David Ohle - Motorman

Seven oval spheres in Scorpio according to the charts, probable deadly Friday, chance of a two-Tuesday mock week, brackish drizzles in the midlands, lozenges melting in the drugstores . . "I'm sunk, Moldenke. It doesn't jell."

"I'll take you to Burnheart's. We shouldn't be piddling if he's sending a man out."

"I don't know where the words came from, Moldenke."

"Ignore it, ignore Bunce. Come south with me."

The lights went out. The embers of the fire allowed a dome of glow, covering Moldenke. Shelp lay in the dark.

"As I said before, Shelp. Let's go south."

"No, Moldenke. I shouldn't. Someone has to stay behind and do the weather as long as the microphone is on."

"Shelp, the microphone is on?" He whispered.

"It is if the pilot light is lit." The pilot light was lit.

"Burnheart wasn't wrong. He has flaws." He whispered, "Shelp, is that microphone connected up with all the radios? Is it live, is it that live?"

"I would assume so, why?"

"Shelp!" He was too loud. He whispered again, palming the microphone. "Shelp, I'll say a few words to the folks."

Shelp went to the lookout and listened to the weather. Moldenke approached the microphone.

47

Moldenke had been shrimping in a water tub when Eagleman's moon came down. It first fell twenty degrees of altitude and stopped, vibrated, dimmed, and returned to its original spot. Someone told Moldenke that it had been a seasonal drop, something of stellar influences, nothing to be excited about. He threw the shrimp net again, drew it in empty. Someone said, "No shrimping in the water tubs."

The moon grew suddenly bright, fell to the horizon, held there like a baseball in the mud, and gradually went out.

Moldenke raised the wick of his k-lamp.

48

"Folks, please pay attention to this announcement. This is not a weather report." He imagined his voice echoing in stadiums, in dark rooms, interrupting jellyhead workers. "My friend here is Shelp. My name is Moldenke, out of Texaco City. It's time we ended our backward ways. Don't be pinned like a flutterby in a camphor box. Get up, go out and mill in the street. What can they do, occupy the rooms? Everybody turn on the faucets. Open the lookouts and turn on the heaters. Heat the city. Protcher a friend in a tender place. Be good. Be sensitive to the flow, listen to the hum. As I said, this is not a weather report. This is Moldenke of Texaco City. Bloodboy, mock soldier, banana man, shrimper — I've done my share of swallowing chuff." Shelp turned from the lookout.

"You're doing good, Dink. Don't get excited, though."

"Turn the volume up, folks. The weather is improving in spurts. Remember the old sun? The old moon? The old songs we used to sing about them? The government sent Eagleman and his moon to wane in the country, sent up its own moons. Up they went, a new mock moon every paper month, confusing the issue of tides. At least with Eagleman's moon we could get to see a sky movie every month. Now, what now? The g-boys give us gauze and goggles, encouraging indoor play. They send out a herd of jellyheads to do the mock work and the rest of us hole up in our rooms."

"Ease off, Moldenke. You're getting me excited. My hearts. . one of them quit on me yesterday."

Moldenke switched off the microphone. The lights flickered and went on. The gauges came to life, gave false readings.

"Shelp, you have hearts?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Eleven."

"What kind?"

"Sheep and dog alternating, and one calf." He opened his khaki and Moldenke saw the scar, the chest heaving, rippling, ticking. Moldenke went close and protchered a soft wattle under Shelp's chin. "I like you, Shelp. Let's go south. No more time games. He's sending a man out."

"I can't, Moldenke. When one of them goes — "

"I know. All of them go. I know. But you've got ten more. We can make it to Burnheart in time for a heart fix. Pack a few things. Bring cigars."

"No, I wouldn't make it." He gave Moldenke a key. "Here, take my k-motor. The tire is low but it runs. It might get you there. Trust me, Moldenke. Get on it. I'll see you after the flood maybe, depending on the hearts. The calf heart is a good one. It may suffice alone when the other ones quit. Go, Moldenke. I'll broadcast till the man comes. We'll see what happens." He took Moldenke's elbow and led him to the door. "Goodbye, Dink."

Moldenke tightened his coat straps. "Thank you for the tea, Shelp." He sat in the lift chair and buckled in. He turned to Shelp. "I'll be looking for you after the flood."

Shelp smiled, bent forward, holding his chest, went back into the weather room.

The telephone rang. He stood over it and let it ring. The lights went off. He took off his rubber shoe and dipped his foot in the floor pit. As the embers sizzled into the flesh, the phone stopped ringing, the lights went on, and the gauges gave accurate readings.

49

One season past, Moldenke thought of farming. He wrote off about a dozen chickens in the mail. In a genuine month he received a package of egg shells and a bag of yellow powder.

He opened the Ways & Means to agriculture, found most of the section deleted. He turned to livestock and found a picture of a wooden bull, mechanically cranked, ejaculating plastic sacks of sperm into a bucket. Burnheart stood smiling over the wooden bull, wearing his cowboy hat.

50

Dear Moldenke,

Whether or not you have feelings for me, or feelings at all, I do have feelings about you. They increased when you compared my nipples to pencil erasers. No one has been so gentle to me.

The clouds are promising rain.

Love,

Cock Roberta

51

Dear Cock,

Although my feelings have not improved, I like you more. Burnheart is trying to find me a laboratory job in the city. If he does we can be together on weekouts. I enjoy your apparent affection for me. When I see you I'll play the Buxtehude. Do you have a piano?

Your friend,

Moldenke

52

Dear Doctor Burnheart,

In the morning my first duty at the Trop Garden is to walk the banana rows and inspect the plants. If I see mites or spiders or anything unusual, my second duty is to report it to you. Consider this, today's report:

(1) Triple the usual number of mites, no spiders. Normally I see a few spiders. Today, none.

(2) Leaves facing the southern sun are dry and fibrous.

(3) General trunk damage.

(4) Jellied fruit, if any.

(5) Dead snipes covering the ground.

Cordially yours,

Awaiting word,

Moldenke

53

Dear Moldenke,

We have cause for concern. It is not good that one branch of arachnida would be present in greater numbers, while another branch declines. It's a puzzle, son. Thank you for sending me the pieces. I'll work on it. Eagleman should know about it, too. Meanwhile, continue the rounds. Report any further changes.

Yours in spades,

Burny

54

Dear Burny,

When this note reaches you, the way the mails are these days, I wall have left the Trop Garden. There was nothing I could do. I'm afraid the Garden is dead. The snipes are growing deeper. The stink is driving me off, and I don't have to mention the flies. I saw the last banana plant crimp and bend over dead. Something of me went with it, Doc. I won't be the same again.

Regretfully yours,

Moldenke

55

When the lift stopped suddenly he vomited tea and cat weenies. He changed gauze pads, rewound his hand bandage. He lit his lighter and found the k-motor. He read the tire gauge, had to ignore the high reading. The tire was low. He walked the length of the tire, spot-checking it by lighter light, looking for weak spots in the rubber. Overall, the tire seemed sound.