Medically speaking, you shouldn't do more than a sheep would do. The sirens can't be helped. Imagine yourself in a mock meadow, grazing. In a stable being shorn. Work on it.
Quickly,
Doctor Burnheart
44
Dear Doctor Burnheart,
No more than a sheep would do? Should I assume that the operation failed? I was able to do more than a sheep before, with one heart. Am I to assume that the operation did nothing?
Anxiously yours,
Moldenke
45
Dearest Dinky,
What we're after in this particular surgical procedure is longevity. You will probably live longer, though not as well. We're looking for quantity here. And it also has its dangers, most notably the fact that if one goes they all go. Or, be satisfied with the brighter side — since the main one can't possibly fail until the other four in succession do, you'll have a warning, an unmeasured period of grace. We should all be so lucky.
Yours,
The one of hearts,
Doc Burny
46
They drank tea, smoked brown cigars, talked about the weather.
Abruptly, as Shelp was mentioning the possibility of a flood, Moldenke tightened his backpack strap and went to the door, his trenchpants bunched at the knees, adjusting his goggles and gauze pad. "I'm leaving now, Shelp. Would you point me to the south? It's dark. I'm lost without the suns. I have enjoyed the visit. It's nice to meet someone these days who isn't leaking jelly all over. Will you show me the south?"
"What are you hurrying to, Moldenke? Where is it that someone could want to get to? Sit down and act easy. I'll do another weather report. Sit. Don't go off."
Moldenke came back, sat down on a dog bench. "It would be helpful to know the weather. I'll stay for the weather report. Then you'll point me south?"
"Sure I will. I can tell you right now there won't be any suns up for a few days. Government economics, Dink. What can we do? Bees in the hive. You know the story. You'll be walking in the dark for a while. I wish I could help you. I'll do the report."
The wind fence is near completion along the coastal swamps, wind speed down, temperature de-emphasized until same time tomorrow and Sunsday, birdfall seasonal to normal..
Shelp swiveled in his chair and looked at Moldenke.
"Something's wrong, Dink. I'm not doing it right. Words I haven't said are coming out of me."
"The banana flower tea? You might be reacting?"
"No, I don't react. I'll try again."
Snowslides at Modessa, blowing flox in Great Chicago metro area, enclose the animals… no fishing in the water tubs. . possible flooding on the River Odorous. .
"Moldenke, it isn't right. ."
"Well, what now?"
"Watch the instruments."
Moldenke watched the instruments. All needles returned to zero. "They all went off."
"Bunce was listening. He turned them off."
"I know the story, Shelp. I've been the hero of it. The next thing to go will be the electricity, then the gas, then the water. You should get away from this place, Shelp. Come along with me. Burnheart would like you." Shelp went to the telephone and waited. The telephone rang.
"Bunce?"
"I don't like the weather forecast, Shelp. I'd like a spell of moonlight. I'm entertaining a few of the folks on my k-yacht. See what you can do. Don't be clowning. And tell my pal Moldenke to stay where he is. I'm sending a man out."
"My apologies, Bunce."
"Enough chatter. Do the report again, with moonlight this time. Get it on, Shelp."
Shelp hung up and went back to the microphone:
Seven oval spheres in Scorpio according to the charts, probable deadly Friday, chance of a two-Tuesday mock week, brackish drizzles in the midlands, lozenges melting in the drugstores. . "I'm sunk, Moldenke. It doesn't jell."
"I'll take you to Burnheart's. We shouldn't be piddling if he's sending a man out."
"I don't know where the words came from, Moldenke."
"Ignore it, ignore Bunce. Come south with me."
The lights went out. The embers of the fire allowed a dome of glow, covering Moldenke. Shelp lay in the dark.
"As I said before, Shelp. Let's go south."
"No, Moldenke. I shouldn't. Someone has to stay behind and do the weather as long as the microphone is on."
"Shelp, the microphone is on?" He whispered.
"It is if the pilot light is lit." The pilot light was lit.
"Burnheart wasn't wrong. He has flaws." He whispered, "Shelp, is that microphone connected up with all the radios? Is it live, is it that live?"
"I would assume so, why?"
"Shelp!" He was too loud. He whispered again, palming the microphone. "Shelp, I'll say a few words to the folks."
Shelp went to the lookout and listened to the weather. Moldenke approached the microphone.
47
Moldenke had been shrimping in a water tub when Eagleman's moon came down. It first fell twenty degrees of altitude and stopped, vibrated, dimmed, and returned to its original spot. Someone told Moldenke that it had been a seasonal drop, something of stellar influences, nothing to be excited about. He threw the shrimp net again, drew it in empty. Someone said, "No shrimping in the water tubs."
The moon grew suddenly bright, fell to the horizon, held there like a baseball in the mud, and gradually went out.
Moldenke raised the wick of his k-lamp.
48
"Folks, please pay attention to this announcement. This is not a weather report." He imagined his voice echoing in stadiums, in dark rooms, interrupting jellyhead workers. "My friend here is Shelp. My name is Moldenke, out of Texaco City. It's time we ended our backward ways. Don't be pinned like a flutterby in a camphor box. Get up, go out and mill in the street. What can they do, occupy the rooms? Everybody turn on the faucets. Open the lookouts and turn on the heaters. Heat the city. Protcher a friend in a tender place. Be good. Be sensitive to the flow, listen to the hum. As I said, this is not a weather report. This is Moldenke of Texaco City. Bloodboy, mock soldier, banana man, shrimper — I've done my share of swallowing chuff." Shelp turned from the lookout.
"You're doing good, Dink. Don't get excited, though."
"Turn the volume up, folks. The weather is improving in spurts. Remember the old sun? The old moon? The old songs we used to sing about them? The government sent Eagleman and his moon to wane in the country, sent up its own moons. Up they went, a new mock moon every paper month, confusing the issue of tides. At least with Eagleman's moon we could get to see a sky movie every month. Now, what now? The g-boys give us gauze and goggles, encouraging indoor play. They send out a herd of jellyheads to do the mock work and the rest of us hole up in our rooms."
"Ease off, Moldenke. You're getting me excited. My hearts. . one of them quit on me yesterday."
Moldenke switched off the microphone. The lights flickered and went on. The gauges came to life, gave false readings.
"Shelp, you have hearts?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Eleven."
"What kind?"
"Sheep and dog alternating, and one calf." He opened his khaki and Moldenke saw the scar, the chest heaving, rippling, ticking. Moldenke went close and protchered a soft wattle under Shelp's chin. "I like you, Shelp. Let's go south. No more time games. He's sending a man out."
"I can't, Moldenke. When one of them goes — "
"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."