The General Zapped an Angel: New Stories of Fantasy and Science Fiction (13 page)

“I went outside. I saw—”

“Shut up.”

Kiley clenched his lips, and I said to him, “Kiley, let me make this clear. No one opens a locked door. There are no keys, and you did not go outside.”

“Then what is this?” he demanded, holding up the bit of metal he had in his hand.

“A bit of metal. Nothing. There are no keys. There is no outside.”

“Oh, Dorey, I went outside.”

“You know what?” I said to him. “I'll tell you what, Kiley. You did not go out. You went nowhere. Now if you can get that through your head—if you can only admit that this whole thing of yours is a lie and an invention, well, then, maybe we can work something out. Maybe. Maybe not. But maybe.”

“My God, Dorey, do you know what you're asking me to do?”

“To stop lying.”

“You were in this room before?” Kiley demanded.

“Yes.”

“Schecter too.”

“Damnit, yes! So what?”

“Was I here? That's what I'm getting at, Dorey. Was I here?”

“No!” I almost shouted.

“Then where was I?”

“How the hell do I know where you were?”

“All right,” Kiley said. “All right, Dorey. Then give me a chance. That's all I'm asking for. Let me open that locked door. I worked it out, and I made this key. I got it right here in my hand.” He held it up for me to see. “Let me use it, Dorey. Let me open the door. Let me take you out there.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because there is no such thing as a key and because you can't open a locked door.”

“Then I will—” And he whirled and started toward the locked door.

“Kiley!” My voice hit him like a whiplash. I meant it to. He hesitated, and I snapped at him, “Kiley—take one more step and I call Schecter and his ushers.”

He turned to me, pleading, “Why? Why?”

“Because there is no outside, Kiley. Because you're a twisted, pathological personality. Now, for the last time, Kiley—will you admit that you are fantasying?”

“No.”

“Then you'll have to come with me to the projectionist, Kiley. Will you come willingly, or must I call Schecter?”

“Oh, God, Dorey, won't you let me open that damn door—just a crack—just so you could see the blaze of sunshine?”

“No.”

“Please—must I get down on my knees, Dorey?”

“No. Now is it the ushers, or do you come peacefully?”

“I'll go with you, Dorey,” Kiley said, defeated now, his shoulders hanging, the light gone from his eyes.

Somehow, word had gotten around, and there were people in the lobby who watched silently as we came through. Kiley was well liked, and only Schecter and his ushers regarded him with hate. I took Kiley into the theater and through it to the stairs. It was children's time, and today that meant a series of twelve Bugs Bunny cartoons. The children were clapping and cheering, and as we passed by the back row, Kiley said:

“Why can't you think of how it would be for them outside, Dorey?”

“Still on that. What will you say to the projectionist?”

“The truth.”

“Yes. He'll appreciate that.”

We were outside the projectionist's booth now, far up above the second balcony. No one ever entered the booth. Instead, you pressed a button and then spoke into a speaking tube.

“I'm terribly busy now, Dorey—putting together a whole new part of the world, you know, the Fitzgerald travelogues. Thus we have not only discoveries but explorations. So if it could wait?”

“I am afraid not, Projectionist.”

“Urgent?”

“Yes, Projectionist.”

“If you might hint at the nature of the emergency, Dorey?”

“It's young Kiley.”

“Your committeeman?”

“Yes, Projectionist. He claims to have opened a locked door.”

“Of course you have told him that locked doors can never be opened—that this is the way God made the world?”

“I told him.”

“Dear me. Well, go to my office. You have him with you?

“Yes.”

“Is he docile?”

“He won't give us any trouble, Projectionist.”

“Good. Go to my office and wait there for me, Dorey.”

“Yes, Projectionist.”

I took Kiley to his office then. The projectionist's office was on the same level as the projection booth, but at the far end of the theater. We went in and sat in the leather armchairs, and while we were Waiting there an usher came up with popcorn and frozen ice-cream balls and hot coffee. He would have brought the projectionist his supper now, and the projectionist had sent down for additional food for Kiley and myself. That was so like the projectionist, gentle and considerate of all the needs of others.

