Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

Chapter 8

Tony leaned back from the kiss to gasp for air. “Wow,” he said softly.

“Wow is right,” Sandy said, a little breathless, and started to lean forward again.

Frantically, Tony glanced at his watch. “Blast! I told that cab driver half an hour!”

Sandy only stared at him in disbelief.

“I can’t believe it’s been that long.” Tony stood up. “Thanks for the taste.”

Outrage hovered about Sandy until she saw the glass in his hand. He drank it off, then set it down as he moved to the door. “Thanks very much. It’s been magical.”

“Oh!” Sandy paused in following him, momentarily confused, then said, “You can always call another cab.”

“I could,” Tony said, “but the half hour limit was a timing device.”

“Timing?” Sandy was thinking about being angry again. “Why would you need it?”

“To make sure I don’t ask for too much.”

The anger evaporated; she smiled, stepping closer. “What if I wanted you to?”

“All the more reason why I shouldn’t ask,” Tony said, “the first time you let me in.”

Somehow Sandy was closer than six inches. “How about the second time?”

“Ask me and find out,” Tony said, and meant to open the door, but her lips were so very close, so soft and tempting, then brushing against his, he was exploring them with his own, tasting, savoring, and he felt her body against his own, printing its image, astounding, burning . . .

He lifted his head with a gasp, breathed, “Thank you,” and slipped out the door.

He pulled it shut behind him, then sagged back against it until his knees were strong enough to hold him. As he went down the stairs, he knew this was one night he would never, ever forget.

When he got back to his apartment, Tony flipped through the day’s collection of mail and found an invitation to a seminar about the latest operating system innovation, which made him wonder if that was how Sandy had learned computers. Then he made a hot drink, which reminded him of the coffee breaks he’d interrupted, which reminded him of Sandy, and watched an episode of a sitcom featuring ordinary young people (like himself) talking about inconsequentialities that mattered to people his age, all of which reminded him of Sandy.

In fact, that evening, everything reminded him of Sandy.

Sighing, he gave up and went to bed, expecting to dream about Sandy.

Instead, the moment he fell asleep, he found himself back in the moist maroon hallway walking beside Father Vidicon, who gave him a merry look and said, “You’re drafted.”

Tony’s pulse leaped; he found himself grinning with anticipation. “Whose crisis is it this time?”

“The frame storer died?” Beth cried. “How am I supposed to put the phone number on the screen?”

“Use the character generator, of course.” Bill was producing the pledge breaks and didn’t see the problem.

Beth took a breath and a firm hold on her temper. “The character generator’s down.” It had suffered one of the thousand shocks that microprocessors are heir to and was writing squiggles onto the screen instead of titles.

Bill stared at her blankly. “Then use the graphics generator.”

“Its title program crashed.”

Bill stared, appalled. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“Because I had the slides in the frame storer!”

Bill shook his head, mystified by the ways of directors. “They were all working this afternoon.”

“Sure,” Beth said, “before the engineers went home. How am I supposed to direct a pledge break without being able to put up the telephone number for the viewers to call?”

Finally, Bill was beginning to look rattled. “Call Jerry.”

Jerry was the chief engineer. “I did. I left a message on his voice mail.”

“I thought he had a cell phone!”

“He does. It’s turned off. Angelica remembered that he said something about taking his wife to the movies.”

“George, then!”

“George had to go to Springfield to fix the satellite transmitter. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

Bill’s face could have passed for the Mask of Tragedy. “Any of the other engineers?”

“Erin’s in the orchestra in the middle of a concert. Joe’s at a seminar. Ned has a hot date.”

Bill threw his hands up. “I’ll find a card and some paint. Meantime, tell Angelica to roll the blackboard over and write the number and the server address on it.” Bill glanced up at the control room clock. “We’d better hurry—twelve minutes to the next break.” He bustled off to the scene shop to hunt for a can of paint and a brush.

Beth sighed and turned back to the control room. With the overhead lights turned off, only the pin spots lit the desktops in the room. Recessed in the ceiling with only two-inch holes for their beams, they gave the impression that the crew stations were glowing by themselves. The reason, of course, was to avoid glare on the banks of television screens that lined the north wall. Ordinarily it was a tranquil sight, one that soothed Beth’s nerves even when she was about to go on air. Tonight, though, they seemed to accuse her, with their pictures of the panel of volunteers ready to answer telephones; Dolores, the Director of Development, chatting with her guest of the evening about what kind of pitches they were going to make in ten minutes; and of the tally board with its list of pledges and their current total.

