The Old Reactor Page 6

  Udo said, “Enough blather. It’s almost dark. Let’s go see that show.” He set the finder for an address on the east side and the motor rolled toward the bypass.

  Only days ago it was learned that near the Old Reactor, a jellyhead village of odd little mushroom-shaped dwellings has sprung up. Some are hemispherical, some barrel-like, some oblong, and at the top of each is a bucket of gel sacks, tending to prove Zanzetti’s theory of interspatial communication between the sacks and distant life.

  Should free people take action? “No, not yet,” the scientist said. “Let me break the code, see what they’re talking about. There could be a way to distort the impulses from the sack and get the jellies to behave themselves and work for the general good.”

  Zanzetti’s experiments will continue, and periodic reports and memoranda on his progress will be issued until the code is broken. In related research, the great scientist has pioneered a process for partially reviving newly dead jellies and putting them to work. Though he is guarded in any release of specifics, he does say that it involves the use of electromechanical stimulation of the cranial gel sack. All the mechanics and electronics are packed into a small box the size of a deck of cards worn at the back of the neck. The technique has worked on test subjects in the laboratory, Zanzetti says, and he hopes to begin additional trials very soon. “They won’t be like they were in the full bloom of life,” he warns, “but put them in front of a punch press or a milling machine and they’ll work it all day and expect no wage. They’re also non-vocal, so they’ll go about their tasks quietly. And they don’t eat, so they won’t require feeding or toileting facilities.”

  Zanzetti proposes to use them in performing menial tasks. “They’ll sweep the floor, they’ll draw your bath, they’ll chop vegetables and wash windows. There’s no limit to the little jobs they can do. At bed time you just remove the box and they’re out like a light, dead to the world. Let them sleep in the garage or the cellar.”

  After parking the motor, Udo, Moldenke and Salmonella stood on the stoop of a lap-sided, two-story house that had recently been painted, in contrast to the dilapidated buildings on both sides of it and all through the old neighborhood. There were a few streetlights burning dimly on low current.

  Udo rang the bell. They waited in the heat until someone opened the shutters, raised the shade, and parted the curtains of an upstairs window. It was a woman with a slender face and a fair complexion. She blinked in the sun and held a hand over her eyes. Curls of black hair fell in ringlets to her shoulder. She opened the window, smiled down from the folds of the muslin curtains, and pointed at a service alley running along the side of the house. “Are you looking for the jellyhead show?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Udo said.

  “There’s ten or twelve of them in my basement, living down there like bats. Here I am with the best kept house as far as I can see in the only decent neighborhood in Altobello, and look what moves in. Now they’re putting on a show.”

  Udo placed his hand over his heart and patted the side of his weapons satchel. “We’ll take care of them, ma’am.”

  “Let me thank you in advance,” the woman said, closing the window and drawing the shade.

  “Daddy, don’t shoot them.”

  “I agree,” Moldenke said. “Let’s just watch the show.”

  “Tell you what,” Udo said. “We’ll watch the show and then I’ll take care of business and get some valves after it’s over.” He went up the alley and through a low door.

  Moldenke looked at Salmonella. “I’ll go with him. You stay out here.”

  “No, I want to see the show.”

  “All right,” Moldenke said. “If he starts shooting we’ll leave.”

  Salmonella, wary, followed Moldenke down the alley and into the basement.

  There were wooden folding chairs arranged in rows of ten and a small plyboard stage lit by a dim bulb hanging from a joist. Udo was sitting in a front row seat. A jelly at a table near the doorway greeted Moldenke and Salmonella. “Come in. The show is free tonight. Brainerd Franklin’s here. It’s a special appearance. He’s going to work with needles.”

  Salmonella asked, “What does he do, balance them on his nose?”

  “No, no, not at all. Let me take you backstage. You can ask him yourself. He is a treasure to us, to our community. I’m his assistant.”