“Are you afraid?” I asked Kiley. After all, he was only a kid, and it was to be expected that he would be afraid.

“No. Well, maybe a little.”

“You mustn't be. It's in the hands of the projectionist now.”

“What will he do to me, Dorey?”

“I don't know, but whatever he does, it will be the right thing. You can count on the projectionist for that. He's very wise. When he makes a decision, it's a just decision, believe me.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“No guessing, Kiley. Rest assured. If you will only get these damn fantasies out of your head.”

Then the projectionist entered, and we both rose to our feet in respect. He nodded pleasantly and told us to be seated. He walked around to the back of his big desk and sat down in a big swivel chair, the kind that judges use on the bench.

“So this is young Kiley,” he said amiably. “Fine-looking lad. I knew your father, Kiley. Good man—yes, indeed. And your grandfather. Good people, good family.” And then to me, “What seems to be the trouble, Dorey?”

“I would prefer that Kiley told you himself.”

“Do that, Kiley,” the projectionist said.

“Yes, Projectionist.” Kiley's voice trembled slightly, but that was not unusual when people first met the projectionist. “You see, Dorey let me set up a small machine shop in that unused room off the lobby. I made a lathe to cut out some new parts for the vending machines. There was a locked door in the room, and I thought I might make a key on the lathe and open the locked door—”

“I'm sure you didn't consider that,” the projectionist interrupted. “You know that locked doors can never be opened. That's the nature of the world, the way God made it.”

“I thought that if I made a key, Projectionist—”

“A key? Poor Kiley. There are no keys, no dragons, no unicorns, no magicians. God has ordered His world in the best of possible ways. Myths are for children.”

“But I made the key and opened the door and went out into the world, Projectionist.”

“Don't excite yourself, Kiley.”

“But you must listen to me and believe me.”

“Ah, yes. We do believe you, Kiley. Of course we do.”

“Then you do! You do believe me.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you know that everything in here is of shadows—without any meaning or substance, and all that is real and beautiful is outside?”

“Yes, Kiley.”

“And what will we do?” Kiley asked with great excitement. “Will we go out of here? Have we been waiting only for a time, a moment—as if for God to reach down and touch us and open our eyes? Then there would be some meaning in our own life, wouldn't there? In my life? Oh, I never dreamed to be such an instrument. Thank you, Projectionist, thank you, thank you.”

“It is nothing, Kiley,” the projectionist said gently, while I stared at him in astonishment. “You deserve many things, and they will come to you. Now wait here for a little while. Dorey and I must step outside and have a few words in private concerning this momentous happening. You understand?”

With tears in his eyes Kiley nodded, and then he said to me, “Believe me, Dorey, I hold nothing against you. How could you know? How could anyone know without seeing it with his own two eyes? I mean anyone but the projectionist. He knew. He knew immediately. Didn't you, sir?”

“Immediately,” the projectionist agreed.

“God bless you!” Kiley exclaimed. “I shouldn't be saying that to anyone so superior to me as yourself, but I must say it. God bless you, Projectionist.”

“Thank you, my lad. Now wait here in peace. Dorey, come with me.”

Still speechless and astonished, I followed the projectionist out into the hall, where he whispered sharply, “Get that stupid expression off your face, Dorey. You're the President.”

“But I thought, Projectionist—”

“I know what you thought. I simply dissembled in front of the poor lad. His mind is gone and his disease is serious and infectious. He must be put away, you know.”

“Put away?”

“Yes, Dorey—put away.”

“Where?”

“In the subcellar, Dorey, deep down in the old coalpit.

“Forever?”

“I imagine so.”

“Can't he be cured?”

“Not of this particular delusion, Dorey. He is like a man who believes that he has seen the face of God. The vision becomes more than the man.”

“I hate to do it.”

“Do you imagine I like it?”

