Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (37 page)

"I'm King of the Mountain," he shouted, looking around in imperial survey.
"I'm King of the—" He cut himself off and stared down behind the
statue.

"Jim, what's the matter?"

Without a word, Mayo climbed down and strode to a pile of debris
half-hidden inside overgrown forsythia bushes. He knelt and began turning
over the wreckage with gentle hands. Linda ran to him.

"Jim, what's wrong?"

"These used to be model boats," he muttered.

"That's right. My God, is that all? I thought you were sick or something."

"How come they're here?"

"Why, I dumped them, of course."

"You?"

"Yes. I told you. I had to clear out the boathouse when I moved in. That
was ages ago."

"You did this?"

"Yes. I—"

"You're a murderer," he growled. He stood up and glared at her. "You're a
killer. You're like all women, you got no heart and soul. To do a thing
like this!"

He turned and stalked toward the boat pond. Linda followed him, completely
bewildered.

"Jim, I don't understand. Why are you so mad?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"But I had to have house room. You wouldn't expect me to live with a lot
of model boats."

"Just forget everything I said. I'm going to pack and go south. I wouldn't
stay with you if you was the last person on earth."

Linda gathered herself and suddenly darted ahead of Mayo. When he tramped
into the boathouse, she was standing before the door of the guest room.
She held up a heavy iron key.

"I found it," she panted. "Your door's locked."

"Gimme that key, Linda."

"No."

He stepped toward her, but she faced him defiantly and stood her ground.

"Go ahead," she challenged. "Hit me."

He stopped. "Aw, I wouldn't pick on anybody that wasn't my own size."

They continued to face each other, at a complete impasse.

"I don't need my gear," Mayo muttered at last. "I can get more stuff
somewheres."

"Oh, go ahead and pack," Linda answered. She tossed him the key and stood
aside. Then Mayo discovered there was no lock in the bedroom door. He
opened the door, looked inside, closed it, and looked at Linda. She kept
her face straight but began to sputter. He grinned. Then they both burst
out laughing.

"Gee," Mayo said, "you sure made a monkey out of me. I'd hate to play
poker against you."

"You're a pretty good bluffer yourself, Jim. I was scared to death you
were going to knock me down."

"You ought to know I wouldn't hurt nobody."

"I guess I do. Now, let's sit down and talk this over sensibly."

"Aw, forget it, Linda. I kind of lost my head over them boats, and I—"

"I don't mean the boats; I mean going south. Every time you get mad you
start south again. Why?"

"I told you, to find guys who know about TV."

"Why?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"I can try. Why don't you explain what you're after—specifically?
Maybe I can help you."

"You can't do nothing for me; you're a girl."

"We have our uses. At least I can listen. You can trust me, Jim. Aren't we
chums? Tell me about it."

Well, when the blast come (Mayo said) I was up in the Berkshires with Gil
Watkins. Gil was my buddy, a real nice guy and a real bright guy. He took
two years from M.I.T. before he quit college. He was like chief engineer
or something at WNHA, the TV station in New Haven. Gil had a million
hobbies. One of them was spee—speel—I can't remember. It meant
exploring caves.

So anyway, we were up in this flume in the Berkshires, spending the
weekend inside, exploring and trying to map everything and figure out
where the underground river comes from. We brought food and stuff along,
and bedrolls. The compass we were using went crazy for like twenty
minutes, and that should have give us a clue, but Gil talked about
magnetic ores and stuff. Only when we come out Sunday night, I tell you it
was pretty scary. Gil knew right off what happened.

"By Christ, Jim," he said, "they up and done it like everybody always knew
they would. They've blew and gassed and poisoned and radiated themselves
straight to hell, and we're going back to that goddamn cave until it all
blows over."

So me and Gil went back and rationed the food and stayed as long as we
could. Finally we come out again and drove back to New Haven. It was dead
like all the rest. Gil put together some radio stuff and tried to pick up
broadcasts. Nothing. Then we packed some canned goods and drove all
around: Bridgeport, Waterbury, Hartford, Springfield, Providence, New
London … a big circle. Nobody. Nothing. So we come back to New
Haven and settled down, and it was a pretty good life.