  Bed sheets had been draped over a rope to define the back of the stage. It took only a few steps to get there. Franklin sat on a wheeled stool at a vanity table. He wore a white terry-cloth bathrobe, the hood pulled over his head. When he saw the backstage visitors, now including Udo, he spun around and wheeled closer to them, extending his hand palm down, as if expecting it to be kissed. Moldenke took the hand awkwardly for a moment and released it. When he did, it fell back and struck the leg of the stool. Brainerd winced then coughed up a wad of clear gel.

  In a whispered aside, the assistant said, “Careful now. He’s very delicate in this state.”

  Udo’s bloodless lips pulled back into a snarl. “All right, Franklin, let’s get on with the show. My girl here wants to know what you do with the needles.”

  Franklin’s ear valves were erect and dripping gel. “It’s almost show time, my friends. Please join the audience. You’ll see what I do with the needles.”

  Ten or twelve jellies had taken their seats in front of the stage, set with a cane-back chair and a bowl of silver needles on a small table. Franklin appeared from behind the bedsheet curtains, lifting himself along like an ape, using his fists as feet, and took his place in the chair.

  His assistant ambled onto the stage. “The great golfer is in a trance state now and will work with his needles.”

  As Franklin’s head came to rest on his chest, the light was turned off.

  “I don’t like this at all,” Udo whispered. “I’m going to start shooting in a minute. That son of a bitch might go critical.”

  The light sparked on again. Franklin stepped out of the chair and heaved himself forward, closer to the small audience.

  The assistant said, “It is his pleasure now to show you his needlework.”

  Franklin turned about and lifted the hem of his robe. There was a low hum of excitement in the room. When the robe was raised high, everyone saw a massive scrotal sack trussed with sewing needles placed either sideward or upward and yielding a good bit of blood.

  Salmonella shrieked.

  Udo stood with an audible snap of his knees, his niner in hand. “That’s enough. What kind of show is this?” He took aim at Franklin. “I don’t care how famous you are, you bucket of jelly. Look what you’re showing to my daughter.”

  Salmonella said, “I’m going, Daddy. I’m going outside,” and left the basement.

  Moldenke waved his hand at Udo. “I’d think again before doing Franklin. His fans are legion. They could come after you.”

  Udo lowered the weapon. “Good point, Moldenke.”

  Franklin let his robe hem fall and backpedaled from the stage.

  Udo turned to the seated jellyheads. “I’m not going to do Franklin, but the rest of you, kneel down and bow your heads.”

  Franklin’s assistant was the first to kneel. Udo shot him in the back of the neck. Moldenke made for the door, quick-stepping all the way, never looking back.

  The jellies in the audience had remained in their seats, petrified, valves dripping but quietly accepting of their fate. Heads were lowered as Udo went up and down the rows of chairs firing into neck after neck, killing eight. The ninth was a young female not much older than Salmonella who lay on her stomach with her neck arched. “Thanks,” Udo said, “for making it easy.” He placed the end of the barrel very close to the raised neck and fired once. The jelly girl went limp. He stood over the body. “You’re still twitching.” He fired another shot just as her head snapped backward in a spasm. The shot was too high and entered the skull, letting out a stream of steaming gel.

  Udo fumed. “What a stink. Let me out of here.” He walked aro
und the basement with a pocket knife, trying to keep his breathing to a minimum to avoid the odor of so much gel, snipping off ear valves and putting them into a bag. “This is what, ten sets? Hell, man, that’s some real time off.”

  Franklin peeked from behind the curtain and wept. “You’ve killed some of my fans.” He blew his wide nose into the shoulder of his robe. “I can tell you this about your future: there will be a time when you need fans and you won’t have them.”

  Udo thought about that prediction for a moment. It made no sense to him. Why would he ever need fans? He gave a second thought to shooting Franklin. He curled his finger a bit more tightly around the niner’s hair trigger.

  Moldenke and Salmonella continued to sit in the motor waiting. The black-haired woman opened her upstairs window. “I heard the shots. Did you get them all?”

  At that moment Udo came out of the basement. “All but one, ma’am. Franklin. He’s too famous to kill.”

  “What will I do with all the bodies?”

  “Don’t know, ma’am. That’s your business. Get that trussed up Franklin to help you.”

  The window slammed shut and the shade was pulled down.