“Is there no other possible way, Projectionist?”

“None.”

The projectionist went back to his booth, and I went down to Schecter and told him what we had to do. He smiled and licked his lips with pleasure, and believe me, I could have killed him then and there, but being a President entails certain duties, and there is no way to avoid them. So I let Schecter be and instead faced the look on Kiley's face when we walked into the projectionist's office and arrested him, binding his hands in back of him.

“Dorey, you can't get away with this!” he shouted. “You heard what the projectionist said to me.”

“I do this at his order,” I replied dully.

“No. No, you're lying.”

“I'm not lying, Kiley. God help me, I am not lying.”

“But why would he go back on his own word?”

“He was humoring you.”

Kiley began to weep. We took him down, balcony to balcony, and then into the basement. It was fortunate for all of us that the projectionist had begun the Fitzgerald travelogues, for everyone was in the theater now. They were of the nature of the world. How can man live and not be filled with curiosity about his world? As unhappy as I was for Kiley's fate, I was also somewhat irritated that because of him I would miss the beginning of the travelogues. Still, duty is duty.

The coalpit was the fourth level under the orchestra, a dark, low-ceilinged part of the basement. A great iron hinged cover had to be lifted, and then we untied Kiley's hands, knotted a rope around his waist, and lowered him down into the coalpit.

“It's there!” he screamed up at me. “Dorey, it's there! Do you think you can destroy it by destroying me?”

And then the iron cover clanged shut. Poor Kiley!

THE INSECTS

P
EOPLE
heard about the first transmission in various ways. Although unidentified radio appeals are fairly frequent and not generally subject to any general news dissemination—being more or less of oddities and often the work of cranks—they are not jealously guarded. The interesting part of this signal was that it had been repeated at least two dozen times and had been picked up in various parts of the world in various languages, in Russian in Moscow, in Chinese in Peking, in English in New York and London, in Swedish in Stockholm. In all these various places it was on the high-frequency band, somewhat less than twenty-five megacycles.

We heard about it from Fred Goldman, who runs the monitor room for the National Broadcasting Company, when he and his wife dined with us early in May. He has his ear to things; he listens to the whole damn world breathing in half a dozen languages, and he likes to drop things, like a ship at sea pleading for help and then silence and not one word in the press, or a New Orleans combination playing the latest hard rock—if such a thing is possible—in Yarensk, which is somewhere in the tundra of Northern Siberia, or any other of a dozen incongruous daily happenings across the radio waves of the earth. But on this night he was rather suppressed and thoughtful, and when he came out with it, it was less odd than reasonable.

“You know,” he said, “there was a sort of universal complaint today and we can't pinpoint it.”

“Oh?”

My wife poured drinks. His own wife looked at him sharply, as if this was the first she had heard of it and she resented being put on parity with us.

“Good, clear signal,” he said. “High frequency. Queer voice though—know what it said?”

There was another couple there—the Dennisons; he was a rather important surgeon—and Mrs. Dennison made a rather inept attempt at humor. I try to remember her first name, but it escapes me. She was a slim, beautiful blond woman, but not very bright; yet she managed to turn it on Fred and he retreated. We tried to persuade him, but he turned the subject away and became a listener. It wasn't until after dinner that I pinned him down.

“About that signal?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You've become damn sensitive.”

“Oh, I don't know. Nothing very special or mysterious. A voice said, ‘You must stop killing us.'”

“Just that?”

“It doesn't surprise you?” Fred asked.

“Oh, no—hardly. As you said, it's a sort of universal plea. I can think of at least seven places on earth where those would be the most important words they could broadcast.”

“I suppose so. But it did not originate in any of those places.”

“No? Where, then?”

“That's it,” Fred Goldman said. “That's just it.”

That's how I heard about it first. I put it out of mind as I imagine so many others did, and the truth is that I forgot about it. Two weeks later I delivered the second lecture in the Goddard Free Series at Harvard, and during the question period one student demanded: