“Both of you are breaking my heart,” Helen said snappishly. “Don’t forget, I was runner-up on the Statewide ten best dressed women of the year poll.”
Buzz looked at her. “How about your father? He was there when Tubber hexed radio. Doesn’t he realize what’s going on?”
Helen said, “I think about half and half. What he really thinks is that Tubber is an agent for the Soviet Complex who’s been sent over to sabotage American industry. He wants the Stephen Decatur Society to investigate and place their information before the F.B.I. Matthew Mulligan agrees with him, of course.”
Ed Wonder closed his eyes to hide his suffering. “Oh, great. I can just see that bunch of kooks sniffing around Tubber’s tent. The new hexes would start flying like geese.”
Helen said, without a good deal of conviction. “The Society isn’t composed of kooks, as you call them.”
Buzz leered at her through the smoke of his newly lighted stogie. “What is it composed of?”
She laughed suddenly, “Twitches,” she said.
Buzz looked at her afresh. “I think I could learn to like you,” he said, nodding.
“All right, all right,” Ed said. “We’ve got to do something. You both realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Buzz said. “What?”
Helen said, worriedly, “Perhaps if we all went to see Tubber…”
Ed held up a hand. “Go no further, please. Here sit the three of us. Helen brought him to wrath and the result was the Homespun Look and what will eventually mean the collapse of the cosmetic and women’s textile industries. Buzzo brought him to wrath and the result was the end of radio and TV. Through a fluke, I said too much and as a result he brought himself to wrath and wound up the movie industry. With a background like that do you think any of we three ought ever to let him lay eyes on us again? We seem to be a set of accident prones, with the whole human race getting the benefits.”
Buzz growled around his stogie, “I think you’re right, chum.”
“But we’ve got to do something,” Helen protested.
“What?” Buzz said to the unanswering group.
They had left it at that. All three resolved that something had to be done. But no one had come up with even the smallest idea.
Ed finally left them to that solution of the problem and took a cab to where he had left the Volkshover the night before. It seemed to have survived the mob and the wetting down from the fire hoses which had finally broken up the enraged crowd and led to the rescue of the hapless movie projectionist.
On the scene again, Ed could only wonder at the hysteria of a citizenry that could become that worked up over a simple matter such as not being able to see the movie for which they had stood in line. What the devil, this was the tail end of the 20th Century, not frontier days. You didn’t lynch a man because you suspected him of lousing up your evening’s entertainment.
Or did you?
What had the rioter said to him? Everybody’s on edge.
It didn’t make too much sense to Ed Wonder. Admittedly, he was thoroughly familiar with the world of radio and TV and knew the dependence of most citizens on the entertainment they provided. But Ed Wonder had been a performer, rather than a passive viewer and, at least subconsciously, was contemptuous of his audiences. He viewed TV himself, only as part of his work, in common with his colleagues.
Back at his own apartment house, he remembered to go to the drug store for a newspaper before ascending to his rooms. The manager had saved a paper for him, otherwise, as the day before, the morning edition of the Times-Tribune was sold out.
He showered, utilized his No-Shav cream, and dressed in fresh clothes, and then, before sitting down to read, he dialed himself a glass of ale. The autobar failed to respond and he scowled down at it. The gadget was designed for a variety of forty different drinks, and operated through a distribution center which served this part of the city in much the same manner as his kitchenette worked. He tried dialing a Fish House Punch with the same results.
Irritated, he went to the phone and dialed the center. A harassed ash blonde appeared on the screen and before he could open his mouth, said hurriedly, “Yes, we know. Your autobar is failing to function. Unfortunately, stocks have run short due to unprecedented demand. New supplies are being rushed up from Ultra-New York. Thank you.” She flicked off.
Ed Wonder grunted and sat down in his reading chair. Unprecedented demand, yet. Well, it wasn’t surprising. With nothing else to do, people had upped their drinking considerably.
The paper had no inkling of the real nature of the blight on the world’s entertainment media. None whatsoever. Evidently, Buzz De Kemp was the only journalist exant who realized the actuality, and his city editor had ominously warned him not to mention Ezekiel Joshua Tubber and his curses ever again. AP-Reuters and the other news services hadn’t a clue. Learned articles and columns pursued this theory and that, ranging from sun spots, or radio emanations from far star systems, to sinister schemes on the part of the Soviet Complex or Common Europe to disrupt America’s balance by withholding needed restful entertainment from the man in the street. Just how this was being accomplished was moot. Those who argued against the charge, pointed out that the same disruption was taking place throughout the realm of the Soviet Complex and throughout Common Europe as well.
In fact, if anything, the problem was already greater in some lands than it was in the United Welfare States of America. England, for instance. There were riots in London, Manchester and Birmingham. Evidently they were senseless, meaningless riots, not directed toward anyone or anything in particular. Simply the rioting of crowds of people with nothing to do.
Ed Wonder felt a cold apprehension edge up his spine. He had seen that mob the night before. In fact, he had been manhandled by it.
