Eye in the Sky

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Pritchet said, distressed. “All that traffic.”

  “We won’t be taking that rout,” Hamilton told her, as he turned the Ford coupe from Bayshore Freeway, onto a side road. “We’re going down toward Los Gatos.”

  “And then what?” Mrs. Pritchet asked, with avid, almost childish expectancy. “Goodness, I’ve never been over that way.”

  “Then all the way to the ocean,” Marsha said, flushed with excitement “We’re going to drive down Highway One, the coast highway, down to Big Sur.”

  “Where’s that?” Mrs. Pritchet asked doubtfully.

  “That’s in the Santa Lucia Mountains, just below Monterey. It won’t take too long and it’s a lovely place for a picnic.”

  “Fine,” Mrs. Pritchet agreed, settling back against the car seat and folding her hands in her lap. “It certainly is sweet of you to suggest a picnic.”

  “Not at all,” Hamilton said, giving the coupe a vicious spurt of gas.

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with Golden Gate Park,” McFeyffe said suspiciously.

  “Too many people,” Miss Reiss said logically. “Big Sur is part of a Federal Preserve. It’s still wild.”

  Mrs. Pritchet looked apprehensive. “Will we be safe?”

  “Absolutely,” Miss Reiss assured her. “Nothing will go wrong.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at work, Mr. Hamilton?” Mrs. Pritchet asked. “This isn’t a holiday, is it? Mr. Laws is at work”

  “I took the morning off,” Hamilton said sardonically. “So I could pilot you around.”

  “Why, how sweet,” Mrs. Pritchet exclaimed, her pulpy hands fluttering on her lap.

  Puffing moodily on his cigar, McFeyffe said, “What’s going on, Hamilton? Are you trying to put something over on somebody?” A tendril of sickening cigar smoke drifted to the back seat where Mrs. Pritchet sat Frowning, she abolished cigars. McFeyffe found himself clutching empty air; for an instant his face turned beet-red, then, gradually, the color faded. “Uh,” he muttered.

  “What were you saying?” Mrs. Pritchet urged.

  McFeyffe failed to answer; he was clumsily searching his pockets, hoping that by some miracle one cigar had been overlooked.

  “Mrs. Pritchet,” Hamilton said casually, “has it ever occurred to you that the Irish have made no contribution to culture? There are no Irish painters, no Irish musicians—”

  “Jesus God,” McFeyffe said, stricken.

  “No musicians?” Mrs. Pritchet asked, in surprise. “Dear, dear, is that so? No, I hadn’t realized that.”

  “The Irish are a barbaric race,” Hamilton continued, with sadistic pleasure. “All they do is—”

  “George Bernard Shaw!” McFeyffe howled fearfully. “The greatest playwright in the world! William Butler Yeats, the greatest poet. James Joyce, the—” He broke off quickly. “Also a poet.”

  “Author of Ulysses,” Hamilton added. “Banned for years because of its lewd and vulgar passages.”

  “It’s great art,” McFeyffe croaked.

  Mrs. Pritchet reflected. “Yes,” she agreed finally, her decision made. “That judge decided it was art. No, Mr. Hamilton, I think you’re quite wrong. The Irish have been very talented in the theater and in poetry.”

  “Swift,” McFeyffe whispered encouragingly. “Wrote Gulliver’s Travels. Sensational work.”

  “All right,” Hamilton agreed amiably. “I lose.”

  Almost unconscious with terror, McFeyffe lay gasping and perspiring, his face a mottled gray.

  “How could you?” Marsha said accusingly, lips close to her husband’s ear. “You—beast”

  Amused, Miss Reiss contemplated Hamilton with new respect “You came close.”

  “As close as I wanted to,” Hamilton answered, a little shocked at himself, now that he thought it over. “Sorry, Charley.”

  “Forget it,” McFeyffe muttered hoarsely.

  To the right of the road lay an expanse of barren fields. As he drove, Hamilton searched his mind; hadn’t something been here? Finally, after considerable effort, he recalled. This was supposed to be a roaring, hammering industrial section of factories and refining plants. Ink, tallow, chemicals, plastics, lumber … now it was gone. Only the open countryside remained.

  “I was by here once before,” Mrs. Pritchet said, seeing the expression on his face. “I abolished all those things. Nasty, bad-smelling, noisy places.”

