Gremlins (13 page)

They were undoubtedly close to realizing this tremendous power surge; yet even the pessimistic Gizmo knew it was by no means automatic. During his own lifetime he had seen several dozen near-explosions averted, mostly by good fortune rather than planning, but these misses did serve to illustrate the point that until the final mystery was solved, containment was possible. Stripe, one of the most diabolically clever majority Mogwai Gizmo had so far encountered, knew that the last step was the most important.

Moving to the front of the group, he spoke in Mogwai.

“We’ve solved two problems,” he said coldly. “We know light is our enemy, so we won’t be trapped into exposing ourselves to it. We know that water makes us reproduce. All that remains is to discover how we become powerful.”

Gizmo looked directly into Stripe’s eyes. “Well?” he asked. “Why don’t you reproduce then? This family can keep you locked in the house, but it’s foolish to believe they can keep you away from water.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Stripe smiled wickedly. “By reproducing now, we could succeed in doing nothing but creating an army of weak creatures that could be easily eradicated. You’ve seen such impatience fail in the past, haven’t you?”

Gizmo allowed himself to smile faintly. In fact, he always hated to see unlimited reproduction for the simple reason that it mathematically increased the chances of stumbling onto the final mystery’s solution. Consistent with this, he hoped Stripe and his three cohorts would not take the step right away. The best way to discourage their doing so, of course, was by making Stripe think he favored reproduction.

And what, Gizmo mused, was the best way to delude Stripe into thinking he wanted them to reproduce now? By saying the opposite? No. (Since Stripe would automatically reject that as a ploy.) In fact, the best way to convince his enemy that he favored reproduction was to seem to favor it.

It was an elliptical line of reasoning, but with the devious Stripe, one had to be wily.

“There is an old adage,” Gizmo said. “It says that the opportunity should be grasped when it arises or that moment will never occur again.”

“So you think we should reproduce now?” Stripe asked through narrowed eyes.

“I am not your advisor. It just seems to me—”

“Liar!” Stripe shot back. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you really think I’ll fall for such obvious psychological maneuvering?”

Gizmo, summoning all his acting ability, did his best to look innocent.

Stripe raged, smiling finally in triumph. “If you, my dear enemy, advise us to reproduce now, it can only mean one thing: that that is what
you
want. You
know
it is my inclination to believe the
opposite
of what you say. Therefore if you speak in favor of reproduction, that is really what you favor.” His forehead furrowing as he followed his own convoluted reasoning, he paused, then rushed forward with the denouement. “Therefore, since you are in favor of reproduction now, we won’t do it.”

Gizmo looked away, rolled himself into a ball, and cherished the brief moment of victory. He realized it was a temporary thing, however, subject to the mercurial whims of Stripe’s mind. But at least he had a little time to think.

Roy Hanson hadn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours, thanks to Pete Fountaine and Billy Peltzer. He’d planned for his first sane Christmas in years, and now
this.
A biological find so stunning he was afraid to stop work for a minute lest he lose his train of thought. Just analyzing the creature’s blood, which ought to have been a reasonably simple matter, had been horrendously time-consuming. After extracting blood at least two dozen times (which endeared him to the Mogwai to the point where it shrieked whenever he approached), he had concluded that the blood actually changed composition in response to atmospheric, temperature, and humidity changes. This meant that the creature was theoretically capable of living in nearly every climate imaginable. It made blood testing a monumental task, though. And blood testing would be a snap compared to finding out how the animal reproduced via a single drop of water.

“Don’t worry, fella,” he said, staring at the hostile Mogwai. “I’m gonna solve your identity problem and then you’ll love me.”

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the building was nearly deserted. Tomorrow would be the last day of classes; then Roy would have the entire Christmas holiday to study the animal.

“I was really lookin’ forward to spending some time with my girlfriend,” he said to the Mogwai. “But I’d better get you while you’re hot.”

Haunted by the idea that those kids would tell some television or newspaper reporter about the Mogwai and he would be lost in the shuffle, Roy worked compulsively and nonstop. Fortunately, he was used to such self-discipline, having worked two jobs while he was in college. He had learned to sleep on the run, think on the run, and eat on the run. Knowing that he would be spending many long hours in the lab this evening, he had sent one of his homeroom students out for some sandwiches. Munching on one, he noticed the Mogwai stare hungrily at it.

