Stephen Talltree picked up his phone and whispered into it, scowled, snarled something, hung up, thumbed through his papers, whispered once more into the phone and then raised his hands, eyes on the engineer. When the engineer pointed a finger at him, Talltree began speaking at once. There was no trace of the frantic irritation of a moment before as he said, "Good afternoon, friends of the Southland. This is Stephen Talltree with you again, and today we've got with us some very interesting friends from the Southland who are going to tell us about the World's First Myst-O-Rama, which is coming up next week, and then we've got a couple of other guests who are going to explain what's going to happen to Los Angeles when all the planets come into conjunction—right after these messages."
After the first twenty minutes Dennis was no longer aware of being cold and damp, but he was not in any sense comfortable. The whole thing was a bummer! These people were not interested in acquiring wisdom, they were each one of them trying to promote some buck-hustle or defend some establishment position. The overall vibrations were terrible. During the first commercial break Tib Sonderman was whispering fiercely to the Pedigrue person, and as soon as they were on the air he spoke up. "I was not aware that this discussion would include so-called psychics and astrologers," he declared stiffly. "I would like to make it clear that I am a scientist, not a mystic or a faith healer, and I can see no mutual ground for discussion with these people."
And then, of course, it all hit the fan. Sonderman could've thought a long time without thinking of anything to say that would unify the table against him as well as that. The lady tarot reader opened her eyes and fixed them on him with the look of a basilisk. The host was steaming; not because of what Sonderman had said, who cared what any of the dummies he had for guests ever said? But because he had spoken out of turn. Tommy Pedigrue was furious because he had the political sense to see that Sonderman had made the others furious. And that young fellow with the horn-rimmed glasses, Lautermilch, was angry enough to pretend to be only amused. "I have to apologize for my fellow scientist, Steve," he said easily, "but, although a lot of scientists are coming to realize there is a lot of validity in the so-called occult sciences, you can see that there are others who haven't reached that point yet. InThe Tao of Physics, for instance, there's an interesting anecdote—"
And, wow, Sonderman was steaming over being called a "fellow scientist" by Lautermilch. What a mess. Dennis wished he were out in the bleachers with the rest of the bunch. He felt deeply depressed. Although, looking at the expressions on his comrades outside, they didn't look real happy, either. Sanders was trying to keep two of the girls from sneaking off to the McDonald's, Buck was in the first row, his face squeezed up in a grimace of thorough dislike— it was hard to tell at what, Buck had been so antsy lately. Only Afeefah, sitting primly next to her father's empty seat with a lighted candle balanced carefully on her two hands, seemed at ease.
He came back to reality. "—what?"
The host was looking at him. "I said, we haven't heard anything from you yet, Mr. Siroca."
"Oh," said Dennis. "Well— I don't know much about geology or any of that, but all anybody has to do is open his eyes to see that there's a pralaya due. I mean, it's in the Zend Avesta and all."
"What was that word you used, 'pralaya'? What's a pralaya?" Talltree asked.
"Uh, well, there's been four pralayas so far, and each time the world gets destroyed. If you go by Heraclitus, we're probably about due for the next one," Dennis explained.
"Heraclitus? The Greek? Are you telling me that Heraclitus read the Zend Avesta or whatever it was?"
"Oh, man, " said Dennis, sorry for him, "what difference does that make? All those old sages tapped the same sources of wisdom. We're going to get it, Mr. Talltree, there's just no doubt of it."
The woman psychic all but reached over and patted his head. "You see," she cackled, "out of the mouths of babes and all! I just go by the word of God, personally. 'For then shall be Great Tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be!' That's Matthew 24:21, and what could be clearer? There's gonna be the worst time ever—you just read your Second Timothy and your First and Second Thessalonians, and you'll see. All you sci-entists with your sci-ence's gonna be cast down into the Lake of Fire—that's Revelations, and that's good enough for me!"
"Actually," said Jeremy Lautermilch, nodding in agreement, "as a scientist I see no obstacle in accepting the revealed Word—"
"Thank you, Dr. Lautermilch, and I'm sure our listeners are going to want to hear more about that," the host cut in, nodding to the engineers. "And you'll be talking about that very subject at the Myst-O-Rama on Wednesday night, won't you?, but right now we have to take care of some business. ..."
Somehow Dennis got through the hour, wishing every minute of it that it was over, sneaking out every time there was a commercial break to mellow up with a couple of quick hits in the men's room. But it didn't get better. It got worse. Just at the end Tommy Pedigrue showed the stuff he was made of, hogging the camera to say, "Of course, our scientific panel has not yet made its findings public. But certainly we don't want our good people of California panicked by irresponsible rumors. So let's all cool it until we have some facts." He sat back, beaming. And as he had learned how to use the medium and had kept his eyes on the clock, there was no time for anyone else to get a last word in; Talltree gave his final credits and close, and they were off the air.
And not a moment too soon. Dennis was the first one out of the door, almost colliding with Pedigrue's girl friend, Myrna, as she went to congratulate him on his performance. The Jupes rose to go, all but Buck, who sat grimly staring at the emptying studio. "Come on, Buck," said Dennis. "Let's go home. Saun? What'd you think, did it sound all right?"
Saunders Robinson finished blowing out his daughter's candle and took her arm. "Well, Dennis," he said, "I'll tell you. Like you didn't have no chance to do no better, you understand what I'm saying, so it wasn't so bad, you know?"
"Yeah," said Dennis dispiritedly. "I was afraid of that. Let's get the troops out of here—Buck? Where the hell'd Buck go?"
Robinson looked up. "He's going into the studio. You, Buck, what you doing? Come on—" He stopped and his eyes got round. "Oh, sweet holy Jesus," he said softly.
Dennis turned around, and there was Buck, not going into the studio exactly, no, but heading toward the door with something in his hand. And out of the door Tommy Pedigrue was coming, leaning to listen to what his girl was saying in his ear, and he glanced idly at Buck coming toward him, and saw what Buck had in his hand; and he ducked aside—behind the girl—and Buck's hand followed, and the little gun popped, not very loud. The girl gasped a long exhalation as bright blood began to slide down the pale blue front of her blouse, and she fell to the ground, leaving Tommy Pedigrue shieldless behind her, staring at Buck with the eyes of a trapped fox.