  An estimated seven thousand gallons of so-called barrel honey spilled into City Canal near Bunkerville today. A freight wagon overturned, ruptured, then fell from a bridge into the Canal. The release of the dangerous “honey” caused a yellow cloud to spread over the City and two thousand were evacuated from their homes. Because Bunkerville uses City Canal as a source of drinking water, the pumping facilities will be closed for forty-eight hours as a precautionary measure. The importation of barrel honey from Altobello’s Old Reactor area is forbidden by Bunkerville ordinance, punishable by detonation.

  A rumor spread in Altobello that Franklin would be playing an exhibition round in Liberty Park. The weedy, old, prefreedom course there had been restored by jellyhead labor over a period of weeks. Word of mouth spread, and there was intense interest and anticipation.

  Moldenke made a point of attending, though he missed the first eight holes. Udo and Salmonella were easy enough for him to spot in the crowd at the ninth. She wore a brilliantly pink dress and black patent pumps. Udo, in his uniform, was almost indistinguishable from others in uniform. Sorrel was there, too, with Big Ernie, who carried a cloth-covered basket of bear claws.

  Moldenke tapped Udo on the shoulder. “Udo.”

  “Moldenke.”

  Moldenke smiled. “Salmonella. You look nice.”

  “Thank you, Moldenke. Why are you here?”

  “I want to see Franklin play.”

  Udo said, “I turned in the valves, ten of them. That’s three months off my time.”

  “Which is indeterminate, like mine. So it doesn’t make sense to think you’ll be getting time off no matter how many valves you turn in.”

  Salmonella tugged at Udo’s uniform. “Moldenke’s right, Daddy. That shows how stupid you are.”

  “Quit tugging on the uniform, you little shit.” He gave her a nasty thump on the ear with a snap of his middle finger.

  “Ouch! I hate you!”

  Udo pushed Salmonella backward. She nearly fell, until Moldenke stopped her and stood her up. She began to cry and rub her eyes.

  Udo suddenly back-paced a few steps then turned and lost himself in the crowd.

  Moldenke said, “Hurry up, run after him. Please, go with your father.”

  “He’s gone,” Salmonella said, “and I’m glad. I’ll stay with you. You can take care of me.”

  “Where’s your mother? Who’s your mother?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t talk about her.”

  “An uncle, an aunt, anyone else who might take you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “I don’t have much room in my room, and it’s all I can do taking care of my angry bowel. You should go to the Youth Home. I’ll take you there tomorrow. You can sleep on my floor tonight.”

  There was a roar from the crowd when Franklin approached the ninth hole, then a lull as he studied the lie of his ball about ten feet from the cup.

  “I can’t see,” Salmonella whined. “Pick me up.” Moldenke lifted the bare-boned girl to his shoulders easily. Her legs cradled his neck and she rested her chin on the top of his head. “That Franklin sure does dress sharp.”

  Moldenke stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd. Franklin looked resplendent in a yellow silk blouse, checkered shorts, and a spiffy long-billed cap. His trainer was never far from him, shouting encouragement. Franklin crouched low and sniffed along the green from the ball to the cup. “Atta boy!” the trainer shouted. “Easy putt! Easy putt!”

  His caddy slid a shortened club from the bag. Franklin jerked it from him, sniffed it thoroughly, then addressed the ball. When he did so, observers in the crowd saw blood-spotted needles protruding from the rear of his shorts. The putt went off with a thwack and the ball dropped into the cup. Franklin pounded his chest and grinned for the crowd. Anyone familiar with his style knew what came next. His handlers formed a circle around him to keep the business private. When the circle broke and the group moved on to the tenth, a groundskeeper would be seen shoveling Franklin’s steaming stool into a bucket as his handlers pulled up the golfer’s shorts.

  Moldenke smelled bear claws just then, a moment before Big Ernie and Sorrel came along giving them away. Sorrel stood close to Moldenke, handed him a bear claw, and whispered, “Let’s have dinner tonight at Saposcat’s, if Dad will let me. He beat my last boyfriend half to death for patting my behind, sent him to the crazy house a drooling idiot.”

