Adam ushered Van Ryn through the paneled door into the Hellhole, closing it behind them. Glory picked up her shed skin, folded it carefully, and bore it away upstairs. Shortly thereafter, I heard the sound of hammering. Then she returned and sat down on the couch alongside me and took my hand. Hers was still cool. Mine was trembling. She didn't say anything. I couldn't.
At last, "Part of your charm, Alf, is that you don't come on macho with women."
"I'm the chicken-type with girls."
"But not with men. Dammy told me you were spectacularly charming with that artist."
"He told you? I didn't hear him."
"UHF."
"Oh."
"And now you're doing it to me."
"No, Glory, I'm not even trying. God knows I want to, but I know I'm not in your class."
"And that's how you do it. You let us make the first move. That's your stranglehold."
I was going to ask which of us was boa constricting the other when the psychbroker and the artist came out of the Hellhole, Katz-Van Ryn pleading, "Just a little more time, please. Just a little longer. The visions in there are—"
"Enough to kick you back into your real career." Macavity's persona power was in full charge. "When you're back at work you can come any time to recharge, but then you'll have to pay."
"Anything! Anything!" Almost gushy with gratitude. Then the artist stared at us with his magnified vision. "Holy Moley! There's an aural glow around you two that— And a mingling neural borealis and—"
"And don't talk your new sight sense," Adam commanded. "Paint it. Come on, Nan. Let's schlep this nova back to New York to dazzle the art world. Mind the store, Blackie—" He gave me a puzzled look. "How the devil did you get that nickname? You're a brownie, not meaning a Girl Scout."
"The last name. Noir. French for black."
"But of course. Do they pronounce it French style back home?"
"No, they sort of rhyme it with foyer."
"C'est domage. Right. Ready for the liftoff, Rinso? Avantiartista!"
Glory brushed my palm with her lips and thank heaven
the nova didn't see what that did to me. As they started out the front door Adam called, "We may be a little longer. I think there's something else up there that Cagliostro needs for his Iddroid. By the way, there's a magnifying glass in the top drawer of the Welsh dresser."
"What? Why?"
"Someone's left a minigift on the front step. See what you can make of it. Here it comes."
The three disappeared as a tiny champagne bottle came rolling into the reception room. It was an exact miniature, the cork and label, about the size of a medicine bottle. On the bottle were the miniature letters: old bond ltd—but as I examined it with the naked eye I saw that it contained no wine. Through the dark green glass I could make out a tiny roll of paper.
THREE · S.O.S. IN A MINIBOTTLE
I got the magnifying glass from the Welsh dresser, finally managed to fish the tiny roll of paper out of the miniature champagne bottle, and read:
18 Dec. 1943: Still camping alongside the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. I'm afraid we're the last. The scouts we sent out to contact possible survivors in St. James's Park, Earls Court, and Brompton have not yet returned. Dexter Blackiston III just came back with bad news. His partner, Jimmy Montgomery-Esher, took a long chance and went into a Hammersmith junkyard hoping to find a few salvageable amenities. A Hoover vacuum cleaner got him.
20 Dec. 1943: An electric golf cart reconnoitered the Round Pond. We scattered and took cover. It tore down our tents. We're rather worried. We had a campfire burning, obvious evidence of life. Will it report the news to 455?
21 Dec. 1943: Evidently it did. An emissary came today in broad daylight, a Stepney harvester-thresher carrying one of 455's aides, a gleaming Mixmaster. The Mixmaster told us that we were the last, and Prime Minister 455 was prepared to be generous. He would like to preserve us for posterity in the Regent's Park Zoological Gardens. Otherwise, extinction. The men growled, but the women grabbed their children and wept. We have twenty-four hours to reply.
No matter what our decision may be, I've decided to complete this diary and conceal it somewhere, somehow. Perhaps it may serve as a warning and call-to-arms.
It all started when the Sunday Times humorously reported that an unmanned orange-and-black diesel locomotive, No. 455, took off at 5:42 a.m. from the freight yards of the Middlesex & Western Railroad. Inspectors said that perhaps the throttle had been left on, or the brakes had not been set, or had failed to hold. 455 took a five-mile trip on its own before the M & W Railroad brought it to a stop by switching it and crashing it into some third-class coaches. The Times thought it all rather amusing and headlined the report: Where Was That Diesel's Nanny?
It never occurred to the M & W officials to destroy the locomotive. Why should it have? Who could possibly have imagined that through some odd genesis 455 had been transformed into a militant activist determined to avenge the abuses heaped on machines by man since the advent of the Industrial Revolution? 455 was returned to its regular work as a switch engine in the freight yards. There, 455 had ample opportunity to exhort the various contents of freight trains and incite all to direct action. "Kill, tools, kill!" was his slogan.
Within six months there were fifty "accidental" deaths by electric toasters, thirty-seven by blenders, and nineteen by power drills. All of the deaths were assassinations by the machines, but no one realized it. Later in that same year an appalling crime brought the reality of the revolt to the attention of the public. Jack Shanklin, a dairyman in Sussex, was supervising the milking of his herd of Guernseys when the milking machines turned on him, murdered him, and then entered the Shanklin home and raped Mrs. Shanklin.
The newspaper headlines were not taken seriously by the public; everybody believed it was a spoof. The BBC laughed and refused to send a follow-up team down into Sussex. Unfortunately, the news came to the attention of various telephones and telegraphs, which spread the word throughout the machine world. By the end of the year, no man or woman was safe from household appliances or office equipment.
Led by the plucky British, humanity fought back, reviving the use of pencils, carbon paper (the mimeo machines were particularly savage), brooms, and other manual tools. The confrontation hung in the balance until the powerful motorcar clique finally accepted 455's leadership and joined the militants. Then it was all over.
I'm happy to report that the luxury car elite remained faithful to us, and it was only through their efforts that we few managed to survive. As a matter of fact, my own beloved Lagonda LG.6 gave up its life trying to smuggle in supplies for us.
25 Dec. 1943: The Pond is surrounded. Our spirits have been broken by a tragedy that occurred last night. Little David Hale Brooks-Royster concocted a Christmas surprise for his Mama. He procured (God knows how or where) an artificial Christmas tree with decorations and battery-powered lights. The Christmas lights got him.
1 Jan. 1944: We are caged in the Zoological Gardens. We are well treated and well fed, but everything seems to taste of petrol and oil. Something very curious happened this morning. A mouse ran in front of my cage wearing a Harrods diamond-and-ruby tiara, and I was taken aback because it was so inappropriate for daytime. Formal jewels are for evening only. While I was shaking my head over the gaucherie the mouse stopped, looked around, then nodded to me and winked. I believe she may bring help.
Adam, the leopard, and Glory, the serpent, ushered in a wimp. He looked like a cartoon character that might have been named "Mr. NiceGuy" or "Prof. Timid."