Belinda opened the book. On the flyleaf was written
To Jetboy's American Friend, Belinda, from Mrs. William Heelis ("Beatrix Potter")
12 April 1943
Jetboy drank the coffee Belinda made for him. "Where are your friends?" he asked.
"Well, he they should have been here by now. I was thinking of going down the hall to the phone and trying to call them. I can change, and we can sit around and talk about old times. I really can call."
"No," said Jetboy "Tell you what. I'll call you later on in the week; we can get together some night when you're not busy. That would be fun."
"Sure would." Jetboy got up to go.
"Thank you for the books, Bobby. They mean a lot to me, they really do."
"It's real good to see you again, Bee."
Thirty Minutes Over Broadway!
"Nobody's called me that since the orphanage. Call me real soon, will you?"
"Sure will." He leaned down and kissed her again.
He walked to the stairs. As he was going down, a guy in a modified zoot suit-pegged pants, long coat, watch chain, bow tie the size of a coat hanger, hair slicked back, reeking of Brylcreem and Old Spice-went up the stairs two at a time, whistling "It Ain't the Meat, It's the Motion."
Jetboy heard him knocking at Belinda's door. Outside, it had begun to rain.
"Great. Just like in a movie," said Jetboy.
The next night was quiet as a graveyard.
Then dogs all over the Pine Barrens started to bark. Cats screamed. Birds flew in panic from thousands of trees, circled, swooping this way and that in the dark night.
Static washed over every radio in the northeastern United States. New television sets flared out, volume doubling. People gathered around nine-inch Dumonts jumped back at the sudden noise and light, dazzled in their own living rooms and bars and sidewalks outside appliance stores all over the East Coast.
To those out in that hot August night it was even more spectacular. A thin line of light, high up, moved, brightened, still falling. Then it expanded, upping in brilliance, changed into a blue-green bolide, seemed to stop, then flew to a hundred falling sparks that slowly faded on the dark starlit sky. Some people said they saw another, smaller light a few minutes later. It seemed to hover, then sped off to the west, growing dimmer as it flew. The newspapers had been full of stories of the "ghost rockets" in Sweden all that summer. It was the silly season.
A few calls to the weather bureau or Army Air Force bases got the answer that it was probably a stray from the Delta Aquarid meteor shower.
Out in the Pine Barrens, somebody knew differently, though he wasn't in the mood to communicate it to anyone.
Jetboy, dressed in a loose pair of pants, a shirt, and a brown aviator's jacket, walked in through the doors of the Blackwell Printing Company. There was a bright red-and-blue sign above the door: Home of the Cosh Comics Company. He stopped at the receptionist's desk.
"Robert Tomlin to see Mr. Farrell."
The secretary, a thin blond job in glasses with swept-up rims that made it look like a bat was camping on her face, stared at him. "Mr. Farrell passed on in the winter of 1945. Were you in the service or something?"
"Something."
"Would you like to speak to Mr. Lowboy? He has Mr. Farrell's job now."
"Whoever's in charge of Jetboy Comics."
The whole place began shaking as printing presses cranked up in the back of the building. On the walls of the office were garish comic-book covers, promising things only they could deliver.
"Robert Tomlin," said the secretary to the intercom. "Scratch squawk never heard of him squich." "What was this about?" asked the secretary.
"Tell him Jetboy wants to see him."
"Oh," she said, looking at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you."
"Nobody ever does."
Lowboy looked like a gnome with all the blood sucked out. He was as pale as Harry Langdon must have been, like a weed grown under a burlap bag.
"Jetboy!" He held out a hand like a bunch of grub worms. "We all thought you'd died until we saw the papers last week. You're a real national hero, you know?"
"I don't feel like one."
"What can I do for you? Not that I'm not pleased to finally meet you. But you must be a busy man."
"Well, first, I found out none of the licensing and royalty checks had been deposited in my account since I was reported Missing and Presumed Dead last summer."
"What, really? The legal department must have put it in escrow or something until somebody came forward with a claim. I'll get them right on it."
"Well, I'd like the check now, before I leave," said Jetboy. "Huh? I don't know if they can do that. That sounds awfully abrupt."
Jetboy stared at him.
"Okay, okay, let me call Accounting." He yelled into the telephone.
"Oh," said Jetboy. "A friend's been collecting my copies. I checked the statement of ownership and circulation for the last two years. I know Jetboy Comics have been selling five hundred thousand copies an issue lately."
Lowboy yelled into the phone some more. He put it down. "It'll take 'em a little while. Anything else?"
"I don't like what's happening to the funny book," said Jetboy.
"What's not to like? It's selling a half a million copies a monthl"
"For one thing, the plane's getting to look more and more like a bullet. And the artists have swept back the wings, for Christ's sakesl"
"This is the Atomic Age, kid. Boys nowadays don't like a plane that looks like a red leg of lamb with coat hangers sticking out the front."
"Well, it's always looked like that. And another thing: Why's the damned plane blue in the last three issues?"
"Not mel I think red's fine. But Mr. Blackwell sent down a memo, said no more red except for blood. He's a big Legionnaire."
"Tell him the plane has to look right, and be the right color. Also, the combat reports were forwarded. When Farrell was sitting at your desk, the comic was about flying and combat, and cleaning up spy rings-real stuff. And there were never more than two ten-page Jetboy stories an issue."
"When Farrell was at this desk, the book was only selling a quarter-million copies a month," said Lowboy.
Robert stared at him again.
"I know the war's over, and everybody wants a new house and eye-bulging excitement," said Jetboy. "But look what I find in the last eighteen months."
"I never fought anyone like The Undertaker, anyplace called The Mountain of Doom. And come on! The Red Skeleton? Mr. Maggot? Professor Blooteaux? What is this with all the skulls and tentacles? I mean, evil twins named Sturm and Drang Hohenzollern? The Arthropod Ape, a gorilla with six sets of elbows? Where do you get all this stuff?"
"It's not me, it's the writers. They're a crazy bunch, always taking Benzedrine and stuff. Besides, it's what the kids want!"
"What about the flying features, and the articles on real aviation heroes? I thought my contract called for at least two features an issue on real events and people?"
"We'll have to look at it again. But I can tell you, kids don't want that kind of stuff anymore. They want monsters, spaceships, stuff that'll make 'em wet the bed. You remember? You were a kid once yourself!"
Jetboy picked up a pencil from the desk. "I was thirteen when the war started, fifteen when they bombed Pearl Harbor. I've been in combat for six years. Sometimes I don't think I was ever a kid."
Lowboy was quiet a moment.
"Tell you what you need to do," he said. "You need to write up all the stuff you don't like about the book and send it to us. I'll have the legal department go over it, and we'll try to do something, work things out. Of course, we print three issues ahead, so it'll be Thanksgiving before the new stuff shows up. Or later."