Ben Bova: Gremlins, Go Home!

“More likely another sample of gremlin magic, I’d say,” Mr. Sheperton grumbled. “They’ll help you all they can… as long as you’re doing what they want. What they’re really doing, of course, is helping you to become as tricky and thieving as they are themselves.”

“Aw, come on Shep…”

The dog growled.

“Uh, Mr. Sheperton. All we have to do is find the right transistors and a little bit of wire. The store’ll never miss what we take.”

“But this is only the first step, Rolf. The gremlins won’t let you stop at this. Once you’ve started working for them, once you’ve allowed them to bewitch you with their promises, you’ll be hooked. They’ll always promise more than they give, and they’ll ask you to do bigger, riskier, more rascally tasks for them. In the end, they’ll have everything they want, and you’ll be behind bars. Or worse. I remember the case of one man, a young violinist…”

Rolf shook his head. “Never mind. I’ve got to find what we need.”

He took the folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and tried to read O’Rigami’s careful printing. It was too dark to see much, but somehow the paper seemed to be much longer than it had been when he first took it.

“Better not show a light this close to the windows,” Rolf said, more to himself than Mr. Sheperton.

So he made his way slowly down the store’s main aisle, going by feel and memory more than sight. After a few bumps, he ducked behind the big counter where the cash register was. Squatting down on his heels, Rolf took his penlight from his pants pocket and clicked it on.

O’Rigami’s list did indeed look a lot longer than he had remembered it. The green letters shimmered as the tiny light shone on them, and Rolf blinked in astonishment as three new items wrote themselves in at the bottom of the list.

Taking a big breath, like a man about to plunge off a high diving board, Rolf got to his feet and started hunting through the store’s bins and drawers for the items O’Rigami needed.

It took a long time. Rolf had to work in the dark, risking the penlight only in quick flashes to read the labels on the storage bins and the boxes lined up on the shelves. And the gremlins’ list seemed to grow longer every time he looked at it.

Slowly a tiny pile of transistors, connectors, wire, and other items—including a green felt-tip pen, of all things—grew on the top of the back counter, next to the cash register.

Rolf was putting two more transistors on the counter. They were as tiny as fleas. Mr. Sheperton growled, “Stand still!”

Rolf froze.

The dog seemed to be sniffing the air. Then he said, “Keep your light off and get behind the counter. Quickly!”

No sooner had Rolf ducked behind it than a beam of light swept across the store. Peeking around the side of the counter, Rolf could see that a police car had nosed up to the curb and its headlights were shining right into the windows and door.

The door! Rolf felt his nerves jolting with electricity as he remembered that the door was unlocked. What can 1 do? Maybe the back door…

A policeman was already out of the car and heading for the door. Rolf didn’t dare move; he couldn’t even breathe. The officer walked slowly toward the unlocked door, glanced up at the still-dark street lamp, reached out and tried the door.

It stayed shut. He pushed on it, rattled it a few times, then turned back toward the car.

“It’s okay,” Rolf heard his muffled calling to the other policeman in the car. “Locked up tight. Better call the utility company and tell ’em they’ve got a bum light here.”

“Not now!” his partner yelled back. “The radio’s going nuts. All the burglar alarms in the shopping center across town have gone off at once. We’ve gotta get there and find out what’s going on.”

The policeman jumped into the car. Before he could shut the door, his partner had put the car into reverse and backed away from the curb. They swung down the street with their red gumball light flashing.

Darkness returned to the hardware store. Slowly, Rolf stood up. His legs ached with nervous cramps. He was shivering and drenched with a cold sweat.

Mr. Sheperton got up too, and leaned his forepaws on the counter top. He huffed at the scattered pile of electronics components. “Quite a scare for a measly ten dollars worth of trinkets.”

Rolf looked at the pile. Mr. Sheperton was right. All the junk on the table wouldn’t cost much more than ten dollars.

He suddenly patted the dog’s floppy-eared, furry head. “Come on Sh… Mr. Sheperton. Let’s get out of here.”

“And leave your booty?”

“We’ll get it tomorrow morning. Legally. After the bank opens and I can raid my savings account. I didn’t realize these things would be so cheap.”

Sure enough, when Rolf tried the front door it was unlocked again. And as he and Mr. Sheperton trotted down the street toward home, the street lamp in front of the store turned on brightly.

Breakfast was about the only time that Rolf ever saw his father anymore. Tom Gunnarson had never been a loud, jovial man. But these days he was uptight, wound up, and hardly said a word to anyone as Mrs. Gunnarson put bowls of cereal on the table for her two men.

“How’s the countdown going, Dad?” Rolf asked.

“Huh?” Tom Gunnarson seemed deep in private thought. He looked up at his son. “Oh, the countdown. Fine, right on schedule. Everything’s working just right. No hitches at all. No gremlins anywhere.”

Rolf nearly choked on a spoonful of cereal.

“G… gremlins?” he coughed.

“Mythical creatures,” Mr. Gunnarson explained absently. “Whenever something goes wrong with a piece of machinery, the technicians say that gremlins have gotten into it. Gremlins get blamed for anything that goes wrong—they’re supposed to be full of mischief. No such thing as gremlins, actually, of course.”

Swallowing hard, Rolf stayed silent.

“No,” his father went on, thoughtfully. “The countdown’s been remarkably free of gremlins. Everything’s going so smoothly that it’s kind of spooky. Which reminds me—I may have a happy surprise for all of us, to announce to you in a day or two.”

“If it’s all going so smoothly, why can’t you spend more time at home, then?” Rolf blurted.

“Rolf!” his mother snapped. “Don’t be fresh. You know your father would be home if he could be. The launch…”

But Tom Gunnarson put a lean, strong hand on his wife’s arm. “Actually, Rolf,” he said, “it wasn’t the launch itself that kept me busy last night.” His voice sounded slightly blurred, tired. “We had a long session with the security people…”

“Security?” Rolf squeaked. His heart gave a thump inside him.

“Yes. Somebody’s been sneaking boatloads of tourists into the cleared area around Playalinda Beach. That’s not really very dangerous right now, but the security people are getting very upset about it. That area has to be cleared before we can launch, and if some thieving boat captain is taking advantage of the tourists and holds up our launch…” Rolf’s father clenched his fist tightly enough to bend metal. Fortunately he wasn’t holding his spoon at that moment.

They finished breakfast in silence. Almost. The baby began crying as Rolf spooned the last of his milk-softened cereal flakes. Mrs. Gunnarson got up quickly and headed for the nursery. Used to be my playroom, Rolf couldn’t help reminding himself.

His father got up a moment later. “See you later, son.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Tom Gunnarson called to his wife from the front door. She called back from the nursery, told him to try to get home early enough for a good night’s rest. Then he was gone. Rolf sat in the kitchen. Alone, he thought, again. He pushed his chair back from the table and, without a word to his mother, went out the back door.