Bill threw his hands up. “I’ll find a card and some paint. Meantime, tell Angelica to roll the blackboard over and write the number and the server address on it.” Bill glanced up at the control room clock. “We’d better hurry—twelve minutes to the next break.” He bustled off to the scene shop to hunt for a can of paint and a brush.
Beth sighed and turned back to the control room. With the overhead lights turned off, only the pin spots lit the desktops in the room. Recessed in the ceiling with only two-inch holes for their beams, they gave the impression that the crew stations were glowing by themselves. The reason, of course, was to avoid glare on the banks of television screens that lined the north wall. Ordinarily it was a tranquil sight, one that soothed Beth’s nerves even when she was about to go on air. Tonight, though, they seemed to accuse her, with their pictures of the panel of volunteers ready to answer telephones; Dolores, the Director of Development, chatting with her guest of the evening about what kind of pitches they were going to make in ten minutes; and of the tally board with its list of pledges and their current total.
See, we’re here, we’re ready, the pictures seemed to say. Why can’t you put us on the air?
Well, Beth would have to, and hope the viewers had paper and pencil ready to write down the phone number. Even as she watched, a volunteer came into the shot of the tally board and chalked up a new pledge.
Beth felt hot tears trying to push their way into her eyes and angrily shook her head. She wouldn’t let the equipment defeat her! She’d just been promoted from crew; this was only her second time directing, and no matter how understanding the production manager was, he couldn’t help but be influenced by the sight of a blackboard with phone numbers on it. And she had so wanted these pledge breaks to look really good!
She sat down at the switcher and ran her fingers over the buttons that each represented a camera or another picture-generating gadget. Deep within its innards, the frame storer thumbed its metaphorical nose at her, and it was all she could do to keep from slapping the blasted thing in hopes that a good sharp shock might jolt a loose connection back into place. That was only likely to make it worse, of course.
Sighing, Beth punched up the frame storer and made one more try at keying it over the shot of Dolores and her guest. All she saw were squiggly lines. Squinting, she decided they looked a little like Arabic letters. Maybe if they could find a Syrian engineer . . .
Or one who was a saint. Bits of her childhood religion classes came back to her, joined with the story she’d read about the video engineer who had died at his post in Rome, and she found herself praying, St. Vidicon of Cathode, protect me from Finagle!
Ridiculous, of course—but when you couldn’t do anything else, you grasped at straws. It wouldn’t do any good, but it made her feel better; the hot tears even receded from her eyes.
Tony sympathized with the poor kid even as he was trying to find his way through the tortuous turns of the printed circuit boards. The mist around him was silver this time, that being the color of the right-angled snail trails printed on the cards.
Tony felt a moment’s exasperation. What did he know about video equipment? But he did understand microprocessors, and this switcher had its share.
Then he saw it—a tentacle trailing around a corner ahead. He was getting closer! He swam faster, his sodden pyjamas dragging against the fog, and spread his arms as he banked around the turn.
Tentacles whipped about him, binding his legs tight, as a dozen reedy voices cheered. By great good luck, he’d had his arms outstretched, so they were free. He tore at the tentacles around him, but dozens of the slimy things dragged his arms against his sides and pinned him there. They rolled him upright, and he stared at a dozen miniature beings with long torsos, little bandy legs, and four tentacles in place of each arm. Another four sprouted from each head above saucer eyes in noseless faces. Lipless mouths split in grins as the dozen homunculi cheered, “The engineer is bound, and the malfunction will endure!”
In desperation, Tony called out, “St. Vidicon, save me from . . .”
A tentacle slapped over his mouth, and Tony had to finish the sentence inside his head: “. . . from gremlkins!”
He seemed to hear a voice inside his head say, Courage, troubleshooter, and felt a sudden weight in his hand. He didn’t have to look down to know what it was—the grip of a soldering gun was as familiar as the weight of his laptop. He squeezed the trigger.