“Why not?” He smiled. “We’re both in this together. Have a bite.”

Pushing a morsel through the bars, he laughed as the Mogwai grabbed and downed the snack like a veteran fast-food addict.

“O.K.,” he said. “Now it’s time for one more jab with the needle in the interests of science.”

“I know you’re all caught up in this in the interests of science, but it’s not helping me get my petition signed.”

Kate wasn’t exactly perturbed. She was concerned, however, that Billy seemed to have no time to help her contact people. While she understood that he was preoccupied with the Mogwai problem, she did not want to lose track of her main goal in life at the moment—to thwart Mrs. Deagle if there was a takeover plan in the works.

It was late afternoon, only minutes after they had gotten off work. Dorry’s Pub was nearly deserted, only Murray Futterman sitting at the far end of the bar nursing a drink. Billy and Kate had said hello to him when they came in, but as he hadn’t seemed inclined to socialize, they’d left him alone. Taking a table in the corner farthest away from the video games, where space invaders were being zapped by some teenagers, they ordered coffee and slowly unwound from a rough day at the bank.

“I’m sorry,” Billy explained. “Really I am. It’s just that I don’t feel right being away from home too long. Mom may not know what to do if those Mogwai get loose or something. If it wasn’t for that, I’d help you take that petition door to door—”

“Where are you keeping them, by the way?” Kate asked. “Still in your room?”

Billy nodded. “Mom lets them out every once in a while, though. Not outside the house, but downstairs. She thinks it’s mean to keep them cooped up all the time.”

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll get splashed with water?”

“Not really. There aren’t any leaks or anything, and we keep the kitchen and bathrooms closed. Oh, I guess if they
knew
they could reproduce that way and wanted it, they’d find a way. But they’re pretty docile. And Barney follows them around. If they get in anything he thinks they shouldn’t he barks a warning.”

Kate smiled. “Any more warnings from Mrs. Deagle?” she asked.

“Yeah. She mumbled something under her breath today—just loud enough for me to hear—saying Barney’s time was almost up.”

“What do you think she meant? Is she bluffing?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past her to hire somebody to put a drug in his food.”

They sat silently a moment, sipping their coffee. Then, without looking up, Kate murmured, “Watch it. Here he comes. With one too many.”

As the shuffling figure of Mr. Futterman nearly stumbled just before reaching their table, she added quickly, “Make that two.”

“Hi, kids,” Futterman said, pulling up a chair. Putting his rough, scaly hand on Kate’s arm, he smiled. “Now here’s a new one. Most guys ask you when you get off work. But I want to know when you start.”

“Not for another fifteen minutes.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“You’re the best one to complain to around here,” Futterman replied thickly. “Dorry’s not interested. You listen. A fella can tell you his problems and you sympathize. But I can’t wait fifteen more minutes.”

“All right.” Kate smiled. “I’m not working yet, but tell me anyway.”

“It’s that stupid . . . cantankerous . . . can’t get her to cooperate no matter what—”

“Not your wife?” Kate interjected.

“No,” he said. “It’s that snowplow. Darn thing.”

“But I thought you said it worked perfectly, Mr. Futterman,” Billy said.

“It did. But that was before I took it in for a tune-up and they loaded ’er up with foreign parts. Every single gasket, spark plug—foreign! It’s no wonder she conked out. It’s like servin’ chop suey at a wedding. You ever heard of anybody ever servin’ chop suey at a wedding?”

Billy shook his head.

“ ’Course not! They serve good ol’ American food. Give the guests chop suey and they’d none of ’em move for the rest of the night. Same with cars and trucks. Foreign parts are like chop suey. Boiled rice. Thick, sticky.”

“I’ve never heard it put that way before,” Kate said, humoring him, “but you may have something.”

“They’re payin’ us back for winning the war,” Futterman said in a somewhat slurred but unequivocal tone. “They’re puttin’ gremlins in their machinery, the same gremlins that brought down our planes in the big one.”

