Cue for Quiet

by Thomas L Sherred

  When they came after me again they were all prepared for another argument. I didn't care, this time. Meekly I went along, back to that same conference room. Four men; the old man who had given me the spurs before, one of the high school boys, and a couple of uniforms. The old man stood up very formally to greet me.

  "Good morning, Mr. Miller."

  I snarled at him. "Good for what?"

  One of the uniforms was indignant. "Here, here, my man!"

  I let him have it, too. "In your hat, fatty. My discharge went on the books in forty-five!" He was shocked stiff, but he shut up.

  The old man kept his face straight. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Miller?" I sat. I still didn't like the chair. "This is General Hayes, and this is General Van Dorf." They nodded stiffly, and I ignored them. He didn't introduce the young man, not that I cared.

  "Mr. Miller, we'd like to talk to you. Talk seriously."

  "Afraid that I'll get mad and fly out the window?"

  "I said seriously. It won't take long. Let's compress it into one short sentence without the preliminaries: give these gentlemen a demonstration like the last one."

  I told him what he could do with his demonstration, and I told him what he could do with his generals. The high school boy grinned when I said that. He must have been old enough to have served in the army.

  The generals were crimson. You don't get that kind of talk where they worked. But the old man was unperturbed. "Let's make that one sentence a paragraph. Give these gentlemen a demonstration as effective as the last-and ten minutes after, if you like, you can walk out of here free as the air."

  I jumped at that. "Is that straight? If I do it again you'll let me loose?"

  He nodded. "If you really want to."

  I persisted. "Straight, now? On your word of honor?"

  He wasn't lying. "If you want my word you have it."

  I grinned all over like a dog. "Bring on your fans, or whatever you have cooked up."

  The young man went out and came right back in with a little cartload of electric fans. Either they had too many for general use, or someone had very little imagination. Come summer, with Detroit ninety in the shade, they were going to miss their ventilation. Me, I was going to be a long way from the Federal Building. He set the fans on the desk, and the generals craned stork-like to see what was going on. The old man bowed to them.

  "Name one, gentlemen. Any one you like." They named the middle one again.

  * * * * *

  I called my shots again, as free and easy as though I'd been doing it for years. "The middle one first, you say? No sooner said than done, gentlemen. Right? Right! Now the far left, and right down the line. Eeney, meeny, and out goes me." They were all dead, and I stood up and asked the room, "Which is the express elevator to the main floor?"

  The old man held up his hand. "One moment, Mr. Miller." He read my mind, which, at that second, wasn't hard to do. "Oh, no. You're free to go any time you so desire. But I would like to make this demonstration a little more convincing."

  He meant it. I could go if I liked.

  "You also, Mr. Miller, as I understand it, exhibit somewhat the same degree of control over internal combustion engines." And well he knew I did. That traffic tieup I'd engineered had traveled via newsreels all over the world. "Will you gentlemen step over to the window?" This was to me and the generals.

  We all crowded over. I looked down and saw we were on the ninth floor, maybe the eighth or tenth. It's hard to judge distance when you're looking straight down.

  "Mr. Miller-"

  "Yeh?"

  "If one of these officers will pick out a car or a truck down on the street below can you stop it? Stop it dead in its tracks?"

  "Sure. Why not?"

  "All right, then. General Hayes, we'll let you do the honors. Will you select from all those cars down there any particular item?"

  I broke in. "Or any streetcar." I was feeling cocky.

  "Or any streetcar. I would suggest, General, that you choose a target for its visibility. One that you cannot mistake."

  The uniforms were suspicious, as they conferred with their noses flat against the glass. They beckoned to me and pointed.

  "That one there."

  "Which one where?" They had to be more explicit than that.

  "The big truck. The one with the green top and the pipe sticking out."

  I spotted it. It slowed for a red light, and came to a complete stop. I concentrated. Blow, Gabriel.

