sunset of her life was still far away. She had all of her teeth and needed her steel-rimmed spectacles only for reading.