There stood Orion Stroud, Andrew Gill, Cas Stone, Bonny Keller and Mrs. Tallman, all looking nervous and ill-at-ease. “Harrington,” Stroud said, “we have something for you, a little gift.”
“Fine,” Hoppy said, grinning back at Stockstill. “See?” he said to the doctor. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s their appreciation.” To the delegation he said, “Come on in; I’ve been waiting.” He held the door wide and they passed on inside his house.
“What have you been doing?” Bonny asked Doctor Stockstill, seeing him standing by the transmitter and microphone.
Stockstill said, “Trying to reach Dangerfield.”
“Therapy?” she said.
“Yes.” He nodded.
“No luck, though.”
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Stockstill said.
Orion Stroud, his presentation momentarily forgotten, said to Doctor Stockstill, “That’s right; you used to be a psychiatrist.”
Impatiently, Hoppy said, “Well, what did you bring me?” He peered past Stroud, at Gill; he made out the sight of the container of cigarettes and the case of brandy. “Are those mine?”
“Yes,” Gill said. “In appreciation.”
The container and the case were lifted from his hands; he blinked as they sailed toward the phoce and came to rest on the floor directly in front of the ’mobile. Avidly, Hoppy plucked them open with his extensors.
“Uh,” Stroud said, disconcerted, “we have a statement to make. Is it okay to do so now, Hoppy?” He eyed the phocomelus with apprehension.
“Anything else?” Hoppy demanded, the boxes open, now. “What else did you bring me to pay me back?”
To herself as she watched the scene Bonny thought, I had no idea he was so childish. Just a little child … we should have brought much more and it should have been wrapped gaily, with ribbons and cards, with as much color as possible. He must not be disappointed, she realized. Our lives depend on it, on his being—placated.
“Isn’t there more?” Hoppy was saying peevishly.
“Not yet,” Stroud said. “But there will be.” He shot a swift, flickering glance at the others in the delegation. “Your real presents, Hoppy, have to be prepared with care. This is just a beginning.”
“I see,” the phocomelus said. But he did not sound convinced.
“Honest,” Stroud said. “It’s the truth, Hoppy.”
“I don’t smoke,” Hoppy said, surveying the cigarettes; he picked up a handful and crushed them, letting the bits drop. “It causes cancer.”
“Well,” Gill began, “there’re two sides to that. Now—”
The phocomelus sniggered. “I think that’s all you’re going to give me,” he said.
“No, there will certainly be more,” Stroud said.
The room was silent, except for the static coming from the speaker.
Off in the corner an object, a transmitter tube, rose and sailed through the air, burst loudly against the wall, sprinkling them all with fragments of broken glass.
“ ‘More,’ ” Hoppy mimicked, in Stroud’s deep, portentous voice. “ ‘There will certainly be more.’ ”
XV
For thirty-six hours Walt Dangerfield had lain on his bunk in a state of semi-consciousness, knowing now that it was not an ulcer; it was cardiac arrest which he was experiencing, and it was probably going to kill him in a very short time. In spite of what Stockstill, the analyst, had said.
The transmitter of the satellite had continued to broadcast a tape of light concert music over and over again; the sound of soothing strings filled his ears in a travesty of unavailing comfort. He did not even have the strength to get up and make his way to the controls to shut it off.
That psychoanalyst, he thought bitterly. Talking about breathing into a paper bag. It had been like a dream … the faint voice, so full of self-confidence. So utterly false in its premises.
Messages were arriving from all over the world as the satellite passed through its orbit again and again; his recording equipment caught them and retained them, but that was all. Dangerfield could no longer answer.
I guess I have to tell them, he said to himself. I guess the time—the time we’ve been expecting, all of us—has finally come at last.
On his hands and knees he crept until he reached the seat by the microphone, the seat in which for seven years he had broadcast to the world below. After he had sat there for a time resting he turned on one of the many tape recorders, picked up the mike, and began dictating a message which, when it had been completed, would play endlessly, replacing the concert music.