  Moldenke was caught off guard. “I’ve been to Saposcat’s. I love their fried mud fish. But, you know, my bowel feels angry. I’d best stay in the flat tonight. I have this girl to take care of, which is another complication. Her name is Salmonella.”

  Salmonella beamed at the attention. Her father had never introduced her formally to anyone. “I think I’m named after a little fish from olden times.”

  “The salmon,” Moldenke said. “It used to go up rivers. People ate them.”

  “Another time then?” Sorrel asked.

  In truth, Moldenke was repulsed by her facial deformities and doubted he wanted to be seen in her company at Saposcat’s or anywhere else. Yet her body was very easy on the eye, her hair long and radiant, her breasts modest but likely well-nippled, her buttocks perfectly formed. It would be a bit much for him to ask her to wear a veil. Still, he was on the verge of politely making that request when she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll wear my veil.”

  Under that condition, Moldenke agreed to meet her at Saposcat’s at seven.

  Salmonella said, “Count me in. I love their fried kerd. The mud fish’s not bad either.”

  “She’ll have to come,” Moldenke said. “I’ve got her for the night.”

  “That’s okay,” Sorrel said. “This once.”

  Big Ernie appeared out of the crowd with an empty bag. “Everybody got a claw. Let’s go, Sorrel.”

  “Listen, Father, Moldenke and I will be going to Saposcat’s tonight. Do you have any objections?”

  “As long as he’s a good boy and keeps his hands off.” Ernie winked at Moldenke.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Moldenke said.

  Salmonella clapped her hands. “I’ll be the chaparral.”

  “You mean chaperone,” Moldenke said.

  “You teach me stuff, Moldenke. I like that.”

  Big Ernie came along and patted Salmonella on the head. “Who’s this little gal?”

  “Her father ran off. I’ll take her to the Home tomorrow.”

  Big Ernie looked down at Salmonella. “That’s the best place. It’s full of young free people like you.”

  Two Bunkerville celebrities, the actress, Misti Gaynor and the writer, Sissy Peterbilt, have died in unrelated accidents.

  Gaynor’s sodden body was discovered at about five a.m. yesterday. Sometime the night before, during an unpredictable downpour, she had slipped, fallen, or collapsed into
the three-foot-deep gutter ditch that runs the length of Esplanade Avenue. It is estimated that the gutter quickly became a gushing stream of rain water, engulfing the actress and carrying her more than a hundred yards, where she was found dead.

  Peterbilt was crushed when she stopped to gawk at an excavation near a smelter and was buried in eighteen-pound blocks of pig iron, which fell on her. It had been reported that she was hard at work on the life story of Scientist Zanzetti.

  At seven sharp, Moldenke and Salmonella stood outside Saposcat’s, waiting for Sorrel. The weather had changed suddenly after Franklin’s exhibition, and a warm, bright day had given way to sudden downpours.

  Salmonella complained, “I’m getting wet. The awning is full of holes.”

  “An umbrella would be good to have,” Moldenke said. “Or even a rain hat. You can’t get anything here.”

  “Don’t bring me to the Home. Why can’t you look after me? I’m afraid of the Home. There’s jellyheads there. I could get deformant in my face. They sneak it in.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m sure they’d confiscate it.”

  Moldenke looked up and down Arden Boulevard. “Try to behave. She’ll be here any minute.”

  Passing motors kicked up a mist of dirty water that settled on everything. One of the motors, a deluxe model K-10, glided to a stop in front of the Deli. A chauffeur dashed out and opened the rear door.

  “That’s Franklin,” Salmonella said.

  The golfer slid out of the seat with a broad grin, his legs spread widely, wearing a well-tailored mohair jacket, starched shirt, a gold lamé tie, and boots made of animal skin. A handler held an umbrella over his head and escorted him into Saposcat’s.

  At that moment, Moldenke saw a streetcar round the terminus at the end of Arden and screech to a stop half a block from the Deli. He told Salmonella to stay put while he met Sorrel at the stop. He could already see someone getting off wearing a macramé veil.