No one moved, and all eyes were on him, with the same silent statement.
Lonnigan went into a rage. "That's not my father in there, dammit! It's a bug. This is a machine. We built it, we can tear it down, we can smash it to bits and it can't talk back; there's a reason for what happened, and I want to know what it is! It's not my father!"
From across the room Y-12 burst into life and typed out, "Robert, please answer me."
"Get to it now!" Lonnigan screamed, and stalked from the room.
An hour before dawn the job was completed, and we all sat huddled across the room from Y-12, drinking coffee. No one spoke; all attention was fastened on the computer, or on Robert Lonnigan who sat huddled over a drafting table, a set of blueprints pinned out beneath his eyes. He was studying those prints minutely, almost obsessively, and muttering to himself under his breath. He looked drawn and haggard.
"There's something here... I know it. Something..."
At that moment Y-12 began to chatter and blink into life. Everyone in the room, including Lonnigan, jumped.
"Robert, are you there? This is Father. Can you hear me? This is Father—"
"Ah!" cried Lonnigan suddenly, grabbing the schematic and waving it aloft. There was a look of triumph on his face, and deep relief. "By God, I know what it is," he said. "I should kick myself for not solving this before. Everyone come and look at this."
He spread the diagram out on the drafting table as we gathered around it. Behind us, Y-12 went on, "Can you hear me? Please answer. This is Father—" and some of us glanced back nervously.
"Don't worry about the damn computer," said Lonnigan. "We've got some real work ahead of us before that government man gets here. Look at this section." He indicated a portion of the left upper corner of the sheet. "What happened was this, and it really is fantastic. We took every component out of Y-12, at least two times, right? And some were even replaced."
"A couple of times," I said.
"Right," continued Lonnigan. "But what we forgot about was the fact that some of the components of Y- 12 were taken whole from other, earlier units and jerry-rigged into this one."
"So?" said my friend Boylston, who was still casting worried looks over his shoulder at the computer. "We've always done that; it's better than redesigning whole circuits that are basically the same. It just eliminates redundancy."
"Well, that's basically true. But in this case we used a component that was haunted."
Lonnigan savored the looks he got from us for a moment.
"Now before you bolt for the doors, listen to me. Do you remember where we got this component here from?" Again he indicated the upper left corner of the blueprint.
"Sure," I piped in. "From the A-6 model."
"Right. And the A-6 unit we used was one of the first ever manufactured. In fact, I'll wager it was the first off the line. And look at this," he said, pointing to a specific area; "we used almost the whole thing intact."
"No we didn't," I protested. "We went through a lot of circuitry, but we bypassed most of it."
"Ali, but not all of it; this whole section over here was part of the memory banks of the original machine."
"Yes, but we bypassed it," I insisted.
"Did we?" This was an accusation from Lonnigan. "Ever since this business started, I've had the eerie feeling that I had heard some of what Y-12 was saying before. Well, it suddenly came to me.
"When I was fresh out of school I worked briefly with a man named Fleishman Bushyager—a brilliant man, but a little on the dotty side. He was elderly at the time, and pretty close to retirement age; the A-6 project, in any case, was supposed to be his last. You must remember this is a long time ago, and that I haven't thought about any of these things in years, so I may be a little fuzzy on a few points. But this is basically how the story goes.
"Part of the reason Bushyager was being herded out after the A-6 project was the fact that he began to come up with a few strange ideas; his son Robert died in an automobile accident and, like Arthur Conan Doyle, the old man became obsessed with trying to reach his son beyond the grave. He was actually working on some computer circuitry to aid him in this—a sort of computerized medium. Some of the higher-ups found out about it and since Bushyager was a big man they couldn't get rid of him outright; so they ordered him to restrict himself to A-6 work alone while they put through, behind his back, paperwork for his retirement.
