Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

They talked about hair, of course. They did not say that he looked like Jesus. Steve thought that this in itself was worthy of being recorded in his notebook. A Gremmager laughed delightedly. Another suggested that Steve was really the Apostle Paul: he had finished the First Corinthians, and the Second, and now he was working on the Honorable Mention Corinthians. Everyone laughed; Steve laughed too, that poor, dead dear.

When the cheeseburgers came the locals were still talking about hair. Steve was interested in the Gremmagers’ point of view.

“I’ve never really had it explained so clearly,” he said. “I never understood the objection to long hair before. But I can sympathize with your point.” The Gremmagers smiled to each other.

If you squint just right, you can see the entire population of Gremmage crowded together on the sidewalk in front of the diner.

“You are right,” said Steve, “on some people long hair looks horrible. But I always thought it filled out my thin face.”

The diner is empty except for the group of Gremmagers that came in with Steve. The waitresses and the kitchen help have all gone outside to join the others on the sidewalk.

“I wish I could get this hair cut right now. I don’t know how I ever thought it was decent for a grown man to wear it like this. I look like a damn faggot. Right after lunch you’ll have to show me the barber shop.”

The Gremmagers laughed. “No need to wait, if you don’t want to,” one of them said. “Matt here’s a barber. Do it for you right here.”

“Oh yes, please! Cut it off already; God, I hate it!”

You can look around, there’s about twenty minutes now, nothing much happening except the haircut. The Gremmagers inside the diner and the Gremmagers outside slap each other’s backs and laugh a lot. At last Steve’s hair is tastefully short. With his beard he looks like D. H. Lawrence.

“You gonna keep the chin feathers, son?”

“Maybe you could trim the beard a little, neaten it up.”

“You’re gonna look like some regular professor or something.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Take it off.”

“Hey, Don, I think it’s time for the sign.”

The Gremmagers were cheering. They cheered each other, they congratulated Steve. They gave him a new suit and a ten-dollar bill. Someone flipped a switch and a neon sign lit up above a dingy door at the back of the diner: A High-Pay, Fascinating Career Is Waiting For You In The Exciting, Wide-Open Field OF COMPUTER PROGRAMMING!!! Steve grabbed the doorknob. He turned back to the Gremmagers and smiled shyly. He never could take care of himself. As the town of Gremmage applauded he opened the door and went through.

DAVID: Good evening. David Dahlstrom here—on the air—around the world. My guest today—noted British psychiatrist, self-styled TVologist, and author of the recent best seller Big Eye, Dr. Bernice F. Trainner. half turn, look at guest. Hello, Dr. Trainner.

GUEST: Hello, David, smile. So nice of you to have me in.

DAVID: My pleasure, return smile. Tell me, Dr. Trainner—

GUEST: shake head. Please. Call me Bernice.

DAVID: nod. Thank you. Tell me, Bernice, exactly what do you mean here in your book open book when you say read from book “television dangerously altered our perception of the world around us”? close book.

GUEST: Quite simple, David, turn slowly, face camera. Television appeared to depict the real world. When, in fact, it never came anywhere near doing so.

DAVID: Look puzzled. It didn’t?” Tilt head to one side. How do you mean that?

GUEST: Well, for instance. Take your typical television series. The quote good-guy-hero-what-have-you unquote never lost. He was always a winner. Now how realistic was that? For some guy to always come out on top every ti . . . fade out picture, long, slow fade on sound, fade-in scene two and establish, open on wide-angle shot, interior of bombed-out television studio, pan around, two light bulbs hang from ceiling, video tape scattered all over, broken props everywhere, mobile, gas-powered generator parked against back wall, grubby, unshaven boy sits at desk, filthy girl in raggy clothes points television camera at him. girl pushes button, boy’s face appears on television monitor in studio corner. boy sees himself, breaks into grin, fade-in sound.

“It works! Goddamn, it works! I’m on the air! Hot shit! Keep the camera on me, and do what I tell you. Ready? Let’s go. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Creighton Moore here with the evening news. Brought to you tonight by Tone Tine, the world’s finest sonic toothbrush. Bad breath turning your honey off in those close-up clinches? Use Tone Tine. Kill bad breath germs supersonically. Push the camera in. Closer. Come in right on my upper molar. Yeah, that’s right. Use Tone Tine to be sure. And now for the news, Okay, Melissa, that’s enough. Cut it off.”

The girl pushes a button, and a video-tape recorder next to her slows to a gentle stop. Scotty, the boy, comes out from behind the desk trailing a microphone cord behind him.

“Goddamn,” he says, “I was really on. Play it back so I can see it.”

Melissa pushes the rewind button, lets the tape spin back for a few moments, stops it, then pushes the button marked play.

“. . . Keep the camera on me and do what I tell you. Ready, Let’s go. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Creighton Moore here with . . .”

“Great. Cut it off.”

Melissa pushes the stop button, and Scotty’s face freezes in midsentence on the screen. She pushes the off button, and his face disappears.

“Damn, that’s exciting. Aren’t you excited, honey? Do you know what this means? Do you? Do you understand, sweetheart?”

Melissa looks at him quizzically, thinks for a moment, and finally shakes her head quickly.

Scotty smiles at her. She’s gotten worse in the past few months. Lately he has to explain things to her several times before she understands them. But she’ll be improving now. The TV will help her. Help her get smarter. Help her get better. More like she’d been. Before.

He looks at her tenderly, runs his hands over her cheek, down her side and over her young breasts, and explains to her again the significance of their achievement.

“Remember when we found this place?”

Melissa nods.

“And how much you enjoyed it when I figured out how to play all those video tapes we found? The ones with those great TV shows on them?”

Melissa grins happily and nods again.

“And remember how sad you were that day after the big cloud blew over. The day when we came down here to play a tape and found there wasn’t anything on any of them anymore?”

Melissa’s face reflects her sorrow. She drops her head and raises it again. Slowly. Down. Up.

“Well, you’re gonna be able to watch TV shows again. Because now we can make our own. Exactly the same as the old ones. You wait. You won’t hardly be able to tell the difference. I know. It’ll be just like it was before. See if it’s not. We’ll be able to watch anything we want. Better yet, we’ll be in the programs, too. Won’t that be super? We can be anything we want. You can be a dancer. A singer. Anything at all. As pretty and as smart as any girl who’s ever been on television before. Won’t you like that?”

Melissa’s face brightens. She smiles the silly, sweet smile that Scotty so loves. And she nods her head. Of course, she doesn’t say anything. She can’t. Ever since the lump under her chin started swelling, four or five months ago, she hasn’t been able to make a sound. No words. No laughter. No grunts. Not even a sigh or a whimper. But it doesn’t matter. Not to them. Scotty can understand her. As now. As she comes to him. Hugs him to her. Tightly. Pulling him down. Down and over. Down and over and on...