See, we’re here, we’re ready, the pictures seemed to say. Why can’t you put us on the air?

Well, Beth would have to, and hope the viewers had paper and pencil ready to write down the phone number. Even as she watched, a volunteer came into the shot of the tally board and chalked up a new pledge.

Beth felt hot tears trying to push their way into her eyes and angrily shook her head. She wouldn’t let the equipment defeat her! She’d just been promoted from crew; this was only her second time directing, and no matter how understanding the production manager was, he couldn’t help but be influenced by the sight of a blackboard with phone numbers on it. And she had so wanted these pledge breaks to look really good!

She sat down at the switcher and ran her fingers over the buttons that each represented a camera or another picture-generating gadget. Deep within its innards, the frame storer thumbed its metaphorical nose at her, and it was all she could do to keep from slapping the blasted thing in hopes that a good sharp shock might jolt a loose connection back into place. That was only likely to make it worse, of course.

Sighing, Beth punched up the frame storer and made one more try at keying it over the shot of Dolores and her guest. All she saw were squiggly lines. Squinting, she decided they looked a little like Arabic letters. Maybe if they could find a Syrian engineer . . .

Or one who was a saint. Bits of her childhood religion classes came back to her, joined with the story she’d read about the video engineer who had died at his post in Rome, and she found herself praying, St. Vidicon of Cathode, protect me from Finagle!

Ridiculous, of course—but when you couldn’t do anything else, you grasped at straws. It wouldn’t do any good, but it made her feel better; the hot tears even receded from her eyes.

Tony sympathized with the poor kid even as he was trying to find his way through the tortuous turns of the printed circuit boards. The mist around him was silver this time, that being the color of the right-angled snail trails printed on the cards.

Tony felt a moment’s exasperation. What did he know about video equipment? But he did understand microprocessors, and this switcher had its share.

Then he saw it—a tentacle trailing around a corner ahead. He was getting closer! He swam faster, his sodden pyjamas dragging against the fog, and spread his arms as he banked around the turn.

Tentacles whipped about him, binding his legs tight, as a dozen reedy voices cheered. By great good luck, he’d had his arms outstretched, so they were free. He tore at the tentacles around him, but dozens of the slimy things dragged his arms against his sides and pinned him there. They rolled him upright, and he stared at a dozen miniature beings with long torsos, little bandy legs, and four tentacles in place of each arm. Another four sprouted from each head above saucer eyes in noseless faces. Lipless mouths split in grins as the dozen homunculi cheered, “The engineer is bound, and the malfunction will endure!”

In desperation, Tony called out, “St. Vidicon, save me from . . .”

A tentacle slapped over his mouth, and Tony had to finish the sentence inside his head: “. . . from gremlkins!”

He seemed to hear a voice inside his head say, Courage, troubleshooter, and felt a sudden weight in his hand. He didn’t have to look down to know what it was—the grip of a soldering gun was as familiar as the weight of his laptop. He squeezed the trigger.

A gremlkin yelped and a tentacle uncoiled from Tony’s waist. The gremlkin blew on the burned spot, then sucked on it. Tony had a little more freedom of movement; he angled his wrist, hoping to hit another tentacle, and another gremlkin yelped and let go. Suddenly all the tentacles whipped away. Tony dived toward them, the tip of his soldering gun glowing.

Another tentacle slapped around his wrist, dragging aside the hand that held the soldering gun—but Tony only dived toward its owner, who squalled at the approaching glow and stiffened his tentacle to try to hold Tony away—but Tony angled the tip toward the tentacle, and the gremlkin let go with alacrity.

“Surround!” a voice called, and the gremlkins leaped to obey. Tony pivoted, seeing gremlkins wherever he looked, and his heart sank. He might turn about and about as quickly as he liked, but as soon as one group of gremlkins attacked him, the others would be at his back, tentacles binding his arms and legs. Sooner or later, one of them was bound to think of slapping the hand that held the soldering gun, and Tony didn’t know if he could hold on to it.

But they weren’t exactly geniuses, these gremlkins; with one massed shout, they all leaped in—and Tony shot up high where they couldn’t reach. They churned for a minute slapping at each other, long enough for Tony to aim himself ready to singe any tentacles that came his way. He waited and wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead.

Sweat?

Now that Tony thought about it, this silver mist was heating up. With a shock, he realized why and let up on the trigger. The tip cooled, but Tony’s brow squeezed out a few more drops, and he knew it would take the metal around him a little while to cool.

The gremlkins saw and cheered, even as they too started wiping away drops of sweat, and one of them called, “Let him be! He will melt this circuit, and our work will be done for us!”

