Motorman (3 page)

“What are you doing, Bunce? ”

“What am I doing, he says.”

“Why the hot room threat, why the sudden restrictions? If this is a mistake I'll forgive it right now, but if it's a josh I don't know what I'll do. Is it a mistake? A josh? A shuck?”

“No. Perfectly serious. I want your close attention, Moldenke. You're in my hands.”

“No, Bunce. I decline. I'm hanging up now; maybe I'll run the movie backward a few frames, and the phone won't ring.”

“Can the tricks, boy.”

“I don't believe this, Bunce. I need proof, some sign.”

“You want proof? ”

“I want a sign.”

“All right, boy. A sign. Stand there awhile and then go to the lookout.”

Moldenke waited, went to the lookout, watched an amber cocacola mist fade into a yellow drizzle. Proof? He scanned two horizons, surveyed the streets. Nothing. No sign. Pigeons in eaves across the way. No k-vehicles. The Health Truck passed.

An ant crawled over Moldenke's shoe and went up a wall.

Something climbed from shelf to shelf in the refrigerator.

A dull hissing, distant, then close. He spun in the darkness, saw its eyelike headlight, heard the jelly slosh.

18]

A genuine month before this, Moldenke had been driving his k-rambler along a white boulevard curving around a stadium. At a certain point on the curve he saw a couple, man and woman. The woman knelt over the gutter, favoring her stomach, her face a shade of purple. Moldenke stopped. The man, tobacco-stained and scholarly, asked if Moldenke would be so kind as to give them a ride to a drugstore for a tin of “shark” tablets, for the woman's illness.

They lifted her onto the back seat and drove on down the wide boulevard, Moldenke beginning to have some doubts about the couple. The woman grunted in the back and gave off an odor.

“Shark tablets?” Moldenke questioned.

The man nodded and agreed.

“For the wife?” Moldenke questioned again.

The man said, “Yez,” with a “z,” a mannerism Moldenke never enjoyed.

He saw a slight movement over the man's eye. He looked. An eyebrow dangled over the eye, parts of the face flaking down the suit.

He took out a cigar, testing.

“No flames, pliz!” He turned the face toward Moldenke.

Moldenke held out his cigar lighter, his thumb on the flint. “Why not?” He turned the flint slowly, the car filling with gas.

The moustache slid down the tie. Above the paper collar the plastic had begun to curl. Now Moldenke was sure-—a pair of jellyheads working the streets. He shouldn't have picked them up, but he had. He would do what Burnheart had told him to do on a number of occasions; he would open them up.

He gunned the k-rambler and drove toward the bottoms. Traffic thinned and ended. Civilization gave way to a marshland, veined with treeless ridges. At every klick-marker a blind road turned into the bottoms. He picked one and drove along slush ruts until they ended, stopped, and turned off the motor.

He looked at the rubber face. “Are you a pair of Bunce's jellyheads?”

In the back the woman sat up, said nothing. Most of the man's features had broken loose and tumbled down to the seat and floor. The head, without makeup, a gray balloon, something sloshing inside it.

“I asked if you were on Bunce's payroll.” He turned the flint faster.

They chose silence.

“Okay,” Moldenke said. “Then get out of the car and take your medicine. I've got you fair. Don't resist me.”

They climbed out. Moldenke exposed his letter opener.

“You first.” The man came forward. “Bend over.” The man bowed. With the letter opener, Moldenke opened a small hole in the back of the neck, enough for two fingers. He put a thumb and a forefinger in and widened the hole, a clear jelly spilling out, down his trenchpants. The air smelled of laboratories. He did the woman, her jelly more clouded, her rubber skull a little thicker than the professor's had been.

In the morning, with two suns behind him like stray moons, he examined his vehicle. The odor of laboratories was there, although faint. In the back seat the same jelly substance, studded with nibs, as though the woman had eaten peanuts, had washed across the upholstery.

19]

There was a knock at the door, either soft hands or gloved fingers. The meal was there from Bunce, on a tray in the hall, on the floor. The first meal from Bunce. He was hungry. He took the tray inside and ate. The tray had three hollows: catmeat filled one, boiled crickets filled the second, and a chunk of stale pinebread with ant sauce filled the third.

20]

A letter came from Burnheart:

Dear Moldenke,

Cheer up. Things are approaching the jell. Nothing is final as yet, but we are working it through. Eagleman sends his regards. He's a good man to know. We should consider ourselves among the fortunate few. What would a winter night be like without Eagleman's moon? Tell me that. Crowded almost out now with government moons, but still the brightest light in the sky. We have no one to thank for Eagleman except...Eagleman.

This letter has a purpose. Enclosed, please find a simple, one-part questionnaire. Fill it out and get it back to me as soon as you can. We can't move an inch without the information.

Cordial greetings,

Burnheart

The questionnaire:

Situation Reaction

You are shad fishing in a plainly marked municipal water tub, or (2) you chance by a swollen river. The fog log, you remember from the radio weather, is at 77. The ambient light is dim, or (2) very bright. As you gaze over the water's surface you see what appears to be the corpse of a dray horse, bridled even in death, with sodden fragments of the dray still attached. No moons are up, or (2) two moons are up, or (3) the sun is simply down, or (4) more than one sun is down. You rise up to your feet and take another look.
Caution:
It may not be a horse at all.
Additional Caution:
If it is a horse it is either bloated, or (2), there is a plate-sized hole in its belly to relieve the pressures of rot. The animal floats closer to the breakwater, now clearly in danger of rubbing barnacles. Your hearts leap up. Your spleen puff.
WHAT NOW?
(See below)

(USE THIS SPACE)

21]

He called the Power Co-op:

“Good afternoon, sir. Power Co-op. May I help you this afternoon, sir?” The voice was feminine, high pitched, a refined whistle.

