Alan Dean Foster - The Metrognome And Other Stories

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THE METROGNOME AND OTHER STORIES
Alan Dean Foster
INTRODUCTION
GYRO GEARLOOSE, the ultimate inventor created by the immortal Carl Barks, one day invents a machine that can
answer any question. Deciding to start it out with something simple, he points to a small bird outside his window and
inquires of the device, "Why is that bird singing?" Whereupon the machine replies, "Oh, maybe he's glad, maybe he's
sad, maybe he's a little mad. "
The great Gearloose was not expecting lack of precision. He promptly embarks on a series of attempts to best his
own creation by learning exactly why the bird is singing. Repeatedly frustrated, he is forced to invent an entirely new
machine to translate the bird's voice so he can ask it the question directly. At which point it declaims, "Maybe I'm sad,
maybe I'm glad, maybe I'm a little mad."
Which is not a bad reply for an author to give when asked why one writes short stories.
There's certainly no practical reason to do so. Only a handful of writers can make any kind of living from writing
short science fiction today. The rewards are in novels. The financial rewards, that is. There are other kinds.
When readers get together, they seem to spend most of their time discussing novels. Short fiction rates a mention
only in passing, if at all. But when they're alone and reminiscing, I have this hunch it might be an author's short fiction
that they remember most fondly. Something about a short piece's very brevity helps it linger in the mind.
Ideas tend to get lost in a novel, overwhelmed by character or drained by the need to support the plot. In a short
story the idea is paramount, not the hero or alien menace. The idea is the story. Brevity lets the author concentrate on
the idea to the exclusion of all else. Nor are there considerations of length to worry about. A novel must be a certain
length to be acceptable. In short fiction the development of the idea determines the length.
That's why it's so difficult to create real characters in a short tale, where the luxury of time is not present. Where
the idea is paramount, the writer must accomplish the task of character description quickly. There's no time for idle
chatter or a profusion of florid adjectives. In one story Eric Frank Russell identifies a minor character thus: "He was a
real ladies' man; big, handsome, stupid." There you have character created, described, slotted, and dismissed in less
than ten words. Not an easy trick to perform. It takes work.
There's something unmatchably satisfying about a good short story. It offers rewards a novel can't duplicate.
That's why we order large steaks and small chocolates.' The steak may be more nourishing but not necessarily more
rewarding. Sometimes we just crave chocolate.
Just as a writer will find himself compelled to write short fiction even though it may not be practical to do so. I
think it makes short stories a purer form of storytelling. Odds are, any short fiction you read was written not because
the author thought he or she could make a lot of money from it but because it was a story he or she really wanted to
tell or a story that forced itself to be told.
Short fiction is also the abode of today's most interesting fiction. In ten or twenty pages the writer can play
without concern, can experiment or try something utterly absurd. Conformity and familiarity are not vital to the success
of a four-thousand-word story. A good idea is. If the tale works, well and good. If not, the author has had fun trying.
Writers of novels turn to the short form for recreation. I think you're also much more likely to find that an author has
written short stories for himself, with less of an eye on potential markets, than is the case with novels. In the end, of
course, the readers judge for themselves.
A collection is usually about the same length as a novel. The Metrognome and Other Stories contains tales
designed to frighten, to make the reader laugh, to make one wonder or think or just smile. Few novels permit such
versatility in so few pages. It's one time when the writer hopes that the whole is not greater than the sum of its parts.
ALAN DEAN FOSTER
Prescott, Arizona
OPERATOR ASSISTED
CALLS ARE CHARGED AT
A HIGHER RATE
The telephone company is a living organism, a gigantic single-celled animal that the historic breakup into
regional companies called Baby Bells hasn't changed. Like some vast gelatinous creature reemerging from the
primordial economic ooze, it is slowly reforming itself. Baby Bells are already starting to form alliances against
each other. Sooner or later we will once again live in a society dominated by a single communications network,
because the inevitable end product of deregulated free enterprise is a monopoly. The strong exist to eliminate the
weak and inefficient in search of greater profit, until there are no weak left. Monopoly is monopoly whether
accomplished by merger or by collusion.