"The old man was just about ready to leave by the time I got there, but one day he showed me some of the designs and one of his programs in particular. I stared and stared at this blueprint for hours and then it suddenly all wrapped up in my mind. One of the designs for the final A-6 computer actually contained, embedded in the circuitry, the design for Bushyager's medium. And though it was hidden, it could still do the old man's work for him, though in secret. He'd arranged things in such a way that his input would never show up on a readout, but the way we cannibalized the circuitry freed, as it were, the program for the first time. If you look closely, you can even see how Y-12 turned itself on. A bit eerie, but there's your ghost. The Y-12 was haunted—in a way. And the Robert our ghost was calling for was Robert Bushyager.
"Well," said Lonnigan, "we haven't much time before that government man arrives. Let's unhook that circuitry and patch it up, and clean this place up. At least we didn't have to see any real ghosts, right?"
"Amen," we all agreed.
"This," said the stranger, sipping at his brandy and relighting his cold cigar, "nearly ends my story. The A-6 circuitry was altered and fixed, and the ghost in Y- 12 appeared no more. In fact, my story would end here if not for one thing. You see, a curious thing ensued. During the cleanup before the government inspector arrived that morning, I took the printout sheets from Y- 12's ghost messages. I put them into a drawer, intending to show them to my wife when I was able to tell her the story after the security lid on the Y-12 project was lifted, and promptly forgot about them. A few years later, when I was leaving my position for a new one, I came across them while clearing out my desk; I almost tossed them in the wastebasket but then remembered what they were and took a close look. And I found, as I said, a curious thing."
The stranger paused, and, with his eyes, took in his audience who, he was delighted to see, was a captive one; even the somewhat impatient Hewetson was leaning forward in his chair, his attention fixed on the stranger's next words. "And what I found," the stranger continued, "was that between the lines of type, in the blank spaces, a kind of raised lettering had appeared. And, on rubbing at this lettering lightly with a pencil, I discovered a most chilling and interesting message. I tried to get in touch with Robert Lonnigan, who was not to be found; and I tried to get in touch with old Bushyager who, it turned out, was dead—which only deepened my feeling of alarm. For there, printed between all the lines of Fleishman Bushyager's input, was a strange message."
There was a moment of silence and then, with a flourish, the stranger produced the very printout he had been speaking of, spreading it out before their eager eyes.
"I, Robert Bushyager," it read, "am here." And on the very last line, at the end of the printout, "And I, Fleishman Bushyager, with him." And under that, "Tell the other Robert his father forgives him."
"Capital!" cried Porutto, the stranger's sponsor, and there were cries of delight all around.
And, after another filling of glasses and stoking of the red-coaled fire, a vote was made, and a toast proposed and accepted, and another member of the Genial Hauntings Club welcomed.
Billy the Fetus
Soon as I growed ears I heered things. My Mammy was a-singin' all the time, 'bout all kinds a-things—'bout the Moon, which was made a-cheese, 'bout flowers and bees and dogs that be a-barkin' in the dusty streets. She even sang 'bout the dusty streets themselves, what the clouds o' dust looked like when the stage rolled in or wagons pulled out from the genr'l store. I got me a fine picture o' the world from Mammy's singin'—a fuzzy place with a giant Moon made a-cheese hangin' overhead,
which you could see sometimes through th' dust while the dogs a-barked.
She even sang about my Pappy:
Will Bonney 's gone,
Gone to the devil,
The devil ain't happy,
And that's on the level.
Shot through the liver,
Then shot through the heart,
Will Bonney 's gone,
'Fore Billy Bonney's start...
That Billy Bonney she be singin' 'bout, that'd be me, I figured.
I figured lots o' things, floatin' there in that watery sac in my Mammy, with the fuzziest sounds filtering through. Couldn't smell no dust, as I hadn't growed a nose yet, and I couldn't wait for seein' the dogs when I growed eyes. When Mammy really got to gigglin', she'd sing some o' the rest o' her song about my Pappy:
Will was a fighter
He fought 'em with his gun,
They put him six feet under
'Fore it all was done.
Many a man went before him
Into a dusty grave,
For Will was fast—
Lord, fast with his hands!—
And nothin' if he wasn't brave.
