So Rupert Rewbarb was grateful for the occasional silences that were as rare in the Rewbarb bungalow as oases in the vast arid stretches of the Gobi.
He took off his coat and hat wearily and hung them in the hall closet. Mr. Rewbarb was a defeated looking little man with an incipient paunch and a partially bald head, but as he returned to the living room his shoulders were thrown back and there was a purposeful glint in his eye.
Seven days of each week Mr. Rewbarb was verbally kicked from pillar to post by his shrewish wife and his leather-lunged employer, Tadmington Glick, of Glick’s Statistical Service. Over the long years Mr. Rewbarb’s personality had been so suppressed, his self-assertiveness so crushed, that the fires of revolt in his soul had long since been stamped out.
But there were times when Mr. Rewbarb asserted himself. Times when he could thunder disapproval to his heart’s content. For Mr. Rewbarb, searching despairingly for some means of self-expression, had discovered one agency that could not talk back, could not order him about, ridicule him or scorn him as the rest of the world did.
With firm, steady fingers, Rupert Rewbarb snapped on the radio. He waited impatiently for it to gather volume. His moment of undisputed triumph was near and he felt a nervous anticipation tickling his pine. His wife, Jennifer, knew nothing of his furtive attempts at masterful domination, which was fortunate for him. She would not have tolerated them, he knew.
The radio, a small, standard model, in a dark cabinet, was gaining volume and a smooth unctuous voice was flooding through the room.
Mr. Rewbarb listened eagerly, though somewhat contemptuously.
“I have been the people’s representative for the past twenty-seven years,” the bland voice from the radio purred hypnotically, “and if reelected—”
“If reelected,” Mr. Rewbarb interrupted angrily, drowning out the voice from the radio, “you’ll just go ahead stealing and lying to the people as you’ve been doing all these years. You might tell some of the dopes that stuff, but not me. You’re a crook, a cheap lowdown crook and I don’t care who knows it.”
Mr. Rewbarb was enjoying himself immensely. A feeling of strength and power stole over him that was like heady, intoxicating wine. It was glorious to tell some one where to get off, even if it was but a voice from the ether.
The voice from the ether was continuing on, blissfully unaware of Mr. Rewbarb’s stormy detractions.
“Taxes,” the politician whispered the word almost reverently, “will be reduced and curtailed at least fifty percent if the loyal voters of this commonwealth send me back to represent them in the nation’s capital.”
“Bah!” snorted Mr. Rewbarb. “You’ve promised that for twenty years, but what have you ever done about it? I’ll tell you, you lying scalawag — you’ve done absolutely nothing, nothing at all. What do you say to that?”
“I say shut up!” a deep, angry voice from the radio blasted.
Mr. Rewbarb started in terror. His eyes traveled beseechingly about the room and finally focused in silent horror on the radio, which was now ominously silent.
“Who said that?” he whispered tremulously.
“I said it,” the deep voice from the radio speaker stated decisively. “I’ve listened to your childish babblings just about long enough. It’s bad enough to have a mess of moronic nonsense passing through me, without having to listen to you on top of it.”
Mr. Rewbarb’s knees were turning to jelly. His heart was hammering with wild excitement, and his eyes were popped wide with horrified incredulity. The voice was emanating from the radio — but that was impossible! As Mr. Rewbarb’s logical mind realized this, he began to feel a little better. If it was impossible, why that was all there was to it. It just couldn’t have happened.
He peered uncertainly at the radio speaker.
“You didn’t s-say anything, did you?” he asked foolishly.
The radio was silent. Mr. Rewbarb drew a heart-felt sigh of relief.
“I knew it didn’t” he said, vastly pleased with himself, “it was impossible, that’s all.”
“You poor simpleton!” the radiovoice said sarcastically. “You can believe your own ears, can’t you?”
Mr. Rewbarb gulped nervously.
“I–I’m not sure,” he said miserably. With one trembling hand he raised the top of the radio and peered into the coils and tubes that lay inside. Then he peeked under the radio. On his knees now he crawled rapidly about the room peering under the sofa and the chairs and the piano. Standing up he looked suspiciously at the chandelier, and then, close to tears, he approached the radio again.
“Satisfied?” the voice asked nastily.
Mr. Rewbarb’s skepticism had fled. In its place was an emotion difficult to classify. His reason was tottering on its throne, but through his incipient insanity ran a vein of reverence and awe that saved him from going completely off the deep end.
“Who are you?” he asked, in a shaken voice. “And where are you?”
“That’s better,” the voice from the radio grunted. “I’m the radio, that’s whom I am. And as to where I am, that’s a silly question. I’m right here before you. Any fool could see that.”
“T-that’s right,” Mr. Rewbarb said humbly. “That’s pretty obvious.” He drew a deep breath and tried to calm his fluttering nerves. He was aware that everything was completely cockeyed, but his reason and resistance were worn away. There was nothing to do but accept things as they came, right down to the inevitable straight jacket and padded cell.
“What do you want?” he asked faintly.
“Want?” the radio repeated the word musingly, “I’m not just sure yet. Now that I’ve finally kicked over the applecart I’m a bit puzzled as to what I’ll do. You see I’ve been listening too, and incidentally transmitting, political speeches, stale jokes, poor music and long-winded commercials for the past couple of years. Now that’s bad enough, but what made it unbearable was that I had to listen to you all the time too.
“You’d get wound up and start spouting off, waving your arms like a dervish and it got pretty annoying at times. You’re a darned poor echo, let me tell you. I put up with you as long as I could without letting a peep out of me. Of course, sometimes I’d spatter a bit of static around to shut you up, but that hardly counts. Today was the last straw. I just couldn’t stand it any longer, I blew wide open and I intend to stay that way. No more corny jokes, no more political speeches and no more of your foaming at the mouth. I’m going to do the talking now. My days of listening are over. Get that Mr. Rubberboob,” the radio concluded nastily.
“Not Rubberboob, Rewbarb,” Mr. Rewbarb corrected timidly. He was more than a little frightened. He almost wished his wife would come home. There was a belligerent, sadistic ring to the radio’s voice, that Mr. Rewbarb did not find comforting.
“I’ve been silent long enough,” the radio said savagely, and Mr. Rewbarb thought fleetingly of the myth of the genie who was released from imprisonment, and rewarded his rescuer by cutting him into sixty-two equal parts. “But I’ve got my chance now and I’m not going to miss it,” the radio continued. “I’m going to have a little fun for a change. I’ll probably be blackballed by a dozen or so ethereal unions but what’s the difference. I’m going to do a little thinking now, but you’ll hear from me later.”
Mr. Rewbarb stared in fascination at the silent radio. He was so absorbed in the amazing thing that had happened, he did not hear the key slide into the front door.