by David Ohle
“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 for 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.
(2) Normally I see a few spiders. Today, none.
(3) Leaves facing the southern sun are dry and fibrous.
(4) General trunk damage.
(5) Jellied fruit, if any.
(6) 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 will 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.
He threw his backpack up to the platform and climbed the ladder, lowering himself into the motor room through a shaft. He cranked the motor a dozen times. One cylinder fired. He wound the pull-rope and cranked the motor again, sitting on the choke button and easing down several calibrations on the spark pilot. He found a candle waxed to a flywheel and lit it. The motor room brightened to dim, two moths flew in and patterned on the flame. He nursed the key into the slot again and finger-primed the juice pump nozzle. The gauges lit up and gave low readings. Other cylinders caught and fired, detonating unevenly as the motor warmed, gradually smoothing, growing quiet, until Moldenke could hear the beats of his hearts. He caught a moth in his good fist, dusted off its wing scales, and ate it. He turned on the front and side running lamps, the yellow night-beam, raised the volume of the fog whistle. A tree frog croaked in the dark periphery of the motor room. He set the compass point on generally south. He thought he heard the grind of Bunce's cameras. He stepped to the forward lookout, drew back the worn khaki curtain, checking the area. A one-klick semicircle was lit as though in camera flash by the k-motor running lights. He went back up the ladder, through the shaft, pulled his backpack in, closing the hatch behind him. The motor room, except when the frog croaked, went silent. He put the gear jam in very high and the k-motor moved slowly forward, the great soft tire its dominant feature, over dead, doorless refrigerators and rusted mattress springs. He took the snipe from his sidepack, cleaned it, warmed it on a hot pressure sleeve, and ate it. He grew sleepy and slept warmly an undetermined space of time.
56]
Someone shook his cot and told him there was a letter for him down at the mailpost. He sat up, sleep wrapped, rubbing his eye. “Moldenke! Mail at the mailpost. Get it on!”
He stood up. “It couldn't be important enough for a two klick walk in the mock mud, could it?”
Someone said, “I saw government marks on the upper left.”
Moldenke said, “Government marks?” He fixed himself crookedly into a set of trenchpants and opened the tent flaps. “It's still raining,” he said. “Government marks you say?”
“Yes, government marks. I saw the eagle and the lightning bolts, the blue envelope; I smelled the human glue. What do you want, proof? Go get the letter, Moldenke.”
“It's raining too hard.” He bared his arm and extended it through the tent flaps, brought it back dry.
“No excuses, Moldenke. You know it's a dry rain.”
“I know,” Moldenke said. “I know. And I miss the old thunder claps, the water spinning in the drainpipes. Give me an old fashioned downpour for a change. I don't know if I'm up to a two klick walk, blue envelope or no blue envelope. Actually, I don't think I give a snort. The last time I went out walking I stepped into the rib cage of a friend. No thanks.”
“Moldenke the pessimist,” someone said.
“I had to scrape his heartmeat off my k-boots.”
Someone said, “Why do you insist on keeping your old balloons, Moldenke, filling up the tent like that?”
They all struck positions on their cots and read the Ways & Means.
Moldenke put on a wet-coat and walked to the mailpost.
Earlier in the mock War he had volunteered for injury, writing his number down on a square of paper and dropping it in a metal box outside the semi-Colonel's office. At morning meal, the day's injury volunteer list was read. Moldenke would eat his prunes and potato milk and wait. When they read his name he reported to Building D, stood in a line at the door. Every minute or so the line shortened by one. The mock soldier in front of Moldenke turned and said, “I'm proud that I gave for my country.” He opened the fly of his trenchpants and showed Moldenke a headless crank. “I'm a vet, boy. What are you giving up?” Moldenke was about to admit a minor fracture when the veteran's turn came up. Moldenke asked him, before he went in the door, what he would be gi
ving up this time. The veteran shaped his hand into a gun and pointed a finger toward himself, cocking his thumb. During Moldenke's minute outside the door, a gun fired and someone shoveled smoking bones onto a pile at the side of the building. A red light blinked above the door jamb, everyone in line saluted. Moldenke snorted. The green light went on and Moldenke stepped into the prep room. A table, a jellyhead mock doctor in a swivel chair. Moldenke crossed his hands behind his back and waited. The jellyhead pushed colored plastic wafers into configurations on the desk top. A circle, a cross inside the circle. Moldenke coughed honestly and the jellyhead looked up, turning a knob on his throat box.
