The General Zapped an Angel: New Stories of Fantasy and Science Fiction

by Howard Fast

  We crowded around him, delighted that he was walking among us. The children tried to touch him, and I am sure that in their fanciful minds they confused him with God. It was a great pleasure and privilege to be sought out by him, greeted by him—or even to be the recipient of his smile; and you can imagine how astonished I was when he came straight toward me, the people parting to let him through, and greeted me personally.

  I had to pull myself together before I could speak, and then I simply said, “I am honored, Projectionist.”

  “Not at all, Dorey. It is I who am honored.”

  “Have I pleased you, Projectionist?”

  “I think you’ve pleased us all, Dorey.”

  People listening nodded and smiled, and I think that I guessed what was coming. Was I surprised? Certainly, for no one is ever sure; but perhaps not as surprised as I might have been.

  “A special treat, Dorey,” the projectionist said. “A Western called High Noon. I am sure you remember it.”

  I nodded with delight, and the people around smiled with pleasure.

  “I suppose it’s ten years since I have played it,” the projectionist went on. “It wants an occasion, you know. It’s not something you throw in any old time. Well, we’ll run it, Dorey, and then we’ll have an interval for announcements.”

  “Thank you, Projectionist,” I said graciously—and as modestly as I could. “Thank you, indeed.”

  It was something to be singled out by the projectionist; people looked at me differently. It not only gave one status, but added to the status a delicious feeling of self-importance that made one literally glow with pleasure. Jane, Clarey, Lisa, Mona—these were girls I had sat with on and off for years; suddenly their whole attitude toward me was different, and Jane tried to take possession. She was pushy; I realized that now, and how easily I could dispense with her. But more than that, I wanted to sit alone. I wanted to be by myself and within myself while I watched High Noon. I was sure the projectionist had a very good reason for playing it, and I wanted to concentrate and understand. I sought out a place in a rear corner of the orchestra, a place frequented mostly by the older people, and while the people around knew me, they would not bother me or intrude upon my privacy.

  I relaxed in the chair and entered the world of good and evil—which was the sum and substance of our own place. Gary Cooper was good, and he slew what was evil, which was right. It was not easy. He was a leader who stood alone, because his quality was leadership—and thus I understood why the projectionist had chosen this film. The leader must see right and wrong clearly, and if death is the only solution, the leader must use death even as God would. My heart went out to Gary Cooper. I knew him. He was my brother.

  The picture ended, and the deep, rich voice of the projectionist came over the stereo system:

  “Let us join in silent prayer. Let us pray that God gives us wisdom in our choices.”

  I prayed, and then the lights came up. Everyone was alert and eager, and the old folks around me smiled at me. Sister Evelyn, in her function of chairman of the Board of Elections, came onto the stage, and standing there in front of the huge silver screen—so small in front of it—she waited for the chatter of voices to cease. Then she cleared her throat, clapped her hands once or twice for attention, and then said:

  “The results are tabulated.”

  People smiled, and heads turned, twisting around and up toward the projection booth. They wanted the projectionist to know. You must understand that we very often and quietly discussed the projectionist. If the Godhead made the film, then surely the projectionist was of the nature of God. No one actually declared this as a firm proposition; but on the other hand, neither had we ever heard of a birth date for the projectionist.

  Sister Evelyn clapped her hands again. “Will Dorey please rise,” she said.

  I stood up. I had chosen an obscure corner, so at first people looked vainly here and there for me. Then the whispers located me, and now as I stood, every face in the theater turned toward me.

  “Would you approach, Dorey,” Sister Evelyn said.

  I went to the aisle and walked toward the stage, and meanwhile Sister Evelyn was telling the people by what vote I had won the election. It was a very decent majority. Well, for ten years I had dreamed of being president and had prayed for the honor. Now it had come. I stood on the stage, and Al Hoppner, the retiring president, joined us, and he took off his great ribbon and medallion of honor and placed it around my neck, the broad blue band coming over my shoulders and the shining medallion bright against my breast. Then the people gave me a standing ovation, cheering and clapping for fully four minutes. I timed it surreptitiously, raising my hand in a sort of acknowledgment and noting the time on my wristwatch. I knew that Al Hoppner’s ovation had lasted only two and a half minutes, so this was in the way of underwriting a change and a statement of trust in my own sense of responsibility.

  I would choose two assistants, and the three of us would constitute the Committee, and the plain truth of it was that I had been mulling over my choices for more than a week—ever since the vote and the possibility that I would be elected president. Now I named Schecter and Kiley. Schecter was in his late thirties, a solid and dependable man who had worked in this post before. He was not a leader, but he was a born committeeman, and he would remain a committeeman for the rest of his life. Kiley was something else. Kiley was only twenty-one years old, and this was the first post of responsibility that he had ever held. He had manifested leadership qualities, and he had wit and imagination. I felt proud of myself for choosing him and standing by him, even though the cheers of the audience were rather muted. Naturally, people suspect youth.

