It’s out of my hands now, she said to herself. Whatever he does, whatever becomes of him, it’s not my fault. Whatever happens—to all of us. I can’t take any more responsibility; it’s gone on too long, as it is, and I am glad, at last, to get out from under it.
What a relief, she thought. Thank God.
Now it must begin again, Bruno Bluthgeld thought to himself. The war. Because there is no choice; it is forced on me. I am sorry for the people. All of them will have to suffer, but perhaps out of it they will be redeemed. Perhaps in the long run it is a good thing.
He seated himself, folded his hands, shut his eyes and concentrated on the task of assembling his powers. Grow, he said to them, the forces at his command everywhere in the world. Join and become potent, as you were in former times. There is need for you again, all ye agencies.
The voice issuing from the loudspeaker of the radio, however, disturbed him and made it difficult for him to concentrate. Breaking off, he thought, I must not be distracted; that is contrary to the Plan. Who is this that’s talking? They are all listening… are they getting their instructions from him, is that it?
To the man seated beside him he said, “Who is this we’re listening to?”
The man, elderly, turned irritably to regard him. “Why, it’s Walt Dangerfield,” he said, in tones of utter disbelief.
“I have never heard of him,” Bruno said. Because he bad not wanted to hear of him. “Where is he talking from?”
“The satellite,” the elderly man said witheringly, and resumed his listening.
I remember now, Bruno said to himself. That’s why we came here; to listen to the satellite. To the man speaking from overhead.
Be destroyed, he thought in the direction of the sky above. Cease, because you are deliberately tormenting me, impeding my work. Brung waited, but the voice went on.
“Why doesn’t he stop?” he asked the man on the other side of him. “How can he continue?”
The man, a little taken aback, said, “You mean his illness? He recorded this a long time ago, before he was sick.”
“Sick,” Bruno echoed. “I see.” He had made the man in the satellite sick, and that was something, but not enough. It was a beginning. Be dead, he thought toward the sky and the satellite above. The voice, however, continued uninterrupted.
Do you have a screen of defense erected against me? Bruno wondered. Have they provided you with it? I will crush it; obviously you have been long prepared to withstand attack, but it will do you no real good.
Let there be a hydrogen instrument, he said to himself. Let it explode near enough to this man’s satellite to demolish his ability to resist. Then have him die in complete awareness of who it is that he is up against. Bruno Bluthgeld concentrated, gripping his hands together, squeezing out the power from deep inside his mind.
And yet the reading continued.
You are very strong, Bruno acknowledged. He had to admire the man. In fact, he smiled a little, thinking about it. Let a whole series of hydrogen instruments explode now, he willed. Let his satellite be bounced around; let him discover the truth.
The voice from the loudspeaker ceased.
Well, it is high time, Bruno said to himself. And he let up on his concentration of powers; he sighed, crossed his legs, smoothed his hair, glanced at the man to his left.
“It’s over,” Bruno observed.
“Yeah,” the man said. “Well, now he’ll give the news– if he feels well enough.”
Astonished, Bruno said, “But he’s dead now.”
The man, startled, protested, “He can’t be dead; I don’t believe it. Go on—you’re nuts.”
“It’s true,” Bruno said. “His satellite has been totally destroyed and there is nothing remaining.” Didn’t the man know that? Hadn’t it penetrated to the world, yet?
“Doggone it,” the man said, “I don’t know who you are or why you say something like that, but you sure are a gloomy gus. Wait a second and you’ll hear him; I’ll even bet you five U.S. Government metal cents.”
The radio was silent. In the room, people stirred, murmured with concern and apprehension.
Yes, it has begun, Bruno said to himself. First, highaltitude detonations, as before. And, soon—for all of you here. The world itself wiped out, as before, to halt the steady advance of cruelty and revenge; it must be halted before too late. He glanced in the direction of the Negro and smiled. The Negro pretended not to see him; he pretened to be involved in discussion with the man beside him.
You are aware, Bruno thought. I can tell; you can’t fool me. You, more than anyone else, know what is beginning to happen.
Something is wrong, Doctor Stockstill thought. Why doesn’t Walt Dangerfield go on? Has he suffered an embolism or something on that order?
And then he noticed the crooked grin of triumph on Bruno Bluthgeld’s toothless face. At once Stockstill thought, He’s taking credit for it, in his own mind. Paranoid delusions of omnipotence; everything that takes place is due to him. Repelled, he turned away, moved his chair so that he could no longer see Bluthgeld.
Now he turned his attention on the young Negro. Yes, he thought, that could well be the Negro television salesman who used to open up the TV store across from my office in Berkeley, years ago. I think I’ll go over and ask him.
Rising, he made his way over to Andrew Gill and the Negro. “Pardon me,” he said, bending over them. “Did you ever live in Berkeley and sell TV sets on Shattuck Avenue?”
The Negro said, “Doctor Stockstill.” He held out his hand and they shook. “It’s a small world,” the Negro said.
“What’s happened to Dangerfield?” Andrew Gill said worriedly. Now June Raub appeared by the radio, fiddling with the knobs; other people began to collect around her, offering advice and murmuring with one another in small, grave clusters. “I think this is the end. What do you say, Doctor?”
“I say,” Stockstill said, “that if it is it’s a tragedy.”
In the rear of the room, Bruno Bluthgeld rose to his feet and said in a loud, husky voice, “The demolition of existence has begun. Everyone present will be spared by special consideration long enough to confess sins and repent if it is sincere.”
The room fell silent. The people, one by one, turned in his direction.
“You have a preacher, here?” the Negro said to Stockstill.
To Gill, Stockstill said rapidly, “He’s sick, Andy. We’ve got to get him out of here. Give me a hand.”
“Sure,” Gill said, following him; they walked toward Bluthgeld, who was still on his feet.
“The high-altitude bombs which I set off in 1972,” Bluthgeld was declaring, “find reinforcement in the present act, sanctioned by God Himself in His wisdom for the world. See the Book of Revelations for verification.” He watched Stockstill and Gill approach. “Have you cleansed yourself?” he asked them. “Are you prepared for the judgment which is to come?”
All at once, from the speaker of the radio, came a f amiliar voice; it was shaky and muted, but they all recognized it. “Sorry for the pause, folks,” Dangerfield said. “But I sure felt giddy there for a while; I had to lie down and I didn’t notice the tape had ended. Anyhow—” He laughed his old, familiar laugh. “I’m back. At least for a while. Now, what was I about to do? Does anybody remember? Wait, I’ve got a red light on; somebody’s calling me from below. Hold on.”
The people in the room buzzed with joy and relief; they turned back to the radio, and Bluthgeld was forgotten. Stockstill himself walked toward the radio, and so did Gill and the Negro TV salesman; they joined the circle of smiling people and stood waiting.
“I’ve got a request for ‘Bei Mir Bist Du Schön,’ “ Dangerfield said. “Can you beat that? Anybody remember the Andrews Sisters? Well, the good old U.S. Government had the kindness to provide me with, believe it or not, a tape of the Andrews Sisters singing this corny but well-loved number… I guess they figured I was going to be some sort of time capsule on Mars, there.” He chuckled. “So it’s ‘Bei Mir Bist Du Schön,’ for some old codger in the Great Lakes Area. Here we go.” The music, tinny and archaic, began, and the people in the room gratefully, joyfully, moved one by one back to their seats.