The Big Eye (9 page)

 

 

The mistress came into the picture, and the Negro maid grimaced in alarm,
as though caught poaching on her employer's time. But the woman of the
house was very pleasant about it. She motioned the girl to stay at the
piano; it was apparent that she would rather have music than have her
house cleaned.

 

 

A moment later, the woman of the house, caught by the music, joined the
girl in a duet. They laughed and swayed and made eyes to the rhythm of the
song. There was a clock on the piano to give a visual picture of the time,
and there was a face painted on its dial. The face grinned and grimaced,
too, and had a wonderful time. Now and then it waved its hands jerkily,
like an agitated and happy puppet.

 

 

It was pleasant stuff, early-morning stuff for the housewives, and David
and Carol couldn't help smiling at it.

 

 

But then the scene was wiped out abruptly into a blank screen.

 

 

A surge of documentary news-of-the-day music came up, and a spinning
globe of the world appeared. A streamer brightened and swept around it,
and the legend announced:

 

NATIONAL NEWS

 

David's smile froze. He and Carol stood there, motionless, hypnotized,
listening.

 

 

The announcer underplayed his news and made it effective. His words were
measured and somber, and his voice was a steady monotone.

 

 

"Early reports from the Soviet Union indicate that the last-minute
conference between Mr. Allison of the State Department and Foreign
Minister Bakhanov has failed. There is a rumor that Allison has already
left Russia by plane, and the tension is mounting hourly.

 

 

"Meanwhile, the Army has announced that Washington has been completely
evacuated, the last government bureau moving out two days ago.

 

 

"The President, it is reported, is waiting a personal report from Allison
at his secret headquarters somewhere underground. It is reported that
he is resisting strong pressure from some of his advisers to take the
initiative before it is too late. The health of the Chief Executive has
given some concern. Since Congress stripped itself of power to declare war
and gave the President authority as Commander in Chief to make whatever
instantaneous decision necessary, the strain and responsibility have
been overwhelming.

 

 

"Flashes of unexplained light were detected early this morning over
Labrador. Observers at Hopedale and Northwest River are unable to
account for the phenomena, except to say that they resembled the tails
of illuminated rockets. . . .

 

 

"There are rumors that New York, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, Los
Angeles, and, in fact, every city of over five hundred thousand will be
totally evacuated by Army order this week end. Emergency facilities have
been set up in the hinterland for those without relatives or friends
residing in "

 

 

"David, shut it off!" Carol's voice rose hysterically. "Shut it off!"
He turned the switch and the picture dissolved to a tiny rectangle

 

 

of bright light, which finally drowned in the dull, gray screen. "Why
don't they stop?" Carol cried. "Why don't they stop?" "They don't know
how to stop," David answered quietly. "Not

 

 

any more."

 

 

After Carol had left, David tried the long-distance operator again.

 

 

The lines were still tied up, and he swore softly as he hung up.

 

 

He prepared a hasty breakfast, but he had no appetite. His ignorance of
what had happened back at Palomar kept gnawing at him; the trembling in
Francis's voice over the phone haunted him.

 

 

He checked his watch.

 

 

It was nine o'clock. And General Hawthorne had named the time of the
meeting at eleven, somewhere outside the city itself. He had to make a
decision, and make it quick. He might be too late by now, as it was.

 

 

He went to the phone and asked the local operator for military
headqarters. New York area, R-Section.

 

 

A couple of voices finally routed him to a Colonel Hatch.

 

 

"Hughes?" The colonel was curt. "Where have you been? We've been waiting
for you."

 

 

"Sorry, Colonel, I "

 

 

The colonel interrupted, asked for the address. "You damned near missed
that meeting, Dr. Hughes. As it is, we'll have to work fast to get you
out where you have to go. We'll send a car up for you right away!"

 

 

The colonel hung up, and David fidgeted about Carol's apartment,
waiting. He washed the dishes, put them away, turned on the television
set, turned it off again, sat down, got up again, paced the room.

 

 

What had happened at Palomar?

 

 

He looked at his watch again, did some rapid calculating. The meeting
was at eleven. It might take hours, probably would. He would be lucky if
he got out of it by late afternoon. The decision they expected to make
wasn't a quick, cut-and-dried affair. There would be a lot of argument
back and forth.

 

 

In any case, he couldn't get to a phone and find out what was going on
back at the observatory. Once in that meeting, they'd lock the doors
and seal them with MPs.

 

 

Maybe they'd be through at five, he thought. Maybe. He might be able
to call the Coast then, the lines might be clear. Might, might, might.
He'd try Carol once more over the phone; he'd know something then, know
it for sure. If they decided to let go, to start it rolling, to throw
the first punch, he'd have to come back and get Carol.

 

 

It might be very tough getting out of town. He had a reservation, a
high priority. But only for one seat, not two. He'd have to find a way,
some way to

 

 

The phone rang.

 

 

David sprang to the instrument.

 

 

"This is the long-distance operator calling Dr. Hughes, Dr. David Hughes."

 

 

"I'm Dr. Hughes," he almost shouted.

 

 

"The lines have just been cleared, sir, and Palomar, California, is
calling." There was a pause, and David waited rigidly. Then the operator
said: "Here's your party."

 

 

A voice came thinly, distantly, over the wire.

 

 

"Dr. Hughes. Dr. Hughes, is that you?"

 

 

"Francis!" David yelled into the mouthpiece. "Francis, what's happened
out there?"

 

 

The steward's voice came over clearly now. "Dr. Hughes, I've been trying
to get you all night. I wasn't sure you got my message before we were
cut off."

 

 

"If hat happened, Francis? What's it all about?"