  “Then there aren’t any more factories?” Hamilton inquired. “Bill Laws must feel disappointed, without his soap works.”

  I left soap plants,” Mrs. Pritchet said sanctimoniously. “The ones that smell nice, at least.”

  In a kind of depraved way, Hamilton was almost beginning to enjoy himself. It was so completely faulty, so ramshackle and precarious. With a wave of her hand, Mrs. Pritchet wiped out whole industrial regions, the world over. Surely this fantasy couldn’t last. Its basic substructure was breaking down, crumbling away. Nobody was born, nothing was manufactured … entire vital categories simply didn’t exist. Sex and procreation were a morbid condition, known only to the medical profession. This fantasy, of its own innate logic, was tumbling.

  That gave him an idea. Perhaps he was tugging at the wrong end. Perhaps there was a quicker, easier way to pull the fur off the cat.

  Only, there weren’t any cats. At memory of Ninny Numbcat a miserable, baffled fury rose up and choked him. Because the tomcat had accidentally strolled in her way … but, at least, cats existed back in the real world. Arthur Silvester, Ninny Numbcat, gnats, ink factories, and Russia, still muddled on in the real world. He felt cheered.

  Ninny wouldn’t have liked it here, anyhow. Mice and flies and gophers had already been eliminated. And, in this distorted existence, there wasn’t any back-fence carnality.

  “Look,” Hamilton said, as an initial experiment. They had entered a run-down slum highway town. Pool halls, shoeshine parlors, slatternly hotels. “A disgrace,” he declared. “I’m outraged.” Pools halls, shoeshine parlors, and slatternly hotels ceased to exist. All over the world, more blank spaces opened up in the fabric of reality.

  “That’s better,” Marsha said, a trifle uneasily. “But Jack, maybe it would be better if—I mean, let Mrs. Pritchet decide for herself.”

  “I’m trying to help,” Hamilton said genially. “After all, I’m helping to bring culture to the masses, too.”

  Miss Reiss was not long in catching on. “Look at that policeman,” she observed. “Giving that poor motorist a ticket. How can he do such a thing?”

  “I pity that motorist,” Hamilton agreed heartily. “Falling into the clutches of that beefy savage. Probably another Irishman. They’re all that way.”

  “He looks more like an Italian to me,” Mrs. Pritchet said critically. “But don’t the police do good, Mr. Hamilton? It was always my impression—”

  “The police, yes,” Hamilton agreed. “But not the traffic cops. That’s different.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Pritchet said, nodding. “I understand.” Traffic cops, including the one on their left, ceased to exist Everybody, except McFeyffe, breathed more easily.

  “Don’t blame me,” Hamilton said. “Blame Miss Reiss.”

  “Let’s abolish Miss Reiss,” McFeyffe said sullenly.

  “Now, Charley,” Hamilton said, grinning. “That isn’t a proper humanistic spirit”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Pritchet agreed severely. “I’m surprised at you, Mr. McFeyffe.”

  Lapsing into smoldering withdrawal, McFeyffe turned to glare out the car window. “Somebody ought to get rid of those marshes,” he announced. ‘They smell to high heaven.”

  The mud flats ceased to smell. In fact, there were no longer any mud flats there. Instead, a kind of vague depression hung along the edge of the road. Peering at it, Hamilton wondered how far down it went. Probably not more than a few yards … the mud flats hadn’t been very deep. Stalking morosely up onto the road came a handful of wild birds: inhabitants of the ex-marshes.

  “Say,”
David Pritchet said, “this is sorta fun.”

  “Join in,” Hamilton said expansively. “What are you tired of?”

  Speculatively, David said, “I’m not tired of anything. I want to see all this stuff.”

  That sobered Hamilton. “You’re all right,” he told the boy. “And don’t let anybody change your mind.”

  “How can I be a scientist if there’s nothing to examine?” David wanted to know. “Where’m I going to get pond water for my microscope? All the stagnant ponds are gone.”

  “Stagnant ponds,” Mrs. Pritchet repeated, with an effort. “What is that, David? I’m not sure—”

  “And there aren’t any more broken bottles lying around in fields,” David complained resentfully. “And I can’t find any more beetles for my beetle collection. And you took all the snakes so I can’t set out my snake trap. What am I going to do instead of watching them load coal down at the railroad? There isn’t any more coal. And I used to go through the Parker Ink Company … now it’s gone. Aren’t you going to leave anything?”