  * * * * *

  The crosstraffic halted, and the truck again got under way. Then suddenly, as it must have been, although from where we were it seemed like a leisurely stroll, it veered through the other traffic lane and smoke burst from its hood. We could see the driver pop from his seat and race to the corner fire alarm box. Almost instantly traffic both ways was four deep. I turned away from the window. I don't like heights, anyway.

  "Now can I go?" Walk, not run to the nearest exit.

  The old man spoke directly to the uniforms, "Well, gentlemen, are you satisfied?"

  They were satisfied, all right. They were stunned. They were probably visualizing a stalled tank retriever, a stalled 6x6.

  "Thank you, Mr. Miller. Thank you very much." My grin was wide, as I started for the door.

  "But I think that it is only fair, before you go, for me to tell you one thing."

  With my hand on the knob, I laughed at him. "You mean that there isn't any Santa Claus?"

  The corners of his mouth went up. "Not for you, I'm afraid. Are you insured?"

  "Me? Insured? You mean the extra thirty cents I give the newsboy every week?"

  "That's it. Insured. Life insurance."

  I shrugged. "Sure. A couple of thousand as long as I take the papers."

  "Suppose your subscription expires, or is cancelled, for certain reasons that should be obvious?" The generals stopped fidgeting and looked curiously at the old man.

  I couldn't figure out what he meant, and said so.

  "You can-well, let's say that you can 'interfere' with electrical or mechanical devices, can't you?"

  Sure I could. At least, all the ones I'd ever tried.

  "So, with that established, you would be in a military sense the theoretically perfect defense."

  I hadn't thought about it that way. But if it ever came down to it I should be able to knock down an airplane, gum up the works on a fusing detonator, maybe even-. No, I didn't like that idea. Not me. Not at all.

  The old man's voice was hard and soft at the same time. "So you're the irresistible force, or maybe the immovable object. And if you walk out of this office right now-and you can, Mr. Miller, that was our agreement-knowing what you know and being able to do what you have been doing…. Now, just how long do you think it would take the intelligence of a dozen different nations to catch up with you? And how long after that would you stay 'free,' as you put it? Or how long would you stay alive? There are all types of ways and means, you know." You bet I knew that.

  My hair tried to stand on end. "Why, you'd be just cutting your own throat! You'd have to keep an eye on me. You can't back out on me now!"

  He was sympathetic. "That's just what we're trying to do. We're trying to protect you and all you want to do is go home."

  I sat down in the old chair. "So that's why you said I could go any time I wanted to." The old man said nothing. I ran my hands through my hair and tried to find the right words. "Now what?"

  * * * * *

  One of the generals started a preparatory cough, but the old man beat him to it. "I have a suggestion, Mr. Miller. You likely will not approve. Or, then again, you might."

  "Yeah?"

  "You know by now that this room, or its rough equivalent, is where you can be safe. This place, or one as well guarded."

  "Yeah. And then what?"

  He tried to make it as easy as he could. "Voluntarily-remember that word, and what it means-voluntarily put yourself in our charge. Put yourself under our care and our protection-"
<
br />   "And your orders!"

  General Van Dorf couldn't hold in his snort. "Good Heavens, man, where's your patriotism? Where's your-"

  He got the worst of that exchange, and he didn't like it. "Where's your brains, man? Whatever patriotism I have left is pretty well worn after thirty-two months overseas. I'm sick of the Army and Navy; I'm sick of hurrying up to stand in line; I'm sick of being told what to do, and being told how and where to do it; I'm sick of being bossed. As far as I'm concerned there's only one person in this world who can tell me to do anything-and what's happened to my wife, anyway? Where is she? And where does she think I am right now?" The old man hesitated. "She doesn't know where you are. She's in the woman's division, downstairs. She's been well-treated, of course-"

  "Sure. Well-treated." That was when I got really mad. "Sure. Jerk her out of bed in the middle of the night and throw her in jail and give her enough to eat and a place to sleep and that's supposed to be good treatment!"

