Contdown to Midnight vers 2, page 17
“Hi, honey. How was the beach?”
“Wonderful! Every bit of thirty degrees,” she answered laughing. “How do you convince a baby that a seashell isn’t an appropriate toothing ring?” Sue knew the call was being monitored, but her voice was light and quick.
Stan laughed also and soon after hung up, a smile fading slowly from his thin face. By two-thirty he had finished the work on his desk and reached for his ringing telephone as the loudspeaker hissed into action again. He waited for it, holding the phone by the mouthpiece.
“T minus twelve hours, fourteen minutes and holding.”
“Robertson,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Delaney here, Stan. Part HG9647LS. Sent a replacement over.”
Stan listened without comment as Delaney filled him in with what had gone wrong. He repeated the number and hung up. They had to go through him for every part. The written memorandum would follow shortly, but he had to see that the placement for the replacement was in stock, and see that the records showed why two of the gidgets had been used from the stocks. For that he didn’t need the memorandum. It took him fifteen minutes to satisfy himself that he had fulfilled his duties. At three-ten he went to his company’s warehouse, one of many such small buildings scattered out among the palmettos on the Cape.
Here it was business as usual today, and even as he riffled through a sheaf of orders a truck arrived and began unloading. Ken entered the loading area and waved to Stan. He checked with his men and then approached Stan, a serious, intent look of concern barely, visible on his handsome face. Stan reminded himself that he wanted to write a letter of commendation about Ken’s work soon. He wondered how much the younger man knew about what was going on there that day. He guessed Ken knew everything. Ken had a way of ferreting inside dope that was pretty uncanny.
“Stan, was the wafer that bad? Did we cause the hold?” Ken asked after glancing about cautiously.
Stan studied him curiously. Ken’s face had the stricken look of a parent whose child has broken a showroom window. He felt old and out of touch suddenly. One time he had been that eager, he was certain. That had been when the company was primarily engaged in putting men in orbit and everyone who breathed the same air on the Cape felt a personal pride. Now he couldn’t seem to recapture the mood.
“It was the wafer,” he said quietly. “Not really bad, questionable. They bent it testing the transistor.”
“Goddam!” Ken granted. “Clumsy bastards!”
Stan shrugged. They both turned and looked back over the Cape where the missile stood against the sky, surrounded by the tightest security guard that had ever guarded a missile before firing. It stood as big as a building of fifty stories, and was almost as broad at its base as that same building. A modified Saturn, clustered engined, aswarm with men probing its innards. No slim beauty this, but a beast of burden, ugly and utilitarian, the end product of eighteen months of preliminary shots and tests. “It’s a beast,” Stan muttered, more to himself than to be heard and answered.
“It sure is,” Ken agreed, with an altogether different inflection. Stan looked at him quickly. The younger man’s face held subdued excitement. He looked abashed momentarily, then defiant. His voice was almost sullen when he said, “Well, anyone who thinks at all knows what it is.”
Stan said nothing for several moments and then murmured, “I wouldn’t think about it too much if I were you, Ken. Not too much.”
Ken seemed to dig himself into the ground, to brace himself, but Stan said no more, turning and walking away toward the transportation pool jeep he had commandeered.
At five-fifteen Stan called home once more. There was a note of fear in Sue’s tone when she recognized his voice. No one else would have caught it.
“I think I’ll grab a bite down here, honey. Got behind in paper work,” Stan said lightly, knowing he didn’t fool her.
“All right. Will you be la … I mean, do you have your key, or should I leave it open?”
“Lock up, honey,” he said gently. “I have the key. How’s the little bit?”
“Great. Ate a whole jar of squash! Can you imagine anything human liking squash?”
After he cradled the phone he sat with his hand on it for several minutes, as though it were the head of the little squash lover. The secretary looked in to announce that she was leaving, if he had nothing else. … He waved her off. Ken was there by then and they went down to the cafeteria together. This time the game of hearts was for a nickel a point and made up of mostly supervisory personnel. Stan lost one dollar twenty cents. The game went past the dinner hour and into the night shift. Intermittently the speaker advised them of the progress of the shoot, and just before the last light of day faded away, Stan excused himself and walked outside.