I could just see my Pappy out there in the street, shootin' under the big ol' Moon a-cheese through the settling dust, mowin' them other fellers down with his six-gun. And he musta had a good reason, 'cause Mammy, when she got to tinklin' the glasses, sometimes sang the last part o' her song about m' Pappy:
Will Bonney had another gun, too,
And he used it just as fast,
And now little Billy's comin' along—
But Lord, that's just the past!
So if you meet Will Bonney in Hades,
Be sure to say hello,
From the gal and babe he left behind
While he dances down below...
There usually came gigglin' after that, and more glass tinklin', and then the bouncy ride, and then the pokin' thing, and loud noises, and Mammy yellin', and some feller-not-my-Pappy yellin', and then the really loud noise which I didn't understand but thought might be the Moon a-cheese fallin' out of the sky.
And that's the way I went along for a while, while my hands and feet growed a bit, looking like flippers, and my eyes growed too, and my brain I guess, and I floated and dreamed of the Moon a-cheese and wondered what the bouncy ride was, and the pokin' thing, and the feller-not-my-Pappy groanin' and yellin', every time a different feller, it seemed to me, and the loud noise like the Moon a-cheese fallin' from the sky—a noise as loud as my Pappy's six-gun.
And then one day while it was all happenin' again, the bouncy ride and such, and some feller-not-my-Pappy a-gruntin' and yellin', I suddenly figured it out!
As if my brain had growed just big enough to make me see, it became as clear as the Moon a-cheese in the sky!
That feller-not-my-Pappy was tryin' to kill me!
And he was hurtin' my Mammy!
Hurtin' her plenty, I'd say, she was a moanin' and groanin' so, and now he was tryin' to kill me for sure, for here came the pokin' thing, a weapon if there ever was one—maybe even a six-gun!—jabbin' up from below and tryin' to bust my floatin' sac!
Well, no, sir, that wasn't gonna happen at all—nobody was gonna hurt my Mammy—and nobody was gonna kill Billy Bonney like they killed my Pappy!
Nobody was gonna make me go below, down to the devil, and make me dance!
Not me, the son of Will Bonney!
I had to do something about it—
So I did.
"I'm a-comin', Mammy!" I hollered, though I didn't have much of a mouth yet, and the little noises came out like the bubble farts I made sometimes in the floatin' sac.
"I'm a-comin' t' save ya!"
By now she was well past the gigglin' and glass tinklin' and into the Mammy-yellin' stage—but she really started t' yell when I made my way out of there. First I ripped off the cord 'tween Mammy and me—did a nice neat job o' pullin' it apart in the middle and tied it off on both the wriggly ends so's not to make a mess. That was a bit of a chore with my flipper hands and all, but I managed it. Then I began a' swimmin', paddlin' right for the hole where that pokin' weapon had been. Nothin' there now, and I saw the spot leadin' out and went for it. Dove right through with my hands out in front of me makin' a wedge, and closed my big eyes and whoosh! if that sac didn't break easy as I hoped, carrying me along for a ways before things began to dry out. Then I had to claw my way along. Not too far, which was good for me and Mammy, since she was a yellin' somethin' fierce by this time.
Things began to get lighter, and I waited for the fuzzy light to hit me, the color of the Moon a-cheese, but instead there was just a couple of flaps in front of me which I pushed apart and whoa!—there was no fuzzy light a'tall but somethin' that hurt my eyes fierce, like a burnin' itself!
I didn't let that stop me, though, or the little coughin' fit I had while my lungs filled up with what must have been air. The sounds were way clear now, with Mammy screamin' like the devil and the man I'd heard a-moanin'. I pulled my part of the cord out after me and kept on movin' while my eyes got used to the grand and glorious light o' the world, nothin' like the soft fuzzy light I'd expected but sharp as anything. And the colors! The reddest red you'd ever imagine, all around me and wet.
