on the breathless side–a second voice replied, “Two c ’s, you illiterate!” The second voice was only slightly less thin, tiny, high, squeaky, sharp, speedy, brittle, and chirping. It also had a faintly Cockney accent.
And the blamming on the keyboard continued.
My life has been invaded by archy the cockroach , was Noah Raymond’s second, literary, even more deranged thought. In those days, the wonderful writings of the late Don Marquis were still popular; such a thought would have been relevant.
He turned on the light switch beside the door.
Eleven tiny men, each two inches high, were doing a trampoline act on his typewriter.
The former enfant terrible sagged against the doorjamb, and he heard the hinges of his jaw crack like artillery fire as his mouth fell open.
“Turn off that light, you great loon!” yelled one of the little men, describing a perfect Immelmann and plunging headfirst onto the # key while a pair of the little men with another pair of little men on their shoulders weighted down the carriage shift key so the one who had dived would get an upper-case # and not a lower-case 3.
“Off, you bugger; turn it off!” shouted a trio of little men in unison as they ricocheted across each other’s trajectories to type p-a-r-s-i-m-o-n-i-o-u-s. They were a blur, bounding and dodging and shooting past each other like gnats around a dog’s ear.
When he made no move to click off the light–because he was unable to move to do any thing–the tallest of the little men (2¼?) did a two-step on the space bar and landed on the typewriter carriage housing, arms akimbo and fists balled. He stared straight at Noah Raymond and in a thin, tiny, high, etcetera voice howled, “That’s it! Everybody stops work!”
The other ten bounced off their targets and vacated the typewriter en masse . They stood around on the typing shelf, rubbing their heads, some of them removing their tiny caps to massage sore spots on foreheads and craniums.
“Precisely how do you expect us to get ten thousand words written tonight with you disturbing us?” the little man (who was clearly the spokesman) said with annoyance.
I can’t face the future , he thought. The delusions are starting already and it’s not even twenty-four hours .
Another of the little men, somewhat shorter than the others, yelled, “’Ey, Alf. Cawnt’cher get this silly git outta f’ere? We’ll never ’ave done, ’e don’t move on!”
Noah did not understand one word the littler little man had said.
The tallest of the little men glared at the tiniest one and snarled, “Shut’cher yawp, Charlie.” His accent was the same as Charlie’s, dead-on Cockney. But when he looked back at Noah he returned to the precise Mayfair tones he had first used. “Let’s get this matter settled, Mr. Raymond. We’ve got a night’s work ahead of us, you’ve got a story due, and neither of us will manage if we don’t get this perishing explanation out of the way.”
Noah just stared. He had hot flashes.
“Sit down, Mr. Raymond.”
He sat down. On the floor. He didn’t want to, he just suddenly did it; sat down…on the floor.
“Now,” said Alf, “your first question is: what are we? Well. We might ask the same of you. What are you?”
Charlie started hooting. “Cut out th’ malarkey, Alf. Send ’im out an’ tell ’im t’leave off annoyin’ us!”
Alf glared at the little man. “Y’know, Charlie, you’re a right king mixer, you are. You better close up your cake ’ole before I come down there an’ pop you a good’un in the ’ooter!”
Charlie made a nasty bratting sound like a Bronx cheer, the time-honored raspberry, and sat down on the shelf, dangling his tiny legs and whistling unconcernedly.
Alf turned back to Noah. “You’re a human, Mr. Raymond. The inheritors of the Earth. We know all about you; all there is to know. We should, after all; we’ve been around a lot longer than you. We’re gremlins.”
Noah Raymond recognized
And the blamming on the keyboard continued.
My life has been invaded by archy the cockroach , was Noah Raymond’s second, literary, even more deranged thought. In those days, the wonderful writings of the late Don Marquis were still popular; such a thought would have been relevant.
He turned on the light switch beside the door.
Eleven tiny men, each two inches high, were doing a trampoline act on his typewriter.
The former enfant terrible sagged against the doorjamb, and he heard the hinges of his jaw crack like artillery fire as his mouth fell open.
“Turn off that light, you great loon!” yelled one of the little men, describing a perfect Immelmann and plunging headfirst onto the # key while a pair of the little men with another pair of little men on their shoulders weighted down the carriage shift key so the one who had dived would get an upper-case # and not a lower-case 3.
“Off, you bugger; turn it off!” shouted a trio of little men in unison as they ricocheted across each other’s trajectories to type p-a-r-s-i-m-o-n-i-o-u-s. They were a blur, bounding and dodging and shooting past each other like gnats around a dog’s ear.
When he made no move to click off the light–because he was unable to move to do any thing–the tallest of the little men (2¼?) did a two-step on the space bar and landed on the typewriter carriage housing, arms akimbo and fists balled. He stared straight at Noah Raymond and in a thin, tiny, high, etcetera voice howled, “That’s it! Everybody stops work!”
The other ten bounced off their targets and vacated the typewriter en masse . They stood around on the typing shelf, rubbing their heads, some of them removing their tiny caps to massage sore spots on foreheads and craniums.
“Precisely how do you expect us to get ten thousand words written tonight with you disturbing us?” the little man (who was clearly the spokesman) said with annoyance.
I can’t face the future , he thought. The delusions are starting already and it’s not even twenty-four hours .
Another of the little men, somewhat shorter than the others, yelled, “’Ey, Alf. Cawnt’cher get this silly git outta f’ere? We’ll never ’ave done, ’e don’t move on!”
Noah did not understand one word the littler little man had said.
The tallest of the little men glared at the tiniest one and snarled, “Shut’cher yawp, Charlie.” His accent was the same as Charlie’s, dead-on Cockney. But when he looked back at Noah he returned to the precise Mayfair tones he had first used. “Let’s get this matter settled, Mr. Raymond. We’ve got a night’s work ahead of us, you’ve got a story due, and neither of us will manage if we don’t get this perishing explanation out of the way.”
Noah just stared. He had hot flashes.
“Sit down, Mr. Raymond.”
He sat down. On the floor. He didn’t want to, he just suddenly did it; sat down…on the floor.
“Now,” said Alf, “your first question is: what are we? Well. We might ask the same of you. What are you?”
Charlie started hooting. “Cut out th’ malarkey, Alf. Send ’im out an’ tell ’im t’leave off annoyin’ us!”
Alf glared at the little man. “Y’know, Charlie, you’re a right king mixer, you are. You better close up your cake ’ole before I come down there an’ pop you a good’un in the ’ooter!”
Charlie made a nasty bratting sound like a Bronx cheer, the time-honored raspberry, and sat down on the shelf, dangling his tiny legs and whistling unconcernedly.
Alf turned back to Noah. “You’re a human, Mr. Raymond. The inheritors of the Earth. We know all about you; all there is to know. We should, after all; we’ve been around a lot longer than you. We’re gremlins.”
Noah Raymond recognized
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