  “Nice things,” his mother said reprovingly. “There’ll be all kinds of nice things for you to think about. You don’t want to play with dirty, unpleasant things, do you?”

  “And,” David continued vigorously, “Eleanor Root, the girl who moved in across the street, was going to show me something she had that I didn’t have, if I went out back to the garage with her, and I did, and she didn’t have it after all. And I don’t think much of that”

  Scarlet, Mrs. Pritchet struggled for words. “David Pritchet,” she cried, “you’re a filthy-minded little pervert. What in the name of heaven is the matter with you? How did you get this way?”

  “Got it from his father,” Hamilton conjectured. “Bad blood.”

  “It must be.” Breathing with difficulty, Mrs. Pritchet rushed on, “He certainly didn’t get it from me. David, when I get you home I’m going to give you the whipping of your life. You won’t be able to sit down for a week. Never in all my life have I—”

  “Abolish him,” Miss Reiss said philosophically.

  “Don’t you abolish me!” David roared belligerently. “You just better not; that’s all I have to say.”

  “I’ll speak to you later,” his mother snapped, chin up, eyes blazing. “Right now I don’t have another word to address to you, young man.”

  “Gee whiz,” David complained, despairing.

  “I’ll talk to you,” Hamilton told him.

  “I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Pritchet said tightly. “I want him to learn that he can’t associate with decent people if he’s going to take up filthy ways.”

  “I have a few filthy ways myself,” Hamilton began, but Marsha kicked him on the ankle and he lapsed into silence.

  “If I were you,” Marsha said thinly, “I wouldn’t boast.”

  Disturbed and upset, Mrs. Pritchet gazed mutely out the window of the car and systematically abolished various categories. Old farmhouses with tottering windmills ceased to be. Ancient rusty automobiles vanished from this version of the universe. Outhouses disappeared, along with dead trees, shabby barns, rubbish heaps, and poorly-dressed itinerant fruit-pickers.

  “What’s that over there?” Mrs. Pritchet demanded irritably.

  To their right was a squat, ugly building of concrete. “That,” Hamilton stated, “is a Pacific Gas and Electric Company power station. It relays high voltage cables.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Pritchet conceded, “I suppose that’s useful.”

  “Some people think so,” Hamilton said.

  “They could make it more attractive,” Mrs. Pritchet objected. As they passed the building, its plain lines flowed and wavered. By the time they had left it, the power station had become a quaint, tile-roofed cottage, with nasturtiums tangled up its pastel walls.

  “Lovely,” Marsha murmured.

  “Wait until the electricians show up to check the cable,” Hamilton said. “They’ll be surprised.”

  “No,” Miss Reiss corrected, with a humorless smile. “They won’t notice a thing.”

  * * * * *

  It was not quite noon when Hamilton drove the Ford from Highway One into the chaotic green wilderness that was the Los Padres Forest. Massive redwoods towered on all sides of them; glades of frigid gloom lay forebodingly on either side of the narrow road that led deep into Big Sur Park and up the slope of Cone Peak itself.

  “It’s scary,” David pronounced.

  The road climbed. Presently they had reached a broad slope of bright bushes and shrubbery, with rocks scattered here and, there among the slender evergreens. And Edith Pritchet’s favorite flowers, California golden poppies, grew by the millions. Mrs. Pritchet, at the sight, gave a delighted cry.

  “Oh, it’s so beautiful! Let’s have our picnic here!”

  Obligingly, Hamilton left the road and drove the Ford out onto the meadow itself. Bump-bump went the car, before Mrs. Pritchet had a chance to abolish ruts. A moment later they came to a halt and Hamilton turned off the car engine. There was no sound but the faint steaming of the radiator, and the echoing cry of birds.

  “Well,” Hamilton said, “here we are.”

  They piled eagerly out of the car. The men hauled the baskets of food from the luggage compartment Marsha carried the blanket and the camera. Miss Reiss brought the thermos bottle of hot tea. David, leaping and scampering around, slashed at bushes with a long stick, flushing a whole family of quail.

  “How cute,” Mrs. Pritchet noticed. “Look at the baby ones go.”