Daytime, we'd get in supplies and stuff and tinker with the house to keep
it working right. Nights, after supper, Gil would go off to WNHA around
seven o'clock and start the station. He was running it on the emergency
generators. I'd go down to the Body Slam, open it up, sweep it out, and
then start the bar TV set. Gil fixed me a generator for it to run on.

It was a lot of fun watching the shows Gil was broadcasting. He'd start
with the news and weather, which he always got wrong. All he had was some
Farmer's Almanacs and a sort of antique barometer that looked like that
clock you got there on the wall. I don't think it worked so good, or maybe
Gil never took weather at M.I.T. Then he'd broadcast the evening show.

I had my shotgun in the bar in case of holdups. Anytime I saw something
that bugged me, I just up with the gun and let loose at the set. Then I'd
take it and throw it out the front door and put another one in its place.
I must have had hundreds waiting in the back. I spent two days a week just
collecting reserves.

Midnight, Gil would turn off WNHA, I'd lock up the restaurant, and we'd
meet home for coffee. Gil would ask how many sets I shot and laugh when I
told him. He said I was the most accurate TV poll ever invented. I'd ask
him about what shows were coming up next week and argue with him about
… oh … about like what movies or football games WNHA was
scheduling. I didn't like Westerns much, and I hated them high-minded
panel discussions.

But the luck had to turn lousy; it's the story of my life. After a couple
of years, I found out I was down to my last set, and then I was in
trouble. This night Gil run one of them icky commercials where this
smart-aleck woman saves a marriage with the right laundry soap. Naturally
I reached for my gun, and only at the last minute remembered not to shoot.
Then he run an awful movie about a misunderstood composer, and the same
thing happened. When we met back at the house, I was all shook up.

"What's the matter?" Gil asked.

I told him.

"I thought you liked watching the shows," he said.

"Only when I could shoot 'em."

"You poor bastard," he laughed, "you're a captive audience now."

"Gil, could you maybe change the programs, seeing the spot I'm in?"

"Be reasonable, Jim. WNHA has to broadcast variety. We operate on the
cafeteria basis; something for everybody. If you don't like a show, why
don't you switch channels?"

"Now that's silly. You know damn well we only got one channel in New
Haven."

"Then turn your set off."

"I can't turn the bar set off; it's part of the entertainment. I'd lose my
whole clientele. Gil, do you
have
to show them awful movies, like
that army musical last night, singing and dancing and kissing on top of
Sherman tanks, for Jezus' sake!"

"The women love uniform pictures."

"And those commercials; women always sneering at somebody's girdle, and
fairies smoking cigarettes, and—"

"Aw," Gil said, "write a letter to the station."

So I did, and a week later I got an answer. It said:
Dear Mr. Mayo: We
are very glad to learn that you are a regular viewer of WNHA, and thank
you for your interest in our programming. We hope you will continue to
enjoy our broadcasts. Sincerely yours, Gilbert O. Watkins, Station
Manager.
A couple of tickets for an interview show were enclosed. I
showed the letter to Gil, and he just shrugged.

"You see what you're up against, Jim," he said. "They don't care about
what you like or don't like. All they want to know is if you are
watching."

I tell you, the next couple of months were hell for me. I couldn't keep
the set turned off, and I couldn't watch it without reaching for my gun a
dozen times a night. It took all my willpower to keep from pulling the
trigger. I got so nervous and jumpy that I knew I had to do something
about it before I went off my rocker. So one night I brought the gun home
and shot Gil.

Next day I felt a lot better, and when I went down to the Body Slam at
seven o'clock to clean up, I was whistling kind of cheerful. I swept out
the restaurant, polished the bar, and then turned on the TV to get the
news and weather. You wouldn't believe it, but the set was busted. I
couldn't get a picture. I couldn't even get a sound. My last set, busted.

So you see, that's why I have to head south (Mayo explained)—I got
to locate a TV repairman.

There was a long pause after Mayo finished his story. Linda examined him
keenly, trying to conceal the gleam in her eye. At last she asked with
studied carelessness, "Where did he get the barometer?"

"Who? What?"

