“Think of it as a long freeway,” Dangerfield had once said in an interview, answering a reporter’s query about the hazards of the trip. “A million miles of ten lanes … with no oncoming traffic, no slow trucks. Think of it as being four o’clock in the morning … just your vehicle, no others. So like the guys says, what’s to worry?” And then his good smile.
Bending, Bonny turned the TV set back on.
And there, on the screen, was the round, bespectacled face of Walt Dangerfield; he wore his space suit—all but the helmet—and beside him stood Lydia, silent, as Walt answered questions.
“I hear,” Walt was drawling, with a chewing-movement of his jaw, as if he were masticating the question before answering, “that there’s a LOL in Boise, Idaho who’s worried about me.” He glanced up, as someone in the rear of the room asked something. “A LOL?” Walt said, “Well, —that was the great now-departed Herb Caen’s term for Little Old Ladies … there’s always one of them, everywhere. Probably there’s one on Mars already, and we’ll be living down the street from her. Anyhow, this one in Boise, or so I understand, is a little nervous about Lydia and myself, afraid something might happen to us. So she’s sent us a good luck charm.” He displayed it, holding it clumsily with the big gloved fingers of his suit. The reporters all murmured with amusement. “Nice, isn’t it?” Dangerfield said. “I’ll tell you what it does; it’s good for rheumatism.” The reporters laughted. “In case we get rheumatism while we’re on Mars. Or is it gout? I think it’s gout, she said in her letter.” He glanced at his wife. “Gout, was it?”
I guess, Bonny thought, they don’t make charms to ward off meteors or radiation. She felt sad, as if a premonition had come over her. Or was it just because this was Bruno Bluthgeld’s day at the psychiatrist’s? Sorrowful thoughts emanating from that fact, thoughts about death and radiation and miscalculation and terrible, unending illness.
I don’t believe Bruno has become a paranoid schizophrenic, she said to herself. This is only a situation deterioration, and with the proper psychiatric help—a few pills here and there—he’ll be okay. It’s an endocrine disturbance manifesting itself psychically, and they can do wonders with that; it’s not a character defect, a psychotic constitution, unfolding itself in the face of stress.
But what do I know, she thought gloomily. Bruno had to practically sit there and tell us “they” were poisoning his drinking water before either George or I grasped how ill he was … he merely seemed depressed.
Right this moment she could imagine Bruno with a prescription for some pill which stimulated the cortex or suppressed the diencephalon; in any case the modern Western equivalent for contemporary Chinese herbal medicine would be in action, altering the metabolism of Bruno’s brain, clearing away the delusions like so many cobwebs. And all would be well again; she and George and Bruno would be together again with their West Marin Baroque Recorder Consort, playing Bach and Handel in the evenings … it would be like old times. Two wooden Black Forest (genuine) recorders and, then herself at the piano. The house full of baroque music and the smell of home-baked bread, and a bottle of Buena Vista wine from the oldest winery in California…
On the television screen Walt Dangerfield was wise-cracking in his adult way, a sort of Voltaire and Will Rogers combined. “Oh yeah,” he was saying to a lady reporter who wore a funny large hat. “We expect to uncover a lot of strange life forms on Mars.” And he eyed her hat, as if saying, “There’s one now, I think.” And again, the reporters all laughed. “I think it moved,” Dangerfield said, indicating the hat to his quiet, cool-eyed wife. “It’s coming for us, honey.”
He really loves her, Bonny realized, watching the two of them. I wonder if George ever felt toward me the way Walt Dangerfield feels toward his wife; I doubt it, frankly. If he did, he never would have allowed me to have those two therapeutic abortions. She felt even more sad, now, and she got up and walked away from the TV set, her back to it.
They ought to send George to Mars, she thought with bitterness. Or better yet, send us all, George and me and the Dangerfields; George can have an affair with Lydia Dangerfield—if he’s able—and I can bed down with Walt; I’d be a fair to adequate partner in the great adventure. Why not?
