already,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Can I use the car tonight, by the way?’
Her husband nodded, not looking up from his proof. ‘Find out if you can,’ he said, ‘why he has those tattoos of Dumbo and Bambi on his arms. There might be a feature story in that—human interest, you know, something for the puzzle page.’
That night, while Barthemo Beele was inserting into his paper a late news item about the adultery of an editor’s wife, Mary and the sailor were discovering, in the back seat of the Ford, that they were very drunk. The Ford was parked at the edge of town, near the entrance of the Lost Albanian Mine.
‘I hear something,’ mumbled the sailor. ‘It ain’t your old man, is it?’
‘Him? Don’t worry,’ Mary said, laying a hand on Bambi. ‘Listen, he’s busy right now, putting the paper to bed. He’s some kind of—not freak—neurotic, I guess. All he cares about is putting the damned
paper
to bed.
Altoona Truth
. He wants to bring out a Sunday edition called the
Altoona Altruist
. Faugh !’ She took a drink down savagely, then another.
‘Shh. Someone out there, baby. Hey, maybe it’s the Lost Albanian himself, eh? Ha ha.’ He poured himself a paper cup of gin and swallowed it. As long as they were this drunk, there seemed no point in stopping.
‘Don’t even say that joking !’ she gasped. ‘They say if you see
the Lost Albanian, the world is coming to an end. Jesus, that would be a story for Barty, now, wouldn’t it? Let’s change the subject. Are you gonna take me away on the train tomorrow or not?’
‘Sure I am.’
A low, blocky shape appeared, ghostly grey, at the dark entrance to the mine shaft. It scuttled across the moonlit stretch of ground towards them.
‘Snakes !’ screamed the sailor. ‘I’ve gone snakey !’
‘You can drink all you want,’ murmured Mary sleepily. She had not seen the shape. ‘As long as you take me away from the
Altoona Tooth
… I mean the …’ She dozed, resting her dirty knot of hair upon Dumbo. The sailor did not notice. He peered fearfully out in the dark, looking for more hallucinations. So this was the DT’s ! Only a few days before, he had finished his tour of duty at Wompler Research, where all hell had broken loose—little grey boxes. It must be that they were stuck in his unconscious somehow, and the DT’s released them, he theorized. Something clanked under the car, but he refused to hear it. He closed his eyes and sipped gin, until, a certain percentage of his blood becoming alcohol, he slept.
At 11 : 00 the next morning Barthemo Beele and the town marshal woke them up.
‘Hey, where’s the car?’ groaned the sailor.
‘We’ve been robbed !’ Mary exclaimed.
Barthemo busied himself taking pictures of the couple from various angles, while the marshal questioned them about the robbery. The four of them compiled a list of the stolen articles :
1 bracelet, ankle, lady’s
1 clasp, metal, purse
1 zipper, metal, dress
1 lipstick
1 compact
2 silver dollars and an unknown amount of change, several hairpins
2 cigarette lighters
1 aluminium comb various keys
2 silver fillings from Mary’s teeth
1 gold tooth from sailor
1 automobile, Ford.
‘I’ll go phone this into the highway patrol, just as soon as the lines are working again,’ said the marshal. ‘You know it’s a funny thing. Just about every car in town has been stolen. Bicycles, too, and I don’t know what-all. And wouldn’t you know it, my highway patrol radio transmitter got misplaced too.’ He wandered off, in the direction of the Town Talk Bar.
‘Very interesting,’ the editor mused. He, too, had been hearing strange rumours and complaints all morning. Now, as he sat down in the grass beside Mary and the sailor, his mind began spinning out headlines for an extra edition :
NO WHEELS? ANTI-CLIMAX
‘The telephone lines are down,’ he murmured. ‘So are the power lines. Odd.’
‘I’m leaving you, Barty,’ Mary said.
‘And
Her husband nodded, not looking up from his proof. ‘Find out if you can,’ he said, ‘why he has those tattoos of Dumbo and Bambi on his arms. There might be a feature story in that—human interest, you know, something for the puzzle page.’
That night, while Barthemo Beele was inserting into his paper a late news item about the adultery of an editor’s wife, Mary and the sailor were discovering, in the back seat of the Ford, that they were very drunk. The Ford was parked at the edge of town, near the entrance of the Lost Albanian Mine.
‘I hear something,’ mumbled the sailor. ‘It ain’t your old man, is it?’
‘Him? Don’t worry,’ Mary said, laying a hand on Bambi. ‘Listen, he’s busy right now, putting the paper to bed. He’s some kind of—not freak—neurotic, I guess. All he cares about is putting the damned
paper
to bed.
Altoona Truth
. He wants to bring out a Sunday edition called the
Altoona Altruist
. Faugh !’ She took a drink down savagely, then another.
‘Shh. Someone out there, baby. Hey, maybe it’s the Lost Albanian himself, eh? Ha ha.’ He poured himself a paper cup of gin and swallowed it. As long as they were this drunk, there seemed no point in stopping.
‘Don’t even say that joking !’ she gasped. ‘They say if you see
the Lost Albanian, the world is coming to an end. Jesus, that would be a story for Barty, now, wouldn’t it? Let’s change the subject. Are you gonna take me away on the train tomorrow or not?’
‘Sure I am.’
A low, blocky shape appeared, ghostly grey, at the dark entrance to the mine shaft. It scuttled across the moonlit stretch of ground towards them.
‘Snakes !’ screamed the sailor. ‘I’ve gone snakey !’
‘You can drink all you want,’ murmured Mary sleepily. She had not seen the shape. ‘As long as you take me away from the
Altoona Tooth
… I mean the …’ She dozed, resting her dirty knot of hair upon Dumbo. The sailor did not notice. He peered fearfully out in the dark, looking for more hallucinations. So this was the DT’s ! Only a few days before, he had finished his tour of duty at Wompler Research, where all hell had broken loose—little grey boxes. It must be that they were stuck in his unconscious somehow, and the DT’s released them, he theorized. Something clanked under the car, but he refused to hear it. He closed his eyes and sipped gin, until, a certain percentage of his blood becoming alcohol, he slept.
At 11 : 00 the next morning Barthemo Beele and the town marshal woke them up.
‘Hey, where’s the car?’ groaned the sailor.
‘We’ve been robbed !’ Mary exclaimed.
Barthemo busied himself taking pictures of the couple from various angles, while the marshal questioned them about the robbery. The four of them compiled a list of the stolen articles :
1 bracelet, ankle, lady’s
1 clasp, metal, purse
1 zipper, metal, dress
1 lipstick
1 compact
2 silver dollars and an unknown amount of change, several hairpins
2 cigarette lighters
1 aluminium comb various keys
2 silver fillings from Mary’s teeth
1 gold tooth from sailor
1 automobile, Ford.
‘I’ll go phone this into the highway patrol, just as soon as the lines are working again,’ said the marshal. ‘You know it’s a funny thing. Just about every car in town has been stolen. Bicycles, too, and I don’t know what-all. And wouldn’t you know it, my highway patrol radio transmitter got misplaced too.’ He wandered off, in the direction of the Town Talk Bar.
‘Very interesting,’ the editor mused. He, too, had been hearing strange rumours and complaints all morning. Now, as he sat down in the grass beside Mary and the sailor, his mind began spinning out headlines for an extra edition :
NO WHEELS? ANTI-CLIMAX
‘The telephone lines are down,’ he murmured. ‘So are the power lines. Odd.’
‘I’m leaving you, Barty,’ Mary said.
‘And
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