The sky was streaked with high, multicolored stratus clouds, shimmering radiantly against the background of deep, luminous, greenish blue. No stars were visible as yet. Stan could make out the jetties and the dock where the shrimp boats had homed for the night. He counted them slowly, nine; all of them bad come home safely. Across the finger of water from them, the electronically outfitted cutter was ablaze with light, floating serenely past the fleet of ancient high-masted boats, as a ballerina would move past silently disapproving grandmothers condemning the world from the safety of a secluded porch. The wind had a chill to it now that the sun no longer contributed heat, and Stan shivered. Slowly, reluctantly, he let his eyes turn to the gantry where the vapor-wrapped beast continued to be held forcibly with the umbilical and the gantry cables. The searchlights were already on it, assaulting it from all sides, as though the beams were responsible for its upright position. Stan stared at it several seconds before be became aware of a second presence.
“It bugs you, doesn’t it, Stan?” Ken’s voice was low and not the voice of a subordinate but of a friend.
Stan tried to imagine them in a boat on the St. John’s, with plugs tugging at their lines as they reeled in waiting for the big one to lunge. In that capacity Ken was his friend; here, on the Cape, Ken was one of the others, one of those who found glory and pride in the beast. Stan shrugged and muttered, “It’s a beast.”
He would have re-entered the building that housed the cafeteria, but Ken’s fingers were on his arm and he waited.
“Just be a realist for a minute, will you, pal?” Ken pleaded. “I saw the look you gave me a while ago. You think I don’t know about it? I know what’s going upstairs tonight as well as you do, even if I don’t qualify for the briefings. We all know. And it’s a cold, hard fact that it has to go and it has to be successful. You know they rendezvoused in space just ten days ago. And since then, not a peep. Just what do you suppose they’re doing up there? Making borsch?” The sky had darkened perceptibly during the few minutes they had been out, and now the last lingering light flickered red on Ken’s face. Deep frown lines shadowed it, turning the ‘boyish contours into deep valleys and a high, flushed ridges. Stan smiled grimly and reminded him, “i said, don’t think about it, fella. Come on, let’s raise the ante to a dime a point and see if we can’t liven up that game inside.”
At nine-thirty the voice intoned, “T minus seven hours, fourteen minutes and holding.”
Stan finished the hand he was holding and paid out his last quarter. He left the game to call Sue for the last time that night. She was reading a mystery.
“Don’t sit up with it too late, honey,” be said. “You know how you get carried away.”
“I’m half through it,” her voice came back, “and I don’t see how I could put it down now. There have been three murders already and it’s beginning to look like there won’t be enough characters left for…” Her voice stopped and quickly she changed the subject. “I forgot to tell you, there’s a letter from Mother. She’ll be here the first week of June.”
“Hey, that’s great! I’ll make a note to call Johnny on the Pelican. We’ll charter it one day while she’s here. Let her see some real fish.”
“She’d love that.”
He told her goodnight and they exchanged silent kisses and he hung up. Sue was a good kid, he told himself emphatically. Really a good kid.
He left the building and climbed into the jeep. The count had resumed after half an hour this time. It was three miles to the partially buried blockhouse just above the high-tide mark on the beach. There was a feeling of activity even on the outside of the concrete structure. Stan stepped inside and waved to an Air Force colonel, who came forward and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Hi, Stan. Come on outside. I’ve been in and out of this so much tonight that the mosquitoes are advertising me as a cheap thrill ride. Look at ‘em swarming tonight.”
“It’s the north wind,” Stan said. “Brings them down from the groves on Merritt Island. Come on down to the beach. They won’t be so bad down there.”
The colonel waved a vile cigar about him, smoking the insects away as they walked to the edge of the water. “Nice night here,” he said and put the cigar back between his teeth.
“Yeah,” Stan agreed. “Wanted to tell you, Sue’s mother is coming in June. You and Thelma want to help finance a charter boat for some deep-sea fishing?”
“Say! That sounds pretty good! Remind me when the time comes.”