He had skimmed quickly through the paper looking for the story of the lynch mob who had all but finished off the unhappy movie projectionist who had been blamed for the failure of the film. He had trouble, to his amazement, finding the item. Ed would have thought it called for front page coverage, in a town no larger than Kingsburg. It was probably the only attempted lynching in the city’s history. But no, it was buried in the inside and the story passed over more as a joke than a serious affair in which hundreds had been sprayed with high pressure fire hoses and police brought in by the dozen to quell the fury.
Ed got it. The story was deliberately being played down. The city fathers, or whoever, didn’t want to bring to the attention of the populace how easy—and perhaps how entertaining—it was to riot. Face reality, during the height of the trouble last night, that mob was having the time of its collective life—men, women and teenagers.
He went back to the front page. The president had made with some sort of gobblydygook explanation of the disruption of TV and radio. He hadn’t gotten to the movies yet. When he did, that was going to be a dilly. Sun spots to foul up TV reception? Sure. Possible. Or strong radio emanations from space? Well, yes. Possible. But movies? How were they going to explain the fact that movies no longer flickered in their well-established way?
Ed shook his head. He was just as glad he wasn’t chief executive of the United Welfare States of America. That job President Everett MacFerson could have.
There was another item from Greater Washington. A plea on the part of the White House for all retired actors, circus performers, vaudeville veterans, musicians, singers, carnival attractions and all others however remotely attached to show business, and however long ago, to report to the auditorium of the nearest high school. There was a barb on the end of the plea. Failure to comply would automatically cancel any unemployment insurance benefits being enjoyed by those involved.
Ed Wonder rubbed the end of his nose with a thoughtful forefinger. That would include him. He would have to report. The conclusions were obvious. The radio-TV curse had only come about a few days ago, but already Greater Washington was deciphering handwriting on the wall. Ed wondered uneasily just how bad those riots in E
ngland had been.
He went into his kitchenette and dialed himself a lunch. It tasted nothing, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t had a decent meal since the day before. He threw it, half-eaten, into the disposal chute.
He began to think about Helen. Strange about Helen. Somehow, these past few days had altered his feelings about her. He liked her fine enough, but there was no urgency about it. One week ago and she had been the most important single matter on his mind.
He took the elevator down to the street. This was a new development. There was a crowd outside the liquor store and a fat tub of a man standing in the doorway itself explaining something or other. When Ed Wonder got nearer, he got the message.
“Sorry folks, not a thing left. Sold out. Waiting for new deliveries.”
“Well, how about gin or rum?” somebody called to him.
“No, I mean everything. Whiskey, gin, rum, brandy. Everything. All sold out.”
“Nothing at all?” Somebody else said incredulously.
The proprietor was apologetic. “All I got is a few bottles of Creme de Menthe.”
“What’s that?” the inquirer grumbled. “Is there alcohol in it?”
“It’s a cordial,” Ed told him. “Sweet and tastes like peppermint. Not quite as strong as whiskey.”
“How would it mix with Coke?” somebody else said.
Ed closed his eyes and shuddered.
“Well, I’ll take a bottle. I gotta have something around the house. It’s driving me batty.” The speaker had no need to mention what it was that was driving him batty.
“Let me have one too.”
The group pushed in. The fat proprietor said hastily, “Only one bottle to a customer, folks. I only got a few bottles left. And you got to realize this is special stuff. Fifteen bucks a bottle.”
Ed Wonder walked back in the direction of his apartment.
On the corner a crowd was gathered. He came closer and stood on tiptoes to make out their interest. There was a trio of kids in the center, doing tricks, minor tumbling tricks. The crowd watched them glumly, although every once in a while somebody would call out encouragement. From time to time the youngsters would be tossed a coin or two. The repertoire was strictly limited.
It reminded Ed that he was going to have to go to the nearest high school and report as an unemployed member of show business. He did that the next day. It didn’t take him long. There weren’t as many actors, musicians and show folk in general as there once had been. And evidently no vaudeville, circus or carnival veterans at all in Kingsburg. Automation had come to the world of entertainment as well as to every other field. Given TV and a comparative handful can entertain two hundred million persons at once, where in the old days of vaudeville a couple of thousand at a time was maximum. Given movies and a dozen actors can perform a play for the million mass, while in the day of the legitimate theatre a few hundred at most could follow the show. Given radio, a pop singer’s voice could become known on a worldwide basis, while a nightclub singer of old could bring alcoholic sobs to the occupants of a few score tables at best. And musicians? But here automation had reached its ultimate with the canned music of record and tape.
No, there weren’t as many show business folk as there had been even a decade ago, not to speak of a quarter century or more.
Ed proved a disappointment when his turn for interview came up. They took down in detail all that he had ever done, and evidently decided it was precious little that would benefit them.
Did he think that he could act as an M.C. for vaudeville shows?
Ed Wonder sighed. Yes, he thought he could.
They’d keep in touch with him.
He left and climbed back into his hovercar.
He had to do something. Over and over it came back to him that he, Buzzo and Helen were the only three outside the Tubber circle who actually knew what was going on.
A boy with a heavy stack of papers under his arm was yelling an extra. It came to Ed that it had been a very long time since he had heard a newsboy shouting extra. Radio and TV news commentators had put an end to that newspaper institution of old.