A gremlkin yelped and a tentacle uncoiled from Tony’s waist. The gremlkin blew on the burned spot, then sucked on it. Tony had a little more freedom of movement; he angled his wrist, hoping to hit another tentacle, and another gremlkin yelped and let go. Suddenly all the tentacles whipped away. Tony dived toward them, the tip of his soldering gun glowing.
Another tentacle slapped around his wrist, dragging aside the hand that held the soldering gun—but Tony only dived toward its owner, who squalled at the approaching glow and stiffened his tentacle to try to hold Tony away—but Tony angled the tip toward the tentacle, and the gremlkin let go with alacrity.
“Surround!” a voice called, and the gremlkins leaped to obey. Tony pivoted, seeing gremlkins wherever he looked, and his heart sank. He might turn about and about as quickly as he liked, but as soon as one group of gremlkins attacked him, the others would be at his back, tentacles binding his arms and legs. Sooner or later, one of them was bound to think of slapping the hand that held the soldering gun, and Tony didn’t know if he could hold on to it.
But they weren’t exactly geniuses, these gremlkins; with one massed shout, they all leaped in—and Tony shot up high where they couldn’t reach. They churned for a minute slapping at each other, long enough for Tony to aim himself ready to singe any tentacles that came his way. He waited and wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead.
Sweat?
Now that Tony thought about it, this silver mist was heating up. With a shock, he realized why and let up on the trigger. The tip cooled, but Tony’s brow squeezed out a few more drops, and he knew it would take the metal around him a little while to cool.
The gremlkins saw and cheered, even as they too started wiping away drops of sweat, and one of them called, “Let him be! He will melt this circuit, and our work will be done for us!”
Stalemate! But Tony had to try something. He squeezed the trigger again and dived toward the knot of gremlkins. They saw the glow zooming toward them and shot away, braying alarm.
Grinning, Tony let up on the trigger and chased them. One looked back, cried, “It cools!” and stopped. The others turned, thinking of making a stand—but Tony squeezed the trigger again, the tip glowed, and the gremlkins shot off and away, howling.
Tony swam after them, not so much because he wanted to catch them—certainly not!—but because he was trying to find out why this circuit board didn’t work.
He found it. He rounded a corner and saw a chasm looming ahead. The gremlkins, instead of slowing down or skidding to a halt, sped up. In fact, by the time they reached the lip of the chasm, they were rocketing so fast that they leaped out into space, arcing high to land on the far side, then turned back to stick out their tongues and waggle their tentacles at Tony.
But Tony wasn’t after them, he was after a repair. He skidded to a halt and scowled down at the chasm. This was what was wrong with the frame storer, then—metal fatigue, or a sudden shock, had cracked the circuit board, a hairline crack that was so fine he would probably have missed it if he’d been looking at the cards to check them. Since he was microscopic, though, it was very much apparent.
But being microscopic, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do. He couldn’t exactly pull out the circuit board and push in a replacement. He also couldn’t fill it with solder.
Unless . . .
The gremlkins jeered, making rude noises, breaking his chain of thought. Irritably, he dismissed them, trying to concentrate—but one, determined to distract him, leaped high, disappeared into the gloom above—and didn’t come down. Perched o
n a nut or bolt in the top panel of the switcher, no doubt—but its tentacle came swinging down, whirled in a circle, then slapped straight at Tony.
He saw it coming in the nick of time and ducked—then realized he was looking at opportunity. The tentacle came swinging back. Tony set the soldering gun’s tip against the lip of the precipice and pulled the trigger, then caught the tentacle, wrapping its end between his feet as though it were a climbing rope in gym class. The gremlkin squalled in surprize, but its tentacle was already swinging back—and a trail of silvery metal followed it. The gremlkin tried to yank its appendage out of harm’s way, but Tony was too heavy. Then he felt the tentacle slowing—the gremlkin had enough strength for that, anyway—so he let go, shooting feetfirst toward the far bank.
