Nixon was talking: ” . . . opportunity to make this report on my recent trip, and the meetings which I held with President de Gaulle, and Chancellor Brandt, during which we discussed . . . ”
“Goober’s cooking up some kind of political plot here!” Barnaby hissed, turning to the girl. “People will see this, and think it’s the real Nixon—”
Gigi clutched at his arm, looking frightened. “Barnaby, let’s go . . . !”
“They can’t get away with this,” Barnaby said. He stepped from behind the curtain, went toward the desk. Nixon ignored him.
” . . . easing of world tensions. We were in agreement—wholehearted agreement—as to the goals to be sought. The means—”
Barnaby looked around, picked up a broom and swung it. “Scat!” he said. The desk microphone spun to the floor; papers flew. Nixon went on unperturbed:
” . . . necessitates renewed dedication on the part of each and every . . . ”
Barnaby swung again. Nixon bounced from the chair, glossy silver hair still in place. ” . . . taxation. However, in the near future, I have every hope . . . ”
The imitation Nixon lay on the floor, legs drawn up in sitting posture. ” . . . forces of Godless Communism . . . ” Barnaby flailed at it, saw dust fly from the neat dark-blue suit. ” . . . threat of war . . . ”
He brought the heavy end down on the head of the puppet. A round glass eye rolled across the floor. The blue jaws moved: ” . . . the free peoples . . . The free peoples . . . The free peoples . . . ”
“Barnaby, stop!” Gigi cried.
“Goober must be planning on taking over the country,” Barnaby called. “He’s got this dummy set up to look like Nixon, and he’s broadcasting it over TV. No telling what kind of conspiracy we’ve stumbled into here.” He looked around, spotted a fire hose coiled against the wall. “Maybe a blast from that will slow things down. Dupe the American people, will he?” He lifted the hose from its bracket, stretched it across the floor, hurried back and turned the valve. A surge of water whipped the heavy canvas hose like a scorched python. Barnaby leaped for the nozzle, wrestled it into position as a spurt of water spewed forth, then fought to hold it down as a hard three-inch stream arced across the cavernous dim-lit room. The door opened, two men stepped through it, snapped over on their backs as the water hit, carrying along those behind them. Barnaby concentrated the stream on a skinny woman with a shrill voice, now raised in a patriotic number. He hosed her out the door, then cut the footing from under a fat man.
The water gushed, swirling around the light stands and cameras; sheets of white paper were afloat now; people scrambled to their feet to be knocked spinning by Barnaby’s stream. Now another jet joined the first as Gigi unlimbered a second hose, giggling.
“Let’s leave ’em squirting and get out of here,” Barnaby called gaily. He propped the hose, holding it in place with a heavy TV camera stand, quickly set Gigi’s hose up to add its volume to the attack.
“There’s a door there,” he pointed. “Let’s try it.” He sloshed through the water to the small door marked EXIT in red light, found it locked. The water was ankle deep now. They tried another door.
“These hoses really put out,” Barnaby said. Nixon floated past, bumped against a floodlight stand. ” . . . the free peoples . . . the free peoples . . . ”
The next door Barnaby tried swung open. Beyond it were stairs. They started down; dirty water flowed down the steps with them. At the ground floor, they went through a swinging door into a room filled with tall clattering machines. Rows of empty bottles advanced along moving conveyors, paused under chrome-plated nozzles that gushed red, yellow, purple, then moved on under an arm that hammered a cap on each bottle, whok! whok!
People appeared across the room. Barnaby took Gigi’s hand, jumped on the nearest conveyor. Bottles flew and smashed; green liquid jetted, spattering. They leaped to the next belt. It broke; they scrambled on to the next. Behind them, bottles poured off onto the floor in an endless stream; purple liquid spurted, foaming.