  The generals left without excusing themselves. Evidently they knew what was coming and wanted no part of it. The old Army game of signing your name and letting the sergeant hear the howls. I think that was the only thing that kept me there, as furious as I was, to hear what the old man had to say. He had been handed the dirty end of the stick, and he had to get rid of it the best way he could. When they were gone he circled a bit and then got the range.

  * * * * *

  Boiled down, it was like this. "As of right now, you no longer exist. There is no more Peter Ambrose Miller, and maybe there never was. This I would suggest; your wife, being human, could keep quiet no longer than any other woman-or man. As far as she is concerned you're no longer alive. You were killed while escaping arrest."

  The sheer brutality, the plain cruelty of that, almost drove me insane right there on the spot. I don't know what kept my hands off him. Now, of course, I realize that he was doing that deliberately to focus my hate on him, to present the bad side of it, to show me what could be done if I didn't cooperate. But I didn't know that then.

  –

  "So if I've got the name I'll have the game! Does it make any difference if I get shot in report or in fact? How would your wife like to know that you'd been shot down like a criminal? What would Helen say to her friends and my friends and her relatives and all the people we know?"

  That was just the reaction he'd been waiting for. "I mentioned that only as a suggestion. That could be easily arranged another way. Let's say, for example, that you've been working for the Government ever since your legal discharge, in an undercover assignment, and you died in line of duty. It should be quite easy to see that your widow was awarded some sort of posthumous decoration. Would that help?"

  I never thought that I would ever sit quietly and listen to someone calmly plot the complete obliteration of my whole life, my whole being. It was like one of these European novels when one sane man tries to live and find another sane person in a world of madness. A posthumous decoration. A medal for one that is dead and rotting. A nightmare with no waking up.

  "And perhaps-oh, certainly! — a pension. You can rest assured your wife will never want. You see, Mr. Miller, we want to test you, and your … ability. Perhaps this unbelievable control you have can be duplicated, or understood. That we want to find out. We want to turn inside out all the enormous potential you have. In short we want-we must-have you in strictest custody and under rigid observation. If you like, I can see that you have a military or naval commission of rank commensurate with your importance. And don't think, Mr. Miller, that you're any less important than I've stated. Right now, from this side of the fence, it looks to me that you're the most important thing this side of the invention of the wheel."

  I didn't want a commission. I wanted to lead a normal life, and I wanted my wife.

  * * * * *

  "The Marines, perhaps? Or the Air Corps?"

  It wasn't just the Army, or the Navy; it was the system. If I had to be a Sad Sack I'd be a civilian.

  "As you like. Agreed?"

  I looked at him. "Agreed? What do you want me to say? Agreed. That's a good word for you to use to me."

  "You can rest assured-" He saw what must have been on my face, and stopped short. For a long minute we sat there, he thinking his thoughts, and me thinking mine. Mine weren't pleasant. Then he got up and came over to me. "Sorry. This is a pretty big meal to digest all at once. I know how you must feel."

  I stared up at him. "Do you?"

  Then he turned and left. Later, I don't know when, the young fellow came back alone and took me to my cell. I must have finally gotten to sleep.

  The young fellow, who turned out to be a fairly good citizen named Stein, came after me the next day. He wanted me to pack. Pack? All the clothes I had were on my back.

  "Toothbrush, things like that. Tell me what you want in the line of clothes and you'll get them. Or anything else, within reason."

  "Anything? Anything at all?"

  "Well, I said anything reasonable." We didn't have to go any further into that. He knew what I meant.

  When it was dark they took us away, Stein and myself. In the back of a mail truck, cramped and silent we rode for what seemed hours. Long before we rattled to a halt I could hear the familiar roars of motors being warmed. The tailgates swung open and a twenty-foot walk put us into a military ship. That meant Selfridge Field. Stein and I sat in the old painful bucket seats, the twin motors blasted and we trundled down the paved strip, a takeoff to nowhere. So long, Miller; so long to your wife and your home and your life. So long, Miller; you're dead and you're gone, and your wife will get a medal.