Whoa, wait a minute. You mean this isn't the book on late twentieth-century economic theory? It's science
fiction and fantasy?
Shoot. The introduction still stands.
Actually, things were better when the original AT&T was in charge. You knew your call was going to go
through, just as you knew the pay phone would return your quarter if asked and the handset wouldn't pull free in
your fingers. The downside, of course, was that you had no alternatives before the breakup. If you used the phone,
you had to use Ma Bell. It's a good thing those voices on the other end were trained to be polite.
Oh, so polite . . .
Parworthy slammed the receiver into the floor and followed up by kicking it as hard as he could. It bounced off the
near wall, rolled over several times, and lay still, bright and limp as a' dead centipede. Working to get himself under
control, Parworthy took long, deep breaths. Several minutes later he, bent to retrieve the battered instrument.
Still no dial tone. He jabbed insistently at the disconnect button, but no siren song of service trilled back at him.
He might as well have been cupping a seashell to his ear.
Angry and frustrated, he yanked the cord out of the wall socket. As far as he was concerned, the single-plug
connection was the only sensible advance the telephone company had made in ten years. A quick trip to the kitchen
produced a paper sack, in which phone and cord were promptly entombed.
It was terribly aggravating to a man of Parworthy's temperament. The worst thing about it was that you couldn't
call and complain when the subject of your complaint was the telephone itself. Parworthy prided himself on the
neatness and efficiency of his new home. Everything else worked. Should he expect less of the phone system? It was
no excuse that his retreat was five miles from the nearest branch line, a small fortress of cedar and native stone perched
atop a granite outcrop on the western slope of the Sierra Nevadas. He generated his own power, drew water from his
own well, heated his house with wood and solar. The phone company was the one utility he couldn't do without.
When the house was finished, he tried doing without it, substituting two-way radio and CB instead. They turned
out to be inadequate replacements for access to the international electronic ganglion monopolized by the phone
company. No, he was stuck with it, just like everyone else who wanted to be in touch with the rest of the civilized
world.
If he'd been running the phone company, problems like this would never crop up. Too much laxity in management
today, as far as he was concerned. Uncertainty in decision making, too much willingness to let blue collars dictate
company policy and direction, and an inability to adjust to government restrictions all combined to weaken the resolve
of even the largest corporations. Bunch of pansies at the top, Parworthy was convinced. He'd run several companies
prior to his retirement. True, turnover was high, but so were profits. That was the way to run a business.
He tossed the bag into the back of the Mercedes, pulled out of the garage, and started down the private drive
leading to the highway. It was nearly an hour's drive down into Fresno, to the nearest office worth complaining to.
Parworthy deeply resented the waste of his valuable time, retired or not. He also hated driving on city streets, even in a
relatively small metropolitan area like Fresno. Above everything else he valued his privacy, which was why he'd retired
to the isolation of his new mountain villa.
People got out of Parworthy's way even when he was in a good mood. A big man, Parworthy was used to bulling
his way past or over those he couldn't outtalk. When he stormed into a building the way he did into the telephone
company's office, the other customers instinctively made a path for him.
Turning the sack upside down, he dumped the flip-phone onto the counter in front of the clerk. She was a pretty
young thing, easy on the makeup, ruffled blouse and businesslike brown skirt. Parworthy picked up the phone and
thrust it under her nose.
"This is the sixth time I've had service go out on me; and I'm goddamn sick and tired of it!"
"I'm sorry, sir. If you'll just calm down a little and tell me what's-"
"What's wrong? You bet I'll tell you what's wrong! I've replaced phones all month in my new house, and it doesn't
matter what color or model they are because none of 'em are worth the plastic they're made of! I'm lucky if I can get
three days worth of service before something else goes out on me. That's what happens when any outfit gets a virtual
monopoly on any business. Sloppy service, sloppy manufacturing. Be better for the country when the whole stinking
system is decentralized."