  Finally we left the platform, and the projectionist began one of those splendid color spectacles—I think this was called The Robe—and it drew the people immediately into that part of the world known as Ancient Rome.

  For myself, Schecter, and Kiley, we had work to do, and we would thereby forego this discovery. (I must mention here that the projectionist frowned on the word “film” to describe what took place on the great silver screen. He preferred to call it “discovery” in terms of a view or discovery of another part of the great world we inhabited.)

  We would, instead, begin immediately to inventory and check supplies—this being one of the prime duties of the president. Coming into my administration, I had to assess the condition of place and things; and then I would make my report to the people.

  Naturally, we checked the popcorn first, and then the quantity and freshness of the butter. Sadie and Lackaday and Milty were in charge of popcorn and butter, but they closed shop whenever one of the large spectacles opened. They were a bit provoked now at having to remain and watch us check out their duties and answer whatever questions we asked them; but I had decided to lay down the law immediately. I would show an iron hand and make my position on law and order plain—and thereby they would stop thinking that since I had made so radical a choice in Kiley, I would be soft and wishy-washy. In this instance I kept Kiley with me, working steadily, firmly, and in an organized fashion, so that he too could get an idea of how my administration would proceed. Meanwhile, I sent Schecter to root out the ushers and line them up in the lobby.

  The ushers were prone to relax and slip into last-row seats whenever any discovery interested them, and that was one of the many slipshod things that I intended to stop. I had left Kiley to finish up with the popcorn and butter and was making my first cursory survey of the candy bars when I glimpsed the ushers marching through to the lobby.

  I had not been wrong in my choice of Schecter. When I came into the lobby, the ushers were lined up in a military formation that would have done credit to West Point. I walked up and down their ranks, studying them meticulously, and I must confess that their uniforms were somewhat less admirable than their formation and posture—buttons left unbuttoned, collars open, trousers that had long lost their creases, and some even were without hats. I addressed them, stressing first how p
leased I was with their military formation and posture and informing them of my high opinion of Schecter, who, among his many duties, would have that of being commanding officer of the ushers.

  “However,” I said, “let no one imagine that I will tolerate slovenliness or disorder. A disorderly uniform denotes a disorderly mind, and I will not have it in an organization upon which our very existence depends. Do not imagine that you can deceive or befuddle either Schecter or myself. We will parade again tomorrow morning, and I want to see you appear as ushers should appear.”

  For the next three days we continued to check and inventory popcorn, butter, candy bars, soda pop, and cigarettes. My choice of Kiley appeared then to be a brilliant one; for while Schecter was whipping the ushers into shape, Kiley had gone to work on three hot-drink, ice-cream, and cigarette machines that had not been functioning for months. Kiley had a really extraordinary grasp of mechanics, and he had found a room opening off the lobby that was unused and where he decided to establish a machine shop of sorts. The room had another door—one of the locked doors. Kiley was very young, and he had never actually realized that locked doors existed.

  He had called me to see the room and to give him permission to use it, and he met me at the entrance to the lobby and took me there.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I know this room, Kiley. It was once called the office, although it has not been used for any purpose for years.”

  “For some reason I find it very exciting.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know, I haven’t looked at the screen for days, Dorey. It’s very strange not to participate in the discoveries. It gives me an odd feeling. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Just some silly notion,” Kiley said, rather embarrassed. He pointed across the room. “Have you noticed that door? I wonder where it leads to?”

  “It’s a locked door.”

  “You mean—an actual locked door?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, what do you know!” Kiley exclaimed. He was absolutely delighted. “A real locked door. Do you know, I never believed they existed.”

  “You never believed it?”

  “No, I always thought it was some sort of metaphysical nonsense.”

  “Well, there it is,” I said. There were a good many locked doors, and I found it rather strange that anyone should doubt their existence. However, Kiley was very young, and one tended to lose touch with what the young knew or did not know.

  Kiley walked over to the door, studied it, tried the handle, and then turned to me and said eagerly, his bright blue eyes wide and excited:

  “Why don’t we open it, Dorey?”

  “What?”

  “I said, why don’t we open the locked door?”

  “Kiley, Kiley,” I said patiently, “the door is locked.”

  “I know. But we could open it.”

  “How?”

  “With a key.”

  “A what?”

  “A key, Dorey—a key!”

  “Bless your heart, Kiley, there is no such thing as a key.”

  “But there must be.”

  “No, Kiley, there is not. A locked door is a locked door, and nothing can change that.”

  “But a key could.”

  “Kiley, I told you that there is no such thing as a key. I know that the word exists, but it is only a symbol, a metaphysical symbol. I may not be a particularly devout man, Kiley, but I have always been on the side of religion, and I don’t think that anyone will doubt my dedication to the religious establishment. Nevertheless, I must state that metaphysics is one thing and reality is something entirely different. I tell you flatly that a key is like a miracle. We talk of them; some even believe in them; but I have never found anyone who has ever seen one. Do you understand?”

  Kiley nodded slowly.

