Eye in the Sky (1957) (10 page)

“Help,”
Hamilton appealed.

Solicitous,
the girl crouched down beside him. “Aren’t
you ashamed of yourself?
Where’s your Bayan?”

“Home,” he whispered,
ashen with pain. Renewed cramps lashed up and down inside him. “I’m dying.
Burst appendix.”

“Where’s your prayer wheel? In
your coat pocket?” Lithely she began searching his coat; her nimble
fingers
plucked and flew.

“Get—me
to a—doctor,” he managed.

The bartender leaned over.
“Throw him out or fix him up,” he told the girl brusquely. “He
can’t die here.”

“Does somebody have a little
holy water?” the girl
called, in a
penetrating soprano.

The crowd stirred; presently a small
flat flask was
passed forward. “Don’t
use it all,” a voice cautioned peev
ishly. “That was filled at
the font at Cheyenne.”

Unscrewing the top, the girl
dribbled the tepid water on her red-nailed fingers and quickly sprinkled drops
over Hamilton. As they touched him, the
fierce pain
ebbed. Relief spread over his tortured body.
After a time,
with some help from the girl, he was able to sit up.

“The
curse is gone,” the girl remarked matter-of-factly,
returning the
holy water to its owner. “Thanks, mister.”

“Buy that man a beer,”
McFeyffe said, without turn
ing around.
“He’s a true follower of the Bab.”

As
the foaming mug of beer was passed back into the crowd, Hamilton crawled
miserably back onto his stool.
Nobody noticed him; the girl had now gone
off to fondle the owner of the holy water.

“This
world,” Hamilton grated, between clenched
teeth, “is crazy.”

“Crazy,
hell,” McFeyffe answered. “What’s crazy about
it? I haven’t
paid for a beer all day.” He wagged his mighty array of charms. “All
I have to do is appeal to
these.”

“Explain it,” Hamilton
muttered. This place—this bar. Why doesn’t God erase it? If this world operates
by
moral laws—”

“This bar is necessary to the
moral order. This is a
sinkpit of corruption
and vice, a fleshpot of iniquity. You
think salvation can function
without damnation? You think virtue can exist without sin? That’s the trouble
with you atheists; you don’t grasp the mechanics of
evil. Get on the inside and enjoy life, man. If you’re one of the
Faithful, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Opportunist”

“Bet
your sweet soul.”

“So
God lets you sit here lapping up booze and did
dling these floozies. Swearing and lying, doing anything
you
want”

“I know my rights,”
McFeyffe said sleekly. “I know what’s on top, here. Look around you and
learn. Pay attention to what’s going on.”

Nailed
to the wall of the bar beside the mirror was the
motto,
What Would
The Prophet Say If He Found You In A
Place Like This?

“Ill
tell you what he’d say,” McFeyffe informed Hamil
ton. “He’d
say, ‘Pour one for me, boys.’ He’s a regular
fellow.
Not like you egghead professors.”

Hamilton waited hopefully, but no
rain of stinging
snakes descended.
Confidently, complacently, McFeyffe
guzzled his beer.

“Apparently, I’m not on the
inside,” Hamilton said. “If I said that, I’d be struck dead.”

“Get
on the
inside.”

“How?” Hamilton demanded.
He was weighed down by the sense of unfairness, the basic wrongness of it all.
The world that to McFeyffe made perfect sense
seemed
to him a travesty on an equitably run universe. To him, only the
mere glimmer of pattern beat intermittently through the haze, through the
confusion that had surrounded him since the accident at the Bevatron. The
values that made up his world, the moral verities
that had
underlined existence as long as he could remember, had passed
away; in their place was a crude, tribal vengeance against the outsider, an
archaic system that had
come from—
where?

Reaching unsteadily into his coat,
he brought out the note which Doctor Tillingford had given him. Here was the
name, the Prophet. The center, the Sepulcher of the Second Bab, the
source-point of this non-Western cult that had somehow slipped in and absorbed
the familiar world. Had there always been a Horace Clamp? A week
ago, a few days ago, there had been no Second
Bab, no
Prophet of the One True God at Cheyenne, Wyoming. Or—

Beside him, McFeyffe peered to
examine the writing on the bit of paper. On his face was a dark expression; the
blustering humor had faded, and in its place was a
somberness, hard and oppressive. “What’s that?” he de
manded.

“I’m supposed to look him up,”
Hamilton said.

“No,” McFeyffe said.
Suddenly his hand shot out; he
snatched for
the note. Get rid of it.” His voice was shak
ing. “Don’t pay
any attention to that”

Struggling, Hamilton managed to
retrieve the note.
McFeyffe caught hold of
his shoulder; his thick fingers
dug into Hamilton’s flesh. The stool
under Hamilton tottered, and all at once he was falling. McFeyffe’s massive
weight descended on him, and then the two of them
were fighting on the floor, panting and perspiring, trying
to
get possession of the note.

