Damon Knight - Orbit 17

The chief, whose name was Sam Peck, was referring to the 130-foot-high dinosaur that at the moment was standing in the middle of the roller coaster in an amusement park—Bert’s Funland—on the outskirts of Des Moines.

Peck’s comment was addressed to no one in particular, although there were at the moment several thousand persons gazing up at the dinosaur along with him. Peck knew it was a dinosaur, because he remembered it was a dinosaur that used to be on all the Sinclair signs. Peck was disturbed by the presence of the dinosaur. He was also disturbed by the fact that he didn’t remember exactly that a Bert’s Funland was located on any of Des Moines’ outskirts, and police chiefs should know things like that. The dinosaur, which was absently chewing on a cotton candy stand, inarguably looked faky. There was an obvious puckery seam running down his front, and his head appeared to be supported by a black string that went up into the air above Bert’s Funland and then sort of . . . well, disappeared. The dinosaur shifted around, in a very faky kind of jerky way, and Chief Peck involuntarily—along with a lot of other people—said “Aw, come on” right out loud. The dinosaur was wearing tennis shoes.

“About 345 quintuple E’s, I’d say,” said a fellow who was standing beside Chief Peck. “Sell them, shoes,” said the fellow. Peck glared at him.

Peck decided that a 130-foot dinosaur probably constituted a hazard of some sort, even if at the moment it was only eating a cotton candy stand. He got back into the cop car and picked up his radio microphone. “Jesus,” he said to himself. “I hate days that start off like this.”

Chief Peck did just about the only thing he could under the circumstances. He called the National Guard. He regretted it almost the minute he did, but it just seemed to be the thing to do. If you have a dinosaur in the roller coaster of an amusement park, even if the amusement park shouldn’t be there to begin with, calling the National Guard seems to be the thing to do. Peck thought calling the National Guard seemed pretty dumb, actually.

Peck watched the dinosaur wander around Bert’s Funland while he waited for the National Guard to arrive. The dinosaur’s left rear tennis shoe had its lace untied, and the chief wondered if the dinosaur would trip over it. The dinosaur began to eat the Barrel O’ Fun ride. A reporter ran up to Chief Peck and shoved a microphone under his nose. “Chief Peck!” said the reporter, very excited. “What do you think Rathmar’s next move will be?”

“Well, I guess that after he finishes the Barrel O’ Fun ride he’ll start in on the Tilt-A-Whirl. But since ... Rathmar? Who’s Rathmar?”

“The dinosaur.”

“Did he say his name was Rathmar?”

“No. But everybody’s calling him Rathmar.”

“That’s as good as anything, I guess,” said Sam.

“Are you going to give the order to evacuate the city, chief?”

“Hey, when you’ve lived in Des Moines long enough, you don’t need orders to want to leave.

“That was a joke,” said the chief. The reporter left. The chief noticed that Rathmar, the dinosaur, was indeed beginning to eat the Tilt-A-Whirl. He thought of yelling after the smart-ass reporter to tell him, but thought better of it. About that time the National Guard arrived. There were flatbed trucks carrying several sophisticated-looking missiles, several troop carriers with about two hundred soldiers bearing M-16 rifles equipped with snooperscopes* for shooting in the dark. The commander of the National Guard arrived in his staff car. Chief Peck, from his years of experience in identifying motor vehicles, pegged the staff car as a ’53 Ford, painted olive drab.

*A terrific word, and lots of fun to type.

The National Guard commander ran up and said, “What’s going on here, chief?”

“What are you doing running around in that thing?” said Sam, staring at the Ford. The NG commander looked around.

“You know, that’s right,” he said. “That’s not the car I left Council Bluffs in. It was a black ’72 Coronet. I’m sure of it.” The National Guardsmen had surrounded Rathmar and were pouring furious fire into him—M-16’s, grenade launchers, missiles, howitzers—as the commander walked around the ’53 Ford, utterly mystified.

“Not only that,” said Chief Peck to the NG commander, “you look like Gerald Mohr.”

“You should talk,” said the NG commander testily, shouting over the barrage, “you’re looking more and more like Peter Graves every minute.”

Chief Peck sat in the front seat of his cop car and turned the rearview mirror around. He did look a lot like Peter Graves, and he hadn’t looked a thing like Peter Graves when he shaved that morning.

The NG commander yelled in the other window. “Nothing can stop it! Bullets, artillery, napalm, nothing! It’s as if it were surrounded by an invisible magnetic force field!”

“Shut up,” said Chief Peck. “Can’t you see I’m beginning to look like Peter Graves? ”

Shortly the National Guardsmen had exhausted all their ammunition, missiles, etc. They milled about sullenly among the spent cartridges and discarded Big Jack Cola cups, complaining that the Packers game was going to be on any minute. Rathmar was starting in on the Ring Toss concession.

Chief Peck sat in the front seat of the ’53 Ford with the NG commander, who was idly poking at the Day-Glo foam dice that were hanging from the rearview mirror.

“It’s licked us,” said the NG commander. Chief Peck, who by then was at least a little reconciled to looking like Peter Graves, said: “Yeah, and you’ve totaled Bert’s Funland too. Bert’s really going to be hacked, if there is a Bert. Did I tell you Bert’s Funland wasn’t there this morning?”

“Another clue!” said the NG commander. “That settles it. We need expert help.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Peck and the NG commander were too embarrassed to look at each other. “You were going to suggest that we call for Dr. Thayer Braddock, the brilliant astrophysicist at Central Polytechnic in Ames, weren’t you?” said the NG commander.

“Yes,” said Peck, “except that Central Polytechnic isn’t in Ames. In fact, I don’t think it’s anywhere. I don’t think there is a Central Polytechnic, and I’ll bet there isn’t a Dr. Thayer Braddock either.”

The NG commander looked smug. The squawk box in Chief Peck’s nearby cop car spoke up. “Chief, your call to Dr. Braddock in Ames is ready.”

The NG commander was trying not to smile.

“How’d you like to leave town by United Parcel?” said Sam.

The Army helicopter snicked down on the Bert’s Funland parking lot and Dr. Thayer Braddock got out.

“My God,” said Chief Peck. “It’s a woman.”

“I heard that,” said Dr. Braddock.

“I mean, with a name like Thayer—”

“And when you found out it was a woman, right away you stopped thinking ‘scientist’ and started thinking ‘a piece of ass.’ Sexist bastard. My accomplishments as a semanticist mean nothing to—”

“Actually,” said Chief Peck (who had indeed started thinking “a piece of ass”), “I find it a little difficult to take you seriously when you’re dressed like that.”

Dr. Braddock was dressed in a grey shirtwaist tightly cinched by a wide patent-leather belt at the waist, from which her skirt shot outward at a forty-five-degree angle from all the crinoline petticoats. There was a pink felt poodle stitched to the skirt. She had on brown penny loafers, with dimes in the slots, and a fake fur collar and a high-school ring on a chain around her neck. Her hair was in a ponytail. She wore about a quarter-inch of candyapple-red lipstick.