“They’re closing in on us!” Barnaby called over the clank of the apparatus, the crashing of glass, and the hiss of foaming beverage. “Throw bottles, Gigi!” He scooped up an armful, hurled them at the machinery; they hit and bounced off, shattered on the floor. One bottle lodged in a conveyor belt, crushed as the belt entered a slot. A moment later, there was a loud clunk! The belt piled up, writhed off onto the floor. More bottles tumbled.
Atop the machine, Barnaby saw a large valve near his hand. He turned it. The flow of orange pop increased. He turned it farther; the pop flooded out, boiling up in sudsy billows. He jumped to the next machine, twisted the valve. Purple suds mingled with orange. Gigi saw, added red foam. The attendants moved placidly about their work, now lost in bubbles, now emerging, froth-covered but undisturbed. Barnaby leaped down to the floor near the outer door, plucked an uncapped bottle from the line.
“Thirsty work!!” he said. He took a gulp, frowned, tossed the bottle into a group of whirling gears that ground to a halt with a screech of metal. “Let’s get out of here . . . ”
In the street, they looked back. Dense smoke poured from the top-floor windows.
“Looks like we started a fire, knocking over those arc lamps,” Barnaby said. “Maybe it will attract attention and somebody will cut the power off.”
“The fire is getting bigger!” Gigi called. “Look! It’s leaping out the windows!”
A bell clanged, and a large red fire engine lumbered around a corner, pulled to a stop. Men in oilskins broke out hoses, connected up to hydrants. A stream of white water started up, played over the building, found a window; steam billowed. Another stream joined the first.
“This is fun!” Gigi cried. “I’ve never seen anything like this before!”
A torrent of water surged from the front entry of the burning building, carrying paper plates, Sunday funnies, television schedules. A man washed out the door, a golf club in his hands. Bobbing in the flood, he shook his hips, kept his head down and swung, sending a shower of water over Barnaby and Gigi.
“Those imitation people are well made,” Gigi said. “They’re waterproof and everything.”
A Good Humor man pedaled from a side street, his bell tinkling faintly amid the hubbub. Barnaby stepped forward, tipped him from his seat, caught the coasting vehicle. The man paddled solemnly, lying on the pavement.
“Chocolate or strawberry?” he called cheerfully.
A second pumper appeared, sending a sheet of water up as it whirled to a stop. More water poured into the windows. The smoke was denser now, the flames were visible leaping up above the roof.
“They’re losing ground,” Barnaby said. “The fire is gaining.” Water was flowing out over the first-floor windows now. Paper clogged the gutters. In the street, the water level rose, topped the curbs. A desk floated from the building, then a chair, then a cluster of foam-rubber bras.
“We’d better get moving,” Barnaby said. “The fire is into the next building; the water’s rising fast!”
“Can’t we watch a little longer?” Gigi asked. Nixon floated past.
“The free peoples,” he said. His hair was still nicely combed. “The free peoples . . . ”
“Not unless you want to swim for it!”
Gigi followed as Barnaby led the way up an alley that debouched into a wide street.
“Into the park,” Barnaby called. “We’ll be clear of the fire there—and maybe we can see where we are.”
They scaled the fence, crossed a wide lawn, made their way along the edge of a stream. Passing a screen of trees, Barnaby held up a hand.
“I hear voices.”
They stepped back behind the trees. The voices came more clearly, now:
“Darling!”
“Sweetheart!”
A man and girl appeared, walking arm in arm. He wore a sturdy windbreaker, corduroy pants with tight legs, gum-soled shoes. His hair was cut short. He was very handsome. The girl’s wind-blown dark hair was tied with a violet scarf; she wore a suede jacket and a bright woolen skirt. She looked up at him with adoring eyes.
“Down by the water,” he said. “Sweetheart.”
“Oh, darling . . . ”
They came down the slight slope, found a secluded place on the grassy bank, sat down.
“Now . . . ” the man said. He unbuttoned his jacket. The girl’s lips parted, her eyes bright with expectation and longing. He leaned closer to her.
“We’d better get out of here,” Barnaby muttered.