It is not definitely known what part, if any, Mr. Smith has played in the recent holocaust although it is thought by some members that Mr. Smith might give an inkling of the future and they have been closely watching the situation.
Mr. Smith's return to Dynamo House was witnessed by a large crowd, who had gathered on the pavements from early afternoon. He was seen to enter the building wearing a red carnation followed by his secretary and he hastily attempted the steps to avoid photographers. Reporters putting questions to Mr. Smith were greeted by a rude noise, and an airy quip by Mr. Smith "Report that to the sanitation department."
Mr. Smith, a military strategist in the last conflict, has consistently refused to give interviews, however, it is known that he occupies two back rooms at Dynamo House having recently removed from an office midtown, but the true nature of his business remains unknown. It had been previously said in some quarters that Mr. Smith was of no fixed address. It is now established he keeps an apartment in Merry Mansions where many of the city's celebrities reside. It is further rumoured that Mr. Smith has been long engaged in the construction of a tomb to house his remains, reputed to be one of the most elaborate ever erected, entirely air conditioned with special foundations to protect the structure from floods and earthquake. The Renown Cemetery authorities refuse to comment on this, said to be the most costly construction to date in the Cemetery and which till now had been associated with the name of a Doctor Fear.
Smith emerging from the back room. Level lipped and grim. Phone ringing. Rapping on the door. All at once. Everything.
"I'll get the door, Miss Martin. You get the phone."
Smith opening the door. A little boy in uniform. A letter.
"Special messenger delivery."
"Thank you."
Smith slowly closing the door in which it seemed a small foot was put.
"I beg your pardon, little boy. Your foot's in the door."
"Yeah."
"Won't you take it out."
"Hey some people, I guess you don't get any appreciation."
"What are you talking about sonny."
"A tip."
"What do you mean a tip."
"Ain't you this guy with his picture in the paper this morning. Well you should give me a tip for bringing a message."
"Just hold it sonny, I'll read it."
i Electricity Street
604 Dynamo
Owl Street
Dear Sir,
How dare you attempt to mail me such a thing. Do not refer to me as Junior.
jjj.
P.S. You will hoot before long.
"Now sonny, if I ever see your face again, I'll put it through the floor. Bye bye."
One finds that the pressures in the world build up and that one unfriendly act begets another. Zoom. Suddenly all dignity is gone. People go in using blows with the shod foot. On the prone figure. Sometimes, even when interpreted as weakness, it's as well to try a certain amount of easy latitude which can lend a bit of nervous laughter to a situation. Therefore I will scribble one last response showing a vestige of faith in his sense of humour.
Dynamo House
Owl Street
Dear Fellow and Junior,
I thought the incredibility of mailing you an unsolicited piece of ass might amuse you. Toodle oo.
George Smith
P.S. I see well in the dark.
"Miss Martin just send off this last letter before packing up."
"Mr. Smith, it's the News Of The Truth asking for comments, what shall I say, about an air conditioned grave."
"Say they've got the wrong number."
"You've got the wrong number, sorry. No. Yes. Mr. Smith. Yes. Mr. Smith, they say they know it's not the wrong number."
"Tell them it will be soon."
"Mr. Smith says it will be soon."
"Now hang up, Miss Martin. Let's get cracking. Find out when passengers debark from the S.S. Gnatit. Check on the car, see it's on the way. Pack up my papers, the green files marked go and lock up the yellow files marked caution and the red marked stop. Don't forget the eraser."
"Please Mr. Smith. I'm already up to my teeth."
"What's that."
"I'm trying to do everything."
"Miss Martin we've got to scram."
"Give me a chance. One thing at a time. Mr. Smith."
"Don't be disloyal at a time like this Miss Martin."
"For God's sake Mr. Smith I'm not being disloyal. I'm going crazy. There. The phone again."
"Just say Beetroot Department."
Miss Martin closing her eyes as she picks up the phone.
These are troubled times.
"Hello, Beetroot Department. Who. No. Not here, wrong number. Mr. Smith, it's a message, from JJJ."
"What is it. Out with it."
"They're reading it."
"What, for God's sake."
"They say, all of us here have been acquainted with your kind before. And as married men with children we will not stand for this latest sauciness."
"Tell them wrong number, beet barge disposal unit for dumping in the bay."
Poor Miss Martin, delivering the message, putting down phone. Pulling out drawers. Collecting papers. Phone ringing again. Marvelous the rapidity of communication. And she says yes mom, I told you mom, chaperoned, yes, just a bunch of young kids, going to the country, games, swimming, tennis, very rich important people mom, 111 never have another chance like this one, she's going to loan me all the clothes I need, mom, please, don't worry, yes, Til ring you, you worry about nothing, you have to trust somebody, do you want me to die without any fun mom, all right, O.K. I'll phone, goodbye mom, I will, I promise, goodbye.
"Mr. Smith, guess you heard that was my mother."
"Yes, Miss Martin."
Smith retreating to rear room. Lifting the white shade a mite to peer out at the glistening tiles. For way up at the end of the shaft the sun is shining and just a ray or two is getting reflected down. I want peace. Candlelight, wine and olives. So many people feel resentment and jealousy. A whiff of spice then, in the window. Out of the warehouse a few buildings away. Cinnamon. Cloves. Bonniface at this second is flatfooting it down the pier stopping momentarily to don roller skates the quicker to nail me at Dynamo House. Ask me if he can stay in my tomb. I say, George, sport, just let me rest up in there.
"Miss Martin the car."
"Mr. Smith I told him the newspaper kiosk at the corner in five minutes."
"You genius Miss Martin. You're ready. Good gracious we've had quite a little morning of it. Don't answer that phone. Somehow I know who it is. Out now* Lock the door. Got the files."
"Yes, Mr. Smith."
"You're sure now you don't feel awkward coming with me."
"No, Mr. Smith."
"Your mother's at ease."
"No."
"That's the way with mothers, Miss Martin. They can never cut the apron strings, always afraid someone will take advantage."
"I know Mr. Smith, it's terrible. I always have to lie."
Sun pouring through the glass doors of Dynamo House. Pigeons pecking. Flow of people in and out. Newspaper said there were crowds but on that rainy day I didn't see a soul. Nor was I sporting the carnation. No one gives a damn for the facts these days. Any second Bonniface will be skidding round the corner on the roller skates.
Mr. Smith and Miss Martin, arms laden. Foolish files. All marked go and green. These two figures emerging from a side door of Dynamo House. Into the pleasure of the breeze. Past pigeon feeders with hats propped back on their heads, communicating with the fat birds. Smith taking a flash of fear up the keester. Some unidentifiable ship blasting its hooter. Denoting all tied up ready to debark the living desperate cargo. One of whom is trying to begin a new life without a bean.