“Just people telling me I did right to rap Arnold Klein on the noggin,” he said cheerfully. “So far the votes are in favor four to one. Shall I continue?”
“Please do,” Stockstill said, scratching notes.
“Well,” Dangerfield said, “and then there was Jenny Linhart. That was in the low sixth.”
The satellite, in its orbit, had come closer; the reception was now loud and clear. Or perhaps it was that Hoppy Harrington’s equipment was especially good. Doctor Stockstill leaned back in his chair, smoked his cigarette, and listened, as the voice grew until it boomed and echoed in the room.
How many times, he thought, Hoppy must have sat here receiving the satellite. Building up his plans, preparing for the day. And now it is over. Had the phocomelus—Bill Keller—taken the wizened, dried-up little thing with him? Or was it still somewhere nearby?
Stockstill did not look around; he kept his attention on the voice which came to him so forcefully, now. He did not let himself notice anything else in the room.
In a strange but soft bed in an unfamiliar room, Bonny Keller woke to sleepy confusion. Diffuse light, yellow and undoubtedly the early-morning sun, poured about her, and above her a man whom she knew well bent over her, reaching down his arms. It was Andrew Gill and for a moment she imagined—she deliberately allowed herself to imagine—that it was seven years ago, E Day again.
“Hi,” she murmured, clasping him to her. “Stop,” she said, then. “You’re crushing me and you haven’t shaved yet. What’s going on?” She sat up, all at once, pushing him away.
Gill said, “Just take it easy.” Tossing the covers aside, he picked her up, carried her across the room, toward the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “To Los Angeles? This way—with you carrying me in your arms?”
“We’re going to listen to somebody.” With his shoulder he pushed the door open and carried her down the small, low-ceilinged hall.
“Who?” she demanded. “Hey, I’m not dressed.” All she on was her underwear, which she had slept in.
Ahead, she saw the Hardys’ living room, and there, at the radio, their faces suffused with an eager, youthful joy, stood Stuart McConchie, the Hardys, and several men whom she realized were employees of Mr. Hardy.
From the speaker came the voice they had heard last night, or was it that voice? She listened, as Andrew Gill seated himself with her on his lap. “ … and then Jenny Linhart said to me,” the voice was saying, “that I resembled, in her estimation, a large poodle. It had to do with the—way my big sister was cutting my hair, I think. I did look like a large poodle. It was not an insult. It was merely an observation; it showed she was aware of me. But that’s some improvement over not being noticed at all, isn’t it?” Dangerfield was silent, then, as if waiting for an answer.
“Who’s he talking to?” she said, still befuddled by sleep, still not fully awake. And then she realized what it meant. “He’s alive,” she said. And Hoppy was gone. “Goddamn it,” she said loudly, “will somebody tell me what happened?” She squirmed off Andrew’s lap and stood shivering; the morning air was cold.
Ella Hardy said, “We don’t know what happened. He apparently came back on the air sometime during the night. We hadn’t turned the radio off, and so we heard it; this isn’t his regular time to transmit to us.”
“He appears to be talking to a doctor,” Mr. Hardy said. “Possibly a psychiatrist who’s treating him.”
“Dear God,” Bonny said, doubling up. “It isn’t—possible—he’s being psychoanalyzed.” But, she thought, where did Hoppy go? Did he give up? Was the strain of reaching Out that far too much for him, was that it? Did he, after all, have limitations, like every other living thing? She returned quickly to her bedroom, still listening, to get her clothes. No one noticed; they were all so intent on the radio.
To think, she said to herself as she dressed, that the old witchcraft could help him. .It was incredibly funny; she trembled with cold and merriment as she buttoned her shirt. Dangerfield, on a couch up in his satellite, gabbling away about his childhood … oh God, she thought, and she hurried back to the living room to catch it all.
Andrew met her, stopping her in the hall “It faded out,” he said. “It’s gone, now.”
“Why?” Her laughter ceased; she was terrified.
“We were lucky to get it at all. He’s all right, I think.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’m so scared. Suppose he isn’t?”
Andrew said, “But he is.” He put his big hands on her shoulders. “You heard him; you heard the quality of his voice.”
“That analyst,” she said, “deserves a Hero First Class medal.”
“Yes,” he said gravely. “Analyst Hero First Class, you’re entirely right.” He was silent, then, still touching her but standing a little distance from her. “I apologize for barging in on you- and dragging you out of bed. But I knew you’d want to hear.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Is it still essential to you that we go further on? All the way to Los Angeles?”
“Well,” she said, “you do have business here. We could stay here a while at least. And see if he remains okay.” She was still apprehensive, still troubled about Hoppy.
Andrew said, “One can never be really sure, and that’s what makes life a problem, don’t you agree? Let’s face it—he is mortal; someday he has to perish anyhow. Like the rest of us.” He gazed down at her. –
“But not now,” she said. “If it only can be later, a few years from now—I could stand it then.” She took hold of his hands and then leaned forward and kissed him. Time, she thought. The love we felt for each other in the past; the love we have for Dangerfield right now, and for him in the future. Too bad it is a powerless love; too bad it can’t automatically knit him up whole and sound once more, this feeling we have for one another—and for him.
“Remember E Day?” Andrew asked.
“Oh yes, I certainly do,” she said.
“Any further thoughts on it?”
Bonny said, “I’ve decided I love you.” She moved quickly away from him, flushing at having said such a thing. “The good news,” she murmured. “I’m carried away; please excuse me, I’ll recover.”
“But you mean it,” he said, perceptively.
“Yes.” She nodded.
Andrew said, “I’m getting a little old, now.”
“We all are,” she said. “I creak, when I first get up … perhaps you noticed, just now.”
“No,” he said. “Just so long as your teeth stay in your head, as they are.” He looked at her uneasily. “I don’t know exactly what to say to you, Bonny. I feel that we’re going to achieve a great deal here; I hope so, anyhow. Is it a base, onerous thing, coming here to arrange for new machinery for my factory? Is that—“ He gestured. “Crass?”
“It’s lovely,” she answered.
Coming into the hall, Mrs. Hardy said, “We picked him up again for a just a minute, and he was still talking about his childhood. I would say now that we won’t hear again until the regular time at four in the afternoon. What about breakfast? We have three eggs to divide among us; my husband managed to pick them from a peddler last week.”
“Eggs,” Andrew Gill repeated. “What kind? Chicken?”
“They’re large and brown,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I’d guess so, but we can’t be positive until we open them.”
Bonny said, “It sounds marvelous.” She was very hungry, now. “I think we should pay for them, though; you’ve already given us so much—a place to stay and dinner last night.” It was virtually unheard of, these days, and certainly it was not what she had expected to find in the – city.
“We’re in business together,” Mrs. Hardy pointed out. “Everything we have is going to be pooled, isn’t it?”
“But I have nothing to offer.” She felt that keenly, all at once, and she hung her head. I can only take, she thought. Not give.
However, they did not seem to agree. Taking her by the hand, Mrs. Hardy led her toward the kitchen area. “You can help fix,” she explained. “We have potatoes, too. You can peel them. We serve our employees breakfast; we always eat together—it’s cheaper, and they don’t have kitchens, they live in rooms, Stuart and the others. We have to watch out for them.”
You’re very good people, Bonny thought. So this is the city—this is what we’ve been hiding from, throughout these years. We heard the awful stories, that it was only ruins, with predators creeping about, derelicts and opportunists and flappers, the dregs of what it had once been … and we had fled from that, too, before the war. We had already become to afraid to live here.