Read Online The Reproductive System (Gollancz SF Library) by John Sladek - Free Book Online
Authors: John Sladek
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stared at the sign as he babbled on. It said, ‘ LOOKING FOR TOOLS ?’ The pupils of LOOK’S eyes were looking at the blank eyes of TOOLS . ‘ SEE OUR SAWS ’.
‘It’s the end ! Ruint ! Nails, saws, chains, everything gone with the w—’
‘The end? It is, is it? Is that any way to talk, Milo? I’ll admit it looks bad right now, but we haven’t got the big picture, have we? I mean, we have to
fight
this thing—or these things—not just lay around crying. We have got to—’
But Milo was not listening; he lay back and resumed crying. ‘Nails, screws, bolts, saws, keys, hammers, tongs, axes, files, rifles, knives, hooks, shotguns, pistols, axes, guns, knives, bombs, daggers, death …’
‘There now,’ said Beele, edging out the door. ‘Hang on. I’m sure help is on the way.’
The problem, he reflected, was an interesting one. No one knew what to call the invader(s). He would be able to make up a name for them, perhaps add a word to the language. Say,
Uncrobs
(Unidentified Creeping or Crawling Objects).
He filed it way along with the news story about Milo.
HARDWARE STORE
—
Greedy gadget bites nails, chisels
Before him a little girl sat on the sidewalk, weeping. A naughty dog, she told him, had bit her where she sat down. Moreover she had lost her baby—her 7-transistor radio-doll, that is—to a great big giant. Beele told her not to cry, and that he was sure help was on the way.
He hurried on towards the office. This would be the biggest news story ever, anywhere.
THE BOXES THAT ATE ALTOONA
—
Even the rivets of a child’s blue jeans!
A sort of typewriter passed him. It had been broken and distorted, but he could still see the name L. C. Smith on the back plate. Beele swore and broke into a run. A case of type, now became something else, waddled out of his office, brushing him aside at the door, and made its majestic way down the street.
As he entered, Beele seemed to hear the hand-press calling for help. He flung open the door of the press room and rushed in, but too late ! The press was already taking on a familiar boxy shape. As he neared it, it gave a final clank, lurched to the window, and fell through into the street. A burglar alarm went off, but was strangled at once.
PAPER RAPED !
The office was stripped clean. How ironic it was, he thought. Unwittingly the machine invaders had destroyed the only means to their justly-deserved fame. Or had they? He rushed out again.
It was after dark by the time he reached a phone booth on the highway that worked. After breaking it open for a dime, he tried to call the wire services. Each time he would get connected, and say, ‘I’m from Altoo—’, the connection would break and his
dime rattle back down. He was beginning to wonder whether he hadn’t ruined the mechanism somehow, when a highway patrol car stopped. The men in it were not highway patrolmen.
They forced open the door of the phone booth and dragged him forth.
‘Sorry to be rough with you, sir,’ said one, tipping his snap-brim hat. ‘But our nation’s security is at stake. You’re Beele, of Altoona? The editor?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘We’ve got express orders to keep this particular story quiet, Beele. I’m afraid we’ll have to either take you into custody or—’
‘Go ahead, kill me !’ he said. He, Barthemo Beele, hard-hitting young editor, was weeping. ‘I have nothing to live for, now. I’ve lost my press, type fount, wife, typewriter, everything ! Go ahead, paid assassins, hirelings of the do-nothing bureaucracy ! Kill me ! You’ve already killed the only thing that meant anything to me—my story !’
‘I was going to say, we’ll either have to take you into custody or swear you in as an agent. We often do that with newsmen, then send them off on foreign assignments. Of course we’ll have to investigate your background thoroughly—that’ll take an hour or so. What do you say? Would you like to go to Morocco?’
An agent of the CIA ! Beele
‘It’s the end ! Ruint ! Nails, saws, chains, everything gone with the w—’
‘The end? It is, is it? Is that any way to talk, Milo? I’ll admit it looks bad right now, but we haven’t got the big picture, have we? I mean, we have to
fight
this thing—or these things—not just lay around crying. We have got to—’
But Milo was not listening; he lay back and resumed crying. ‘Nails, screws, bolts, saws, keys, hammers, tongs, axes, files, rifles, knives, hooks, shotguns, pistols, axes, guns, knives, bombs, daggers, death …’
‘There now,’ said Beele, edging out the door. ‘Hang on. I’m sure help is on the way.’
The problem, he reflected, was an interesting one. No one knew what to call the invader(s). He would be able to make up a name for them, perhaps add a word to the language. Say,
Uncrobs
(Unidentified Creeping or Crawling Objects).
He filed it way along with the news story about Milo.
HARDWARE STORE
—
Greedy gadget bites nails, chisels
Before him a little girl sat on the sidewalk, weeping. A naughty dog, she told him, had bit her where she sat down. Moreover she had lost her baby—her 7-transistor radio-doll, that is—to a great big giant. Beele told her not to cry, and that he was sure help was on the way.
He hurried on towards the office. This would be the biggest news story ever, anywhere.
THE BOXES THAT ATE ALTOONA
—
Even the rivets of a child’s blue jeans!
A sort of typewriter passed him. It had been broken and distorted, but he could still see the name L. C. Smith on the back plate. Beele swore and broke into a run. A case of type, now became something else, waddled out of his office, brushing him aside at the door, and made its majestic way down the street.
As he entered, Beele seemed to hear the hand-press calling for help. He flung open the door of the press room and rushed in, but too late ! The press was already taking on a familiar boxy shape. As he neared it, it gave a final clank, lurched to the window, and fell through into the street. A burglar alarm went off, but was strangled at once.
PAPER RAPED !
The office was stripped clean. How ironic it was, he thought. Unwittingly the machine invaders had destroyed the only means to their justly-deserved fame. Or had they? He rushed out again.
It was after dark by the time he reached a phone booth on the highway that worked. After breaking it open for a dime, he tried to call the wire services. Each time he would get connected, and say, ‘I’m from Altoo—’, the connection would break and his
dime rattle back down. He was beginning to wonder whether he hadn’t ruined the mechanism somehow, when a highway patrol car stopped. The men in it were not highway patrolmen.
They forced open the door of the phone booth and dragged him forth.
‘Sorry to be rough with you, sir,’ said one, tipping his snap-brim hat. ‘But our nation’s security is at stake. You’re Beele, of Altoona? The editor?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘We’ve got express orders to keep this particular story quiet, Beele. I’m afraid we’ll have to either take you into custody or—’
‘Go ahead, kill me !’ he said. He, Barthemo Beele, hard-hitting young editor, was weeping. ‘I have nothing to live for, now. I’ve lost my press, type fount, wife, typewriter, everything ! Go ahead, paid assassins, hirelings of the do-nothing bureaucracy ! Kill me ! You’ve already killed the only thing that meant anything to me—my story !’
‘I was going to say, we’ll either have to take you into custody or swear you in as an agent. We often do that with newsmen, then send them off on foreign assignments. Of course we’ll have to investigate your background thoroughly—that’ll take an hour or so. What do you say? Would you like to go to Morocco?’
An agent of the CIA ! Beele
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