They stood together, their backs to the Cape and its activities as if they were unaware of it. The cigar burned down as they stood, and finally the colonel took it between his thumb and index finger and flicked h out over the water. It vanished without a trace or a sound. “Not what we dreamed of ten years ago, is it, Stan?” the colonel said softly.
Stan granted and kicked at the sand.
“It’s a hell of a night,” the colonel said bitterly and turned to retrace his steps toward the blockhouse.
At midnight Stan was kibitzing a game of chess between an army major and an electronics engineer from one of the other companies. The disembodied voice proclaimed the hour adding, “T minus four hours, fourteen minutes.”
The major checked the engineer and cursed when the engineer countered with a queen move that ended the game in mate. The three of them moved toward the coffee maker and sat down again with steaming mugs and talked about women, cars, kids and the dock strike back in New York.
Three a m. Stan sat behind his desk in the darkened office and he smoked. “T minus one hour fifty minutes,” the voice said. Sue would be curled slightly, on her left side, her left hand under her pillow, her right hand on the spot where he should be. Stan could see her. And he could see (he little likeness of her, on her knees, toes crossing, hands holding down the crib, one thumb conveniently near the rosy lips that mewed now and then in sleep. Tomorrow—today—they would go to Lake Poinsett, and Sue would conceal her fear of the giant rattlesnakes, and they would fish and later he would fall asleep out in the open, under the sky, and she would read and warm the milk for the baby in the contraption that plugged into the cigarette lighter of the car. Then he would wake up and she would smile and tell him how his line whistled through the water as a big bass carried his plug to the bottom of the lake … and most important, her eyes would be filled with love, and there would be no reproach in them.
Stan ground out his cigarette and left the office. He walked toward the blockhouse. Very faintly he could bear the voice say, “T minus one hour, thirty minutes.”
The mosquitoes whined and buzzed and bit with stinging ferocity. He slapped at them absently and walked on. A guard stopped him once and told him to get somewhere right away. T minus one hour. The blockhouse was filled almost past capacity. Beside the main control bunker, it was the one most advantageously situated for a good view—even using the television, as all of them would do, since the view slits had been covered for this one. Ken pushed his way to the door when he sighted Stan. His eyes were very bright with excitement.
“God!*’ he said, “let’s get out of here until the last minute. The lousy air conditioning wasn’t meant for three thousand people crammed in the place.”
They went to the beach and sat on the hard-packed sand. The mosquitoes were kept back by the breeze coming from the dark, hissing waters. Stan told Ken about the fishing party and invited him to be the sixth and last member of it.
For perhaps five minutes their conversation was about fishing, and then they became silent. Behind them the voice reached out to remind them, “T minus fifteen minutes.” Ken rose and brushed the sand from his pants.
“Coming?” he asked.
“In a minute,” Stan said. Ken left him alone.
“T minus ten minutes and holding,” the voice floated out.
The sky was lightening slightly and Stan watched a dim star grow dimmer until it faded altogether. Far out on the horizon he could just make out the beginning of a sunrise, a sliver of paleness in the deep blue that promised the sun would rise again, just as it had yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. He watched the sliver widen and become vivid rose colored and the voice said, “T minus eight minutes and counting.” Slowly he rose and brushed the sand off and turned his back on the sunrise to enter the bunker. He remained by the door until the last minute when the guard closed and secured it. Then he leaned against the rough concrete wall and closed his eyes to the ordered confusion that was everywhere in the crowded room. He couldn’t see the television screen, nor did he want to.
“T minus one minute,” followed by the familiar, inexorable backward counting of the seconds.
In Sue’s eyes there would be no censure, no reproach. The building seemed to quiver and then came the blast of noise and the roar and a great shout.
When they left the bunker, it was full daylight outside. The sky was boldly blue, beautiful—and polluted. Silently Stan, followed by Ken, accepted a ride back to the parking lot with four others who were also silent and thoughtful now. Stan settled himself back in the bucket seat of the fiery MG and closed his eyes, not to open them again until they stopped outside his house. Surprisingly, Ken cut the motor and got out also, walking behind Stan into the yard, onto the steps and into the house. Sue stood holding the door for them, and there was no censure, no reproach in her eyes, only love. Stan took her hand and held it tightly for a moment.
