back to the microphone:
Seven oval spheres in Scorpio according to the charts, probable deadly Friday, chance of a two-Tuesday mock week, brackish drizzles in the midlands, lozenges melting in the drugstores.
“I'm sunk, Moldenke. It doesn't jell.”
“I'll take you to Burnheart's. We shouldn't be piddling if he's sending a man out.”
“I don't know where the words came from, Moldenke.”
“Ignore it, ignore Bunce. Come south with me.”
The lights went out. The embers of the fire allowed a dome of glow, covering Moldenke. Shelp lay in the dark.
“As I said before, Shelp. Let's go south.”
“No, Moldenke. I shouldn't. Someone has to stay behind and do the weather as long as the microphone is on.”
“Shelp, the microphone is on?” He whispered.
“It is if the pilot light is lit.” The pilot light was lit.
“Burnheart wasn't wrong. He has flaws.” He whispered, “Shelp, is that microphone connected up with all the radios? Is it live, is it that live?”
“I would assume so, why?”
“Shelp!” He was too loud. He whispered again, palming the microphone. “Shelp, I'll say a few words to the folks.”
Shelp went to the lookout and listened to the weather. Moldenke approached the microphone.
47]
Moldenke had been shrimping in a water tub when Eagleman's moon came down. It first fell twenty degrees of altitude and stopped, vibrated, dimmed, and returned to its original spot. Someone told Moldenke that it had been a seasonal drop, something of stellar influences, nothing to be excited about. He threw the shrimp net again, drew it in empty. Someone said, “No shrimping in the water tubs.”
The moon grew suddenly bright, fell to the horizon, held there like a baseball in the mud, and gradually went out.
Moldenke raised the wick of his k-lamp.
48]
“Folks, please pay attention to this announcement. This is not a weather report.” He imagined his voice echoing in stadiums, in dark rooms, interrupting jellyhead workers. “My friend here is Shelp. My name is Moldenke, out of Texaco City. It's time we ended our backward ways. Don't be pinned like a flutterby in a camphor box. Get up, go out and mill in the street. What can they do, occupy the rooms? Everybody turn on the faucets. Open the lookouts and turn on the heaters. Heat the city. Protcher a friend in a tender place. Be good. Be sensitive to the flow, listen to the hum. As I said, this is not a weather report. This is Moldenke of Texaco City. Bloodboy, mock soldier, banana man, shrimper-—I've done my share of swallowing chuff.”
Shelp turned from the lookout. “You're doing good, Dink. Don't get excited, though.”
“Turn the volume up, folks. The weather is improving in spurts. Remember the old sun? The old moon? The old songs we used to sing about them? The government sent Eagleman and his moon to wane in the country, sent up its own moons. Up they went, a new mock moon every paper month, confusing the issue of tides. At least with Eagleman's moon we could get to see a sky movie every month. Now, what now? The g-boys give us gauze and goggles, encouraging indoor play. They send out a herd of jellyheads to do the mock work and the rest of us hole up in our rooms.”
“Ease off, Moldenke. You're getting me excited. My hearts...one of them quit on me yesterday.”
Moldenke switched off the microphone. The lights flickered and went on. The gauges came to life, gave false readings.
“Shelp, you have hearts?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Eleven.”
“What kind?”
“Sheep and dog alternating, and one calf.” He opened his khaki and Moldenke saw the scar, the chest heaving, rippling, ticking. Moldenke went close and protchered a soft wattle under Shelp's chin. “I like you, Shelp. Let's go south. No more time games. He's sending a man out.”
“I can't, Moldenke. When one of them goes-—”
“I know. All of them go. I know. But you've got ten more. We can make it to Burnheart in time for a
Seven oval spheres in Scorpio according to the charts, probable deadly Friday, chance of a two-Tuesday mock week, brackish drizzles in the midlands, lozenges melting in the drugstores.
“I'm sunk, Moldenke. It doesn't jell.”
“I'll take you to Burnheart's. We shouldn't be piddling if he's sending a man out.”
“I don't know where the words came from, Moldenke.”
“Ignore it, ignore Bunce. Come south with me.”
The lights went out. The embers of the fire allowed a dome of glow, covering Moldenke. Shelp lay in the dark.
“As I said before, Shelp. Let's go south.”
“No, Moldenke. I shouldn't. Someone has to stay behind and do the weather as long as the microphone is on.”
“Shelp, the microphone is on?” He whispered.
“It is if the pilot light is lit.” The pilot light was lit.
“Burnheart wasn't wrong. He has flaws.” He whispered, “Shelp, is that microphone connected up with all the radios? Is it live, is it that live?”
“I would assume so, why?”
“Shelp!” He was too loud. He whispered again, palming the microphone. “Shelp, I'll say a few words to the folks.”
Shelp went to the lookout and listened to the weather. Moldenke approached the microphone.
47]
Moldenke had been shrimping in a water tub when Eagleman's moon came down. It first fell twenty degrees of altitude and stopped, vibrated, dimmed, and returned to its original spot. Someone told Moldenke that it had been a seasonal drop, something of stellar influences, nothing to be excited about. He threw the shrimp net again, drew it in empty. Someone said, “No shrimping in the water tubs.”
The moon grew suddenly bright, fell to the horizon, held there like a baseball in the mud, and gradually went out.
Moldenke raised the wick of his k-lamp.
48]
“Folks, please pay attention to this announcement. This is not a weather report.” He imagined his voice echoing in stadiums, in dark rooms, interrupting jellyhead workers. “My friend here is Shelp. My name is Moldenke, out of Texaco City. It's time we ended our backward ways. Don't be pinned like a flutterby in a camphor box. Get up, go out and mill in the street. What can they do, occupy the rooms? Everybody turn on the faucets. Open the lookouts and turn on the heaters. Heat the city. Protcher a friend in a tender place. Be good. Be sensitive to the flow, listen to the hum. As I said, this is not a weather report. This is Moldenke of Texaco City. Bloodboy, mock soldier, banana man, shrimper-—I've done my share of swallowing chuff.”
Shelp turned from the lookout. “You're doing good, Dink. Don't get excited, though.”
“Turn the volume up, folks. The weather is improving in spurts. Remember the old sun? The old moon? The old songs we used to sing about them? The government sent Eagleman and his moon to wane in the country, sent up its own moons. Up they went, a new mock moon every paper month, confusing the issue of tides. At least with Eagleman's moon we could get to see a sky movie every month. Now, what now? The g-boys give us gauze and goggles, encouraging indoor play. They send out a herd of jellyheads to do the mock work and the rest of us hole up in our rooms.”
“Ease off, Moldenke. You're getting me excited. My hearts...one of them quit on me yesterday.”
Moldenke switched off the microphone. The lights flickered and went on. The gauges came to life, gave false readings.
“Shelp, you have hearts?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Eleven.”
“What kind?”
“Sheep and dog alternating, and one calf.” He opened his khaki and Moldenke saw the scar, the chest heaving, rippling, ticking. Moldenke went close and protchered a soft wattle under Shelp's chin. “I like you, Shelp. Let's go south. No more time games. He's sending a man out.”
“I can't, Moldenke. When one of them goes-—”
“I know. All of them go. I know. But you've got ten more. We can make it to Burnheart in time for a
Similar Books