  No other people were visible. Only the expanse of tumbling green forest leading down to the ribbon of the Pacific Ocean, the endless lead-gray body of un-road far below, and, beyond that, the mighty surface of moving water that awed even David.

  “Gosh,” he whispered. “It’s sure big.”

  Mrs. Pritchet selected the exact spot for the picnic, and the blanket was scrupulously spread out Baskets were opened. Napkins, paper plates, forks and cups were passed jovially around.

  Off in the shadows of the nearby evergreens, Hamilton stood preparing the chloroform. Nobody paid any attention to him, as he unfolded his handkerchief and began saturating it. The cool mid-day wind whipped the fumes away from him. No danger to anybody else: only one person’s nose, mouth and breathing apparatus were going to be menaced. It would be quick, safe, and effective.

  “What are you doing, Jack?” Marsha said suddenly in his ear. Startled, he leaped guiltily, almost dropping the bottle.

  “Nothing,” he told her shortly. “Go back and start cracking the hard-boiled eggs.”

  “You’re doing something.” Frowning, Marsha peered over his broad shoulder. “Jack! Is that—rat poison?”

  He grinned shakily. “Cough medicine. For my catarrh.”

  Brown eyes large, Marsha said, “You’re going to do something. I can tell; you always have a sort of shifty way, when you’re up to something.”

  “I’m going to put an end to this ridiculous business,” Hamilton said fatalistically. “I’ve had all I can stand.” Marsha’s firm, sharp fingers closed around his arm. “Jack, for my sake—”

  “You like it here so much?” Bitterly, he jerked away from her. “You and Laws and McFeyffe. Having a fine time, wish you were here. While that hag abolishes people and animals and insects—everything her limited imagination fixes itself on.”

  “Jack, don’t do anything. Please, don’t. Promise me!”

  “Sorry,” he told her. “It’s all decided. The wheels have started turning.”

  Peering near-sightedly across the meadow at the two of them, Mrs. Pritchet called, “Come on, Jack and Marsha. Cold cuts and yogurt. Hurry, while there’s still some left!”

  Blocking his way, Marsha said swiftly, “I won’t let you. You just can’t, Jack. Don’t you understand? Remember Arthur Silvester; remember—”

  “Get out of the way,” he broke in testily. “This stuff evaporates.”

  Suddenly, to his amazement, tears filled her eyes
. “Oh Christ, darling. What’ll I do? I couldn’t stand it if she abolished you, I’d die.”

  Hamilton’s heart softened. “You donkey.”

  “It’s true.” Tears rolled helplessly down her cheeks; clutching at him, she tried to push him back. It was, naturally, a waste of effort. Miss Reiss had successfully maneuvered Edith Pritchet around so that her back was to Hamilton. David, talking excitedly, was holding his mother’s attention, waving a curious rock he had excavated and pointing off into the distance at the same time. The situation was set up and waiting; his chance wouldn’t come again.

  “Go stand over there,” Hamilton said gently. “Turn your back if you can’t watch.” Firmly, he pried loose her fingers and shoved her away. “It’s for your sake, too. For you, Laws, Ninny, all the rest of us. For the sake of McFeyffe’s cigars.”

  “I love you, Jack,” Marsha quavered wretchedly.

  “And I’m in a hurry,” he answered. “Okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” As he moved toward the picnic site, he said to her, “I’m glad you’ve forgiven me about Silky.”

  “Have you forgiven me?”

  “No,” he said stonily. “But maybe I will when I see her again.”

  “I hope you do,” Marsha said pitifully.

  “Just keep your fingers crossed.” Striding over the spongy ground, he left her and rapidly made his way toward the sloping, shapeless back of Edith Pritchet. Mrs. Pritchet was in the process of downing a paper cupful of hot orange-blossom tea. Gripped in her left hand was half of a hard-boiled egg. On her extensive lap lay a plate of potato salad and stewed apricots. As Hamilton approached and hurriedly bent down, Miss Reiss said firmly to the old woman, “Mrs. Pritchet, would you pass me the sugar?”

  “Why, certainly, dear,” Mrs. Pritchet replied civilly, setting down the remains of her hard-boiled egg and groping intently for the waxed paper bundle that was the sugar. “Goodness,” she went on, wrinkling her nose, “whatever is that distressing odor?”