I wish something would happen, she said to herself. I wish Bruno would call and say Doctor Stockstill had cured him, or I wish Dangerfield would suddenly back out of going, or the Chinese would start World War Three, or George would really hand the school board back that awful contract as he’s been saying he’s going to. Something, anyhow. Maybe, she thought, I ought to get out my potter’s wheel and pot; back to so-called creativity, or anal play or whatever it is. I could make a lewd pot. Design it, fire it in Violet Clatt’s kiln, sell it down in San Anselmo at Creative Artworks, Inc., that society ladies’ place that rejected my welded jewelry last year. I know they’d accept a lewd pot if it was a good lewd pot.
At Modern TV, a small crowd had collected in the front of the store to watch the large stereo color TV set, the Dangerfields’ flight being shown to all Americans everywhere, in their homes and at their places of work. Stuart McConchie stood with his arms folded, back of the crowd, also watching.
“The ghost of John L. Lewis,” Walt Dangerfield was saying in his dry way, “would appreciate the true meaning of portal to portal pay … if it hadn’t been for him, they’d probably be paying me about five dollars to make this trip, on the grounds that my job doesn’t actually begin until I get there.” He had a sobered expression, now; it was almost time for him and Lydia to enter the cubicle of the ship. “Just remember this … if something happens to us, if we get lost, don’t come out looking for us. Stay home and I’m sure Lydia and I will turn up somewhere.”
“Good luck,” the reporters were murmuring, as officials and technicians of NASA appeared and began bundling the Dangerfields off, out of view of the TV cameras.
“Won’t be long,” Stuart said to Lightheiser, who now stood beside him, also watching.
“He’s a sap to go,” Lightheiser said, chewing on a toothpick. “He’ll never come back; they make no bones about that.”
“Why should he want to come back?” Stuart said. “What’s so great about it here?” He felt envious of Walt Dangerfield; he wished it was he, Stuart McConchie, up there before the TV cameras, in the eyes of the entire world.
Up the stairs from the basement came Hoppy Harrington on his cart, wheeling eagerly forward. “Have they shot him off?” he asked Stuart in a nervous, quick voice, peering at the screen. “He’ll be burned up; it’ll be like that time in ’65; I don’t remember it, naturally, but—”
“Shut up, will you,” Lightheiser said softly, and the phocomelus, flushing, became silent. They all watched, then, each with his own private thoughts and reactions as on the TV screen the last inspection team was lifted by an overhead boom from the nose cone of the rocket. The countdown would soon begin; the rocket was fueled. checked over, and now the two people were entering it. The small group around the TV set stirred and murmured.
Sometime later today, sometime in the afternoon, their waiting would be rewarded, because Dutchman IV would take off; it would orbit the Earth for an hour or so, and the people would stand at the TV screen watching that, seeing the rocket go around and around, and then finally the decision would be made and someone below in the blockhouse would fire off the final stage and the orbiting rocket would change trajectory and leave the world. They had seen it before; it was much like this every time, but this was new because the people in this one this time would never be returning. It was well worth spending a day in front of the set; the crowd of people was ready for the wait.
Stuart McConchie thought about lunch and then after that he would come back here and watch again; he would station himself here once more, with the others. He would get little or no work done today, would sell no TV sets to anybody. But this was more important. He could not miss this. That might be me up there someday, he said to himself; maybe I’ll emigrate later on when I??
?m earning enough to get married, take my wife and kids and start a new life up there on Mars, when they get a really good colony going, not just machines.
He thought of himself in the nose cone, like Walt Dangerfield, strapped next to a woman of great physical attractiveness. Pioneers, he and her, founding a new civilization on a new planet. But then his stomach rumbled and he realized how hungry he was; he could not postpone lunch much longer.
Even as he stood watching the great upright rocket on the TV screen, his thoughts turned toward soup and rolls and beef, stew and apple pie with ice cream on it, up at Fred’s Fine Foods.
III
Almost every day Stuart McConchie ate lunch at the coffee shop up the street from Modern TV. Today, as he entered Fred’s Fine Foods, he saw to his irritation that Hoppy Harrington’s cart was parked in the back, and there was Hoppy eating his lunch in a perfectly natural and easygoing manner, as if he were used to coming here. Goddam, Stuart thought. He’s taking over; the phoces are taking over. And I didn’t even see him leave the store.