Ken walked past them and very quietly opened the door to the room where the baby slept. He didn’t enter the room, but stood looking, and then just as quietly closed the door and came back to the living room to stand before Stan and Sue.. His face was no longer young and handsome.
“My God, Stan,” he whispered, “what have we done?”
“Go on home, Ken,” Stan answered tiredly, regretting that Ken had taken the step from immaturity to adulthood and was even now mentally staggering under its immeasurable burdens. “Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll be out at the lake later if you want to join us. Go on.” He closed the door on his friend, on the world that existed outside and couldn’t be allowed to enter. And then he turned again to Sue. One day, he knew, he would return and her eyes would slide past him to fasten on the baby and she would i also ask, “What have we done?” One day … He held I her, his eyes wide open and staring. He very much wanted I to weep.
Above them, above the earth in a nearly circular orbit whose aphelion and perihelion didn’t vary more than seven miles, rode the nose cone of the rocket, and inside it, just one push of a finger away, nestled the Bomb.
THE BIG FLASH
Norman Spinrad
When ‘The Big Flash” was first read at the annual Milford Science Fiction Writers’ workshop, the writers in attendance were so terrified by the possibility that the story’s central idea might be put into practice that, according to Anne McCaffrey, they “debated long over whether it should be published at all.”
Shock, controversy, and even outright banning are nothing new to Norman Spinrad, one of the most innovative, disturbing, and powerful voices in contemporary speculative fiction. When his splendid 1969 novel Bug Jack Barron, also about media manipulation, was first serialized in New Worlds, a giant British chain of bookstores, W. H. Smith, banned the magazine. Perhaps his most disquieting novel. The Iron Dream (1972), is ostensibly written by Adolf Hitler; in this alternative history, Hitler is merely a minor science fiction author who here fantasizes about the glories of fascism, militarism, and genocide that emerge a thousand years after a thermonuclear holocaust.
Born in 1940, Spinrad emerged in the late 1960s as a formative figure within “New Wave” science fiction, embodying that mode at its most apocalyptic. Indeed. Spinrad attempts to create a new Revelation, reflecting and amplifying American society in the most lurid colors and deafening sounds, trying to sensitize us to the implications of the electronic overloading of our sensibilities. In “The Big Flash” he suggests that the heart of our culture has become so hideously perverted, so twisted in its manipulated confusion between peace and war, love and sadism, life and death, that even its counterculture may be used by our rulers to give us the ultimate trip.
T minus 200 days … and counting …
They came on freaky for my taste—but that’s the name of the game: freaky means a draw in the rock business. And if the Mandala was going to survive in L.A., competing with a network-owned joint like The American Dream, I’d just have to hold my nose and out-freak the opposition. So after I had dug the Four Horsemen for about an hour, I took them into my office to talk turkey.
I sat down behind my Salvation Army desk (the Mandala is the world’s most expensive shoestring operation) and the Horsemen sat down on the bridge chairs sequentially, establishing the group’s pecking order.
Fust, the head honcho, lead guitar and singer, Stony Clarke-blond shoulder-length hair, eyes like something in a morgue when he took off his steel-rimmed shades, a reputation as a heavy acid-head and the look of a speed-freak behind it. Then Hair, the drummer, dressed like a Hell’s Angel, swastikas and all, a junkie, with fanatic eyes that were a little too close together, making me wonder whether he wore swastikas because he grooved behind the Angel thing or made like an Angel because it let him groove behind the swastika in public. Number three was a cat who called himself Super Spade and wasn’t kidding—he wore earrings, natural hair, a Stokeley Carmichael sweatshirt, and on a thong around his neck a shrunken head that had been whitened with liquid shoe polish. He was the utility infielder: sitar, base, organ, flute, whatever. Number four, who called himself Mr. Jones, was about the creepiest cat I had ever seen in a rock group, and that is saying something. He was their visuals, synthesizer and electronics man. He -was at least forty, wore Early Hippy clothes that looked like they had been made by Sy Devore, and was rumored to be some kind of Rand Corporation dropout. There’s no business like show business.