He made out what the boy was shouting. Race riots, somewhere or other. He didn’t have to read the paper to get the picture. Bored people wandering up and down the streets with nothing to do.
Race riots. He wondered how long it would be before people got around to religious riots. Riots between races, riots between different religious creeds, riots over politics. It gave you something to take up time, didn’t it?
He simply had to do something. There must be some starting point. He changed his direction. He drove out along the road to the south and eventually pulled onto the university grounds.
He was in luck and had no difficulty in finding Professor Varley Dee in his office at the Department of Anthropology. Ed Wonder had had the crisp anthropologist on the Far Out Hour several times as a panelist, but had never met him before on his home grounds.
He chuckled at Ed Wonder even as he offered him a chair. “Well, sir, even the ambitious Little Ed Wonder finds himself amid the unemployed with the disruption of the radio waves, eh? Fascinating development. Have the technicians arrived at any conclusions? What’s this about sun spots?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Ed told him. “Every time something comes along to foul up reception, or the weather, or whatever, it’s blamed on sun spots. That’s all I know about the subject.” Actually, he didn’t want to get into the subject of TV reception with the professor. If he had, they would never gee around to the real reason for his visit.
He changed the subject, abruptly, “Look, Professor, what can you tell me about Jesus?”
Dee gimlet-eyed him. “Just who do you mean when you say Jesus?”
Ed was exasperated. “For crissake, Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth. Born on Christmas. Died on the cross. The founder of Christianity. Who else could I mean?”
“There are Jesuses and Jesuses, Little Ed. According to what religious sect you follow, or if you follow none at all and are interested in the historic Jesus. Do you want myth, or history?”
“I’m talking about reality. The real Jesus. What I…”
“All right. Then to begin with, his name wasn’t Jesus. His name was Joshua. Jesus is a Greek name, and he was a Jew. And he wasn’t from Nazareth. There was no such town as Nazareth in Palestine at that time; later on the boys worked that one in to fill in some holes in the prophesies that supposedly foretold the coming of the Messiah. And he wasn’t born on Christmas. The early Christians took over that day from the pagans in one of the attempts to popularize the new religion. Christmas was originally the winter solstice, it got shoved around to December 25th through faulty calendars. It’s even debatable whether Joshua died on the cross. If he did, then he died in a remarkably short time. The horror of crucifiction as a means of execution is in the time it takes the victim to die. Robert Graves made a good case for the hypothesis that Jesus survived the cross, after a cataleptic fit, and was spirited away.”
Ed was bug-eyeing him.
Varley Dee said, his voice cranky, “You wanted to know about the historic Jesus. Very well. That’s just the beginning. For instance, many of the more serious scholars doubt very much that Joshua had any intentions of starting a new religion. He was a good Jew and practiced that religion faithfully his whole life.”
“Listen,” Ed demanded. “Is there anything left at all of what I learned in Sunday school as a kid?”
The professor chuckled acidly. “Actually, quite a bit. Just what was it you wanted to know?”
Ed said, “Look, for instance the story about feeding the multitudes with two or three fish and a few loaves of bread, and then winding up with several bushels of leftover scraps.”
Dee shrugged. “Probably a parable. Many of Joshua’s teachings were given in parables.”
“Well, some of the other miracles. Raising the dead. Curing the lepers. That sort of thing.”
Dee was impatient. “Modern medicine performs mir
acles of that order with ease. In Joshua’s day their medical procedure before pronouncing a person dead was primitive, to say the least. As a matter of fact, you don’t have to go back that far. Did you know that the mother of Robert E. Lee was pronounced dead and was actually buried? She revived later and was rescued. So far as leprosy is concerned, it was and is a meaningless term, medically speaking, and in those days covered everything from skin diseases to venereal infections. Miracle healers were a dime a dozen, and a religious figure didn’t get very far unless he could put on a good performance in that department. Actually, Joshua is on record as being contemptuous of his followers continually wanting him to prove himself by such devices.”
Ed Wonder squirmed in his chair. “Well, if not Jesus, how about some of the other miracle workers? Mohammed, for instance?”
Dee eyed him critically. “I would think that with your program, Little Ed, you would have had your fill of miracle workers, by this time. Certainly, down through history, we run into them. Jesus, Mohammed, Hassan Ben Sabbah…”
“That one misses me,” Ed said.
“Founder of the Ismailian Shiite sect of the Moslems. His followers, the assassins, were fantatical beyond belief. At any rate, supposedly he performed various miracles, including teleporting himself several hundred miles at a crack.”
“But…” Ed said. Professor Dee’s attitude suggested a very big but.
“But,” Dee said, “close inspection by reliable scholars into the lives of these miracle workers seldom turns up evidence of unexplainable happenings.”
It was directly the opposite of what Jim Westbrook’s opinion had been the other day. Ed stirred in his chair. His interview with Professor Varley Dee was netting him a zero.
He came to his feet. “Well, thanks, Professor. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
Dee beamed at him. “Not at all, Little Ed. Pleasure. And I look forward to appearing on your remarkable program, once again, when the present difficulties with the air waves are over.”
“They’re not going to be over,” Ed said gloomily, as he prepared to depart.
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