Gremlkins squalled, scrambling out of his way. Tony landed and spun to look back. Sure enough, on such a small (relative to his normal size) crack, the metal was strong enough to stretch, not break, under the heat of his soldering gun. Tony pressed it to the cliff edge at his feet, and it blended with the cliff. Tony looked out over his slender bridge and grinned.
Current flowed, heating the strand cherry red—but its heat melted both sides of the chasm, hotter and hotter until the lips of the cliffs turned molten and began to trickle out along the strand that joined them. Finally, it flared, burning through, but the waves from each side had enough momentum to flow together, making a thicker bridge—so both sides kept melting, slowly at first, then more and more until, with a roar, they both fell into the chasm. Molten metal churned, rising, until it reached the level Tony stood on.
Beth sat at the director’s position with a feeling of impending doom. She put on her headset, and asked, “Okay, Ernie?”
“Everybody in place and waiting, Beth,” the floor manager answered.
“Okay, then.” Beth glanced up at the clock. “Going in ten.” She looked up to see the famous tenor’s face fade into a blank screen. “Going in five, four, three, two—cue her and fade in three!”
The screen brightened with the picture of Dolores and her guest side by side. “What a magnificent voice he has! Lena, tenors aren’t supposed to sound so full, are they?”
“Not many,” the voice professor agreed. “That man is very rare, with so rich a voice in so high a range.”
“We’re not so rich, though.” Dolores turned to the camera.
“Zoom in to head and shoulders,” Beth said.
Dolores’s head and shoulders swelled to fill the screen as she said, “Here at WBEG, we operate on a very slender budget, and if we don’t make our pledge goal, we won’t be able to keep bringing you performances like these.”
“Take two,” Beth said, and she saw the music professor’s face on the screen, saying, “Join me in making a pledge to our station. I have it deducted from my paycheck.”
“Zoom out,” Beth said, and the professor grew smaller on the screen as Dolores swam into it, telling the viewers, “If you don’t work for the university, just call in and tell one of our volunteers what you’re willing to pledge to keep these wonderful programs coming. Just call this number.”
Beth’s stomach tightened. “Ready one.” She glanced at the monitor with the very amateurish numbers painted on it and knew she was headed back to working floor crew.
“Frame store is back!” Barry shouted.
Everybody turned to stare at the effects screen.
Chapter 9
Sure enough, the effects bank’s screen showed Dolores and, along the bottom edge, a green banner with white numbers printed on it.
“Key title!” Beth’s heart soared as she pressed the button. As the phone number appeared on the screen, she said, very softly, “Thank you, St. Vidicon.”
Tony backed away from the heat, watching the ruddy glow turn dark and cease, and looked out with pride over the uneven but solid surface of the circuit, fully repaired now. He wiped sweat from his forehead and realized that his shirt was wringing wet, but that didn’t matter. The break was healed, and that was all that did.
Then he looked up to heaven, where St. Vidicon certainly should be, lifted his soldering gun in salute—and was amazed to see it turn transparent, then disappear.
Of course—he didn’t need it now. Grinning, he called out, “Thanks, St. Vidicon.”
He was quite surprized when a huge voice echoed around him, saying, “Only Father Vidicon, Tony, please!” But as the voice spoke, the silvery mist seemed to thin and fade away, the voice reverberated less and less, and Tony found himself facing the good priest, who was saying, “I haven’t even been declared a Beatus yet, let alone a saint.”
“The Church’s declaration doesn’t send you to Heaven,” Tony countered. “Your own actions have done that.”
Father Vidicon smiled, amused. “Then my actions can’t have been completed yet, for this certainly isn’t Heaven!”
Looking around, Tony saw the familiar blood-red curve-sided hallway and knew the humidity wasn’t going to do anything for his sweat-soaked shirt. He turned to Father Vidicon to ask, “What next?”
“Whatever I meet,” the priest said, “but you have your own life to live while I keep searching for adventure—and be compassionate with that young woman; she’s more fragile than she seems.” He raised a hand in blessing or dismissal, Tony wasn’t sure which, but before he could protest, the hallway seemed to dim, and he found himself staring at the reflections of the streetlight on the ceiling of his bedroom.
