"Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran!" the man called out. "We thought you'd forgotten us! I'm Mr. Broadnax, the principal. This is Mervyn, our star linebacker. He'll carry your suitcases. It's a long walk to the gym."
The three of them hustled into the building and walked rapidly down one long corridor after another, and all the while the principal was saying, "Will it take you long to set up? Mervyn will help. Just tell him what to do... The classes change in eight minutes. Everyone's looking forward to this. Lyle Compton raved about it... Don't give up! We're almost there. The custodian built a special platform. Is there anything you need? Is there anything I can do?"
Qwilleran thought, Yes, shut up and let me figure out how to set up in eight minutes.
"Is Miss Rice going to be here today?" the principal asked.
"Is she going to be here? She's half the show! Hasn't she arrived? I can't go on without her!" Qwilleran's forehead started to perspire profusely. What could have happened to her? Why hadn't she phoned? He'd give her ten minutes. Then he'd have to cancel. It would be embarrassing.
They finally arrived at the gym - Mr. Broadnax chattering and waving his arms, Mervyn lugging the three suitcases, Qwilleran mopping his brow. The custodian had constructed a platform - rough wood, three feet high, plywood surface supported by two-by-fours and reached by a short flight of wooden steps at the rear. On it were two small folding tables and two folding chairs.
"Now, is everything all right?" asked Mr. Broadnax. "Are the tables big enough? Would you like larger ones from the library? Mervyn will bring them in... Mervyn, go to the library - "
"No! No! These are fine," Qwilleran said absently. He was worrying about other things.
"Shall we help you unpack? Where do you want the tripods? Do you need a mike? We have a good PA system... Mervyn, get Mr. - "
"No! No! I don't need a mike." He pointed to a door behind the stage. "Where does that lead? I need a door for entrances and exits."
"That's a tackroom for gym equipment. It's locked, but I'll get the key... Mervyn, go to the office and bring me the key to the tackroom. Hep!"
Mervyn plunged out of the gym like a linebacker blitzing a quarterback. Meanwhile, Qwilleran mounted the shaky steps to position the furniture and speakers. The floor of the stage, he discovered, bounced like a trampoline. Walking gingerly, he placed the speakers at the front corners of the stage, beamed the two spotlights on the announcer's table, and situated the engineer's table at one side so that Hixie - if she ever arrived - would have more stability underfoot. Where, he asked himself, could she possibly be? Glancing frequently at his watch, he tested the two speakers, tested the two lights (one white, one red), and tested his own voice.
Just as Mervyn returned with the key to the tackroom, a bell rang, and there was instant tumult in the hall.
"May we stall a few minutes?" Qwilleran asked the principal. "I don't know what's happened to my partner. I'm seriously concerned."
The uproar in the hall grew louder, like the roar of a rampaging river when the dam has broken. The double doors burst open, and a flood of noisy students surged into the gym. The two men went into a huddle behind the stage.
"I can't do the show alone. We'll be obliged to cancel," Qwilleran said.
"Could you just give the students a talk about the fire and answer questions?"
"It wouldn't work."
"Maybe a talk on journalism as a career choice."
"I'm sorry, but we'll have to cancel, Mr. Broadnax." At that moment a side door was flung open, and a distraught Hixie rushed on the scene. "Qwill, you'll never believe what happened!"
"I don't want to know," he snapped. "Everything's been tested. Get up there and take over. Walk carefully. The floor bounces." He ducked into the tackroom, leaving the door ajar in order to hear his cues.
The principal was saying, "These people from the newspaper have come out here to present an exciting show for you, and I want you to give them your complete and courteous attention. There will be no talking during the program and no moving around!"
Great! Qwilleran thought; they hate us already, and they're going to be bored out of their skulls; I should have brought a guitar.
Mr. Broadnax went on. "The show is about a radio broadcast during a great forest fire in 1869, when your great-great-great-grandparents were alive. It's all make-believe, because radio hadn't been invented in those days. I want you to sit quietly and pretend you're the studio audience."
The students became miraculously quiet. A moment later they erupted in cheers and whistles as Hixie, a young and attractive woman, mounted the platform and went to the engineer's station.
"Students!" came the sharp voice of the principal, and they were silenced as if by some secret weapon.
After a few bars of "Anitra's Dance," Qwilleran emerged from the tackroom, climbed the shaky steps, and walked across the stage with knees bent to minimize the bounce. "We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin..."
Perhaps it was the size and magnificence of his moustache or the knowledge that this was the richest man in the northeast central United States. Or perhaps Qwilleran did indeed have a compelling stage presence. Whatever it was, the young people in the bleachers were spellbound, and they were entranced by the other voices coming from the speakers, especially that of the old farmer. Fleeing the flames in a horse-drawn wagon, he had brought his family to safety in a lakeport town, where he was being interviewed by telephone.
"Tell me, sir," said the announcer, "is the fire consuming everything in its path?"
"No," said a parched and reedy voice, "it's like the fire was playin' leapfrog, jumpin' right over one farm and burnin' the next one down to the ground. I don't know what the Lord is tryin' to tell us! We picked up one ol' feller wanderin' around, blind as a bat. Didn't even know where he was! His clothes, they was all burned off. He was stark naked and black as a piece o' coal. We sure had a wagonload when we come into town. We was lucky. They was all alive. Some wagons came into town full o' corpses."
There were gasps and whimpers in the audience as flames were reported to be sweeping across the countryside and consuming whole villages. Suddenly red
light filled the stage, and the announcer jumped to his feet.
"Pickax is in flames!" he yelled. Knocking over his chair, he ran gasping and choking from the stage. In his panic he bounced the plywood floor, and both speakers fell over, facedown, while one leg of the folding table collapsed, sliding the telephone and mike to the floor.
"Oh, God!" Qwilleran muttered as he dashed into the tackroom and slammed the door. How would Hixie set up the stage again? Would the audience consider it slapstick comedy? There was an excited uproar in the bleachers, rising above the crashing Tchaikovsky fire music. By opening the door an inch, Qwilleran thought, he could get an idea how Hixie was coping, but the door refused to open. He was locked in!
"Oh, no!" He pounded on the panels with both fists, but the crescendo of the music and the student pandemonium drowned out his appeal for help: His face was already flushed by the emotion of the scene, and now he could hardly breathe in the airless, sweaty closet. He found a dumbbell and hammered on the door; no one heard. Soon the music would signal him to make his entrance, and if he failed to respond on cue, the tape would run out of music, and the disembodied voice of the Irish innkeeper would come from nowhere, answering questions that were not being asked - unless Hixie had the sense to stop the tape. But how would she know he was locked in?
The music ended, and Hixie realized something was wrong; she pressed the button. The hubbub in the audience subsided. In the momentary silence, Qwilleran pounded on the door frantically with the dumbbell, bringing Mr. Broadnax with the key. It was an overheated but poised radio announcer who mounted the flimsy steps - to deafening applause.