  * * * * *

  When I awoke, the cabin was stuffy, and the sun was brassy and hot and high. Stein, already awake, came up with a thermos of coffee and a snack. A peep from the ports didn't tell me where I was, not that it mattered. Somewhere in the west or southwest, on a sandy waste on the far end of a landing strip away from a cluttered group of shacks, we walked long enough to get out the kinks. Then a hurried sandwich from a picnic basket left in the cabin by an invisible steward, and we transferred to a gray amphibian. The next time I had interest enough to look out and down we were over water, and toward the rim of the world we floated for hours. I dozed off again.

  Stein woke me up. Wordlessly he passed me a heavy helmet, and the kind of goggles that present a mirrored blankness to the outside world. All this time I had seen none of the crews, even when we had landed. The two of us had strolled alone in a tiny world of our own. When the pilot cut his engines for the landing I had the old style helmet on my head. It was far too big, and hurt my ears. The galloping splash we made puddled the ports high, and we bobbed awkwardly until Stein got his signal from the pilot, who popped out an impersonal arm. From the wing-struts we transferred to a Navy dory, manned by enlisted men commanded by a blank-faced ensign in dungarees. We were both wearing the concealing helmets in the stifling heat, and the ensign's "Eyes Front," did no more than keep the sailors from sneaking curious looks from the corners of their eyes.

  * * * * *

  The small boat put us alongside what looked like more of a workship than a fighter. It might have been an oiler or a repair-ship, or it might not have even been Navy. But it was Navy clean, and the crew was Navy. Some gold braid, way out of proportion to the size of the ship, met us at the top of the ladder, saluted, God knows why, and led Stein and I to a cabin. Not too big, not too small. I heard the amphibian rev up and take off again, and the deck tilted a trifle beneath us as we gathered way. A yank, and the suffocating helmet was off and I turned to Stein.

  "Navy ship?"

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  "Navy ship."

  "No beer, then."

  I drew a big grin this time. He was human, all right. "No beer."

  Like an oven it was in that cabin. In a shower stall big enough for a midget I splashed away until I got a mouthful of water. Salt. I paddled out of there in a hurry and spent the next two hours trying to get interested in
a year-old House and Home. Hours? I spent three solid days looking at that same issue, and others like it. All the sailors on the ship must have had hydroponics or its equivalent on the brain. In between times it cost me thirteen dollars I didn't have to play gin with Stein. Then-

  * * * * *

  I never did find out his real name. Neither his name, nor his job, nor what his job had to do with me, but he must have been important, from the salutes and attention he got. Maybe he'd just gotten there, maybe he'd been there all the time. He told me, when I bluntly asked him his name and what he did, that his name was Smith, and I still think of him as Smith. When he tapped on the door and stepped into that airless cabin I could smell the fans and the generals and the Federal Building all over again.

  "Hello, Mr. Miller," he smiled. "Nice trip?"

  "Swell trip," I told him. "Join the Navy and see the world through a piece of plywood nailed over a porthole."

  When he sat down on the edge of the chair he was fussy about the crease in his pants. "Mr. Miller, whenever you are above decks, day or night, you will please keep your face concealed with that helmet, or its equivalent, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. Please."

  "Since when have I been above decks? Since when have I been out of this two-by-four shack?"

  "The shack," he said, "could be smaller, and the weather could be hotter. We'll see that while you're aboard you'll have the freedom of the deck after sunset. And you won't if things go right, be aboard much longer."

  My ears went up at that. "No?"

  "On the deck, upstairs"-he Was no Navy man, or maybe that was the impression he wanted to give-"are racks of rockets of various sizes. You might have noticed them when you came aboard. No? Well, they have been armed; some with electrical proximity fuses, some with mechanical timing devices, and some have both. They will be sent singly, or in pairs, or in salvos, at a target some little distance away. Your job will be the obvious one. Do you think you can do it?"