“Miss Holliday-hello.”
She flashed her infectious smile. “Hello, Mr. Gibson.”
“Got a minute?”
“Sure. I was just heading over to the theater, to get things ready.”
“Ready?”
“Yeah…. There’s a Danton’s Death rehearsal right after the broadcast.”
“Ah. A few questions?”
“Shoot.”
“Let’s sit…”
They took two chairs in the reception area. Williams was within earshot, but it didn’t seem to matter to Gibson, who asked Miss Holliday about Virginia Welles and George Balanchine, who she too had not seen around here today…“though I’ve been in and out, back and forth, ’tween here and the theater, running errands, ya know?”
But the three thugs, strangely enough, got Miss Holliday’s pretty brow furrowing.
“Describe them again,” she said. “In more detail.”
Gibson did, best he could.
“Those sound like actors.”
Gibson frowned. “Actors?”
“Yeah-spear-carrier types. Mr. Welles uses them in crowd scenes, sometimes.”
“You’re sure?”
She made a funny smirk. “No, I’m not sure-you don’t have a picture to show me, right? But your descriptions are good-you’re a writer, aren’t you? And those three goon types sound like minor actors Mr. Welles uses, from time to time.”
“Thank you, Miss Holliday.”
“You can call me Judy.”
He walked her to the elevator, his mind abuzz.
Finally he had clues-but what he’d learned from the janitor seemed to contradict the direction Judy Holliday’s information indicated….
Quiet as a mouse, heedful but not halted by the bold ON THE AIR sign over the door, the writer slipped into Studio One, passing through the vestibule, into the live broadcast, and padding carefully up the short flight of stairs into the control booth.
Kenny Delmar was being introduced as “the Secretary of the Interior,” but the voice he did was a dead-on impression of President Franklin D. Roosevelt.
“Citizens of the nation-I shall not try to conceal the gravity of the situation that confronts the country, nor the concern of your government in protecting the lives and property of its people. However, I wish to impress upon you-private citizens and public officials, all of you, the urgent need of calm and resourceful action.”
On his podium, Welles was grinning like a big gleeful baby.
Delmar continued: “Fortunately, this formidable enemy is still confined to a comparatively small area, and we may place our faith in the military forces to keep them there.”
Gibson had paused in the sub-control booth, and CBS executive Dave Taylor was shaking his head, sighing-Welles had been told not to invoke the president, and (technically) he hadn’t; and yet of course he had.
Delmar was wrapping up: “In the meantime, placing our faith in God, we must continue the performance of our duties, each and every one of us, so that we may confront this destructive adversary with a nation united, courageous, and consecrated to the preservation of human supremacy on this earth.”
Delmar took a dramatic pause, then: “I thank you.”
The bulletins continued at breakneck speed: from Langham Field, scout planes reported a trio of Martian machines visible above the trees, heading north; in Basking Ridge, New Jersey, a second cylinder had been found and the army was rushing to blow it up before it opened; in the Watchung Mountains, the 22nd Field Artillery closed in on the enemy, but poisonous black smoke dispatched by the invaders wiped out the battery.
Eight bombers were set on fire by the tripods in a flash of green. More of the lethal black smoke was leaching in from the Jersey marshes, and gas masks were of no use, the populace urged to make for open spaces.
Recommended routes of escape were shared with listeners.
When the phone rang, the Dorn sisters-kneeling before their living-room radio as if taking communion-yelped in surprise and fear.
Miss Jane rose, patted her sister’s shoulder, and went to answer it, in the nearby hallway.
Her friend Mrs. Roberta Henderson, a third-grade teacher, was calling to ask about the upcoming bake sale. Could Jane and Eleanor provide their usual delicious cherry pies?
“Haven’t you heard?” Miss Jane asked, frantically, amazed that her friend could be caught up in such mundane matters at a time like this.
“Heard?”
Miss Jane’s words tumbled out on top of each other, uncharacteristically, as she told of the news reports of the Martian invasion.
“You can’t be serious, Jane-that’s the radio.”
“Of course it’s the radio!”
“No…no, I mean, it’s just a play.”
“A…play? Why, that’s nonsense! It’s, it’s…news!”
“No-just a play. A clever play. Jane, you need to settle down. Is Eleanor handy?”
“She’s in the living room. Praying. Roberta, surely you understand that the forces of God are overpowering us, and we are at last being given our deserved punishment for all our evil ways.”
“Hmm-huh. Listen to me, Jane. Call the newspaper office. Promise me you will.”
“Well…all right.”
“Do it now.”
Miss Jane said good-bye, hung up, and asked the operator to connect her with the local paper.
“We’re getting a lot of calls,” a male voice said. “It’s just a radio show. Kind of a…practical joke.”
“Well, it’s not very funny!”
“I agree with you, lady. Have a happy Hallowe’en!”
“No thank you! It’s a pagan celebration!”
“Ain’t it though. Good night.”
Miss Jane went into the living room and, as Miss Eleanor looked up at her like a child, shared what she’d learned.
Soon they were sitting in their rockers, the radio switched off.
Miss Eleanor cleared her throat and said, “I’m glad I asked for forgiveness, even if I didn’t have to.”
Miss Jane shared that sentiment, adding, “It was a good opportunity to atone for our sins. The end will come, and those who have freely indulged will face a horrible reckoning.”
“It is the life after this life which is important,” her sister added.
“I don’t mind death,” Miss Jane said, “but I do want to die forgiven.”
The two women smiled at each other, serenely. They again began to knit. In silence.
But within themselves, they were furious-though they were not sure why. A vague sense enveloped them that they had been duped by the sinful world.
Well, the joke was on the sinners. Though the Martians hadn’t come, one day sheets of God’s vengeful fire would sweep over this wretched land.
And the girls had that, at least, to look forward to.
Gibson was sitting in a chair behind John Houseman, who sat between stopwatch-watcher Paul Stewart and the sound engineer. That polished scarecrow, CBS exec Davidson Taylor, stepped in, his expression grave.
“We’re getting calls,” Taylor told Houseman. “Switchboards are swamped downstairs-people are going crazy out there.”
Houseman, who swivelled toward Taylor, asked, “Crazy in what manner?”
“If it’s true, deaths and suicides and injuries of all sorts, due to panic.”
“How widespread?”
“I don’t know, Jack, but you have to force Orson into making an explanatory station announcement. Right now.”
Houseman, despite his misgivings about Orson’s approach, took a hard line. “Not until the scheduled break.”
“This isn’t a request, Jack-”
“I don’t care what it is. We’re approaching the dramatic apex of the story, and the announcement will be made, as written, just after that. It’s a matter of minutes.”
Taylor shook his head. “Why do I back you people? You’re insane!”
Houseman made a little facial shrug, and turned away.
Amiable Ray Collins was out there, stepping up to a microphone, saying: “I’m speaking from the roof of Broadcasting Building, New York City. The bells you hear are ringing to warn the people to evacuate the city as…the Martians approach. Estimated in the last two hours, three million people have moved out along the roads to the north…”