He sat bolt upright and called out, “All right, I know when I’m not wanted! But call me when you need me, okay?”
Then he realized the picture he must present, sitting up fully dressed in his bed and calling out to someone who wasn’t even there. Maybe it was just as well he lived alone.
Why did Tony still feel nervous when he phoned Sandy? If only they worked in the same office . . .
“Hello?”
“Sandy?” Tony licked lips gone suddenly dry.
“Tony!” she said, delighted. “I wondered when I didn’t hear from you over the weekend.”
“Could I have called that soon?” he asked, surprized, then realizing how callow he sounded, rushed on. “Uh, I’ve got two tickets for Two Against the World Saturday night. I was wondering if you’d care to go with me?”
“Only if you ask me out Friday night, too.”
Tony’s pulse ratcheted. “Uh—yeah! Thanks. Great!” He swallowed. “Dinner and dancing?”
“Lovely!”
“Talking about yourself again?” Tony bit his lip. “Sorry—that just slipped out.”
“Even better that way,” Sandy said, amused. “But I can’t think I’m pretty, can I? Not if beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Wish I were beholding you right now.” Tony’s thoughts raced, trying to find a topic. Then he remembered Father Vidicon’s advice. “How could you ever think you’re NOT pretty?”
“Bless you,” Sandy said, her voice warm, “but not all of us made it to homecoming queen.”
“Thank Heaven!”
“You didn’t like the homecoming queen?”
“Oh, she was nice enough,” Tony said, “but kind of . . . shallow, you know?”
“All too well,” Sandy assured him. “You mean you didn’t ask her out?”
“We didn’t exactly run in the same crowd,” Tony said, “but I did try to make conversation with her one time. Talk about uphill work!”
Sandy chuckled. “Easier talking to me, huh? At least I understand computerese.”
“Yeah,” Tony said with fervor. “I know why you took your first course—but how’d you get interested in computers, anyway?”
“Why?” Sandy’s tone hardened a touch. “Not very ladylike?”
“No, I’ve met quite a few women in the field,” Tony said. “I always wonder how we stumble into it, though. With me, it was video games.”
“Oh.” Sandy sounded taken aback. “Well, I had one date with a computer nerd, and of course all he could talk about was his machines—but it s
ounded kind of interesting.”
“And the rest is history, huh?”
“Scarcely.” That warm chuckle again. “I’m still taking classes.”
“Well, of course,” Tony said. “Who isn’t? Which one are you in now?”
Half an hour later, he hung up the phone, dazed to realize how easily the conversation had flowed. Maybe Father Vidicon had had some social experience, after all.
“What’s the matter, Tony?” Harvey Chane asked.
Tony looked up from his e-mail in surprize—and guilt. “Oh, nothing, Harvey. Why would you think there would be?”
“When I see you staring at the screen for five minutes at a time between bouts of keystrokes, I’d guess you were preoccupied.” Harvey sat in the chair beside Tony’s desk. “Woman trouble?”
“No, not really.” The thought of Sandy was a welcome relief. “She said she’ll go to the opera with me Saturday night.”
“Glad to hear it.” Harvey fidgeted, apparently uncomfortable with the topic.
Tony waited.
“I heard Jane Harr had a chat with you last night,” Harvey said.
Tony should have realized word would get back to his bosses. He wasn’t the only one who stopped in there after work, of course, and the servers loved gossip, which meant they went through the serious topics very quickly and had to get picky to have anything to talk about. “She sat down while I was reading, yeah.”
“Made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”
The thrill of guilt amazed Tony. “Oh, no. I refused it.”
“But it’s open, huh?” Harvey’s mouth tightened. “How much did she offer?”
“Uh . . . no definite figure . . .”
“Percentage, eh? Well, whatever it is, Tony, we’ll beat it. How much did she say?”
“Uh . . .” Tony felt his face growing hot. “Well . . .”
“Come on, tell old Harve! We don’t want martyrs here.”
Saint Vidicon to the Rescue Page 12