“No jihad in this bar,”
the bartender said, hopping around the bar to put an end to the fight “If
you want
to mangle each other, go
outside.”

Muttering,
McFeyffe crept unsteadily to his feet “Get
rid of it,” he said to Hamilton as he smoothed his clothes.
His
face was still rigid, still distorted by some deep-
lying uneasiness.

“What’s the matter?”
Hamilton demanded, reseating
himself. He
located his beer and began to lift it. Some
thing was happening in McFeyffe’s brutish mind, and he
did not know what it was.

At that moment, the little blond
barfly made her way over. With her was a doleful, gaunt figure. Bill Laws,
gripping a shot glass, bowed lugubriously to McFeyffe and Hamilton.
“‘Afternoon,” he intoned. “Let’s have no more conflicts. We’re
all friends, around here.”

Staring down at the bar, McFeyffe
said, “All things considered, we pretty well have to be.” He did not
amplify.

VI

this
individual says he’s acquainted with you,” the small blond barfly
explained to Hamilton.

“That’s right;” Hamilton
answered. “Pull up a stool
and sit
down.” He eyed Laws levelly. “Have you investi
gated the
situation with advanced physics in the last
day
or so?”

“The hell with physics,”
Laws said, scowling. “I’m past that. I’ve outgrown that”

“Go
construct a reservoir,” Hamilton told him. “Stop reading so many
books. Get out in the fresh air.”

Laws placed his lean hand on the
blond’s shoulder. “Meet Grace. Full of reservoir. Full to the gills.”

“Glad
to meet you,” Hamilton said.

The girl smiled uncertainly.
“My name isn’t Grace. My name
—
”

Pushing
the girl aside, Laws leaned close to Hamilton.
“I’m glad you mentioned the term reservoir.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Laws informed
him, “in this world there is no such thing.”
“But there has to be.”

“Come
along.” Holding onto Hamilton’s necktie, Laws
pulled him away from
the bar. “I’m going to let you in on something. Greatest discovery since
the poll tax.”

Threading
his way among the patrons, Laws led Ham
ilton to the cigarette dispenser
in the corner. Thumping
the machine with the
flat of his hand, Laws said triumph
antly, “Well? What do you think
of it?”

Hamilton
cautiously examined the machine. The usual
sight: a tall, metallic box
with blue-tinted mirror, coin slot at the upper right, rows of little glass
windows behind which rested various brands of cigarettes, the line of levers,
and then the drop slot “Looks all right,” he
commented.

“Notice
anything about it?”

“No, nothing in
particular.”

Laws peered around to make certain
no one was listening. Then he dragged Hamilton dose to him. I’ve
been watching that machine work,” he
whispered harsh
ly. “I’ve figured out something. Try to grasp this.
Try
not to get thrown.
There are no
cigarettes in that ma
chine.”

Hamilton
considered. “None at all?”

Squatting
down, Laws indicated the row of display
packages visible behind their glass covering. That’s all
there is. One of each. There is no reservoir. But
watch.”
He dropped a quarter
into the coin slot, selected the
Camels lever, and pushed it firmly in.
A package of
Camels slid out, and Laws
grabbed it “See?”

“I
don’t get it,” Hamilton admitted.
The candy bar machine is the
same.” Laws led him over to the candy dispensing machine. “Candy
comes
out but there’s no candy in it. Only
the display packages.
Get it?
Comprehend?”

“No.”

“Didn’t
you ever read about miracles? In the desert it
was getting food and water; that’s what came first”

“Oh,”
Hamilton said. That’s right”

“
These
machines work on the original principle. Di
vision
by miracle.” From his pocket Laws got a screwdriver; kneeling, he began
disassembling the candy bar machine. “I tell you, Jack, this is the
greatest discovery
known to man. This’ll revolutionize modern industry.
The whole concept of machine tool production,
the
whole assembly-line technique—”
Laws waved his hand.
“Out. Kaput
No more using up raw materials. No more
depressed labor force. No more dirty, pounding factories.
In this
metal box lies a vast secret”

“Hey,”
Hamilton said, interested. “Maybe you’ve got
something.”

“This
stuff can be utilized.” Feverishly, Laws tore at
the back of the
machine. “Give me a hand, man. Help
me
get the lock off.”

The lock came off. Between them, the
two men slid the back of the candy dispenser away and leaned it against the
wall. As Laws had predicted, the upright columns that were the reservoirs of
the machine were
totally empty.