“My friends, this is Walt Dangerfield talking and wanting to thank you all for the times we have had together, speaking back and forth, us all keeping in touch. I’m afraid though that this complaint of mine makes it impossible for me to go on any longer. So with great regret I’ve got to sign off for the last time—” He went on, painfully, picking his words with care, trying to make them, his audience below, as little unhappy as possible. But nevertheless he told them the truth; he told them that it was the end for him and that they would have to find some way to communicate without him, and then he rang off, shut down the microphone, and in a weary reflex, played the tape back.
The tape was blank. There was nothing on it, although he had talked for almost fifteen minutes.
Evidently the equipment had for some reason broken down, but he was too ill to care; he snapped the mike back on, set switches on the control panel, and this time prepared to deliver his message live to the area below. Those people there would just have to pass the word on to the others; there was no other way.
“My friends,” he began once more, “this is Walt Dangerfield. I have some bad news to give you but—” And then he realized that he was talking into a dead mike. The loudspeaker above his head had gone silent; nothing was being transmitted. Otherwise he would have heard his own voice from the monitoring system.
As he sat there, trying to discover what was wrong, he noticed something else, something far stranger and more ominous.
Systems on all sides of him were in motion. Had been in motion for some time, by the looks of them. The high speed recording and playback decks which he had never used—all at once the drums were spinning, for the first time in seven years. Even as he watched he saw relays click on and off; a drum halted, another one began to turn, this time at slow speed.
I don’t understand, he said to himself. What’s happening?
Evidently the systems were receiving at high speed, recording, and now one of them had started to play back, but what had set all this in motion? Not he. Dials showed him that the satellite’s transmitter was on the air, and even as he realized that, realized that messages which had been picked up and recorded were now being played over the air, he heard the speaker above his head return to life.
“Hoode hoode hoo,” a voice—his voice—chuckled. “This is your old pal, Walt Dangerfield, once more, and forgive that concert music. Won’t be any more of that.”
When did I say that? he asked himself as he sat dully listening. He felt shocked and puzzled. His voice sounded so vital, so full of good spirits; how could I sound like that now? he wondered. That’s the way I used to sound, years ago, when I had my health, and when she was still alive.
“Well,” his voice murmured on, “that bit of indisposition I’ve been suffering from … evidently mice got into the supply cupboards, and you’ll laugh to think of Walt Dangerfield fending off mice up here in the sky, but ’tis true. Anyhow, part of my stores deteriorated and I didn’t happen to notice … but it sure played havoc with my insides. However—And he heard himself give his familiar chuckle. “I’m okay now. I know you’ll be glad to hear that, all you people down there who were so good as to transmit your get-well messages, and for that I give you thanks.”
Getting from the seat before the microphone, Walt Dangerfield made his way unsteadily to his bunk; he lay down, closing his eyes, and then he thought once more of the pain in his chest and what it meant.
Angina pectoris, he thought, is supposed to be more like a great fist pressing down; this is more a burning pain. If I could look at the medical data on the microfilm again … maybe there’s some fact I failed to read. For instance, this is directly under the breastbone, not off to the left side. Does that mean anything?
Or maybe there’s nothing wrong with me, he thought to himself as he struggled to get up once more. Maybe Stockstill, that psychiatrist who wanted me to breathe carbon dioxide, was right; maybe it’s just in my mind, from the years of isolation here.
But he did not think so. It felt far too real for that.
There was one other fact about his illness that bewildered him. For all his efforts, he could not make a thing out of that fact, and so he had not even bothered to mention it to the several doctors and hospitals below. Now it was too late, because now he was too sick to operate the controls of the transmitter.
The pain seemed always to get worse when his satellite was passing over Northern California.
In the middle of the night the din of Bill Keller’s agitated murmurings woke his sister up. “What is it?” Edie said sleepily, trying to make out what he wanted to tell her. She sat up in her bed, now, rubbing her eyes as the murmurings rose to a crescendo.
