On the Wing (25 page)

“In your room!” the buxom matron would squeal. “Oh, Professor! What if it escapes in the night? We might all be killed in our sleep!”

“My dear woman,” the professor would say, “I assure you that there is no cause for alarm. The creature is quite safely enclosed in a cage that can only be opened with this key.” He would produce a key from his pocket, hold it up for all to see, return it to his pocket, and pat the pocket to show everyone how secure the key was on his person.

Outside, a bolt of lightning would strike a tree in front of the house, splintering it with a ripping sound like the scream of a small, furry animal being disemboweled by a goshawk—something like eeaghhhgrackouukirsch. It would be followed by a clap of thunder—drubbleduboombuh—that would rattle the windows and rumble the floor beneath our feet.

A blonde in a white satin dress clinging to her like the paint worn by the blondes in
Bold Feats
would wail, “Make it stop! Somebody make it stop! It's driving me insane!” She would throw herself across a sofa like an invitation.

I would take a seat on the sofa beside her and say sympathetically, “I know how you feel. When I was on that trip that I mentioned, years ago, I thought of taking shelter under the spreading branches of a large tree—”

“Did the woman in the mobcap mention sherry?” you would ask.

A big, snarling man would rise from an overstuffed chair behind a plant, where he had previously been invisible, and demand in a deep snarling voice, “What's that you said?”

“I was hoping that it might be cocktail hour,” you would tell him.

“Oooh, Francis!” the blonde would squeal. “There you are! Did you have a nice nap?”

“Nah,” Francis would say with a shrug, rolling the shoulders of his double-breasted suit and patting the gat in his shoulder holster. “It's hard to sleep with a gat digging into your ribs and that storm raging outside. It's enough to drive a guy nuts.”

“I was just telling everybody that the thunder is driving me crazy,” the blonde would explain.

“And I was telling her how much the storm reminded me of a night years ago,” I would offer, “when I was flying—well, taxiing—to New Mexico and—”

“Yeah, I heard ya,” Francis would say, flicking the ash from his cigarette into a potted aspidistra.

A brilliant bolt of lightning would catch us all in its sudden silver light.

“Stop it!” young Sandy would scream. “Somebody please make it stop! If one more bolt of lightning freezes us in its light like that, burning our startled expressions into my brain, I'll go mad! I tell you I'll go mad!”

You would turn suddenly and slap him hard across the face, then again, and again.

There would be a moment of stunned silence. Then Sandy would slump into a chair, subdued and whimpering.

“Say, that was quick thinking, sister,” Francis would say.

“I've been to the movies,” you would explain.

I would have found the bar by then. I would pour a couple of shots of brandy into a tumbler and hand it to Sandy. “Here, drink this, kid,” I would say, “and pull yourself together.”

“I thought there was going to be sherry,” Francis would say, pouting.

“I couldn't find any,” I would explain, “but there is gin, and I am prepared to make a martini for anyone who would like one.”

It would be martinis all around, with the exception of Sandy, who would stick with the brandy.

When Francis had a drink in hand, he would say to the professor, “I heard what you said about the caramba-mamba, Professor.”

“Yes?” the professor would say.

“Maybe you'd like to bring the snake down here, so that we can all get a look at it.”

“Oh, I don't think that would be wise,” the professor would say sagely.

Francis would pat the bulge in his double-breasted jacket and say slowly, “I do, Professor. I think it would be very wise.”

“Oh, yes, Professor,” the buxom woman would say, all aflutter, “please do bring the snake here for us to see—if you think it's safe.”

“Yes, well,” the professor would say, with a wary eye on Francis, “perhaps I will,” and he would start upstairs.

Suddenly Snort would burst into the room from the hallway. “Is that an electric car outside?” he would shout. “Is somebody here driving an electric car?”

You would say, “Yes, we're driving an Electro-Flyer, the only Electro-Flyer in the world, in fact.”