“The big one?” Kate asked, puzzled.

“World War Two,” Futterman rasped. “You know, the sequel to World War One.”

Kate and Billy laughed.

“Anyway,” Futterman continued, “they’re shippin’ their gremlins over here . . . in their cars, and stereos, and now in the spark plugs in my snowplow.”

“Where’s the plow now?” Kate asked.

“Around the corner. She conked out just as I pulled in a parking space. That was my only break today.”

“Can I give you a lift home?” Kate offered.

“No, thanks,” Futterman replied, getting shakily to his feet. “The wife’s on her way. Should be outside now. Thanks for listenin’ to me. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome,” Kate answered with a smile. “Why don’t you pick up some chop suey on your way home? That should make you feel better.”

“Fat chance,” Futterman laughed, waving as he headed for the door.

Billy leaned back and smiled.

“That was really nice,” he said. “The way you handled Mr. Futterman.”

“I’m used to it,” Kate replied. “People are about the same all over. They just want somebody to listen to them. Especially around the holidays.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s because a lot of people get really depressed when they’re bombarded by all this cheer.”

“I always thought everybody was happy during the holidays,” Billy mused.

“Most people are,” Kate said. “But some aren’t. While everybody else is opening presents, they’re opening their wrists.”

Billy winced. “A cheery thought.”

“It’s true. The suicide rate is always highest around the holidays.”

“Stop it. Now you’re making me depressed.”

“Sorry. Can’t have that.”

The slight edge to her voice bothered him. “Do you get depressed at Christmas?” he asked.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” she replied. “As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t exist.”

“Why, are you a Hindu or something?”

“No. I just don’t like to . . .”

“But . . . why?”

“Do you really want to know?” she asked, looking at him in a way that was almost challenging.

“Sure . . . I guess I want to know everything about you.”

She avoided his glance.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, her expression distant. “I don’t know why Christmas is always so horrible . . . My grandmother died on Christmas . . . She was my favorite person . . . I had my appendix taken out on Christmas. It burst while I was opening my presents . . . Even my dog Snappy got run over on Christmas . . . by two big kids on a sled . . . But the worst . . . God . . . it was horrible . . .”

“What?” Billy urged.

“It was Christmas Eve,” Kate continued slowly, almost as if she were in a trance. “I was six years old. Mom and I were decorating the tree . . . singing carols, happy, excited . . . waiting for Dad to come home from work.” She paused, took a deep breath. “A couple of hours went by, then more. Dad wasn’t home. Mom called the office . . . no answer . . . Then it was past the time when the stores were closed. That’s when Mom and I really started to worry . . .”

Billy waited, dreading hearing the rest of the story, yet impatient for her to continue.

“Anyway, we stayed up all night . . . He didn’t come home . . . Christmas Day went by like an eternity, and still nothing . . . The police began a search. A week, two weeks went by. Mom was close to a nervous breakdown and neither of us could eat or sleep . . . Then, one night in January it was snowing outside. The house was freezing cold so I tried to start a fire. That’s when I noticed . . .”

“Noticed . . . what?” Billy muttered.

“The smell . . . The firemen came and broke through the chimney top. Mom and I were expecting them to pull out a dead bird or a cat . . . Instead they pulled out my father.”

Billy, eyes wide, gulped.

“He was dressed in a Santa Claus suit,” Kate continued. “He had been climbing down the chimney on Christmas Eve, his arms loaded with gifts. He was going to surprise us, but I guess he surprised himself . . . He lost his footing . . . slipped and broke his neck . . . and must have died instantly. At least he didn’t suffer long . . . His body just stayed there, lodged in the chimney . . . Anyway, that’s how I found out there was no Santa Claus and why I don’t like Christmas.”

Billy’s chilled expression softened as he noticed a moistness in her eyes.

“That’s terrible!” said Billy. He reached out and touched her hand.

Kate sniffed, then smiled. She gave Billy’s hand a squeeze. “Anyway, that’s my own little Christmas carol that I tell people when they ask me why I don’t like Christmas. Actually, you’re one of the few people who didn’t express any doubt. Most just kind of look at you oddly and some even laugh.”