Motorman (13 page)

MEMO

The road to Etcetera was paved with such intentions. I do not accept them as anything, much less resignation.

You may regard this note as proof of my authority.

Chief of Tasting

Health Truck Head

Mr. Feather, and so on

98]

He ate popcorn from a paper bag, looked past his own reflection in the glass, studied Roosevelt Teaset. He saw that something was wrong.

Teaset wore an old cotton suit, heavy shoulderpads, suspenders holding the pants too high, cracked black shoes on gnarled feet.

He put on the earphones and pressed the button, heard a false Teaset biography and a snatch of the genuine voice: “Yowsuh.” End of tape. He removed the earphones.

Cottonfield scenes were painted on the rear wall of the display, blackbirds flying in flawless skies, casting frightened earthward glances.

Roberta put her hand in the popcorn bag. “It's a tasteless display, Moldenke. I'm leaving. I don't like to look at it.”

He agreed they could have given the last one a whole sentence to say. “All he says is ‘yowsuh,' Cock. Something isn't right. I'm not sure what. I'll keep looking.”

Teaset's hand had been stiffly closed around the handle of a hoe, the head bowed, the knees bent.

Roberta took her hand from the popcorn bag and turned away. “I can't look. I'm sorry. I'll meet you at the elephant yard.” She left the Preservation building. Moldenke remained.

At a booth she rented a pigeon, bought a bag of mock nuts.

“Is it wound?” she asked the attendant.

“It is, ma’am,” he said, pretending to tip a hat he wasn't wearing. “Set'er down on the sidewalk, ma’am. She'll go fine.”

She found a bench, sat down, set the pigeon on the sidewalk. It remained, springs unwound, and it fell over.

Moldenke approached, blinking in the light, fixing on his goggles.

She told him the pigeon wouldn't work.

He cranked it, set it down. Gearwork clicked. Roberta smiled. He told her the simplest things would give her joy. She threw mock nuts down. The wings spread, tail feathers fanned out. Moldenke smiled. The beak pecked the sidewalk, the wings began working. Jellylike droppings squirted from the false cloaca. The wingbeats increased.

She said, “Stop the wings, Moldenke. It's too fast.”

He put his foot out to slow them. A wingbone snapped against his ankle. The wingbeats increased.

He tried to step on a wing and pin it to the sidewalk. His heel hit the ground hard, a rising ring of pain traveling up his leg, diffusing at the hip. The wingbeats increased. The pigeon began lifting.

She said, “Stop him. I have a deposit on him. Hold him down!”

It rose several feet, leveling waist-high, flew along the fence of the elephant yard. Moldenke followed it, trying to beat it down with his trenchcoat. He reached the end of the fence and had to stop, his hearts beating fast.

The bird rose on an updraft and whistled off.

Moldenke came back to the bench dragging his trenchcoat through painted grass, kicking a clod of rubber elephant dung out of his way.

She said, “I deposited 50 chits on that thing.” Moldenke apologized, held her elbow, told her that whatever was missing from the Teaset display had also eluded him, had also flown away.

They rode a k-bus home, sipped tea of ants, and Moldenke played the Buxtehude.

99]

Roquette drove the k-tractor along the edge of a wheat field. A false sun floated above. Moldenke sat where the farmer's dog would sit, chewing a stonepick.

Heat shimmered over the grain, crickets bounced against the metal of the k-tractor. Roquette put on a sun hat.

Moldenke said, “The wheat. It's standing still.” Roquette blamed it on a lack of wind. Moldenke placed the fault on a lack of imagination. “When I imagine a wheat field, the wind blows the grain,” he said. Roquette said, “You are feeling better.”

A mock tornado churned at the horizon.

100]

Dear Moldenke,

I am now free to tell you the particulars of Eagleman's incredible new project, the details of which now keep him speeding around the clocks, we've had to build a second drafting table, larger than the original, just to handle the overflow of paper. Since his hands are taken up with calipers, rulers, and the like, I feed him his flycakes myself.

I'm getting to be more of a nurse than a science jockey, as they say. I only wish I could tap the man's energy source. This project is larger than the moon was, Moldenke. Very large. You and I would shrink beside it. But someone has to do it. Believe me, if Eagleman isn't up to the challenge, no one is. If it weren't for Eagleman we'd find oneself whistling old melodies in the end. Have you looked at the ether trees lately? Have you studied the burned off crepe myrtles along the avenues? You sit in your chair and ignore it, Moldenke. You remain. Evolution continues, Moldenke remains. You remind me of
pi,
Moldenke—ever constant. Do something! Sitting there, gassing the paper weeks away, caring not. Folks walk along the sidewalks kicking dead snipes into the gutter and never asking the right questions at the right time. Eagleman may save us yet. Faith, Moldenke. Faith. Hope. Have you listened to the weather reports? Eagleman listens. This project will probably-—

I will have to cut this suddenly short, Moldenke. Eagleman has fallen over on the drafting table.

Hopefully,

Burnheart

101]

“Yes, I'm feeling better than I have in some time,” Moldenke said.

Roquelle said, “Good. I'm happy to hear that.” He protchered Moldenke's cheek.

“I've got a good heart idle. I was afraid for the worst.”

“Moldenke, the cloud.”

A second sun flashed on. Roquelle added a set of lenses to his goggles.

Moldenke said, “Weather students?”

Roquelle said, “Yep.”

Moldenke caught a cricket, swallowed it.

102]

Dear Mr. Featherfighter,

FINAL MEMO

This is my last report:

(1)
       
The scarab is violent on the stomach, causing depressive angers shortly after ingestion, followed by a nervous cooling of the scrotal sack and a vague tightening of the chuff pipe. Not recommended for general consumption.

