the
relief ship, but that doesn’t seem to be—’
‘Captain, sir!’ someone shouted.
‘Eh?’ The captain and psychiatrist turned.
‘Look there, sir! In the sky! The relief rocket!’
This was no more than the truth. The men ran out of the ship and the tents.
The sun was set and the wind was cold, but they stood there, straining their eyes up, watched
the fire grow large, larger, larger. The Second Rocket beat a drum and let out a long plume of
red color. It landed. It cooled. The men of the First Rocket ran across the sea bottom toward
it, yelling.
‘Well?’ asked the captain, standing back. ‘What does this mean? Do we go or
stay?’
‘I think,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘that we’ll stay.’
‘For twenty-four hours?’
‘For a little longer than that,’ Walton replied.
* * *
They hoisted immense crates out of the
Second Rocket.
‘Careful! Careful there!’
They held up blueprints and wielded hammers and pries and levers. The
psychiatrist supervised. ‘This way! Crate 75? Here. Box 067?
Here!
That’s it. Open ’er up. Tab A into Slot B. Tab B into Slot C. Right, fine,
good
!’
They put it all up before dawn. In eight hours they assembled the miracles
out of boxes and crates. They took away the serpentines, wax papers, cardboards, brushed and
dusted every part and portion of the whole. When the time came, the men of the First Rocket
stood on the outer rim of the miracle, gazed in at it, incredulous and awed.
‘Ready, Captain?’
‘I’ll be damned! Yes!’
‘Throw the switch.’
The captain threw the switch.
The little town lit up.
‘Good Lord!’ said the captain.
He walked into the single main street of the town.
It was a street of no more than six buildings on a side, false fronts, strung
with bright red, yellow, green lights. Music played from a half-dozen hidden jukeboxes,
somewhere. Doors slammed. A man in a white smock emerged from a barbershop, blue shears and a
black comb in hand. A peppermint-stick pole rotated slowly behind him. Next was a drugstore, a
magazine rack out front, newspapers fluttering in the wind, a fan turning in the ceiling, thesnakelike hiss of soda water sounding inside. As they passed
the door they looked in. A girl smiled there, a crisp green starched cap on her head.
A pool hall, with green tables, like jungle glades, soft, inviting. Billiard
balls, multicolored, triangled, waiting. Across the street, a church, with candied-root-beer,
strawberry, lemon-glass windows. A man there, too, in dark suit, white collar. Next to that, a
library. Next to that, a hotel. SOFT BEDS. FIRST NIGHT FREE.
AIR-CONDITIONING . A clerk behind a desk with his hand on a silver bell. But the place
they were going to, that drew them like the smell of water draws cattle across a dusty prairie,
was the building at the head of the street.
THE MILLED BUCK SALOON.
A man with greased, curled hair, his shirtsleeves gartered with red elastic
above his hairy elbows, leaned against a post there. He vanished behind swinging doors. When
they hit the swinging doors, he was polishing the bar and tipping rye into thirty glasses all
lined up glittering on the beautiful long bar. A crystal chandelier blazed warmly overhead.
There was a stairway leading up and a number of doors above, on a balcony, and the faintest
smell of perfume.
They all went to the bar. They were quiet. They took up the rye and drank it
straight down, not wiping their mouths. Their eyes stung.
The captain said, in a whisper, to the psychiatrist, standing by the door,
‘Good God! The expense!’
‘Film sets, knockdowns, collapsibles. A
real minister next door in the church of course. Three real barbers. A piano player.’
The man at the yellow-toothed piano began to play ‘St. Louis Woman with Your
Diamond Rings.’
‘A druggist, two fountain girls, a pool-hall proprietor, shoeshine boy, rack
boy, two librarians, odds and ends, workmen, electricians, et cetera.
relief ship, but that doesn’t seem to be—’
‘Captain, sir!’ someone shouted.
‘Eh?’ The captain and psychiatrist turned.
‘Look there, sir! In the sky! The relief rocket!’
This was no more than the truth. The men ran out of the ship and the tents.
The sun was set and the wind was cold, but they stood there, straining their eyes up, watched
the fire grow large, larger, larger. The Second Rocket beat a drum and let out a long plume of
red color. It landed. It cooled. The men of the First Rocket ran across the sea bottom toward
it, yelling.
‘Well?’ asked the captain, standing back. ‘What does this mean? Do we go or
stay?’
‘I think,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘that we’ll stay.’
‘For twenty-four hours?’
‘For a little longer than that,’ Walton replied.
* * *
They hoisted immense crates out of the
Second Rocket.
‘Careful! Careful there!’
They held up blueprints and wielded hammers and pries and levers. The
psychiatrist supervised. ‘This way! Crate 75? Here. Box 067?
Here!
That’s it. Open ’er up. Tab A into Slot B. Tab B into Slot C. Right, fine,
good
!’
They put it all up before dawn. In eight hours they assembled the miracles
out of boxes and crates. They took away the serpentines, wax papers, cardboards, brushed and
dusted every part and portion of the whole. When the time came, the men of the First Rocket
stood on the outer rim of the miracle, gazed in at it, incredulous and awed.
‘Ready, Captain?’
‘I’ll be damned! Yes!’
‘Throw the switch.’
The captain threw the switch.
The little town lit up.
‘Good Lord!’ said the captain.
He walked into the single main street of the town.
It was a street of no more than six buildings on a side, false fronts, strung
with bright red, yellow, green lights. Music played from a half-dozen hidden jukeboxes,
somewhere. Doors slammed. A man in a white smock emerged from a barbershop, blue shears and a
black comb in hand. A peppermint-stick pole rotated slowly behind him. Next was a drugstore, a
magazine rack out front, newspapers fluttering in the wind, a fan turning in the ceiling, thesnakelike hiss of soda water sounding inside. As they passed
the door they looked in. A girl smiled there, a crisp green starched cap on her head.
A pool hall, with green tables, like jungle glades, soft, inviting. Billiard
balls, multicolored, triangled, waiting. Across the street, a church, with candied-root-beer,
strawberry, lemon-glass windows. A man there, too, in dark suit, white collar. Next to that, a
library. Next to that, a hotel. SOFT BEDS. FIRST NIGHT FREE.
AIR-CONDITIONING . A clerk behind a desk with his hand on a silver bell. But the place
they were going to, that drew them like the smell of water draws cattle across a dusty prairie,
was the building at the head of the street.
THE MILLED BUCK SALOON.
A man with greased, curled hair, his shirtsleeves gartered with red elastic
above his hairy elbows, leaned against a post there. He vanished behind swinging doors. When
they hit the swinging doors, he was polishing the bar and tipping rye into thirty glasses all
lined up glittering on the beautiful long bar. A crystal chandelier blazed warmly overhead.
There was a stairway leading up and a number of doors above, on a balcony, and the faintest
smell of perfume.
They all went to the bar. They were quiet. They took up the rye and drank it
straight down, not wiping their mouths. Their eyes stung.
The captain said, in a whisper, to the psychiatrist, standing by the door,
‘Good God! The expense!’
‘Film sets, knockdowns, collapsibles. A
real minister next door in the church of course. Three real barbers. A piano player.’
The man at the yellow-toothed piano began to play ‘St. Louis Woman with Your
Diamond Rings.’
‘A druggist, two fountain girls, a pool-hall proprietor, shoeshine boy, rack
boy, two librarians, odds and ends, workmen, electricians, et cetera.
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