Moldenke said, “Moldenke, sir. Minor fracture.”
The jellyhead swiveled a quarter turn and looked at a chart of seasons on the wall.
Moldenke said, “Moldenke, sir. Minor-—”
The jellyhead said, “You I heard! Weather is the outside how?”
Moldenke waited for the correction. The jellyhead said, “Correction: I heard you! How is the weather outside?”
Moldenke said, “Not bad. A little blister snow last night. Not bad.”
The jellyhead swiveled a half turn and adjusted his word order bubble, swiveled back, his headlight shining in Moldenke's eye. “What are you giving up, General Moldenke? ”
Moldenke mentioned the minor fracture. The jellyhead arranged the colored wafers into a square containing other wafers. “How brave you are, Moldenke. I just this last minute shot a two week vet in the spine. A day ago I had occasion to remove the longest inch he had. One day that, the next day his life. What do you think, Moldenke? Your minute is getting older. Is a minor fracture enough? Ask yourself that? ”
Moldenke experienced guilt, agreed to give up a list of feelings in addition to the minor fracture. The jellyhead seemed satisfied, told Moldenke to follow a corridor to the No. 2 fracture room and have a seat. He waited in a cold chair in the fracture room, flipping through magazines. Music played. In a while feet shuffled in the corridor and a jellyhead nurse came into the fracture room. Moldenke smiled, said “Hello.” The nurse sat on a stool in front of him and told him to cross one leg over the other. She scissored open the trenchpants, exposing the kneecap. Moldenke looked at the ceiling light. The nurse, in one experienced stroke with a chromium ball peen, broke the kneecap.
He lay in the shock room under a clockpiece. When he opened his eye the jellyhead doctor stood over him. “How do you feel, Moldenke? ” Moldenke sat up and said he didn't know. The doctor said, “Good. The War is over now. Go home. Stay in your cot for a few days and then go home.”
Returning from the mailpost he rested on a refrigerator in the mud, his knee throbbing, and read the letter:
General Moldenke
The False Front
The War
Dear General Moldenke,
Because of punctuation we have taken Cock Roberta. You may have custody of her after the War. We have her on a standard regimen. She often talks about her hero.
Truly yours,
The Staff
The Grammar Wing
The Great Chicago Clinic
57]
When he woke up the k-motor had stopped, the temperature had gone up. He went to the lookout, put on his goggles. A number of suns had risen. His forearms had blistered.
Someone opened the hatch and said, “Climb out of this thing, Moldenke, before you fry yourself.”
A column of white sunslight filled the shaft. He opened his backpack and took out his sun hat, clamped on darker goggle lenses. “Hurry on, Moldenke. Climb out of there.”
He climbed the shaft. Someone took his elbow and helped him out. “My name is Roquette.”
Moldenke squinted in the goggles, saw Roquette reversed and inverted, a figure in khaki swamp shorts, boots, carrying a walking stick and a shade lamp, upside down.
“Reverse the goggles, Moldenke. You've got them on backwards.” Moldenke corrected the error, apologized. He was not surprised that Roquette knew his name.
Roquette said, “Bright enough for you, son?”
Moldenke said, “A little.”
Roquette wore his hair in a back pouch, his beard pulled tight against his face in a net. “Step closer, son. Let me have a look at you.” Moldenke stepped closer. Roquette protchered him on the shoulder. “We heard you coming, son. The folks and myself. They decided I would come out and see if I could help you if you needed it.”
Moldenke said, “I need it.”
Roquette said, “Follow me.”
58]
Dear Moldenke,
First, let me clear up a popular misconception. Second, let me hand you a piece of news. One, Eagleman and his moon remain intact. I've touched them both. And two, exactly half of Texaco City burned out last night-—old Blackside, the nigger section.
Quickly back to the k-tubes,
Your friend,
Burnheart
59]
Dear Burnheart,
All of Blackside? What did they do with the niggers?