“Hoppy Harrington!” he was saying, deep down inside her. “He’s taken over the satellite! Hoppy’s taken over Dangerfield’s satellite!” He chattered on and on excitedly, repeating it again and again.
“How do you know?”
“Because Mr. Bluthgeld says so; he’s down below now but he can still see what’s going on above. He can’t do anything and he’s mad. He still knows all about us. He hates Hoppy because Hoppy mashed him.”
“What about Dangerfield?” she asked. “Is he dead yet?”
“He’s not down below,” her brother said, after a long pause. “So I guess not.”
“Who should I tell?” Edie said. “About what Hoppy did?”
“Tell Mama,” her brother said urgently. “Go right in now.”
Climbing from the bed, Edie scampered to the door and up the hall to their parents’ bedroom; she flung the door open, calling, “Mama, I have to tell you something—” And then her voice failed her, because her mother was not there. Only one sleeping figure lay in the bed, her father, alone. Her mother—she knew instantly and completely—had gone and she would not be coming back.
“Where is she?” Bill clamored from within her. “I know she’s not here; I can’t feel her.”
Slowly, Edie shut the door of the bedroom. What’ll I do? she asked herself. She walked aimlessly, shivering from the night cold. “Be quiet,” she said to Bill, and his murmurings sank down a little.
“You have to find her,” Bill was saying.
“I can’t,” she said. She knew it was hopeless. “Let me think what to do instead,” she said, going back into her bedroom for her robe and slippers.
To Ella Hardy, Bonny said, “You have a very nice home here. It’s strange to be back in Berkeley after so long, though.” She felt overwhelmingly tired. “I’m going to have to turn in,” she said. It was two in the morning. Glancing at Andrew Gill and Stuart she said, “We made awfully good time getting here, didn’t we? Even a year ago it would have taken another three days.”
“Yes,” Gill said, and yawned. He looked tired, too; he had done most of the driving because it was his horse car they had taken.
Mr. Hardy said, “Along about this time, Mrs. Keller, we generally tune in a very late pass by the satellite.”
“Oh,” she said, not actually caring but knowing it was inevitable; they would have to listen at least for a few moments to be polite. “So you get two transmissions a day, down here.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hardy said, “and frankly we find it worth staying up for this late one, although in the last few weeks…” She gestured. “I suppose you know as well as we do. Dangerfield is such a sick man.”
They were all silent, for a moment.
Hardy said, “To face the brutal fact, we haven’t been able to pick him up at all the last day or so, except for a program of light opera that he has played over and over again automatically … so—” He glanced around at the four of them “That’s why we were pinning so many hopes on this late transmission, tonight.”
To herself, Bonny thought, There’s so much business to conduct tomorrow, but he’s right; we must stay up for this. We must know what is going on in the satellite; it’s too important to us all. She felt sad. Walt Dangerfield, she thought, are you dying up there alone? Are you already dead and we don’t know yet?
Will the light opera music go on forever? she wondered. At least until the satellite at last falls back to the Earth or drifts off into space and finally is attracted by the sun?
“I’ll turn it on,” Hardy said, inspecting his watch. He crossed the room to the radio, turned it on carefully. “It takes it a long time to warm up,” he apologized. “I think there’s a weak tube; we asked the West Berkeley Handyman’s Association to inspect it but they’re so busy, they’re too tied up, they said. I’d look at it myself, but—” He shrugged ruefully. “Last time I tried to fix it, I broke it worse.”
Stuart said, “You’re going to frighten Mr. Gill away.”
“No,” Gill said. “I understand. Radios are in the province of the handies. It’s the same up in West Marin.”
To Bonny, Mrs. Hardy said, “Stuart says you used to live here.”
“I worked at the radiation lab for a while,” Bonny said. “And then I worked out at Livermore, also for the University. Of course—” She hesitated. “It’s so changed. I wouldn’t know Berkeley, now. As we came through I saw nothing I recognized except perhaps San Pablo Avenue itself. All the little shops—they look new.”
