The slit above the controls showed him that dim-lit tunnel. He sat before it, grasped the levers to either side, and pushed them forward quite carefully. The tank cranked, then coughed, then clanked into motion. Warily, though, Father Vidicon held its speed to crawling, not much faster than he could walk. His gain was that he could travel sitting down, but in truth 'twas the thrill of adventure in operation a device hitherto unknown.
So he went grinding down that tunnel, allowing a little more speed, then a little more, until he was traveling at a pace quite decent— 'til a sudden crash did sound upon his right and the tank did slew about. At once Father Vidicon did throttle down and the tank slowed dutifully—but slewed as it slowed, and Father Vidicon realized that he swinging about and about in a circle.
He pulled back on the levers, killed the engine, then clambered out of the hatch, setting foot down onto the right tread—and found nothing there beneath his step. He froze, then levered himself up and about to climb down the left-hand tread instead, then walked around the machine and saw that the right-hand tread was gone indeed. Looking back down the tunnel, he saw it lying like a length of limber lumber on the ground. Frowning then, he came close and sat upon his heels to study the end, and saw where the connection had broken, crystallized metal fractured, as indeed it might have if this Sherman tank had really sat in wait through six decades. " 'Nature always sides with the hidden flaw,' " he mused, then stiffened, remembering that he quoted a corollary of Murphy's Law. Yet he had defeated Murphy—so which of his henchmen had engineered this mishap?
Or was it a henchman? It might well have been a monstrosity quite equal, for Murphy's Law was itself a corollary of Finagle's General Statement, and many were the minions of Finagle.
Suspending judgment, the Blessed One rose to stand and turned his face ahead. Onward he strode down the tunnel.
Then came he to a bank of recorders whose reels spun two-inch tape. He frowned, remembering such things from his youth, but finding no television cameras or control chains nearby—but his eye did light upon an antique electric typewriter without a platen. "A computer terminal!" he cried in delight, and went to sit by the console and log on.
Behind him reels did hum, and he froze, reminding himself that he dealt with a device unknown. Casually, then, he typed in a program he knew well—but when he directed the computer to run, the reels spun only for a minute before the printer chattered. Looking over to it, he saw the words, "Error on Line 764"—but the type-ball flew on until it had drawn a picture in marks of punctuation. Peering closer, Father Vidicon beheld the image of a beetle. "It doth generate bugs!" quoth he, then realized that he was in a realm in which any device would have a hidden flaw.
Rising from that place, he resolved most sternly that he would ignore any other device he found, and onward marched.
Full ten minutes did he stride before a doorway blocked his path, and a lighted panel lit above it in the yellow-lettered word rehearsal. The Blessed One's pulse did quicken, resolution forgotten, for in life he had been a video engineer, and he quite clearly did approach a television studio much like the one in which he first had learned to operate camera, in the days of his youth.
He wondered if he should enter, but saw no reason not to, if the souls within were only in rehearsal. He hauled open the sand-filled door, discovering a small chamber six feet square with a similar door set opposite him and another in its side, as a proper sound lock should have. He closed the door behind him carefully, so that sound might not be admitted, then opened the door to the side and stepped into the control room.
It lay in gloom, with three tiers of seats rising, all facing bank upon bank of monitors—the first tier of seats for the engineers, the second for the switcher, director, and assistant director, and the third for observers. Each position sat in its own pool of light from tiny spotlights hung above.
None were peopled. He stood alone.
Looking out through the control room window, he saw the studio likewise unpeopled, but the huge old monochrome cameras aimed at easels, each with a stack of pictures. Even as he watched, the tally light on Camera One went out as its mate atop Camera Two came on, and on Camera One's easel, one picture fell to the floor, revealing another behind it.
Father Vidicon frowned; it was clearly an automatic studio, and even more clearly a temptation. Still, he saw no harm in it, and since the studio blocked the tunnel, it had to be navigated—so he sat down before the switched, smiling fondly as he saw only a preview bank, two mixing banks, and a downstream key cluster; the memories that it evoked were dear.
But he could not wallow long in nostalgia, for a voice called from the intercom, "Air in five . . . four . . . three . . ."
Quickly, the saint split the faders and went to black.
" . . . two . . . one . . . You're on!" the voice cried.
Father Vidicon faded in Camera One, seeing a vision of St. Mark's Plaza appear on the program monitor as a mellow voice began to narrate a travelogue. Father Vidicon glanced at Camera Two's monitor, saw a close-up of the gilded lion, and readied a finger over the button "Two" on the air bank. As the voice began to speak of the lion, he punched the button, and the close-up of the lion appeared on program. Grinning then, he began to fall into the old rhythm of a program, taking from one detail to another, then seeing a photograph of a gondola on a canal and dissolving to it.
Just as the picture became clear though, the picture fluxed, shrinking, then expanding, then shrinking to die. Instantly did Father Vidicon dissolve back to Camera One—and it too bloomed and died.
"Telecine!" he roared, that his voice might be heard through the director's headset (since he wore none). "Trouble slide!"
And Lo! The telecine screen lit with a picture of an engineer enwrapped in layers of videotape as he spooled frantically through an antique videotape recorder, attempting to clear a jam. It was a still picture only, so Father Vidicon leaned back with a sigh, then rose on rather wobbly legs. "I should have known," he muttered, "should have remembered." Then he walked, though rather unsteadily, back into the sound lock, then on into the studio. Around the cameras he went and drew aside the heavy velvet drape that hid the back wall—and sure enough, it had hidden also the double door to the scenery storage room. He hauled open portal, stepped in among the ranked flats, threaded his way through piled sofas and stacked chairs, and found the entry door beyond. He opened it, stepped through, and found himself back in the dim light of the maroon tunnel. He set off again, mouth in a grim line, for, said he unto himself, "Now, then, we know which minion of Finagle's we shall face"—for surely there could be no doubt who sided with the hidden flaw, who made machinery fail in crucial moments, who was attracted to devices more strongly as they became more complicated, and it was not Nature.
And Lo! The monster did approach—or, more precisely, the Saint did approach the monster, who smiled as he saw the Blessed One approach, glanced down to make a check mark on his clipboard, then looked up again to grin—or his lips did; Father Vidicon could not see his eyes, since they were shadowed by a visor of green, and his face that of a gnome, not a man. He wore a shirt that was striped and held by sleeve-garters, its collar tightened by a necktie, though over it he was clothed in coveralls (but they were pin-striped), and he left hand bore socket wrenches in place of fingers. Clean-shaven he was, and round-faced, smiling with delight full cynical, the whiles his right hand did play upon a keyboard.