  “Then I suggest we forget about keys and set to turning this room into an adequate machine shop, and if we do, we ought to have those vending machines in tip-top shape very soon. Do you agree, Kiley?”

  “Yes—yes, of course.”

  “And quite a number of other things need repairing. Some of the chairs in the theater are absolutely unfit to sit on.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kiley said.

  The projectionist had announced a Swedish sex film for that night, and I told Schecter and Kiley that they could have the evening for the discovery, since they had been working quite hard and since it was not too often that the projectionist permitted a sex film. Schecter licked his lips with pleasure—a dirty old man if there ever was one—but Kiley said that he would prefer to tinker around in the machine shop, if I didn’t mind. You can’t fault devotion to duty, and of course I said that I didn’t mind. I had already made my own arrangements with a delightful little blonde called Baba, and we met before the lights went off. Whenever we had a sex film, the projectionist insisted on blacking out the theater. It made a sort of sense, for the older folks are embarrassed by the close presence of younger people during a sex film, and certainly the young are made uneasy by the presence of their parents. So the auditorium was blacked out, and ushers, using tiny hand flashlights, took us to our seats.

  There has been a great deal of discussion, pro and con, concerning sex on the screen; and even though the puritanical elements have considerable power, the decision was always made to continue with sex discoveries. I felt that this was because the puritans enjoyed them even more than the others; and also I might add that sex films play an important role in the reproductive activities that serve to perpetuate our society. I certainly enjoy those rare evenings, and this time I felt sorry for Kiley.

  I must say that I was rather kind to him the following day. I went out of my way to compliment him on his inventories of the candy, and he in turn took me into his machine shop, which I praised highly. He was constructing a sort of lathe, which, as he explained, would enable him to reproduce elements of the vending machines.

  “And do you know, Mr. President, sir,” he said eagerly, “I think I could use the same machine to make a key.”

  “Kiley!” I said.

  “Yes, sir—I know how you feel about keys.”

  “Not how I feel, Kiley. It’s how the world feels.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kiley said very seriously. “I know that. I am ready to accept how the world feels. I mean I don’t want you to feel that I’m a radical or anything of that sort—”

  “I don’t, Kiley. Rest assured that if I did, I never would have appointed you to the Committee. You are very young to be a member of the Committee, Kiley.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “But I had confidence in you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I had confidence in your stability, your judgment.”

  “Thank you, Dorey. I’m very flattered that you took such an interest in me.”

  “But above all, I want you to consider me as a friend.”

  “Oh, I do,” Kiley said earnestly.

  “Then as a friend, Kiley, I must ask you to give up this delusion about keys.”

  “Do you consider it harmful, sir—I mean to think about it or plan to make one?”

  “To make something that doesn’t exist?”

  “But people do. I mean they make something that doesn’t exist.”

  “Not keys, Kiley.”

  “Sir?”

  “Why must you argue with me, Kiley? Some of the wisest men in our society have gone into this question of keys. There are no keys. There never were. There never will be.”

  Kiley stared at me, his honest, boyish eyes wide open.

  “Yes, Kiley. I want you to promise me something.”

  “Sir?”

  “That you will never mention this matter of keys again. Forget it. Put it out of your mind. There is no such thing as a key. There never was. There never will be.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good lad.” I squeezed his shoulder affectionately—to show him that I bore no ill will toward him. “
Now I want you to get to work on those vending machines. You have no idea how much the people miss hot chocolate. Especially the older folks. It appears to be one of few consolations of old age.”

  “I will.”

  “When might you have them?”

  “Two weeks—three at the very most.”

  “Good. Excellent. But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, and I want you to take this evening off. The projectionist is showing a very rare and special piece called Little Caesar, which dates back to the time when organized hoodlums challenged city government. It is restricted to those who are in government today or have served in government in the past.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kiley answered enthusiastically.

  It was Kiley’s very quality of being outgoing and enthusiastic that threw me off the track. It was difficult to think of anyone with his spontaneous quality as being a creature of duplicity, but there is no other label for his subsequent actions; and five days later the whole thing exploded in my face.

  Schecter came to me with it. “Dorey,” he said grimly, “the devil’s at work.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know I am not prone to exaggeration.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, I saw Kiley enter his shop today.”

  “What’s so unusual about that?”

  “I wanted a word with him.”

  “So?”

  “I followed him. I opened the door to his office and entered. He wasn’t there.”

  “Perhaps he left before you got there.”

  “I told you I saw him enter his shop. I watched the door to his shop—the door that opens into the lobby. I saw him go in. I never took my eyes off that door until I opened it. No one came out of his shop. No one.”

  “Then he was in there,” I said calmly.

  “Damn it, Dorey—am I an idiot? The room was empty.”

  “How could it have been empty? You said you never took your eyes off the door.”

  “Exactly. Still it was empty.”

  “All right,” I sighed. “Suppose we both look into this. There are no devils, no keys, no miracles—I made all that very clear to Kiley, so suppose we just look into this.”