And I would say, “We're driving to New Mexico, re-creating the trip that I made in an aerocycle when I was a teenager—”

Snort would begin tearing his hair, throwing the furniture around, and screaming, “I hate electric cars. I hate them! I hate them!”

The professor would appear at the top of the stairs and call out, “Stay where you are, everyone! Don't move an inch! The caramba-mamba is missing!”

The lights would go out.

“Come on, Al,” I would say, “in the darkness and confusion we can make our getaway.”

We would grope our way along a hallway until we came to the kitchen, where we would slip out the back door, tiptoe down the driveway to the front of the house, get into the Electro-Flyer, switch it on, and slip away from the Scary Old House, silently, with electro-flying swiftness.

“That was a close shave,” I would say, “close as wet paint.”

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?” you would say. It would be an accusation, but you would be smiling as you made it.

“Well,” I would say, “it
has
become more of an adventure than it would have been if we had been able to stay at Paradise Pines.”

“I wish that it would stop being an adventure,” you would say, “and start being more of a—”

*   *   *

“OH, LOOK!” she said. “Up ahead. There's a motel.” She gave a sigh of relief. “There seem to be quite a few cars parked out front—and it doesn't look scary at all.”

We took our bags from the trunk, registered, and found our room.

“Thanks for keeping me entertained,” she said.

“I'll just check under the bed for snakes,” I said.

“Please do.”

“I'll also go out to the parking lot and find a way to plug the car in.”

I slung my extension cords over my shoulder and slipped into the night. I found an outdoor outlet not far from the car, ran my cords, made them as discreet as possible, and then stood to listen. There was no helicopter, no
whup-whup-whup.
The night was as silent as it was dark.

Chapter 21

The Ideal Audience

Truth is appalling and eltritch, as seen

By this world's artificial lamplights.

Owen Meredith (Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton),
Lucile

DURING THE DAY, while I was riding along, I composed a song, in my head, and my song quickly became one of those songs that one cannot get out of one's head. In fact, I'm hesitant to include it here because I fear that I may be doing you a disservice, Reader, by introducing it into your head, from which I fear you may not be able to drive it. However, in the service of completeness, I must include it, and so I do:

O, Babbington, my Babbington,

You know I love you dearly.

When I'm abroad, you're with me still,

And I can see you clearly.

The people who don't live in you

All live their lives so queerly.

Where'ere I roam, I yearn for home,

And I mean that most sincerely.

Ooo, bop, sha doobie doo wop.

I was very proud of myself for addressing the song to the town itself, as if it were a sentient being, an entity vibrant and alive, capable of comprehending and appreciating my paean to it.

“You are driving me crazy with that song,” claimed
Spirit.

“I think it's pretty good,” I said, frankly and honestly.

“I might have agreed the first time I heard it.”

“I've got to keep repeating it so that I can memorize it.”

“I've already memorized it.”

“I hear the rhythm of the road in it.”

“I keep hearing ‘Ooo, bop, sha doobie doo wop,' and if I hear it one more time, it's going to drive me insane, totally, irreversibly insane.”

“Okay,” I said. “I get the point. I'll be quiet.”

We rolled along. I memorized my song, subvocalizing instead of singing. As usual, at the predictable time, evening came on. As usual, I began looking for a good place to stop for a meal, a shower, and a bed. I came to a crossroads where there was a sign that pointed the way to two towns: Happy Valley to the right and Eldritch to the left.

Much has been written on the effect that the names of places have on our predisposition toward them, nearly all of it by Marcel Proust. Consequently, there is nothing left for me to say on the topic, in general. Specifically, though, I can add my bit to the grand conversation by noting that the two names had immediate and contradictory effects on me. Eldritch sounded to me like a place that would be weird, strange, and eerie. Happy Valley, on the other hand, seemed likely to be jolly, its populace welcoming and complaisant.

“It's Happy Valley for us!” I said, steering
Spirit
to the right.

