The Big Eye (8 page)

 

 

And finally David thought, The hell with it, the hell with everything.
There's nothing I can do except wait.

 

 

And if worst comes to worst, if I hear nothing from Palomar, I'll go to
that meeting anyway, no matter what Francis said. I've got to go!

 

 

But as he talked to Carol, as they sat close together, as the liquor
began to take hold, he recalled Francis's voice before it had been cut
off on the long lines, how it had shook and trembled, as though he were
terrified, and the fear that something had happened to the Old Man nagged
David like the throbbing of an exposed nerve.

 

 

He tried to forget it for a while. He asked Carol about the city, about
New York, what it had been like living there in the last few months.
Her face sobered, and she was suddenly afraid. He could see it in the
quick brightness of her eyes, in the drawn, taut look of her face,
in the sudden trembling of her fingers as she deliberately crushed her
cigarette in the ash tray.

 

 

Finally she took a deep breath and then she started to talk, as though
she'd been dying to talk to someone about it for a long time, to get it
off her chest. The words came tumbling out in quick, rambling sentences,
and as she went on they came faster and faster, as though she were
determined not to leave any space between them, not to give the incipient
hysteria a loophole in which to creep in and take possession.

 

 

"Of course it's like a bad dream, David. You wouldn't believe it --
living here in the city now, I mean. It's simply fantastic. Even so,
you can get used to it after a while, in a way. When Mother was alive --
well, I remember what she used to say, 'You can get used to hanging,
if you hang long enough.' I don't know. Anyway, it's not so bad
during the day, really it isn't. It's the nights. Without the lights,
the streets simply pitch-black -- well, it's pretty nerve-racking.
There've been all kinds of holdups and muggings. It's not that the
authorities are trying to black the city out -- that wouldn't do any
good against those guided missiles or whatever they call them. It's just
because they haven't enough men to run the power plants. That's why the
subways and the els aren't running either, even if they had the men to
run them. And food -- David, you just can't imagine. You have to walk
blocks before you can find a place that has anything to sell, and when
you buy it, you pay fantastic prices. It's all black market, of course.
People want to make money fast and get out before it's too late -- and
you pay ten times what food is really worth. Five dollars for a pound
of butter, David. You can't get it for less anywhere, if you're lucky
enough to find it. But if it's an apartment you want, that's different.
They're just giving them away. A penthouse on Park Avenue -- you can have
it for the asking. It's ridiculous, David. There are just thousands of
empty apartments going begging. People just left with what they could
carry in a suitcase -- left their furniture and everything behind. There
aren't more than a few thousand people left in town, so you can imagine.

 

 

"Of course nothing makes sense any more. But I forget, there's the
heating problem. Lucky for me this building is fairly new, and we have
individual heating units for each apartment. The people left in the old
buildings with a central heating system didn't get any heat, and so they
simply moved to one of the new buildings -- just like that. As for getting
around the town -- well, you know something about that, David, you already
know how hard it is. The only way is a taxi -- if you can find one. The
drivers have thrown away their meters, and they charge you what they
think you can afford, and of course they think you're all millionaires.

 

 

"And oh, the network studios -- not to mention the Telecast Building --
they're all madhouses now. You have to show your pass and wear a badge
and go through the third degree at least five times, and show them your
handbag to prove you haven't got an infernal machine in it, before you
can get in to broadcast. It's insane, of course, but everyone's on edge;
it's what they call Security. I know you think I'm mad to stay here,
David, but we were asked to volunteer, at least until they set up new
short-wave transmission studios in the Middle West. It won't be for much
longer, darling, just another week, they say, and "

 

 

She had averted her face from him ever since she started to talk. Now
she stopped as he gently took her chin and turned her face up toward his.

 

 

Her eyes were blurred with tears, and they were scared, and suddenly
she was in his arms.

 

 

"David! Oh, David, David!"

 

 

She was a terrified child, clinging to him, shaking violently in his
arms, crying his name hysterically over and over. He held her tight,
comforting her, soothing her, murmuring to her, pressing his lips against
her cheek so that they became sticky with her tears.

 

 

It's all been building up in her, thought David; it's been building up
for days and weeks.

 

 

Finally Carol drew away and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, darling. I'm
sorry."

 

 

"Sorry for what?"

 

 

"For blowing up like that." She sat down and said faintly, a little
ashamed, "I made up my mind I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't break down,
I wouldn't get hysterical, like so many of the others. Now -- look
what happened!"

 

 

"You had it coming," said David. "Anybody would in a setup like this."
He lit a cigarette and gave it to her. "But that's all over with now.
You're going back to the Coast with me tomorrow."

 

 

She shook her head. "But, David, I can't."

 

 

"You're going back with me, and that's that!" he insisted. "I've got a
plane reservation back tomorrow afternoon and a super-high priority in
my pocket. I'll get another seat for you on that priority if I have to
tear down the airport."

 

 

She tried to reason with him. "David, David, you don't understand. We
promised to stay on the job; it's supposed to be important. The Department
of Information says our broadcasts are getting through -- to Europe. The
people over there are hearing them, David, in spite of the Russians,
in spite of everything "

 

 

"To hell with all that," he said roughly. "It's too late for that
boring-from-within propaganda stuff. They're all whistling in the wind.
The blowoff'll come any hour now, and it won't be a question of propaganda,
but of a lot of other weapons a million times more lethal. You've done
enough, Carol; you've been here long enough, longer than anyone has a
right to ask. After all, you haven't been drafted, you're just a volunteer
"

 

 

"That part of it doesn't matter, David." She was looking at him steadily,
and it irritated him. He took the expression in her eyes as accusation
and blazed at her.