And there, suddenly, out the window of Mammy's room, floatin' in the black night that wasn't fuzzy a'tall, was the Moon a-cheese itself, which I got a good look at as my eyes began to focus sharp.
Then I dropped to Mammy's bed—
And there was a six-gun, laying right there beside me, and the man who'd hurt Mammy a-whimperin' and crouchin' in the corner, his pants around his ankles and his other-gun, like Mammy's talked about in the song, just as sad and droopy as could be.
So I worked up all my strength, and lifted Mammy's gun in my flipper hands, holding it on the bed and wrapping my flipper feet around it and aiming it real true, just like my Pappy would, and pulled the trigger twice, and I done shot that feller through the heart, then through the liver, and watched him drop dead t' the floor.
"I saved you, Mammy! I saved you!" I cried in little bubble farts. And then I turned smiling with my tiny mouth and looked at my Mammy for the first time ever.
She was a-layin' there on the pillows of her bed pale as ghosts must be, pale as dust, her eyes big and drained. She lifted a weak finger, layin' there in a pool of blood around her middle like she was, where I'd come a-swimmin' out, and she pointed at me.
"Mammy!" I burbled happily.
I waited for her to smile, but instead her lips curled into a sneer and she screamed in a hateful way:
"You little bastard! I knowed you'd be a boy when you popped! Felt you like a disease inside o' me!"
She got real weak then, and her hand lowered to the bed—but then the rage crawled back up into her face and she hissed: "I would've killed you too when you came out natural! Just like I killed any man who ever come near me!"
"But Mammy—!" I said.
Her eyes got all big and wild then, and she pointed to her still-distended belly. "Just like I killed your pappy, that sonofabitch Will Bonney who did this to me!"
I looked down at my own other-gun, which was so itsy it didn't look like it could hurt nobody at no time.
"Mammy—!"
"I'll shoot you through the heart and liver yet! Just like I shot 'em all!"
She began to sing then, in a kind of gigglin', croaky voice, a song I'd never heard a'fore:
So if you're six feet under
And dancing down below,
Be sure to look up Billy Bonney
Be sure to say hello!
She reached down for the six-gun, but before she could grab it she suddenly got to bein' real weak again. She lay back on the bed and fainted. And that was all the time I needed.
Didn't take me long to get fixed up again. The cord healed up pretty good, as I took my time getting the two ends to match up just right. I managed to get the hole I'd made closed, though I'll have to see how much good that does me, s
ince the floatin' sac's gone. I figure the cord's the important thing, since the whiff I got of air while I was out didn't seem to hurt me none, and my lungs, small as they is, seem to be workin' okay.
Figure I can hole up in here as long as I need to.
Heck, who needs it out there anyway—I can wait to see flowers and bees and barkin' dogs, and that little peek I got o' the Moon convinced me it ain't made a-cheese, after all. Looked all wrinkly and dusty-cold to me.
She ain't gonna make me dance down below.
And o' course I got this here six-gun with four more bullets in it—and if she comes in after me I know how to use it.
Stars
Dancing along the edge of night, Donald brought the stars into his room:
These are the suns of endless night—
These are the burning orbs so bright—
These are the things that fill my sight—
STARS!
Standing on his bed, hands raised in benediction, he watched the night swirl into his room, shouted in joy as it vortexed in through the bars of the open window and around him: light upon shining light of stars, twinkling diamonds, heavenly choirs of suns, whirling, flying in exultation and the exuberant wash of heavens around him—
Outside in the hallway came voices.
The rattling turn of the doorknob, the key in the lock—
"Shoo!" Donald shouted.
Through the barred window, the stars rushed out, sucking back up into the near-dawning world.
The window closed and locked.
Donald jumped down upon his bed and into the covers. The key clattered; the doorknob turned.
They came in to find his pillowed tears, and sleeping form.
Wednesday was Dr. Smith day.
"How are we?" Dr. Smith asked, holding her clipboard.
Donald in his chair: knees pulled up, holding his ankles. He looked at the floor, the wall, anything else.
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