Eye in the Sky

  “Why you especially?” Hamilton wanted to know.

  Miss Reiss didn’t answer; she was watching Ninny Numbcat. The big battered torn had finished his meal; now he was looking for a lap. “What’s the matter with him?” Miss Reiss asked, in a thin, frightened voice; “Why’s he looking at me?”

  “You’re sitting down,” Marsha said soothingly. “He wants to hop up and go to sleep.”

  Half-rising to her feet, Miss Reiss upbraided the cat, “Don’t you come near me! Keep your dirty body away from me!” To Hamilton she confided, “If they didn’t have fleas, it wouldn’t be so offensive. And this one has a mean look. I suppose he kills his share of birds?”

  “Six or seven a day,” Hamilton answering, temper rising.

  “Yes,” Miss Reiss agreed, backing warily away from the puzzled tomcat. “I can see he’s quite a killer. Certainly, in the city, there ought to be some kind of prohibitive ordinance. Destructive pets, vicious animals that are a menace, should at least have licenses. And the city really should—”

  “Not only birds,” Hamilton interrupted, a cold ruthless sadism sliding over him, “but snakes and gophers. And this morning he showed up with a dead rabbit.”

  “Darling,” Marsha said sharply. Miss Reiss was shrinking away in genuine fear. “Some people don’t like cats. You can’t expect everybody to share your tastes.”

  “Little furry mice, too,” Hamilton said brutally. “By the dozen. Part he eats, part he brings to us. And one morning he showed up with the head of an old woman.” A terrified squeak escaped from Miss Reiss’ lips. In panic, she scrambled back, pathetic and defenseless. Instantly, Hamilton was sorry. Ashamed of himself, he opened his mouth to apologize, to retract his misplaced humor… .

  From the air above his head a shower of locusts descended. 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 retreated 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 happened. 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 preparing 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 shaving, 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, choosing his words with care. “It’s attitudes like hers that lead to extermination camps. She’s rigid, a compulsive personality type. Anti-cat is one jump away from anti-Semitism.”

  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 reading 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, apparently. 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 graduate 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.
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  “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. Contiguity, 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 husband. “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 traumatic 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 additions. 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 indicated 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 reflected, 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?”

  “Absolutely,” Hamilton agreed. He returned to the bedroom; a moment later he emerged tying his necktie. “But that comes later. Right now I’m driving up the peninsula. We have exactly fifty dollars left in the bank, and I’m not going to starve to death trying to make this prayer-business function.”

  * * * * *

  From the parking lot at the missile plant, Hamilton picked up his Ford business coupe. It was still parked in the slot reading: Reserved for John W. Hamilton.

  Heading up El Camino Real, he left the town of Belmont Half an hour later he was entering South San Francisco. The clock in front of the South San Francisco branch of the Bank of America read eleven-thirty as he parked in the sedate gravel field beside the Cadillacs and Chryslers belonging to the staff of EDA.

  The Electronics Development Agency buildings lay to his right; white blocks of cement set against the hills of the sprawling industrial city. Once, years ago, when he had done his first published paper in advanced electronics, EDA had tried to hire him away from California Maintenance. Guy Tillingford, one of the leading statisticians of the country, headed the corporation; a brilliant and original man, he had been in addition, a close friend of Hamilton’s father.

  This was the place to find a job—if he found one at all. And, most important, EDA was not currently engaged in military research. Doctor Tillingford, part of the group that had made up the Institute of Advanced Studies at Princeton (before that group had been officially disbanded), was more concerned with general scientific knowledge. From EDA came some of the most radical computers, the great electronic brains used in industries and universities all over the Western world.

  “Yes, Mr. Hamilton,” the efficient little secretary said, crisply examining his sheaf of papers. “Ill tell the doctor you’re here … I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

  Tautly, Hamilton paced the lounge, rubbing his hands together and breathing a silent prayer. The prayer came easily; at this particular moment he didn’t have to force it. Fifty dollars in the bank wasn’t going to last the Hamilton family very long … even in this world of miracles and falling locusts.

  “Jack, my boy,” a deep voice boomed. Doctor Guy Tillingford appeared at the doorway of his office, aged face beaming, hand extended. “By golly, I’m glad to see you. How long has
it been? Ten years?”

  “Darn near,” Hamilton admitted, as they heartily grasped hands. “You’re looking well, Doctor.”

  Around the office stood consultant engineers and technicians; bright young men with crew cuts, bow ties, alert expressions on their smooth faces. Ignoring them, Doctor Tillingford led Hamilton through a series of wood-paneled doors into a private chamber.

  “We can talk here,” he confided, throwing himself down in a black leather easy chair. I have this fixed up —a sort of personal retreat, where I can take time off to meditate and get my second wind.” Sadly, he added, “I can’t seem to stand the steady grind, the way I used to. I crawl in here a couple times a day … to get back my strength.”

  “I’ve left California Maintenance,” Hamilton said. “Oh?” Tillingford nodded. “Good for you. That’s a bad place. Too much emphasis on guns. They’re not scientists; they’re government employees.”

  “I didn’t quit. I was fired.” In a few words, Hamilton explained the situation.

  For a little while Tillingford said nothing. Thoughtfully, he picked at a front tooth, wrinkled brow pulled together in a frown of concentration. “I remember Marsha. Sweet girl. I always liked her. There’s so darn much of this security-risk stuff these days. But we don’t have to worry about that here. No government contracts at present. Ivory tower.” He chuckled drily. “Last remnant of pure research.”

  “You suppose you could use me?” Hamilton asked, as dispassionately as possible.

  “I don’t see why not.” Idly, Tillingford got out a small religious prayer wheel and began spinning it. “I’m familiar with your work … I wish we could have got hold of you sooner, as a matter of fact.”

  Fascinated, hypnotized with disbelief, Hamilton stared fixedly at Tillingford’s prayer wheel.

  “Of course, there’re the regular questions,” Tillingford observed, spinning. “The routine . . . but you won’t have to fill out the written forms. I’ll ask you orally. You don’t drink, do you?”

  Hamilton floundered. “Drink?”