Eye in the Sky (1957) (6 page)

From the air above his head a shower of locusts des
cended. Buried in a squirming mass of
vermin, Hamilton
struggled
frantically to escape. The two women and the
tomcat
stood paralyzed with disbelief. For a time he rolled and fought with the horde
of crawling, biting,
stinging pests. Then,
dragging himself away, he managed
to bat them off and retreat, panting
and gasping, to a
corner.

“Merciful God,” Marsha whispered, stricken, backing
away from the buzzing, flopping heap.

“What … happened?” Miss Reiss managed, eyes
fixed on the mound of quivering
insects. “It’s impossible!”

“Well,” Hamilton said shakily, “it happened.”

“But
how?”
Marsha echoed, as the four of them re
treated
from the kitchen, away from the spilling flood of
wings and chitinous
bodies. “Things like this just can’t
be.”

“But it fits,” Hamilton said, in a weak, soft voice.
“The
bee—remember? We were right;
something has hap
pened. And it fits. It
makes sense.”

IV

marsha hamilton
lay
sleeping in bed. Warm yellow
morning sunlight splashed across her bare
shoulders, across the blankets and asphalt tile floor. In the bathroom, Jack
Hamilton stood relentlessly shaving, in spite of the throbbing pain in his
injured arm. The mirror, fogged and dripping, reflected his lathered features,
a
distorted parody of his usual face.

By now, the house was calm and
collected. Most of
the locusts from the
previous evening had dispersed; only
an occasional dry scratching
reminded him that some
remained in the
walls. Everything seemed normal. A milk
truck rattled past the house. Marsha sighed drowsily and
stirred in her sleep, raising one arm up over the
covers.
Outside, on the back porch, Ninny Numbcat was pre
paring to come indoors.

Very carefully, keeping a tight
discipline on himself, Hamilton finished shaving, cleaned his razor, slapped
talcum on his jowls and neck, and groped around for a
clean white shirt. Lying sleepless the night before, he had
decided on this moment to begin: the instant after
shav
ing, when he was clean, combed, dressed, and fully
awake.

Getting
awkwardly down on one knee, he placed his hands together, closed his eyes, took
a deep breath, and
began.

“Dear Lord,” he said
grimly, in a half-whisper, “I’m sorry I did what I did to poor Miss Reiss.
I’d appreciate
being forgiven, if it’s all
right with You.”

He remained kneeling for a minute,
wondering if it
had been enough. And if it
had been correctly delivered.
But gradually, a needling outrage
displaced his humble contrition. It was unnatural, a grown man down on one
knee. It was an undignified, unworthy posture for an
adult … and one he wasn’t accustomed to. Resentfully, he added a
closing paragraph to his prayer.

“Let’s face it—she deserved
it” His harsh whisper drifted through the silent house; Marsha sighed
again
and tumbled over in a fetal heap.
Soon, she’d be awake.
Outside, Ninny
Numbcat plucked fretfully at the screen
door and wondered why it was still locked.

“Consider
what she said,” Hamilton continued, choos
ing his words with care. “It’s attitudes like hers that lead
to
extermination camps. She’s rigid, a compulsive per
sonality type. Anti-cat is one jump away from anti-Semi
tism.”

There was no response. Did he expect
any? What, exactly, did he expect? He wasn’t sure. Something, at
least. Some sign.

Maybe he wasn’t getting over. The
last time he had dipped into religion of any variety was in his eighth
year, in a vague Sunday School class. The labored
read
ing of the night before had brought up nothing specific, only the
abstract realization that there was a great deal on the subject. Proper forms,
protocol
…
it was going to be worse
than arranging a discussion with Colonel
T.
E. Edwards.

But
somewhat the same thing.

He
was still in a posture of supplication when a sound
came from behind
him. Turning his head quickly, he observed a shape walking gingerly through the
living room. A man, dressed in sweater and slacks; a young
Negro.

“Are
you my sign?” Hamilton asked caustically.

The Negro’s face was drawn with
fatigue. “You remember who I am. I’m the guide who led you people out on
that platform. I’ve been thinking about it for fifteen hours straight.”

“It
wasn’t your fault,” Hamilton said. “You went down
with the
rest of us.” Getting stiffly to his feet, he came out of the bathroom and
into the hall. “Have you eaten
breakfast?”

“I’
m not hungry.” The Negro studied him intently.
“What were you doing?
Praying?’

“I
was,” Hamilton admitted.

“Is
that customary with you?”

“No.” He hesitated.
“I haven’t prayed since I was
eight.”

The
Negro digested the information. “My name is Bill
Laws.” They shook hands. “You’ve
figured it out, appar
ently. When did
you figure it out?”

“Some
time between last night and this morning.”

“Anything
special happen?”

Hamilton
told him about the rain of locusts and the bee. “It wasn’t hard to see the
causal hookup. I lied—
so I got
punished. And before that, I blasphemed—and I got punished. Cause and
effect.”

“You’re
wasting your time praying,” Laws told him
curtly. “I tried that. No dice.”

“What
did you pray for?”

Ironically,
Laws indicated the black surface of skin
starting at his collar. “One guess. Things aren’t quite that
simple … they never were and they never will
be.”

“You
sound pretty bitter,” Hamilton said cautiously.

“This
was quite a shock.” Laws wandered around the living room. “Sorry to
break right in. But the front door
was unlocked, so I assumed you were
up. You’re an
electronics research
worker?”

That’s right.”

Grimacing,
Laws said, “Greetings, brother. I’m a grad
uate student in advanced physics. That’s how I got the
job as
guide. A lot of competition in the field, these
days.” He added, “So they say.”

“How
did you find out?”