We went on our way, but I soon began to doubt that it was the right way to go. So did
Spirit.

“If we're on the way to Happy Valley, then Happy Valley must have fallen on very hard times,” she said.

“I'm going to turn around,” I said, “and I hope that you won't invoke the rule that adventurers do not retrace their steps.”

“This might be a special case,” she said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “We may not have to break the rule after all. There's a fork in the road up ahead.”

At the fork, there was another sign, like the one we had seen farther back, but this one claimed that the road to the left continued on to Happy Valley, while the road to the right would take us to Eldritch.

“That's funny,” I said innocently. “I thought Eldritch was on the left back at the other fork.”

“It was,” said
Spirit.
“Or at least the sign said it was.”

We went to the left this time, still heading for Happy Valley, we hoped.

We hadn't gone very far when we came to a third fork. The sign at this fork pointed to Eldritch on the left and Happy Valley on the right.

“Hmmm,” I said, bearing right. “I'm getting suspicious about this.”

“Hmmm,” said
Spirit.
“So am I.”

A little farther on, we came to another fork. Again, the directions had reversed, with Eldritch now on the right and Happy Valley on the left. I stopped, puzzled and a bit apprehensive. Not only did the relative locations of Eldritch and Happy Valley seem to shift with each fork we encountered, but regardless of whether we took the right or the left fork, we seemed always to be heading to a place more eldritch than happy. Then my apprehension turned to terror. A memory had returned to me. It was the memory of a night when I was sitting on the beach, “Over South,” on the barrier island that separated Bolotomy Bay from the Atlantic Ocean. I was sitting on the sand, in a ring with other members of the Young Tars, listening to our leader, Mr. Summers, tell us a tale from the bygone days of old Bolotomy, and the tale he was telling was sending a shiver of fear down my spine, making me hug myself for comfort and warmth and lean toward the fire. It was a story about a gang of thugs in Babbington in the nineteenth century who used to lure—

In the light from
Spirit
's headlamp, something moved. My heart began racing. I swung the lamp from side to side, slowly, and I saw something move again.

I took a deep breath and, drawing on the afternoons I'd spent at the Babbington Theater, called out, “We've got you covered! Show yourself!” I heard a tremor in my voice, but it was hidden but a snarling roar from
Spirit.
I looked at the throttle. I hadn't realized that I had twisted it, but I must have.

“We've got you surrounded,” I said, adding another snarl from
Spirit.
“You might as well give up.”

“Don't shoot!” cried a voice. A pair of hands shot into the air from behind a bush on the edge of the light from
Spirit
's headlamp. I turned the handlebars in that direction, turning the full light on whoever was hiding there. I was still terrified, but I was emboldened.

“Come out with your hands up,” I said, “and if you know what's good for you, you won't try any funny business.”

“Yes, sir,” said the voice. Slowly, a head rose above the bush, and then, very cautiously, with his hands held straight and high, a skinny, frightened boy about my age took a few steps toward the light.

When he reached the edge of the road, I said, “Stop where you are.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And keep those hands up. I'd just as soon shoot you as look at you.”

“My hands are up. I'm keeping them up. I'm going to keep them up.”

“One false move, and I'll—”

“No false moves,” he said, quickly, nervously, blinking in the headlamp light. “You won't get any false moves out of me, none at all.”

“Let's hear what you've got to say about the signs,” I said.

“Signs? What signs?”

“You know what signs—the signs that point the way to Eldritch and Happy Valley.”

“What about them?”

“They're confusing, wouldn't you say?”

“If you find them confusing, maybe it's just because you—”

“Listen, kid,” I said in the manner of a movie tough guy, “if you are about to suggest that I find those signs confusing because I am easily confused, I would suggest that you remind yourself who has got the drop on whom.”

“Sorry!” he said, and I could see the fear run through his body, the same fear that was running through mine. “I didn't mean to say that—it—it just came out.”