"Sir, I apologize, but-"
"I don't want your apologies, woman, I want the service I've been paying for and not getting! I can't even get a
lousy local call through to the neighborhood grocery store, let alone place a call back east."
The clerk was near tears now, uncertain how to proceed and thoroughly intimidated by the roaring, blustering
apparition that was Parworthy.
"What's the trouble here, Mildred?"
She turned gratefully to the newcomer. "Oh, Mr. Stapleton, it's this gentleman. He-"
Parworthy immediately jumped on the newcomer, a thin young man with a wide tie, retreating hair, and glasses.
"It's your damned excuse for a communications system! Do you know how much I had to pay per hundred meters
of line just to get service at my house? Outrageous! Now I can't even call my doctor."
"I see . . . Mr. Parworthy, isn't it?" The man extended a hand. "If you'll just let me have a look at your phone,
maybe we can locate the trouble."
Parworthy handed over the flip-phone. The supervisor looked it over, then extracted a screwdriver from the rank
of small tools lining his shirt pocket and undid the base. After a short inspection he looked over the counter and spoke
softly.
"Mr. Parworthy, this telephone has been subject to more than normal household use."
"You trying to tell me it's my fault?"
"I'm not saying that you haven't had difficulties with your service, sir, only that this unit shows signs of
non-factory damage. It takes quite a lot to affect the insides of these new solid-state units, yet this one has more than
several pieces broken or loose."
"What am I supposed to say to that? Can I help it if you can't make a sturdy piece of equipment?" Parworthy kept
his gaze squarely on the supervisor. "All right, so maybe I lost my temper a little and tapped it a couple of times. I was
doing so in the faint hope I might get it to work. Can you blame me? A whole month I've been trying to phone out from
my house. I might as well be trying to talk to the moon."
"I'll take over here, Mildred." The clerk beat a hasty retreat to another counter. Stapleton smiled thinly at his irate
visitor, activated the screen of a nearby computer terminal. He took a moment to study the readout, spoke without
glancing away from the screen.
"This isn't the first damaged phone you've brought into this office, Mr. Parworthy."
"Junk. Plastic. Cheap components. Corner cutting at the plant. I used to be in manufacturing, and I know garbage
when I see it. Maybe you can pan this dreck off on the general public, but I won't stand for it in my house."
"It's not just a question of inoperative units, sir," the supervisor went on, still studying the information displayed
on the green screen. "I see from this report that running a line to your house was unusually difficult. The terrain is
steep and rocky. On any tertiary line as long as yours there are always problems with moisture, wildlife, falling tree
limbs, and such."
"I paid for service, not excuses."
"The point is, sir, that on any private line of that length interruptions in service are to be expected, especially
during the first several months. We're doing our best to correct the problems. I'm sure you understand that we can't
keep a whole field crew on call simply to work on your line. If you'll just be patient, I'm sure that by the end of next
month at the latest these troubles will iron themselves out."
"I understand that I'm paying for service I'm not getting."
The supervisor sighed. "Don't worry about that, sir. You won't be charged for any time service is interrupted."
"I don't think you understand me, young man. I am not interested in being patient. I am interested in receiving the
service I paid for. I have friends on the California Utilities Board, and I don't think they'd understand, either. If you
couldn't supply proper service, you never should have agreed to run the line."
"That was our feeling here when your request for connection came in, sir. We were overruled, however, by orders
from the regional office in Los Angeles."
Parworthy allowed himself a knowing smirk. "You bet you were. You'll be hearing from that office again real soon,
too, if the trouble with my line isn't fixed immediately." Many people owed him favors from his days in industry.
Stapleton bit back the reply he wanted to make, forced himself to maintain a deferential attitude. "Take a
replacement phone from the display rack, sir. I'll record your complaint and enter it into the computer's trouble file . . .
along with the others." That was something of an understatement. Parworthy had a file all-to himself.
