Read Online When They Come from Space by Mark Clifton - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Clifton
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three times before he could light a nonchalant cigarette. The cameraman must have been assigned an acting part, also, because he was having trouble keeping the news desk and fax machine in focus.
The fax machine was still. And that stillness was even more compelling than its frantic activity had been.
"They've put a good director on this production,” I said, still aloud. “A cheap one would be emoting all over the place.” I paused. “I think I'll watch it,” I said. “It might turn into a pretty good show after all."
And felt a renewal of my astonishment that I didn't believe it was a staged production, in spite of my spoken words. Perhaps it was the tenseness in the atmosphere. The air was heavy, stifling. I got up out of my chair and walked across the room to open the French windows which let out upon a private balcony. There were no street noises. In this neighborhood it was always quiet, subdued in the genteel manner; but there was always that distant throb of a city inhabited by people who were more than one quarter alive. Now there seemed to be a sound vacuum.
I walked back and sat down again before the television screen, which lit up half of one wall in the room.
As if from force of habit, the commentator picked up a sheet of his script, always at hand in case the Idiot's Reminder broke down. He looked at it with an air of wonderment, then he raised his eyes to the camera again.
"Well,” he said simply. “I guess we'll just have to wait this out together."
I caught myself nodding in agreement.
"Good work,” I said approvingly. “Damn good work.” But somehow, now, my persistence in regarding it as fiction seemed the tawdry unreality, instead of, as usual, the production.
We waited it out together.
I caught myself wondering if I shouldn't be trying to get down to my office at the Pentagon, and checking the impulse with asking what I would do after I got there. If this did prove fiction, that kind of response could make any official a laughingstock. If it were not fiction...
I swallowed.
I looked at the commentator again. He was still sitting. He shrugged. He looked down at his script. He looked up again. He flicked the script he had been reading before the announcement.
"Seems silly to go on with this drivel, now,” he said.
I think that blasphemous statement convinced me more than anything else. That, and nothing happening. For the first law of entertainment is that something must be happening every minute, every second. There must be no silence, no ghastly pause.
Outside, another siren began to take up the wail, up and down, up and down in its modulations—as if, somehow, to make up for the silence on the screen; somehow to carry on the national mania, that none be subjected to silence and stillness, ever, lest he begin, once more, to think.
The fax machine started to chatter again. Now the commentator was able to read the message as it appeared. His voice was clear but tense.
"Bulletin ... London ... Unknown projectiles in large numbers are approaching up the Thames from the Channel Coast....
"Bulletin ... Tokyo ... Missiles maneuvering at high altitudes near Yokohama...
"Bulletin ... Moscow ... Anti-missile missiles released against enemy projectiles ... last warning to United States ... call off attack ... or we will press button....
"Bulletin ... Omaha ... last warning to Russia ... call off attack or we will press button..."
The machine stopped.
The commentator stared at it, uncomprehending.
"You can't stop there,” he said aloud to the machine.
Clearly this was too much. He looked off-stage, as if appealing to the director for assistance; and the shrug he gave must have been a repetition of the shrug he received.
Once again the fax machine chattered out a message. A very brief message.
"Projectiles now over Washington."
I stood up, uncertain, dazed, pondering the habit of getting my information from the screen versus going to see for myself. As if coming out of sleep I
The fax machine was still. And that stillness was even more compelling than its frantic activity had been.
"They've put a good director on this production,” I said, still aloud. “A cheap one would be emoting all over the place.” I paused. “I think I'll watch it,” I said. “It might turn into a pretty good show after all."
And felt a renewal of my astonishment that I didn't believe it was a staged production, in spite of my spoken words. Perhaps it was the tenseness in the atmosphere. The air was heavy, stifling. I got up out of my chair and walked across the room to open the French windows which let out upon a private balcony. There were no street noises. In this neighborhood it was always quiet, subdued in the genteel manner; but there was always that distant throb of a city inhabited by people who were more than one quarter alive. Now there seemed to be a sound vacuum.
I walked back and sat down again before the television screen, which lit up half of one wall in the room.
As if from force of habit, the commentator picked up a sheet of his script, always at hand in case the Idiot's Reminder broke down. He looked at it with an air of wonderment, then he raised his eyes to the camera again.
"Well,” he said simply. “I guess we'll just have to wait this out together."
I caught myself nodding in agreement.
"Good work,” I said approvingly. “Damn good work.” But somehow, now, my persistence in regarding it as fiction seemed the tawdry unreality, instead of, as usual, the production.
We waited it out together.
I caught myself wondering if I shouldn't be trying to get down to my office at the Pentagon, and checking the impulse with asking what I would do after I got there. If this did prove fiction, that kind of response could make any official a laughingstock. If it were not fiction...
I swallowed.
I looked at the commentator again. He was still sitting. He shrugged. He looked down at his script. He looked up again. He flicked the script he had been reading before the announcement.
"Seems silly to go on with this drivel, now,” he said.
I think that blasphemous statement convinced me more than anything else. That, and nothing happening. For the first law of entertainment is that something must be happening every minute, every second. There must be no silence, no ghastly pause.
Outside, another siren began to take up the wail, up and down, up and down in its modulations—as if, somehow, to make up for the silence on the screen; somehow to carry on the national mania, that none be subjected to silence and stillness, ever, lest he begin, once more, to think.
The fax machine started to chatter again. Now the commentator was able to read the message as it appeared. His voice was clear but tense.
"Bulletin ... London ... Unknown projectiles in large numbers are approaching up the Thames from the Channel Coast....
"Bulletin ... Tokyo ... Missiles maneuvering at high altitudes near Yokohama...
"Bulletin ... Moscow ... Anti-missile missiles released against enemy projectiles ... last warning to United States ... call off attack ... or we will press button....
"Bulletin ... Omaha ... last warning to Russia ... call off attack or we will press button..."
The machine stopped.
The commentator stared at it, uncomprehending.
"You can't stop there,” he said aloud to the machine.
Clearly this was too much. He looked off-stage, as if appealing to the director for assistance; and the shrug he gave must have been a repetition of the shrug he received.
Once again the fax machine chattered out a message. A very brief message.
"Projectiles now over Washington."
I stood up, uncertain, dazed, pondering the habit of getting my information from the screen versus going to see for myself. As if coming out of sleep I
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