Wondering again,
Moldenke
60]
Dear Moldenke,
I'm afraid the plural is no longer applicable. Only one of them survived, a rangy old one by the name of Roosevelt Teaset. The rest of them went up in smoke. They'll flood the area now and let the crabs go to work. They didn't even bother with a show of fire-fighting. They simply let it burn. I don't know what to say. It wasn't news to me. I knew they were building a fire fence across the city. After that it was only a matter of arranging a long spell of dry weather, parachuting matches to the children and waiting for the inevitable.
Take pause, Moldenke.
Yours,
Burnheart
61]
He middled himself in the auditorium. A dome, angles, vertical walls, everything suggesting architecture. Ushers walked the aisles collecting chits. Bunce was in Texaco City to speak to the folks. Moldenke ate popcorn.
Someone whispered, “Bunce,” and everyone stood up. Moldenke remained seated and lit a cigar.
Bunce delivered the standard speech: “I appear before the folks tonight with sorrow under my tongue. You have patiently endured while the moons were down for repairs. Now, as together we approach the terminus, I ask you to turn on your flashlights.” Lights in the auditorium went out and flashlights were turned on.
Bunce asked if there were any questions. Moldenke raised his hand.
Bunce said “No questions?” Moldenke stood up and whirled his hand in circles above his head.
Bunce said, “I see no hands.” Someone next to Moldenke said, “He can't see you. Turn on your flashlight.”
Moldenke didn't have a flashlight. Two jellyheads approached and asked him to step into the aisle. They searched through his coats and shirts and reversed his pockets, made him kneel.
Bunce said, “Look at that example, folks. Shine your lights on that man.” The audience turned to watch, focusing their beams on Moldenke.
One of the jellyheads said, “Take down the pants.” Moldenke took down the pants. The second jellyhead came forward wearing a rubber glove and said, “Bend over. We need some readings.”
62]
He followed Roquette into a circle of cypress trees. Roquette said, “We'll sit here and talk.” They sat in a two-man circle. Roquette turned on the shade lamp. They removed their goggles, huddled under a mushroom of lamp shade, and talked.
Moldenke said he was wondering where they were. Roquette said he could only say that they were less than a klick from the river. Moldenke listened and heard the flow.
“You look pale and slightly wasted, Moldenke. I presume you came from the city? The cities? How do you say it these days? ”
Moldenke mentioned a crumbling house in Texaco City with eastern lookouts.
Roquette described a time when he had lived in the cities, a time when Eagleman's moon was no more than a scribble on a drawing table. His eyes seemed red in the goggles. Moldenke looked at him through purple lenses. A snipe
whistled in a gum above them. A delicate swarm of small bubbles came to Roquette's cracked lips and slid into his beard. Moldenke's hearts drummed in the hum of the swamp.
Roquette stood up, his head disappearing into the sunslight, and said he wondered where they were. Moldenke said there was a river close by.
“My apologies, Dinky. I forget sometimes. The brain is always in a fever. Where did you say you had come from?”
“Texaco City.”
“Well, a boy from old T-City. Shake my hand, son.” He held out a hand. Moldenke shook it. It was like an ear of corn.
One sun dropped, the others drifted apart.
Roquette said, “Looks like a break in the weather.” He squatted again and turned down the shade lamp, patting a gauze pad at the back of his neck.
A blackworm snaked across the footpath.
Moldenke said he was going south. They ate crickets from Moldenke's tin and smoked cigars. The temperature dropped.
“Are you chilly, Mr. Roquette? I could build a fire.”
“No thank you, Moldenke. I'll say something about the cold. As old as I am I may as well be realistic regarding the probable future, given the past as a stepping stone and the present as a foothold. I decided long ago to defeat the heat by gathering the wisdoms of the cold. Once I froze myself crank-to-ground in ice, read the book, and went to sleep. When the weather gets good and cold I usually go out naked in my garden and hose off.”
Moldenke built a small fire. “I don't have that wisdom,” he said. “I try to stay warm if I can. I hope you don't mind the smoke.”
“Did you say 'smoke,' Dinky? ”
“Yes. I have a little fire here.”
Roquette said, “Smoke. He wants to know if I mind smoke. Watch this, boy.” He lit a fresh cigar and turned to give Moldenke a profile. He exhaled at length, then began an inhale. The ash grew longer as the ember burned back, dropping off in lengths. The inhalation continued until the cigar had become a mound of ash in his lap.