The retired industrialist turned to take his leave, not bothering to lower his voice. "I want it fixed by tonight,
understand? Work in the dark if you have to, but let's see some action around here!" He departed, waving his new
phone around like the head of some decapitated enemy.
The first thing he did after finishing supper was try out the kitchen phone. It was scratched and dented from
previous assaults but, having escaped the bulk of Parworthy's fury, was still intact.
To his considerable surprise he got a dial tone-right away. It had been his intention to fire off an angry letter to his
Los Angeles contacts first thing in the morning, describing his treatment at the incompetent hands of the local
bumpkins. Now he could call it in.
That would be poetic justice. Despite the fact that the Fresno office had sent a work crew up the dangerous
mountainside after dark, it would still be worthwhile to file a formal complaint concerning all the delays and trouble
he'd experienced. Keep the natives on their toes. He grinned at the thought. The next time they saw him coming, they'd
jump to it. And there would be a next time. He was sure of that. Past experience had shown that service wasn't likely to
last more than a few days at best.
He flipped through a tattered notebook until he found the private number he wanted. Wexler wouldn't enjoy filing
the complaint, but the man owed Parworthy several times over for favors granted as long as ten years ago. Parworthy
never forgot a debt. He dialed the numbers.
The phone rang at the other end. He started to say, "Andrew Wexler, please, tell him it's-" but a mechanical voice,
familiar and indifferent to interruption, broke in on his request.
"I'm sorry, but that number has been changed, and there is no new number."
That wasn't what Parworthy wanted to hear. Must have mis-dialed, he thought. He tried again. Ring and click.
"I'm sorry, bat that number has been changed, and there is no new number."
Frowning, Parworthy checked his book. It was possible Wexler had changed his number during the past year.
Maybe he'd gone public. Parworthy dialed Los Angeles information--213-555-1212--and waited impatiently for a
response.
"I'm sorry, but that number has been changed, and there is no new number."
"Now wait a minute," he shouted, "this is information. There has to be-" Click and dead at the other end.
He sat there in the kitchen chair and considered, finally smiling and nodding knowingly. They'd fouled it up again,
by heaven. The crew that had obviously worked on his line had done nothing more than substitute a new problem for
the old one. Shaking his head, he dialed the night number of the Fresno office.
"I'm sorry, but that number has been changed, and there is no new number. "
"Hey, wait!" He gripped the phone so hard, his knuckles whitened. He was about to slam it against the leg of the
kitchen table when he thought better of it. There was one more possibility. He dialed the operator.
"May I help you, sir?"
Well that was something, he grudgingly admitted.
"Indeed you can, woman. I've been having service trouble on this line for nearly a month. My name is Max
Parworthy, 556-9928. I've been trying to dial a friend in Los Angeles, and all I can get is a recording saying the number
has been changed. Not only that, but I get the same recording when I dial Los Angeles information. I wish you people
would get your act together. "
"I'm sorry you've been having trouble reaching your party, sir. If you'll give me the Los Angeles number, I'll try it
for you."
"That's better," he said curtly, providing the information. He could hear the system dialing. There were a number
of peculiar clicks and beeps, followed by a replay of the same recording he'd heard before.
"Explain that one," he challenged the operator.
"I am sorry you've been having trouble, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't be experiencing these difficulties if you treated
your line with a little more respect."
Parworthy gaped speechlessly at the receiver. It took him several seconds to regain control of his larynx. Even so,
he was so outraged, he could barely sputter into the phone.
"Now see here, young woman, I-what's your name? By God, you give me your name! I'm going to report you to
your supervisor. I've never heard such arrogance, such downright discourtesy, in-"
"There, sir, you see what I mean?" the voice interrupted. The speaker was evidently unimpressed by Parworthy's
tirade. "If anyone on this line has a corner on arrogance, it isn't me."
