she said she'd be over. Stands to reason, things had to come back to normal before too long."
"Ed?"
O'Donnell went across to the chest where the communications unit was sitting and pressed a button. He shook his head. "Not my telcom. Dead as Lincoln. Never a light on the board."
"Told you that was a piece of junk when you bought it." Joe stood up and went over to stare at the unit. "You had a perfectly good phone already."
"Couldn't get a replacement when part of it busted. You know that. Goddam companies, always pushing what you don't want." Ed lifted the headphone. "Got a tone, though. Sounds funny. Here." He held the set out to Art. "You're the communications wizard."
Art took the headset and listened. It was a dial tone all right, but behind the rhythmic pulse was a strange and distant singing, the sound you might get if you had no in-line amplification and were placing a call to the Mars expedition. He performed the standard repertoire of tests and obtained no response. He examined the program board more closely. The unit was relatively new, certainly no more than three years old.
"I think you're out of luck, Ed. The control chips are blown."
"Figures. The warranty ended in January. The bastards."
"I don't think you can blame the company." Art turned to Joe. "My unit's newer than this one, and it's dead, too. Could I make a call on yours?"
"Out of region?"
"Yes."
"Sure you can." The question had been automatic—Joe would have been outraged if Art made any move to pay. "Now?"
"Anytime that's convenient."
"Now's as good as any." Joe stood up heavily, favoring his leg. "Otherwise this old bugger will want us to help him with the clearing up."
Ed said nothing, until the other two were at the door. Then he shook Art's hand, ignored Joe, and said, "Help the poor man, will you, in case he falls over. When Annie says she's coming over, all the blood runs from his brain down into his pecker. I'm still not sure it's enough for action." And when the other two were twenty paces away, "Hey, Joe. Helen's been telling me to ask you this. Do you love Anne-Marie?"
Joe turned and gave him the single sideways glare that said no sane male ever asked another man a question like that. O'Donnell laughed and retreated into the house. Joe and Art continued their slow progress, limited by two bad right knees.
If it had been up to Art he'd have walked faster, no matter how much it hurt. He was desperate to try that call. It was pointless to explain why to Joe. A lot more depended on it than his friends would be willing to believe.
2
The dogs came to meet them midway between the two houses, wagging their tails wildly and rearing up on Joe with their muddy paws while he cursed and tried to push them away.
"Down, Rush," he said to a large white mutt. "I've got nothing for you out here, you silly bugger. Down, I said, until we get home."
It was the best diversion that Art could have hoped for. While Joe was feeding the dogs in the back of the tidy and well-organized house—whatever Anne-Marie was coming over for it wasn't to do cleaning—Art went straight to the telcom set. It wasn't merely old, it was antique. An actual telephone. There was no store-forward, no video plugs, no conferencing, no min-rate path finder, and pathetic internal storage. A bit more primitive, and you'd be back in the era of analog signals and rotary dials. But when Art picked up the handset he heard a treasured pulse tone, though again it was overlaid on a background hiss like interstellar space. Another side effect of Supernova Alpha? A dial pulse was a good start, but no more than that. Art held his breath and hit buttons.
He had spent a lot of time in the past week, trying to remember and write down the thirty-odd numbers that he needed. In the past he had relied on his personal secretary to store them, despite his preaching to others —"We've become too dependent on interconnected technologies. One day the information system will be hit and come
"Ed?"
O'Donnell went across to the chest where the communications unit was sitting and pressed a button. He shook his head. "Not my telcom. Dead as Lincoln. Never a light on the board."
"Told you that was a piece of junk when you bought it." Joe stood up and went over to stare at the unit. "You had a perfectly good phone already."
"Couldn't get a replacement when part of it busted. You know that. Goddam companies, always pushing what you don't want." Ed lifted the headphone. "Got a tone, though. Sounds funny. Here." He held the set out to Art. "You're the communications wizard."
Art took the headset and listened. It was a dial tone all right, but behind the rhythmic pulse was a strange and distant singing, the sound you might get if you had no in-line amplification and were placing a call to the Mars expedition. He performed the standard repertoire of tests and obtained no response. He examined the program board more closely. The unit was relatively new, certainly no more than three years old.
"I think you're out of luck, Ed. The control chips are blown."
"Figures. The warranty ended in January. The bastards."
"I don't think you can blame the company." Art turned to Joe. "My unit's newer than this one, and it's dead, too. Could I make a call on yours?"
"Out of region?"
"Yes."
"Sure you can." The question had been automatic—Joe would have been outraged if Art made any move to pay. "Now?"
"Anytime that's convenient."
"Now's as good as any." Joe stood up heavily, favoring his leg. "Otherwise this old bugger will want us to help him with the clearing up."
Ed said nothing, until the other two were at the door. Then he shook Art's hand, ignored Joe, and said, "Help the poor man, will you, in case he falls over. When Annie says she's coming over, all the blood runs from his brain down into his pecker. I'm still not sure it's enough for action." And when the other two were twenty paces away, "Hey, Joe. Helen's been telling me to ask you this. Do you love Anne-Marie?"
Joe turned and gave him the single sideways glare that said no sane male ever asked another man a question like that. O'Donnell laughed and retreated into the house. Joe and Art continued their slow progress, limited by two bad right knees.
If it had been up to Art he'd have walked faster, no matter how much it hurt. He was desperate to try that call. It was pointless to explain why to Joe. A lot more depended on it than his friends would be willing to believe.
2
The dogs came to meet them midway between the two houses, wagging their tails wildly and rearing up on Joe with their muddy paws while he cursed and tried to push them away.
"Down, Rush," he said to a large white mutt. "I've got nothing for you out here, you silly bugger. Down, I said, until we get home."
It was the best diversion that Art could have hoped for. While Joe was feeding the dogs in the back of the tidy and well-organized house—whatever Anne-Marie was coming over for it wasn't to do cleaning—Art went straight to the telcom set. It wasn't merely old, it was antique. An actual telephone. There was no store-forward, no video plugs, no conferencing, no min-rate path finder, and pathetic internal storage. A bit more primitive, and you'd be back in the era of analog signals and rotary dials. But when Art picked up the handset he heard a treasured pulse tone, though again it was overlaid on a background hiss like interstellar space. Another side effect of Supernova Alpha? A dial pulse was a good start, but no more than that. Art held his breath and hit buttons.
He had spent a lot of time in the past week, trying to remember and write down the thirty-odd numbers that he needed. In the past he had relied on his personal secretary to store them, despite his preaching to others —"We've become too dependent on interconnected technologies. One day the information system will be hit and come
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