"Your friend, Gil. His antique barometer. Where did he get it?"

"Gee, I don't know. Antiquing was another one of his hobbies."

"And it looked like that clock?"

"Just like it."

"French?"

"I couldn't say."

"Bronze?"

"I guess so. Like your clock. Is that bronze?"

"Yes. Shaped like a sunburst?"

"No, just like yours."

"That's a sunburst. The same size?"

"Exactly."

"Where was it?"

"Didn't I tell you? In our house."

"Where's the house?"

"On Grant Street."

"What number?"

"Three fifteen. Say, what is all this?"

"Nothing, Jim. Just curious. No offense. Now I think I'd better get our
picnic things."

"You wouldn't mind if I took a walk by myself?"

She cocked an eye at him. "Don't try driving alone. Garage mechanics are
scarcer than TV repairmen."

He grinned and disappeared; but after dinner the true purpose of his
disappearance was revealed when he produced a sheaf of sheet music, placed
it on the piano rack, and led Linda to the piano bench. She was delighted
and touched.

"Jim, you angel! Wherever did you find it?"

"In the apartment house across the street. Fourth floor, rear. Name of
Horowitz. They got a lot of records, too. Boy, I can tell you it was
pretty spooky snooping around in the dark with only matches. You know
something funny? The whole top of the house is full of glop."

"Glop?"

"Yeah. Sort of white jelly, only it's hard. Like clear concrete. Now look,
see this note? It's C. Middle C. It stands for this white key here. We
better sit together. Move over …"

The lesson continued for two hours of painful concentration and left them
both so exhausted that they tottered to their rooms with only perfunctory
good nights.

"Jim," Linda called.

"Yeah?" he yawned.

"Would you like one of my dolls for your bed?"

"Gee, no. Thanks a lot, Linda, but guys really ain't interested in dolls."

"I suppose not. Never mind. Tomorrow I'll have something for you that
really interests guys."

Mayo was awakened next morning by a rap on his door. He heaved up in bed
and tried to open his eyes.

"Yeah? Who is it?" he called.

"It's me. Linda. May I come in?"

He glanced around hastily. The room was neat. The hooked rug was clean.
The precious candlewick bedspread was neatly folded on top of the dresser.

"Okay. Come on in."

Linda entered, wearing a crisp seersucker dress. She sat down on the edge
of the four-poster and gave Mayo a friendly pat. "Good morning," she said.
"Now listen. I'll have to leave you alone for a few hours. I've got things
to do. There's breakfast on the table, but I'll be back in time for lunch.
All right?"

"Sure."

"You won't be lonesome?"

"Where you going?"

"Tell you when I get back." She reached out and tousled his head. "Be a
good boy and don't get into mischief. Oh, one other thing. Don't go into
my bedroom."

"Why should I?"

"Just don't anyway."

She smiled and was gone. Moments later, Mayo heard the jeep start and
drive off. He got up at once, went into Linda's bedroom, and looked
around. The room was neat, as ever. The bed was made, and her pet dolls
were lovingly arranged on the coverlet. Then he saw it.

"Gee," he breathed.

It was a model of a full-rigged clipper ship. The spars and rigging were
intact, but the hull was peeling, and the sails were shredded. It stood
before Linda's closet, and alongside it was her sewing basket. She had
already cut out a fresh set of white linen sails. Mayo knelt down before
the model and touched it tenderly.

"I'll paint her black with a gold line around her," he murmured, "and I'll
name her the
Linda N.
"

He was so deeply moved that he hardly touched his breakfast. He bathed,
dressed, took his shotgun and a handful of shells, and went out to wander
through the park. He circled south, passed the playing fields, the
decaying carousel, and the crumbling skating rink, and at last left the
park and loafed down Seventh Avenue.

He turned east on 50
^th
Street and spent a long time trying to
decipher the tattered posters advertising the last performance at Radio
City Music Hall. Then he turned south again. He was jolted to a halt by
the sudden clash of steel. It sounded like giant sword blades in a titanic
duel. A small herd of stunted horses burst out of a side street, terrified
by the clangor. Their shoeless hooves thudded bluntly on the pavement. The
sound of steel stopped.