However, Stuart seated himself in a booth and picked up the menu. He can’t drive me off, he said to himself as he looked to see what the special of the day was, and how much it cost. The end of the month had arrived, and Stuart was nearly broke. He looked ahead constantly to his twice-monthly paycheck; it would be handed out personally by Fergesson at the end of the week.
The shrill sound of the phoce’s voice reached Stuart as he sipped his soup; Hoppy was telling a yarn of some sort, but to whom? To Connie, the waitress? Stuart turned his head and saw that both the waitress and Tony the frycook were standing near Hoppy’s cart, listening, and neither of them showed any revulsion toward the phoce.
Now Hoppy saw and recognized Stuart. “Hi!” he called.
Stuart nodded and turned away, concentrating on his soup.
The phoce was telling them all about an invention of his, some kind of electronic contraption he had either built or intended to build—Stuart could not tell which, and he certainly did not care. It did not matter to him what Hoppy built, what crazy ideas emanated from the little man’s brain. No doubt it’s something sick, Stuart said to himself. Some crank gadget, like a perpetual motion machine … maybe a perpetual motion cart for him to ride on. He laughed at that idea, pleased with it. I have to tell that to Lightheiser, he decided. Hoppy’s perpetual motion—and then he thought, His phocomobile. At that, Stuart laughed aloud.
Hoppy heard him laugh, and evidently thought he was laughing at something which he himself was saying. “Hey, Stuart,” he called, “come on over and join me and I’ll buy you a beer.”
The moron, Stuart thought. Doesn’t he know Fergesson would never let us have a beer on our lunch hour? It’s a rule; if we have a beer we’re supposed to never come back to the store and he’ll mail us our check.
“Listen,” he said to the phoce, turning around in his seat, “when you’ve worked for Fergesson a little longer you’ll know better than to say something stupid like that.”
Flushing, the phoce murmured, “What do you mean?”
The frycook said, “Fergesson don’t allow his employees to drink; it’s against his religion, isn’t it, Stuart?”
“That’s right,” Stuart said. “And you better learn that.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” the phoce said, “and anyhow I wasn’t going to have a beer myself. But I don’t see what right an employer has to tell his employees what they can’t have on their own time. It’s their lunch hour and they should have a beer if they want it.” His voice was sharp, full of grim indignation. He was no longer kidding.
Stuart said, “He doesn’t want his salesmen coming in smelling like a brewery; I think that’s his right. It’d offend some old lady customer.”
“I can see that for the salesmen like you,” Hoppy said, “but I’m not a salesman; I’m a repairman, and I’d have a beer if I wanted it.”
The frycook looked uneasy. “Now look, Hoppy—” he began.
“You’re too young to have a beer,” Stuart said. Now everyone in the place was listening and watching.
The phoce had flushed a deep red. “I’m of age,” he said in a quiet, taut voice.
“Don’t serve him any beer,” Connie, the waitress, said to the frycook. “He’s just a kid.”
Reaching into his pocket with his extensor, Hoppy brought out his wallet; he laid it open on the counter. “I’m twenty-one,” he said.
Stuart laughed. “Bull.” He must have some phony identification in there, he realized. The nut printed it himself or forged it or something. He has to be exactly like everyone; he’s got an obsession about it.
Examining the identification in the wallet, the frycook said, “Yeah, it says he’s of age. But Hoppy, remember that other time you were in here and I served you a beer; remember—”
“You have to serve me,” the phoce said.
Grunting, the frycook went and got a bottle of Hamm’s beer, which he placed, unopened, before Hoppy.
“An opener,” the phoce said.
The frycook went and got an opener; he tossed it on the counter, and Hoppy pried open the bottle.
Taking a deep breath, the phoce drank the beer.