(2)
       
Remove the wings, wing covers, and head from the leaf-hopper and boil with peppercorns if available. Press through gauze and spread on pine crackers. A good cricket dip.

Goodbye Mr. so on,

I plan to leave the Health Truck at the next stop,

Yours,

Moldenke

103]

Dear Moldenke,

We have cause to celebrate. Take out the cherry water. Eagleman is alive. The collapse was momentary. When I turned him over he whispered that the bulkhead problem had finally been solved and he pissed in his khakis. Cheers!

Happily yours,

Burnheart

104]

Roquelle said, “Let's park this machine and take in a movie.”

They returned the k-tractor to the vehicle pool and checked out a k-cycle.

They cycled on an asphalt roadway, apparently in a tunnel. Other k-cycles smoked by in other directions, k-buses, an occasional k-rambler. A row of lights above led off endlessly into the tunnel.

“Are we under the river, Roquette?”

Roquelle's scarf trailed back in Moldenke's face. Traffic thickened, noise increased. “Roquette?”

“I can't hear you, son. Move closer.” Moldenke slid forward on the rear fender, closer to Roquelle's driving seat. “Roquette? ”

“Did you say something, son?”

The tunnel lights went out. Moldenke braced for collisions and waited, although the k-traffic continued in the dark, without running lights.

“Roquette? ”

“What is it? Talk up.”

“The lights went out. How do you manage it without collisions?”

“Take your chin out of my backbone, son. Did you say a heart went out? ”

“The lights.”

“The lights? Have the lights gone out?”

“Roquette! These folks are driving in the dark! What about collisions? How do they do it?”

The lights came on.

Roquelle angled into a stopping bay and turned off the motor. “What's the howling all about, son?”

Moldenke's throat constricted. He took off his goggles and his gauze pad.

“Nothing. You didn't have to stop. The lights went out. I was curious how they drove in the dark.”

“Stop your wondering. Let it flow, listen to the hum.”

“As far as I could tell, there should have been a series of collisions. I only wanted an explanation.”

“Poor Moldenke. Always wanting. It makes me a little sick.”

Moldenke touched the tunnel wall, found it hot. His breathing shallowed. He took in the gas in swallowed gulps, belching it out.

“You call that breathing, son?” Roquelle inhaled it deeply. “One man's air is another man's poison, as they say. Frankly, I can't stand the gas in the arboretum. It's a funny planet. On the cycle, champ.”

Moldenke sat down.

“Up, champ. On the cycle. We'll miss the beginning of the movie.”

Moldenke lowered his head between his knees, activity beginning in his chest. “No.”

“You said no? ”

“Yes. The hearts are acting up again. Could we head back to the arboretum? The wheat field?”

“Get up, Bufona! Up!”

Moldenke remained. “Leave me here, Roquette. I'll find the way out. I'll meet you later, somewhere.”

Roquelle took out his whistle and blew it, the sound billowing in Moldenke's ear, his hearts badly out of phase, a wash of urine spreading in the trenchpants. Roquelle looked up and down the tunnel, blowing the whistle. Moldenke fell back against the tunnel wall, eggfaced. Roquelle knelt and felt the heart beats, read the pulse, listened for breathing, stood, blew the whistle down the tunnel.

105]

Dear Roberta,

Now I know what was missing from the Teaset display. I suspected it the way the pants were hanging. I paid a dustboy 10 chits and he let me inspect the old man, after hours. He opened the case and let me in with my lighter. I set the cuffs of the pants on fire. The dustboy panicked and ran off, looking for a jellyhead. The pants burned off, caught the coat, burned that off. The eyebrows flared, the hair. The case filled with peanut gas. Everything burned off and Teaset was dead naked, black, and false. I touched the skin, Roberta. I took the nose in my fingers and tore it off, and a wad of cotton came with it. I opened the mouth and found they hadn't painted in the teeth. I don't suppose they expected anyone to get that close. Now I know it, Cock. What's missing from the Teaset display. Teaset is missing.

Yours until the end,

I remain,

Moldenke

106]

In the old days Moldenke listened to the weatherman, his radio on through the short nights, the face of it green and glowing. The rosy forecasts, the cocksure predictions. If the weatherman said warm, Moldenke opened the lookouts, found icicles in the morning on the faucets. When the weatherman said chilly he would turn up his collar and close the lookouts.

In the old days there was one sun, one moon, starlight enough, and one good heart.

107]

A red and white k-wheel broke from the traffic flow and rolled into the stopping bay, the driver climbing down in white, a sidepouch on his hip. He exchanged three-fingered salutes with Roquelle. “Sir,” the driver said. “I heard the whistle.”

Roquelle said, “Give this man a hainty-check.” They turned Moldenke over.

The driver opened his sidepouch taking out a string and acorn affair, letting it dangle above Moldenke's chest. Roquelle knelt and watched the acorn. The driver said, “He's just about empty, sir.”

Roquelle said, “Do whatever you can, Doc. I want him on his feet quickly.”

The acorn described a small, weak, circle, then quartered it. “He's perking up a little,” the Doctor said. Roquelle agreed. The Doctor took out an envelope of seeds, sprinkling them over the whole Moldenke. Roquelle said, “That should bring him up.” The Doctor agreed, opening a milkweed pod and letting the silky insides spill out over Moldenke's forehead and drift away in the wind of traffic. Roquelle said, “That should do the job. Thanks, Doc.” They saluted. “Sir,” the Doctor said, Roquelle protchering him below the lip. He climbed the k-wheel and drove out into the flow. Roquelle sat down beside Moldenke and blew an old melody on the harp.