“This
business?” Laws shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t so tough.”
From his pocket he got a wad of cloth-
like material; unwrapping it, he
produced a small sliver of metal. “This is something my sister got me to
carry, years ago. Now it’s a habit.” He tossed the charm to Hamilton.
Inscribed on it were pious words of faith and hope, worn smooth by years of
handling.

“Go
on,” Laws said. “Use it.”

“Use it?” Hamilton didn’t
understand. “Frankly, all this is out of my line.”

“Your arm.” Laws gestured
impatiently. “It works, now. Put it on your gash. Better take off the
bandage
first; works better if there’s
actual physical contact.
Con
tiguity,
they call it. That’s
how I fixed up my various
aches and
breaks.”

Skeptically, and with great care,
Hamilton peeled away a section of the bandage; the livid, moist flesh glowed
bloodily in the morning sunlight. After a moment’s hesitation, he laid the
cold bit of metal against
it.

“There it goes,” Laws
said.

The ugly rawness of the wound faded.
As Hamilton watched, the meaty red waned to a dull pink. An orange
sheen crept over it; the gash shriveled, dried,
and closed.
Only a narrow line, white and indistinct, remained. And the
throbbing pain was gone.

“That’s it,” Laws said,
reaching for the charm.

“Did it work before?”

“Never. Just a lot of hot
air.” Laws pocketed it. “I’m going to try leaving a few hairs in
water overnight Worms in the morning, of course. Want to know how to cure
diabetes? Half a ground-up toad mixed with milk of a virgin, wrapped around the
neck in an old flannel that’s been dipped in pond water.”

“You mean all that junk—”

“It’s going to work. Like the
rustics have been saying. Up to now, they’ve been wrong. But now it’s us who’re
wrong.”

Marsha
appeared at the bedroom doorway in her robe,
hair tumbled about her
face, eyes half-shut with sleep. “Oh,” she said, startled, when she
made out Laws. “It’s
you. How are
you?”

“I’m
all right, thanks,” Laws answered.

Rubbing
her eyes, Marsha turned quickly to her hus
band. “How did you
sleep?”

“I slept.” Something in
her voice, a sharp urgency,
made him ask:
“Why?”

“Did
you dream?”

Hamilton
reflected. He had tossed, turned, experienced
vague phantasmagoria. But
nothing he could put his finger on. “No,” he admitted.

A strange expression had appeared on
Laws’ sharp face. “You dreamed, Mrs. Hamilton? What did you
dream?”

“The craziest thing. Not a
dream, exactly. I mean,
nothing happened.
It just—was.”

“A
place?”

“Yes,
a place. And us.”

“All
of us?” Laws asked intently. “All eight?”

“Yes.” She nodded eagerly.
“Lying down, where we fell. Down in the Bevatron. All of us, just
stretched out there. Unconscious. And nothing happening. No time.
No change.”

“Off
in the corner,” Laws said, “is something moving?
Some medical workers, maybe?”

“Yes,”
Marsha repeated. “But not moving. Just hanging
on some land of ladder. Frozen there.”

“They’re moving,” Laws
said. “I dreamed it, too. At first I thought they weren’t moving. But they
are. Very
slowly.”

There
was an uneasy silence.

Searching
his mind again, Hamilton said slowly, “Now
that you talk about it
…”
He shrugged. “It’s the trau
matic memory. The moment of shock. It’s cut right
into
our brains; well never be able to shake it.”

“But,” Marsha said
tensely, “
it’s still going on.
We’re
still there.”

“There?
Lying in the Bevatron?”

She
nodded anxiously. “I feel it. I believe it.”

Noting the alarm in her voice,
Hamilton changed the subject. “Surprise,” he told her, displaying his
newly healed arm. “Bill just sat back and passed a miracle.”

“Not
me,” Laws said emphatically, his dark eyes hard;
“I wouldn’t be caught dead passing a miracle.”

Embarrassed, Hamilton stood rubbing
his arm. It was your charm that did it.”

Laws
reexamined his metal good luck charm. “Maybe we’ve sunk down to the real
reality. Maybe this stuff has
been there all the time, under the
surface.”

Marsha
came slowly toward the two men. “We’re dead,
aren’t we?” she said huskily.

“Apparently not,” Hamilton
answered. “We’re still in Belmont, California. But not the same Belmont
There’ve been a few changes here and there. A few
ad
ditions. There’s Somebody hanging
around.”

“What
now?” Laws inquired.

“Don’t ask me,” Hamilton
said. I didn’t get us here. Obviously, the accident at the Bevatron produced
it.
Whatever it is.”

“I
can tell you what comes next,” Marsha said calmly.

“What?”

“I’m going out and get a
job.”

Hamilton raised his eyebrows.
“What kind of a job?”

“Any kind. Typing, working in a
store, switchboard operator. So we can keep on eating … remember?”

“I
remember,” Hamilton said. “But you stay home and
dust the mantel; I’ll take care of the
job-getting.” He in
dicated his smooth-shaven chin and clean shirt
“I’m
already two steps on my
way.”

“But,” Marsha appealed,
“it’s my fault you’re out of
work.”

“Maybe
we won’t have to work any more,” Laws re
flected, with ironic emphasis. “Maybe all we have to do
now is open our mouths and wait for the manna to
drift
down.”

“I
thought you tried that,” Hamilton said.

“I tried it, yes. And I got no
results. But some people
do
get results. We’re going to have to work out
the dynamics of this thing. This world, or whatever it is, has
its own laws. Different laws from the ones we
were familiar with. We’ve had a few already. Charms function.
That
implies that the whole structure of blessing now
works.” Laws added, “And maybe damnation.”

“Salvation,”
Marsha murmured, her brown eyes wide.
“Good
Lord, do you suppose there’s really a Heaven?”