Moldenke was puzzled. Something already wasn't exactly right. “Miss, how did you know I was male?”

“Sir?”

“I wanted to know how it was that you knew I was a 'sir,' instead of a 'miss,' or a 'little boy,' or something like that.”

“Sir?”

“That's right. You pinned it down as soon as you answered. I hadn't even opened my mouth. But you knew I was male. I wanted to know how you knew. That's all.”

“Sir? Didn't you say your name? You said something.”

“No, ma'am. Nothing. Was it my breathing? A man's breathing is a touch huskier than a woman's, or a child's, is that the trick?”

“No, sir. Please excuse my enthusiasm. It's my first day on the job, sir. If I've made an error, then we apologize. We beg your pardon.”

“Fine, that's fine, miss. Now, what I called about is my electricity. It suddenly went off a while back. No radio, no weather reports, no heat, nothing. I need some service out here.”

“Certainly, Mr. Moldenke. We'll do what we can to-—”

“Miss?”

“Sir?”

“Now I'm more than a little bit puzzled. First there was the 'sir.' Now you give me a clean, crisp,
Mr. Moldenke,
as though I had actually told you my name. I haven't mentioned the name yet, have I, miss?”

“Yes, sir. You did...you must have. Didn't you?”

“No, ma’am. I haven't. I'm sure of it. Let me speak to the supervisor.”

“Please, sir. We apologize. This is my first day.”

“Don't worry, miss. You'll keep the job. You're very good at it, but a little too fast for me. Your supervisor, please.”

“Sir, he's not in the building at the moment.”

“Does he have a supervisor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I'll speak to him. Connect me with him.”

“Yes, sir. That would be Mr. Bunce. Just a moment.”

“Miss?”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Cancel the whole thing. Goodbye.”

“Sir?”

The only outgoing, thrown to the winds.

22]

Moldenke sat henlike in his chair, brooding in the dark, chewing a stonepick. The door opened halfway, showing an obelisk of hall light, and Burnheart came in, striking matches.

“Burnheart? Is that you, Burnheart?”

“Moldenke?” He held the match an inch from Moldenke's chin. “Why do you live like this, Moldenke? You get more like a rat every season. What do they pay you to live here? I smell urine. Where's the straw?” The match went out. He struck another one, moving it up and down, looking at the whole Moldenke.

“Burnheart. I'm happy to see you. Sit down somewhere. Let's talk. I thought you were in the country with Eagleman.”

“I was. I was in the country. However, now I'm in the city. I move with my moods. My mood said city, and here I am, a toad in the frog pond, as they say. Why am I striking matches like this? Turn on the lights.”

“I can't. They're off. That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What do I know about practical electricity? It's not my field. What could I say? ”

“No no. I'm concerned about why they're off, not that they're off. I think it's Bunce.”

“Bunce?”

“You know the man?”

“Bunce. Yes, I know Bunce...You must have a candle around. Is there a candle, Moldenke? Some kind of light source?”

“I'm afraid not. Burnheart, tell me what to do. I don't know of anyone else who can advise me. What should I do about Bunce?”

“What a season this has been, Moldenke. What a season. My old heart won't stand another one like it. So many loads in the old gun and so on. I sometimes consider retiring, quitting the whole thing. Of course, someone always steps in and reminds me that I have nothing to retire from. So I never do. I continue slaving and worrying over nothing substantial. I'm plumb tired. The system is wearing out. I plan to get back to the country as fast as I can. Sometimes, there, I hear the chirp of a snipe, and that reminds me that I'm still alive. What does it all matter?”

“Sit down, Burnheart. Talk.”

“Where, Moldenke? Are there chairs in a rat's den? Where shall I sit?” Moldenke occupied the only chair.

“Take this chair.”

“No, Moldenke. You stay there. You need the rest. You're still young. Rest while you can. There's nothing ahead but rattles.” Another match went out. “Some light is better than none. We'll smoke cigars.” Burnheart lit two blue cigars with his last match and gave one to Moldenke. “Here, Moldenke. Puff hard and constantly. We'll get close to one another and puff rapidly.” Burnheart knelt, squaring his height with Moldenke's. Moldenke remained in the chair. They studied one another in the wavering orange swells of light, through smoke and running eyes.

“Burnheart, I may have broken an unwritten rule of some kind. I'm not sure.”

“Well, then. If
you're
not sure, how can
I
be sure? How can we talk about it? Tell me more, Dinky.”

“I think I opened up a couple of Bunce's jellyheads. But I 'm not sure.”

“You're not sure?”

“No, I had been chewing stonepicks. I was seeing and feeling through cotton. I'm not certain.”

“I've told you about stonepicks. Say I haven't.”

“You have.”

“You had one in your mouth when I came in. Say you didn't.”

“I didn't.”

“So you opened a pair of jellies?”

“Yes,
maybe
I did. The recollection is full of holes.”

“But there is a recollection?”

“Yes, I woke up with it. It was strong. I checked my clothes, my vehicle. There was definitely jelly, and those nibs.”

“What did you do it with? ”

“I may have done it with my letter opener.”

“May I see it?” Moldenke gave him the letter opener, a simple chrome affair with swirls. He smelled it, touched it, gave it back. The cigars were halfway done. “I'd say you did it, or someone did it with your letter opener, wearing your clothes, and driving your vehicle. One or the other. I'm afraid I don't know what to say, Dinky. Bunce has a great deal of pull.”