to form a garbage disposal unit for his Perky Pat’s kitchen.
Using the tiny special tools—designed and built by inhabitants of the fluke-pit—which were necessary in fashioning environmental items for Perky Pat, he was busy at his hobby bench. Thoroughly engrossed in what he was doing, he all at once realized that Fran was standing directly behind him, watching.
“I get nervous when I’m watched,” Norm said, holding a tiny gear with a pair of tweezers.
“Listen,” Fran said, “I’ve thought of something. Does this suggest anything to you?” She placed before him one of the transistor radios which had been dropped the day before.
“It suggests that garage-door opener already thought of,” Norm said irritably. He continued with his work, expertly fitting the miniature pieces together in the sink drain of Pat’s kitchen; such delicate work demanded maximum concentration.
Fran said, “It suggests that there must be radio
transmitters
on Earth somewhere, or the careboys wouldn’t have dropped these.”
“So?” Norm said, uninterested.
“Maybe our Mayor has one,” Fran said. “Maybe there’s one right here in our own pit, and we could use it to call the Oakland Fluke-pit. Representatives from there could meet us halfway . . . say at the Berkeley Fluke-pit. And we could play there. So we wouldn’t have that long fifteen-mile trip.”
Norman hesitated in his work; he set the tweezers down and said slowly, “I think possibly you’re right.” But if their Mayor Hooker Glebe had a radio transmitter, would he let them use it? And if he did—
“We can try,” Fran urged. “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”
“Okay,” Norm said, rising from his hobby bench.
The short, sly-faced man in Army uniform, the Mayor of the Pinole Fluke-pit, listened in silence as Norm Schein spoke. Then he smiled a wise, cunning smile. “Sure, I have a radio transmitter. Had it all the time. Fifty-watt output. But why would you want to get in touch with the Oakland Fluke-pit?”
Guardedly, Norm said, “That’s my business.”
Hooker Glebe said thoughtfully, “I’ll let you use it for fifteen dollars.”
It was a nasty shock, and Norm recoiled. Good Lord; all the money he and his wife had—they needed every bill of it for use in playing Perky Pat. Money was the tender in the game; there was no other criterion by which one could tell if he had won or lost. “That’s too much,” he said aloud.
“Well, say ten,” the Mayor said, shrugging.
In the end they settled for six dollars and a fifty-cent piece.
“I’ll make the radio contact for you,” Hooker Glebe said. “Because you don’t know how. It will take time.” He began turning a crank at the side of the generator of the transmitter. “I’ll notify you when I’ve made contact with them. But give me the money now.” He held out his hand for it, and, with great reluctance, Norm paid him.
It was not until late that evening that Hooker managed to establish contact with Oakland. Pleased with himself, beaming in self-satisfaction, he appeared at the Scheins’ quarters, during their dinner hour. “All set,” he announced. “Say, you know there are actually
nine
fluke-pits in Oakland? I didn’t know that. Which you want? I’ve got one with the radio code of Red Vanilla.” He chuckled. “They’re tough and suspicious down there; it was hard to get any of them to answer.”
Leaving his evening meal, Norman hurried to the Mayor’s quarters, Hooker puffing along after him.
The transmitter, sure enough, was on, and static wheezed from the speaker of its monitoring unit. Awkwardly, Norm seated himself at the microphone. “Do I just talk?” he asked Hooker Glebe.
“Just say, This is Pinole Fluke-pit calling. Repeat that a couple of times and then when they acknowledge, you say what you want to say.” The Mayor fiddled with controls of the transmitter, fussing in an important fashion.
“This is Pinole Fluke-pit,” Norm said loudly into the
Using the tiny special tools—designed and built by inhabitants of the fluke-pit—which were necessary in fashioning environmental items for Perky Pat, he was busy at his hobby bench. Thoroughly engrossed in what he was doing, he all at once realized that Fran was standing directly behind him, watching.
“I get nervous when I’m watched,” Norm said, holding a tiny gear with a pair of tweezers.
“Listen,” Fran said, “I’ve thought of something. Does this suggest anything to you?” She placed before him one of the transistor radios which had been dropped the day before.
“It suggests that garage-door opener already thought of,” Norm said irritably. He continued with his work, expertly fitting the miniature pieces together in the sink drain of Pat’s kitchen; such delicate work demanded maximum concentration.
Fran said, “It suggests that there must be radio
transmitters
on Earth somewhere, or the careboys wouldn’t have dropped these.”
“So?” Norm said, uninterested.
“Maybe our Mayor has one,” Fran said. “Maybe there’s one right here in our own pit, and we could use it to call the Oakland Fluke-pit. Representatives from there could meet us halfway . . . say at the Berkeley Fluke-pit. And we could play there. So we wouldn’t have that long fifteen-mile trip.”
Norman hesitated in his work; he set the tweezers down and said slowly, “I think possibly you’re right.” But if their Mayor Hooker Glebe had a radio transmitter, would he let them use it? And if he did—
“We can try,” Fran urged. “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”
“Okay,” Norm said, rising from his hobby bench.
The short, sly-faced man in Army uniform, the Mayor of the Pinole Fluke-pit, listened in silence as Norm Schein spoke. Then he smiled a wise, cunning smile. “Sure, I have a radio transmitter. Had it all the time. Fifty-watt output. But why would you want to get in touch with the Oakland Fluke-pit?”
Guardedly, Norm said, “That’s my business.”
Hooker Glebe said thoughtfully, “I’ll let you use it for fifteen dollars.”
It was a nasty shock, and Norm recoiled. Good Lord; all the money he and his wife had—they needed every bill of it for use in playing Perky Pat. Money was the tender in the game; there was no other criterion by which one could tell if he had won or lost. “That’s too much,” he said aloud.
“Well, say ten,” the Mayor said, shrugging.
In the end they settled for six dollars and a fifty-cent piece.
“I’ll make the radio contact for you,” Hooker Glebe said. “Because you don’t know how. It will take time.” He began turning a crank at the side of the generator of the transmitter. “I’ll notify you when I’ve made contact with them. But give me the money now.” He held out his hand for it, and, with great reluctance, Norm paid him.
It was not until late that evening that Hooker managed to establish contact with Oakland. Pleased with himself, beaming in self-satisfaction, he appeared at the Scheins’ quarters, during their dinner hour. “All set,” he announced. “Say, you know there are actually
nine
fluke-pits in Oakland? I didn’t know that. Which you want? I’ve got one with the radio code of Red Vanilla.” He chuckled. “They’re tough and suspicious down there; it was hard to get any of them to answer.”
Leaving his evening meal, Norman hurried to the Mayor’s quarters, Hooker puffing along after him.
The transmitter, sure enough, was on, and static wheezed from the speaker of its monitoring unit. Awkwardly, Norm seated himself at the microphone. “Do I just talk?” he asked Hooker Glebe.
“Just say, This is Pinole Fluke-pit calling. Repeat that a couple of times and then when they acknowledge, you say what you want to say.” The Mayor fiddled with controls of the transmitter, fussing in an important fashion.
“This is Pinole Fluke-pit,” Norm said loudly into the
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