“You can affect things at a distance.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing, glasses man.” Wheeling his ‘mobile past Eldon, the phocomelus sent an extension thrusting out to pick up an object from his work bench. “Do you recognize this? It’s a reel of recording tape. It will be transmitted to the satellite at tremendously high speed, so that hours of information are conveyed in a few moments. And at the same time, all the messages which the satellite has been receiving during its transit will be broadcast down to me the same way, at ultra high speed This is how it was designed to work originally, glasses man. Before the Emergency, before the monitoring equipment down here was lost.”
Eldon Blaine looked at the radio on the work bench and then he stole a glance at the door. The phocomobile had moved so that the door was no longer blocked. He wondered if he could do it, if he had a chance.
“I can transmit to a distance of three hundred miles,” Hoppy was saying. “I could reach receivers up and down Northern California, but that’s all, by transmitting direct. But by sending my messages to the satellite to be recorded and then played back again and again as it moves on—“
“You can reach the entire world,” Eldon said.
“That’s right,” Hoppy said. “There’s the necessary machinery aboard; it’ll obey all sorts of instructions from the ground.”
“And then you’ll be Dangerfield,” Eldon said.
The phocomelus smiled and stammered, “And no one will know the difference. I can pull if off; I’ve got everything worked out. What’s the alternative. Silence. The satellite will fall silent any day, now. And then the one voice that unifies the world will be gone and the world will decay. I’m ready to cut Dangerfield off any moment, now. As soon as I’m positive that he’s really going to cease.”
“Does he know about you?”
“No,” Hoppy said.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Eldon said. “I think Dangerfield’s been dead for a long time, and it’s actually been you we’ve been listening to.” As he spoke he moved closer to the radio on the work bench.
“That’s not so,” the phocomelus said, in a steady voice. He went on, then, “But ft won’t be long, now. It’s amazing he’s survived such conditions; the military people did a good job in selecting him.”
Eldon Blaine swept up the radio in his arms and ran toward the door.
Astonished, the phocomelus gaped at him; Eldon saw the expression on Hoppy’s face and then be was outside, running through the darkness toward the parked police cart. I distracted him, Eldon said to himself. The poor damn phoce had no idea what I was going to do. All that talk—what did it mean? Nothing. Delusions of grandeur; he wants to sit down here and talk to the entire world, receive the entire world, make it his audience … but no one can do that except Dangerfield; no one can work the machinery in the satellite from down here. The phoce would have to be inside it, up there, and it’s impossible to—
Something caught him by the back of the neck.
How? Eldon Blaine asked himself as he pitched face-forward, still clutching the radio. He’s back there in the house and I’m out here. Action at a distance … he has hold of me. Was I wrong? Can he really reach out so far?
The thing that had hold of him by the neck squeezed.
XI
Picking up the first mimeographed sheet of the West Marin News & Views, the little twice-monthly newspaper which he put out, Paul Dietz scrutinized critically the lead item, which he had written himself.
BOLINAS MAN DIES OF BROKEN NECK
Four days ago Eldon Blaine, a glasses man from Bolinas, California, visiting this part of the country on business, was found by the side of the road with his neck broken and marks indicating violence by someone unknown. Earl Colvig, Chief of the West Marin Police, has begun an extensive investigation and is talking to various people who saw Blaine that night.
Such was the item in its entirety, and Diets, reading it, felt deep satisfaction; he had a good lead for this edition of his paper—a lot of people would be interested, and maybe for the next edition he could get a few more ads. His main source of income came from Andy Gill, who always advertised his tobacco and liquor, and from Fred Quinn, the pharmacist, and of course he had several classifieds. But it was not like the old days.
Of course the thing he had left Out of his item was the fact that the Boihias glasses man was in West Marin for no good purpose; everyone knew that. There had even been speculation that he had come to nap their handy. But since that was mere conjecture, it could not be printed.
He turned to the next item in terms of importance.
DANGERFIELD SAID TO BE AILING
Persons attending the nightly broadcasts from the satellite report that Walt Dangerfield declared the other day that he “was sick, possibly with an ulcerous or coronary condition,” and needed medical attention. Much concern was exhibited by the persons at the Foresters’ Hall, it was further reported. Mr. Cas Stone, who informed the News & Views of this, stated that as a last resort his personal specialist in San Rafael would be consulted, and it was discussed without a decision being reached that Fred Quinn, owner of the Point Reyes Pharmacy, might journey to Army Headquarters at Cheyenne to offer drugs for Dangerfield’s use.
The rest of the paper consisted of local items of lesser interest; who had dined with whom, who had visited what nearby town … he glanced briefly at them, made sure that the ads were printed perfectly, and then began to run off further sheets.
And then, of course, there were items missing from the paper, items which could never be put into print. Hoppy Harrington terrified by seven-year-old child, for instance. Dietz chuckled, thinking of the reports he had received about the phoce’s fright, his fit right out in public. Mrs. Bonny Keller having another affair, this time with the new school teacher, Hal Barnes … that would have made a swell item. Jack Tree, local sheep rancher, accuses unnamed persons (for the millionth time) of stealing his sheep. What else? Let’s see, he thought. Famous tobacco expert, Andrew Gill, visited by unknown city person, probably having to do with a merger of Gill’s tobacco and liquor business and some huge city syndicate as yet unknown. At that, he frowned. If Gill moved from the area, the News & Views would lose its most constant ad; that was not good at all.
Maybe I ought to print that, he thought. Stir up local feeling against Gill for whatever it is he’s doing. Foreign influences felt in local tobacco business … I could phrase it that way. Outside persons of questionable origin seen in area. That sort of talk. It might dissuade Gill; after all, he’s a newcomer—he’s sensitive. He’s only been here since the Emergency. He’s not really one of us.
Who was this sinister figure seen talking to Gill? Everyone in town was curious. No one liked it. Some said he was a Negro; some thought it was radiation bums—a war-darky, as they were called.
Maybe what happened to that Bolinas glasses man will happen to him, Diets conjectured. Because there’s too many people here won’t don’t like outside foreign influences; it’s dangerous to come around here and meddle.
The Eldon Blaine killing reminded him, naturally, of the Austurias one … although the latter had been done legally, out in the open, by the Citizens’ Council and Jury. Still, there was in essence little difference; both were legitimate expressions of the town’s sentiments. As would be the sudden disappearance from this world of the Negro or wardarky or whatever he was who now hung around Gill—and it was always possible that some retaliation might be taken out on Gill as well.
But Gill had powerful friends; for instance, the Kellers. And many people were dependent on his cigarettes and liquor; both Orion Stnoud and Gas Stone bought from him in huge quantity. So probably Gill was safe.
But not the darky, Dietz realized. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes. He’s from the city and he doesn’t realize the depth of feeling in a small community. We have integrity, here, and we don’t intend to see it violated.
Maybe he’ll have to learn the hard way. Maybe we’ll have to see one more killing. A darky-killing. And in some ways that’s the best kind.
Gliding down the center street of Point Reyes, Hoppy Harrington sat bolt-upright in the center of his ‘mobile as he saw a dark man familiar to him. It was a man he had known years ago, worked with at Modern TV Sales & Service; it looked like Stuart McConchie.