What’s going on? Stuart wondered, noticing the way that the frycook and Connie—and even a couple of the patrons—were watching Hoppy. Does he pass out or something? Goes berserk, maybe? He felt repelled and at the same time deeply uneasy. I wish I was through with my food, he thought; I wish I was out of here. Whatever it is, I don’t want to be a witness to it. I’m going back to the shop and watch the rocket again, he decided. I’m going to watch Dangerfield’s flight, something vital to America, not this freak; I don’t have time to waste on this.
But he stayed where he was, because something was happening some peculiar thing involving Hoppy Harrington; he could not draw his attention away from it, try as he might.
In the center of his cart the phocomelus had sunk down, as if he were going to sleep. He lay with his head resting on the tiller which steered the cart, and his eyes became almost shut; his eyes had a glazed look.
“Jeez,” the frycook said. “He’s doing it again.” He appealed around to the rest of them, as if asking them to do something, but no one stirred; they all stood or sat where they were.
“I knew he would,” Connie said in a bitter, accusing voice.
The phoce’s lips trembled and in a mumble he said, “Ask me. Now somebody ask me.”
“Ask you what?” the frycook said angrily. He made a gesture of disgust, turned and walked away, back to his grill.
“Ask me,” Hoppy repeated, in a dull, far-off voice, as if he were speaking in a kind of fit. Watching, Stuart realized that it was a fit, a kind of epilepsy. He yearned to be out of the place and away, but still he could not stir; he still, like the others, had to go on watching.
Connie said to Stuart, “Can’t you push him back to the store? Just start pushing!” She glowered at him, but it wasn’t his fault; Stuart shrank away and gestured to show his helplessness.
Mumbling, the phoce flopped about on his cart, his plastic and metal manual extensors twitching. “Ask me about it,” he was saying. “Come on, before it’s too late; I can tell you now, I can see.”
At his grill the frycook said loudly, “I wish one of you guys would ask him. I wish you’d get it over with; I know somebody’s going to ask him and if you don’t I will—I got a couple of questions.” He threw down his spatula and made his way back to the phoce. “Hoppy,” he said loudly, “you said last time it was all dark. Is that right? No light at all?”
The phoce’s lips twitched. “Some light. Dim light. Yellow, like it’s about burned out.”
Beside Stuart appeared the middle-aged jeweler from across the street. “I was here last time,” he whispered to Stuart. “Want to know what it is he sees? I can tell you; listen, Stu, he sees beyond.”
“Beyond what?” Stuart said, standing up so that he could watch and hear better; everyone had moved clo
ser, now, so as not to miss anything.
“You know,” Mr. Crody said. “Beyond the grave. The afterlife. You can laugh, Stuart, but it’s true; when he has a beer he goes into this trance, like you see him in now, and he has occult vision or something. You ask Tony or Connie and some of these other people; they were here, too.”
Now Connie was leaning over the slumped, twitching figure in the center of the cart. “Hoppy, what’s the light from? Is it God?” She laughed nervously. “You know, like in the Bible. I mean, is it true?”
Hoppy said mumblingly, “Gray darkness. Like ashes. Then a great flatness. Nothing but fires burning, light is from the burning fires. They burn forever. Nothing alive.”
“And where are you?” Connie asked.
“I’m—floating,” Hoppy said. “Floating near the ground … no, now I’m very high. I’m weightless, I don’t have a body any more so I’m high up, as high as I want to be. I can hang here, if I want; I don’t have to go back down. I like it up here and I can go around the Earth forever. There it is down below me and I can just keep going around and around.”
Going up beside the cart, Mr. Crody the jeweler said, “Uh, Hoppy, isn’t there anybody else? Are each of us doomed to isolation?”
Hoppy mumbled, “I—see others, now. I’m drifting back down, I’m landing among the grayness. I’m walking about.”
Walking, Stuart thought. On what? Legs but no body; what an afterlife. He laughed to himself. What a performance, he thought. What crap. But he, too, came up beside the cart, now, squeezing in to be able to see.
“Is it that you’re born into another life, like they teach in the East?” an elderly lady customer in a cloth coat asked.
“Yes,” Hoppy said, surprisingly. “A new life. I have a different body; I can do all kinds of things.”