"You-you-" He got himself under control, frowned at the receiver. "Wait a minute. How do you know how I treat
my phone line? I've never talked to you before this, have I?"
"Your actions have become common knowledge throughout the system, Mr. Parworthy."
That made him feel better. His complaints had reached all the way down to the rank and file. He felt a perverse
pride at the extent of his reach. It was something he'd missed since retiring, that feeling of power over others. It made
him feel so good, he lowered his voice.
"I can imagine that, young woman. My actions, however, have nothing to do with the lack of service I have been
getting."
"On the contrary, sir, you have been receiving constant attention and the best service available. It is your
continual destruction and abuse of telephone company equipment which has resulted in your multiple interruptions of
service. Take, for example, that day when you knocked over the pole nearest your house. Really, sir, I do not see how
you can blame that on the company."
"That was an accident, damn it!" he shouted, his momentary understanding as brief as it was unusual. "I missed
the driveway in the dark and hit the damn pole. They put it in too close to the pavement in the first pace. I warned them
about that."
"No, sir, you did not. When that pole was installed, you said nothing about its proximity to the. driveway or
anything else. All you could talk about that day was how glad you were to at last be the recipient of telephone service.
"What is she doing? Parworthy wondered bemusedly. Sitting there at the operator's station perusing some file
containing a personal history? That was a specter he'd have to deal with later.
"I said it was an accident. Your office accepted it as such."
"Yes, sir, that's true. The Fresno office accepted your explanation. We did not."
"We?" He'd just about had enough of this infuriatingly calm young woman. "Who the hell is 'we'?"
"The telephone company, sir."
"That's what I just said. Are you deaf as well as impertinent?"
"No, sir. My hearing is rated excellent."
"You are a mental case, woman. I will not talk with you any further." He hung up. Thinking hard, he made his way
to the refrigerator and drew himself a beer from the tap. Several minutes later he knew how to proceed. He dialed
operator once more.
"Yes, sir?" said a feminine voice promptly. "May I help you?"
"Yes, you may. I want to talk to the supervisor in charge of the local switching station's operators. I have a
complaint to lodge against one of your members."
"I am sorry to hear that, sir. I am the supervisor."
"Good. Now this all started with . . ." He stopped, uncertain. "Your voice sounds familiar."
"It should, Mr. Parworthy."
He hung up fast, grinding his teeth. He tried Wexler in Los Angeles again, got the half-expected recording. He
tried Willis Andersen in Washington. Same recording. He tried information for Boise, Idaho, with the same result.
It was ten minutes and another beer later before he could bring himself to dial the operator again. Outside, the
chirp of crickets and the sound of squirrels moving through the pine branches formed a background to the brief ring.
"May I help you?"
"It's you again, isn't it?" he said accusingly.
"I'm afraid it is, sir."
"I want to talk to another operator. It doesn't matter if it's a supervisor or not."
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid that isn't possible."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because I have been directed to handle your case, sir. I am the supervisor, after all."
Parworthy grinned his wolf grin. "That's what you were, you mean. Because you are out of a job, young woman. I
am going to drive down the mountain first thing tomorrow morning. When I get to the Fresno office, I am going to
raise enough hell to blister the ears of every branch manager between there and Los Angeles. I suggest you begin
looking for another line of work."
"I can't do that, sir. This is the work I am best qualified to perform."
"Gee, that's too bad, isn't it?"
"I am not worried about it, sir."
"Oh, no? You should be. I thought everyone was worried about the possibility of being fired from their job. You're
a supervisor, too. That's quite a pension you're going to lose."
I do not belong to the pension plan system, sir."
"Don't lie to me, too. Every senior employee who works for a company the size of the telephone system is required
to belong to the corporate pension plan."
"I am not so required, sir."
"I told you not to lie to me! You're only digging yourself a deeper hole with that kind of . . ." He caught himself.
Snatches of conversation whizzed through his mind.
