But around one machine a group had gathered. The people were crowding one another excitedly, as though a great wonder were in their midst.
Paul and Finnerty left the car to examine the mystery, and saw that the center of attention was an Orange-O machine. Orange-O, Paul recalled, was something of a cause celebre, for no one in the whole country, apparently, could stomach the stuff--no one save Doctor Francis Eldgrin Gelhorne, National Industrial, Commercial, Communications, Foodstuffs, and Resources Director. As a monument to him, Orange-O machines stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest, though the coin-box collectors never found anything in the machines but stale Orange-O.
But now the excretor of the blended wood pulp, dye, water, and orange-type flavoring was as popular as a nymphomaniac at an American Legion convention.
"O.K., now let's try anotha' nickel in her an' see how she does," said a familiar voice from behind the machine--the voice of Bud Calhoun.
"Clunkle" went the coin, and then a whir, and a gurgle.
The crowd was overjoyed.
"Filled the cup almost to the top that time; and she's nice and cold now, too," called the man by the machine's spout.
"But the light behind the Orange-O sign didn't light up," said a woman. "Supposed to."
"We'll fix that, won't we, Bud?" said another voice from behind the machine. "You people get me about three feet of that red wire hanging out of the shoeshine machine, and somebody let me borrow their penknife a second." The speaker stood up and stretched, and smiled contentedly, and Paul recognized him: the tall, middle-aged, ruddy-faced man who'd fixed Paul's car with the sweatband of his hat long ago.
The man had been desperately unhappy then. Now he was proud and smiling because his hands were busy doing what they liked to do best, Paul supposed--replacing men like himself with machines. He hooked up the lamp behind the Orange-O sign. "There we are."
Bud Calhoun bolted on the back. "Now try her."
The people applauded and lined up, eager for their Orange-O. The first man up emptied his cup, and went immediately to the end of the line for seconds.
"Now, le's have a look at this li'l ol' ticket seller," said Bud. "Oh, oh. Got it right through the microphone."
"I knew we'd be able to use the telephone out in the street for something," said the ruddy man. "I'll go get it."
The crowd, filled with Orange-O, was drifting over to encourage them in their new enterprise.
When Paul and Finnerty returned to the limousine, they found Lasher and von Neumann looking extremely glum, engaged in conversation with a bright-looking teenager.
"Have you seen an eighth-horsepower electric motor lying around anywhere?" said the youngster. "One that isn't busted up too bad?"
Lasher shook his head.
"Well, I just have to keep looking, I guess," said the youngster, picking up a cardboard carton jammed with gears, tubes, switches, and other odd parts. "This place is a gold mine, all right, but it's tough finding exactly what you need."
"I imagine," said Lasher.
"Yep, if I had a decent little motor to go with what I got," said the youngster excitedly, "I'll betch anything I could make a gadget that'd play drums like nothing you ever heard before. See, you take a selsyn, and--"
"Proteus! Finnerty!" said Lasher irritably. "What's been keeping you?"
"Didn't know you were in a hurry to get anywhere," said Finnerty.
"Well, I am. Let's go."
"Where to?" Finnerty started the car.
"Griffin Boulevard. The roadblock."
"What's going on out there?" asked Paul.
"The authorities are waiting for the people of Ilium to turn over their false leaders," said Lasher. "Anybody want to get out? I'll drive myself, if you like."
Finnerty stopped the car.
"Well?" said Lasher.
"I suppose now is the time," said von Neumann matter-of-factly.
Paul said nothing, but made no move to get out.
Finnerty waited a moment longer, then pressed down on the accelerator.
No one spoke until they reached the concertina of barbed wire, the felled telephone poles, and the sandbags of the Griffin Boulevard roadblock. Two brown men, elegantly costumed--Khashdrahr Miasma and the Shah of Bratpuhr--huddled together, asleep in a slit trench to the left of the barricade. Beyond the barbed wire, their wheels toward heaven, were two riddled, abandoned state police cars.
Professor von Neumann looked out over the country-side through his field glasses. "Aha! The authorities." He handed the glasses to Paul. "There--to the left of that barn. See?"
Paul squinted at the three armored cars by the barn, and the police with their riot guns, lounging, smoking, chatting cheerfully.
Lasher patted Paul on his shoulder as Paul handed the glasses on to him. "Smile, Doctor Proteus--you're somebody now, like your old man was. Who's got a bottle?"
Finnerty produced one.
Lasher took it, and toasted the others. "To all good Indians," he said, "past, present, and future. Or, more to the point--to the record."
The bottle went around the group.
"The record," said Finnerty, and he seemed satisfied with the toast. He had got what he wanted from the revolution, Paul supposed--a chance to give a savage blow to a close little society that made no comfortable place for him.
"To the record," said von Neumann. He, too, seemed at peace. To him, the revolution had been a fascinating experiment, Paul realized. He had been less interested in achieving a premeditated end than in seeing what would happen with given beginnings.
Paul took the bottle and studied Lasher for a moment over its fragrant mouth. Lasher, the chief instigator of it all, was contented. A lifelong trafficker in symbols, he had created the revolution as a symbol, and was now welcoming the opportunity to die as one.
And that left Paul. "To a better world," he started to say, but he cut the toast short, thinking of the people of Ilium, already eager to recreate the same old nightmare. He shrugged. "To the record," he said, and smashed the empty bottle on a rock.
Von Neumann considered Paul and then the broken glass. "This isn't the end, you know," he said. "Nothing ever is, nothing ever will be--not even Judgment Day."
"Hands up," said Lasher almost gaily. "Forward March."
PLAYER PIANO
A Dial Press Trade Paperback Book PUBLISHING HISTORY
Delacorte Press/Seymour Lawrence hardcover edition published 1952
Delta Trade Paperback edition published January 1999
Dial Press Trade Paperback edition/September 2006
Published by The Dial Press
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright (c) 1952, 1980 by Kurt Vonnegut The Dial Press and Dial Press Trade Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-154037
eISBN: 978-0-30756808-3
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