 

 

"All right, all right, maybe I'm not a great patriot. Maybe I've no
right to talk, sitting up on my nice, safe, remote mountaintop back
at Palomar. But maybe I've got some information you don't know about,
Carol. And I'm just not patriotic enough to let them murder my own
fiancee." He walked about in a rage. "The damned fools! The crazy idiots
running this government, and the Soviet government, and the others. If
somebody could persuade these morons in striped pants to look upstairs
for a minute and take a good long look at the stars, they'd find out
that this infected speck of dust they call the earth isn't big enough
to fight about, isn't worth the trouble "

 

 

"David," she said gently. "You don't have to make a speech."

 

 

He looked at her, and suddenly he felt awkward and foolish, like
an adolescent kid on a high school platform. I'm a little drunk, he
thought, that's it, I'm a little drunk, and shooting off my mouth like
a street-corner reformer.

 

 

Get off the soapbox, Hughes, get back to earth.

 

 

"Carol," he said, "all I know is that you're inviting suicide every
minute you stay here. You've got to come back with me tomorrow."

 

 

She shook her head, and he knew it was final. "David, David, believe me,
I'm not trying to be noble or anything like that. But I've got to do
what I'm doing! I've got to go through with it!" She pulled him down to
the couch with her and pressed her cheek against his. "Darling, darling,
please, let's not quarrel. Not now."

 

 

She clung to him, and to David the room became a kind of blur, like a
background out of focus, a hazy cubicle hemming them in. He was drunk
now, drunk with the whisky, drunk with the feel and the scent of her,
drunk with the warmth of her body against his, the perfume of her hair,
the caress of her lips on his ear.

 

 

"David, will we really be married soon?"

 

 

"As soon as you get out to Palomar." He almost added "if."

 

 

She kissed the lobe of his ear again, his cheek, his throat, his mouth.
He was afire with the feel of her, and he thought, I can't, Carol,
I can't take any more of this. Carol, Carol, I can't take any more!

 

 

"What are we waiting for?" he whispered. "What are we waiting for?"

 

 

"No, David, no, darling, no."

 

 

She drew away from him, held him at arm's length, looked at him. It
was perverse of her, he thought wildly, one of those baffling things
women do without rhyme or reason. There was compassion in her eyes,
but he resented it, he didn't want compassion now.

 

 

He could have fought it, tried to overwhelm her.

 

 

He could have shouted: "Now, now, or maybe it'll be never. Maybe there'll
never be any tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. Carol, for the love
of God!"

 

 

But he didn't.

 

 

Instead he rose abruptly and glanced at his watch.

 

 

"Two-thirty," he said, almost too casually. "I'd better go."

 

 

Carol nodded.

 

 

He picked up his brief case, and the feel of the leather and the bulging
papers within brought him back to his dilemma. He went to the phone again,
dialed the operator.

 

 

"I'm sorry, sir," said the operator. "But the Army took over all
long-line circuits ten minutes ago. They may be released by morning.
I'll call you."

 

 

He hung up, and he thought, That's that. It's out of my hands, there's
nothing I can do. Nothing, except -- wait for tomorrow.

 

 

He turned to Carol. "What was the name of that hotel again?"

 

 

"The Rutherford," she answered mechanically. "It's east of Fifth,
on Fifty-sixth."

 

 

"The Rutherford," he repeated.

 

 

He waited for her to rise, to say something, to see him to the door.
But she did not stir from the couch. Instead she lay there motionless,
watching him, appraising him, measuring him. Something had come into her
eyes. They were hard to read at the moment ; they said nothing, really,
except that they expected him to do something, to make the next move.

 

 

The wail of a siren screamed up suddenly from the dark canyon outside.
It tore the silence of the room with its shrieking din. Then it threaded
away somewhere in the night, fading as fast as it had come.

 

 

They were apart now, out of each other's arms, and the Outside had come
between them again. The realization was in her face, and he knew it
was in his. The little island they had inhabited briefly and together
had slipped into the dark sea, and they were both afraid and swimming
for their lives again. The Fear, by some subtle osmosis, had penetrated
through the walls; it was in the room again, a cold and oppressive shroud
enveloping them both.

 

 

"Hope I can get a cab," he said.

 

 

His voice sounded strangely false. Still she said nothing, made no move to
get up. He turned his back on her, acutely conscious that she was watching
him intently as he walked toward the foyer. He picked up his coat and hat
deliberately from the chair where she had left them, and turned to her.

 

 

"David," she whispered suddenly. "David -- don't go!"

 

 

He stood there transfixed, staring at her. Mechanically, unaware of what
he was doing, he put his hat and coat down again. The blood rushed hotly
to his face, his heart pounded, and he began to tremble violently.

 

 

"Carol . . ."

 

 

"Don't go out there, darling." Her voice was husky. "Don't go out
there -- and leave me alone."

 

 

The morning light was streaming in the window when Carol said:

 

 

"David, I've got to get down to Radio City. We've got an early broadcast,
and one of the announcers still has his car in town. He's picking me up
on the corner, and if I don't meet him I'll never be able to get down
to the studio."

 

 

He made a last try. "You won't change your mind about flying back with
me this afternoon?"

 

 

"No, David," she said quietly. "I can't."

 

 

Then Carol thought of something, made a sad face. "I didn't realize
it was so late. And, darling, I did want to make your breakfast. There
isn't much food in the refrigerator, the times being what they are, but "

 

 

"Forget it," he said cheerfully. "I'll throw something together."

 

 

He turned on the small portable television set in the bedroom. A Negro
girl at a piano came on with some wake-up-and-sing stuff. She was dressed
as a maid and was obviously at her mistress's piano, her broom and mop
leaning against the instrument.