Stalemate! But Tony had to try something. He squeezed the trigger again and dived toward the knot of gremlkins. They saw the glow zooming toward them and shot away, braying alarm.

Grinning, Tony let up on the trigger and chased them. One looked back, cried, “It cools!” and stopped. The others turned, thinking of making a stand—but Tony squeezed the trigger again, the tip glowed, and the gremlkins shot off and away, howling.

Tony swam after them, not so much because he wanted to catch them—certainly not!—but because he was trying to find out why this circuit board didn’t work.

He found it. He rounded a corner and saw a chasm looming ahead. The gremlkins, instead of slowing down or skidding to a halt, sped up. In fact, by the time they reached the lip of the chasm, they were rocketing so fast that they leaped out into space, arcing high to land on the far side, then turned back to stick out their tongues and waggle their tentacles at Tony.

But Tony wasn’t after them, he was after a repair. He skidded to a halt and scowled down at the chasm. This was what was wrong with the frame storer, then—metal fatigue, or a sudden shock, had cracked the circuit board, a hairline crack that was so fine he would probably have missed it if he’d been looking at the cards to check them. Since he was microscopic, though, it was very much apparent.

But being microscopic, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do. He couldn’t exactly pull out the circuit board and push in a replacement. He also couldn’t fill it with solder.

Unless . . .

The gremlkins jeered, making rude noises, breaking his chain of thought. Irritably, he dismissed them, trying to concentrate—but one, determined to distract him, leaped high, disappeared into the gloom above—and didn’t come down. Perched on a nut or bolt in the top panel of the switcher, no doubt—but its tentacle came swinging down, whirled in a circle, then slapped straight at Tony.

He saw it coming in the nick of time and ducked—then realized he was looking at opportunity. The tentacle came swinging back. Tony set the soldering gun’s tip against the lip of the precipice and pulled the trigger, then caught the tentacle, wrapping its end between his feet as though it were a climbing rope in gym class. The gremlkin squalled in surprize, but its tentacle was already swinging back—and a trail of silvery metal followed it. The gremlkin tried to yank its appendage out of harm’s way, but Tony was too heavy. Then he felt the tentacle slowing—the gremlkin had enough strength for that, anyway—so he let go, shooting feetfirst toward the far bank.

Gremlkins squalled, scrambling out of his way. Tony landed and spun to look back. Sure enough, on such a small (relative to his normal size) crack, the metal was strong enough to stretch, not break, under the heat of his soldering gun. Tony pressed it to the cliff edge at his feet, and it blended with the cliff. Tony looked out over his slender bridge and grinned.

Current flowed, heating the strand cherry red—but its heat melted both sides of the chasm, hotter and hotter until the lips of the cliffs turned molten and began to trickle out along the strand that joined them. Finally, it flared, burning through, but the waves from each side had enough momentum to flow together, making a thicker bridge—so both sides kept melting, slowly at first, then more and more until, with a roar, they both fell into the chasm. Molten metal churned, rising, until it reached the level Tony stood on.

Beth sat at the director’s position with a feeling of impending doom. She put on her headset, and asked, “Okay, Ernie?”

“Everybody in place and waiting, Beth,” the floor manager answered.

“Okay, then.” Beth glanced up at the clock. “Going in ten.” She looked up to see the famous tenor’s face fade into a blank screen. “Going in five, four, three, two—cue her and fade in three!”

The screen brightened with the picture of Dolores and her guest side by side. “What a magnificent voice he has! Lena, tenors aren’t supposed to sound so full, are they?”

“Not many,” the voice professor agreed. “That man is very rare, with so rich a voice in so high a range.”

“We’re not so rich, though.” Dolores turned to the camera.

“Zoom in to head and shoulders,” Beth said.

Dolores’s head and shoulders swelled to fill the screen as she said, “Here at WBEG, we operate on a very slender budget, and if we don’t make our pledge goal, we won’t be able to keep bringing you performances like these.”

“Take two,” Beth said, and she saw the music professor’s face on the screen, saying, “Join me in making a pledge to our station. I have it deducted from my paycheck.”

“Zoom out,” Beth said, and the professor grew smaller on the screen as Dolores swam into it, telling the viewers, “If you don’t work for the university, just call in and tell one of our volunteers what you’re willing to pledge to keep these wonderful programs coming. Just call this number.”

Beth’s stomach tightened. “Ready one.” She glanced at the monitor with the very amateurish numbers painted on it and knew she was headed back to working floor crew.

“Frame store is back!” Barry shouted.

Everybody turned to stare at the effects screen.