“They are,” Dean Hardy said. Now static issued from the radio and he bent attentively, his ear close to it. “Generally we pick up this late transmission at about 640 kc. Excuse me.” He turned his back to them, intent on the radio.
“Turn up the fat lamp,” Gill said, “so he can see better to tune it.”
Bonny did so, marveling that even here in the city they were still dependent on the primitive fat lamp; she had supposed that their electricity had long since been restored, at least on a partial basis. In some ways, she realized, they were actually behind West Marin. And in Bolinas—
“Ah,” Mr. Hardy said, breaking into her thoughts. “I think I’ve got him. And it’s not light opera.” His face glistened, beamed.
“Oh dear,” Ella Hardy said, “I pray to heaven he’s better.” She clasped her hands together with anxiety.
From the speaker a friendly, informal, familiar voice boomed out loudly, “Hi there, all you night people down below. Who do you suppose this is, saying hello, hello and hello.” Dangerfield laughed. “Yes, folks, I’m up and around, on my two feet once more. And just twirling all these little old knobs and controls like crazy … yes sir.” His voice was warm, and around Bonny the faces in the room relaxed, too, and smiled in company with the pleasure contained in the voice. The faces nodded, agreed.
“You hear him?” Ella Hardy said. “Why, he’s better. He is; you can tell. He’s not just saying it, you can tell the difference.”
“Hoode hoode hoo,” Dangerfield said. “Well, now, let us see; what news is there? You heard about that public enemy number one, that one-time physicist we all remember so well. Our good buddy Doctor Bluthgeld, or should I say Doctor Bloodmoney? Anyhow, I guess you all know by now that dear Doctor Bloodmoney is no longer with us. Yes, that’s right.”
“I heard a rumor about that,” Mr. Hardy said excitedly. “A peddler who hitched a balloon ride out of Marin County—”
“Shhh,” Ella Hardy said, listening.
“Yes indeed,” Dangerfield was saying. “A certain party up in Northern California took care of Doctor B. For good. And we owe a debt of sheer unadulterated gratitude to that certain little party because—well, just consider this, folks; that party’s a bit handicapped. And yet he was abl
e to do what no one else could have done.” Now Dangerfield’s voice was hard, unbending; it was a new sound which they had not heard from him ever before. They glanced at one another uneasily. “I’m talking about Hoppy Harrington, my friends. You don’t know that name? You should, because without Hoppy not one of you would be alive.”
Hardy, rubbing his chin and frowning, shot a questioning look at Ella.
“This Hoppy Harrington,” Dangerfield continued, “mashed Doctor B. from a good four miles away, and it was easy. Very easy. You think it’s impossible for someone to reach out and touch a man four miles off? That’s mighty long arms, isn’t it, folks? And mighty strong hands. Well, I’ll tell you something even more remarkable.” The voice became confidential; it dropped to an intimate near-whisper. “Hoppy has no arms and no hands at all.” And Dangerfield, then, was silent.
Bonny said quietly, “Andrew, it’s him, isn’t it?”
Twisting around in his chair to face her, Gill said, “Yes, dear. I think so.”
“Who?” Stuart McConchie said.
Now the voice from the radio resumed, more calmly this time, but also more bleakly. The voice had become chilly and stark. “There was an attempt made,” it stated, “to reward Mr. Harrington. It wasn’t much. A few cigarettes and some bad whiskey—if you can call that a ‘reward.’ And some empty phrases delivered by a cheap local politico. That was all—that was it for the man who saved us all. I guess they figured—”
Ella Hardy said, “That is not Dangerfield.”
To Gill and Bonny, Mr. Hardy said, “Who is it? Say.”
Bonny said, “It’s Hoppy.” Gill nodded.
“Is he up there?” Stuart said. “In the satellite?”
“I don’t know,” Bonny said. But what did it matter? “He’s got control of it; that’s what’s important.” And we thought by coming to Berkeley we would get away, she said to herself. That we would have left Hoppy. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “He’s been preparing a long time; everything else has been practice, for this.”
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