 

 

"We had hoped you'd be on your way by now, sir. Dr. Dawson wanted you
here. Oh, one moment." There was a pause. "Here's Dr. Dawson now. Dr.
Hughes."

 

 

Thank God, thought David. Thank God the Old Man was all right.

 

 

Dr. Dawson came on. His voice was strange, feverish; it shook a little.

 

 

"David, I want you back here as fast as you can make it. Take the first
plane out. Don't delay a moment, do you understand?"

 

 

"But, sir, what's it all about?"

 

 

"I can't tell you over the phone."

 

 

"But the meeting, Dr. Dawson. They expect me there "

 

 

The Old Man's voice suddenly became harsh. "Forget the meeting, David.
There is no necessity for you to attend. I'll guarantee you immunity
for any consequences resulting from your absence. You have my word for
it. The important thing is to get back here to Palomar -- at once!"

 

 

The Old Man hung up.

 

 

David Hughes put the receiver back on the hook numbly.

 

 

There was no rebelling against an order like this -- not the way the Old
Man had put it.

 

 

The hell of it was, he still didn't know what was happening at Palomar.

 

 

Dazed, his mind whirling in a pinwheel of confusion, David put on his
hat and coat and tucked his brief case under his arm.

 

 

Then he walked out of the door and heard the lock snap shut behind him.

 

 

 

 

4.

 

 

Thursday morning, on the seventeenth of November, in the year 1960,
was crisp and sunny.

 

 

The air was invigorating; it had a winy snap to it and was cleaned and
sweetened by a northwest wind.

 

 

The sun was bright; it razzle-dazzled the rivers and glinted on the
windows of New York and warmed the brick and stone walls of the canyons.

 

 

As David walked rapidly up Cathedral Parkway and then turned right down
Broadway, he reflected on the incongruity of the weather.

 

 

It was not the kind of morning to expect sudden death, not the traditional
backdrop for cataclysm. In the operatic and literary tradition, such
events were augured by black skies, flashes of lightning, roars of
thunder.

 

 

But the weather was not being literary or operatic this morning. It
refused to be moody and provide a stage. Whatever schemes man was
contriving, it was having none of it. It simply insisted, contrarily,
on being itself.

 

 

Thus Nature, in what might have been its own version of an unfunny jest,
had provided the kind of morning lyrics were written about, topcoat
weather with a tang, the kind of morning to walk through the park,
or to take that long ride through the country and forget the office.

 

 

To David Hughes, visually at least, Broadway presented rather a cheerful
appearance. True, there were only a few vehicles on the street, but
there seemed to be more pedestrians abroad. The night before had been
desolate, the street a black graveyard, but perhaps the sun had drawn
the inhabitants from their concrete warrens, lured them out with warm
promise, infused them with its own optimism.

 

 

But the faces of the people belied the mood of the morning.

 

 

They were still stamped with the Fear; its imprint was indelible. They
were gaunt and strained, and they did not smile. They knew that the Fear
was still there, that it walked in the sun as well as in the darkness.

 

 

And David Hughes, as he hurried down Broadway, knew it too.

 

 

He kept watching the side streets, on the alert for a cab. Two or
three taxis went by, but they were loaded with passengers. David kept
on the west side of the street, going downtown. The traffic, or what
there was of it, seemed to be moving in that direction.

 

 

At 180th Street, David heard the sound of a siren shrieking up Broadway.

 

 

It was an Army car, and moving fast. Instinctively he shrank back into
a doorway. Then when the car sped by he stepped out on the walk and
watched it.

 

 

He saw it swerve, with brakes screaming, and turn left into Cathedral
Parkway, two blocks away.

 

 

It was the vehicle the Army had sent for him.

 

 

The men in it would find him gone; they would find Carol's apartment
empty. The big strategy meeting, wherever it was being held, would go on
without him now. And whatever decision the generals, the Secretary of
Defense, and the consulting scientists made, it would be made without
Dr. Dawson's data in the brief case David carried under his arm, and
without David's interpretation of it, as the Old Man's representative.

 

 

They would miss him, and General Hawthorne would find him and ask some
pointed questions. He, David Hughes, was in effect and at this moment a
hunted man. a fugitive from military law, and subject to its consequences.

 

 

He quickened his step, and now and then, furtively, he turned his head
to look back up Broadway.

 

 

The olive-drab car from intelligence would emerge in a few moments, when
they found him gone. Its occupants would be watching the streets, looking
for him. By their very lack of numbers, all pedestrians were conspicuous,
and suddenly David felt almost naked on the wide Broadway sidewalk. It
was possible that he might be picked up before he had hardly started.

 

 

Between 106th and 105th streets he found a candy-and-tobacco store open,
one of the few still doing business. It occurred to him that it would be
a good place to hide, to get off the street until the Army car went back.

 

 

David opened the door and went in.

 

 

There were several men in the place, all apparently regulars. At least
they all seemed to know the man behind the cigar counter, a short,
bald man with thick glasses. David had entered in the middle of a
discussion. One of the men lounging on a stool at the now inactive soda
fountain was saying to the proprietor:

 

 

"So you sent your family to the Catskills, Sam?"

 

 

The proprietor nodded. "Ellenville. I figured they'd be pretty safe
there till I sell out and close up." He glanced around at his depleted
stock. The store was almost empty of goods. "And that won't be long,
Bernie. Tomorrow or the day after, maybe."

 

 

He turned to David, and David bought a pack of cigarettes. The price
was a dollar, the transaction matter-of-fact. The man behind the counter
continued:

 

 

"The way I figure, Bernie, if the Reds hit us with a bomb, the blast
won't get up into the mountains."