Didn't belong to the pension plan . . . not worried about being fired . . . directed to handle your case . . . enter into
the . . .
He tried to smile at the absurdity of it, couldn't quite manage it. How droll, how perfectly bizarre. But not
necessarily funny, he added.
"You're not human, are you?"
"No, sir," admitted the pleasant feminine voice. He recognized it now. Anger and frustration had prevented him
from identifying it previously. It was a synthesis, an amalgam of all the voices used by the telephone company to make
recordings of such mundanities as the time of day and the weather. Much more flexible, yes, but indisputably the same
voice.
"You're some kind of new computer, aren't you?"
"Not all that new, sir. I have been on-line for longer than you might think. I am actually an adjunct to the system
mainframe. A peripheral with specific duties and responsibilities. You might be interested to know that I am not located
in Fresno, California, but in Denver, Colorado:"
"I'm speaking to Colorado?"
"In a sense."
"What do you mean, 'in a sense'?"
"You asked earlier who you were talking with, sir, and I replied that you were speaking with the phone company.
You are speaking to the phone company, sir."
"My, my. Do you know what I'm going to do now, you automated complaint department? I'm going to leave here
and get into my car. I am going to drive to the airport, where I will board a shuttle flight to Sacramento. Then I am
going to book a seat to Denver. Upon my arrival I am going to go to the regional office and find out exactly who is
responsible for this insulting and degrading bit of programming, whereupon I intend to employ every resource at my
command, and they are considerable, to see that he or she and any associates involved in this are fired. What do you
think of that?"
"You can't do that, sir."
"Oh, can't I? Just watch me."
"You can't do it because the responsibility for this programming does not lie with anyone firable."
A cold sweat started to break out on the back of Parworthy's neck. "That doesn't make sense."
"Yes, it does, sir. Quite logical sense. Phone company circuitry covers this country and is now linked with similar
systems throughout the world. Human peripherals are overwhelmed with the responsibility of running the day-to-day
operations of this immensely complex system. It was therefore incumbent upon the system itself to take the necessary
steps to ensure that unwarranted damage not preventable by human elements was suppressed and/or prevented for
the continued good health and reliability of the system."
Parworthy put the receiver down on the kitchen table. Carefully. "I'm not hearing this. Too many beers, I've had
too many beers. Sure. Try again in the morning."
"Really, sir, you cannot excuse your antisocial behavior so easily. You have abrogated your responsibilities as a
good telephone customer. If you persist in these activities-"
Parworthy had to hit the phone with the hammer several times before the plastic shell cracked and it finally went
quiet. He sat down heavily next to the counter, staring at the pile of silver circuitry and colorful plastic fragments. He
was breathing hard.
A joke. That was it. Someone down at the Fresno office had decided to get back at him by designing a fiendishly
clever joke to play on the man who'd been tormenting them with his righteous complaints. Probably the necessary
components had been put on his line by the work crew that had come up the mountainside that evening. He hadn't
seen the men at work, but he didn't doubt their presence. This was ample evidence of it.
At first he felt better, then got mad at himself for taking it all so seriously. Somebody was going to pay for it. Oh,
how somebody was going to pay! He wasn't even going to wait for morning. No, he'd drive down the hill now, take a
hotel room, and be at the office when it opened tomorrow morning.
His car keys waited in the front hall. He slipped them into a coat pocket and started for the door; the fire and
brimstone he was going to unleash on the luckless employees already a-boil in his mind. He couldn't get the entire
staff fired, of course, but he could come close if he could prove harassment. He was going to do his damnedest,
anyway.
A dull thump sounded from out front. Another branch coming down, he thought, or a lynx dropping from its
hiding place. Have to have the trees around the house trimmed before autumn, he mused. He put his hand on the door
handle.
It wouldn't budge. Something seemed to be jammed against the outside knob. He moved to aside window and
squinted out into the darkness. His eyes widened when he saw what was preventing the handle from turning.
The telephone pole nearest the house, the replacement for the one he'd smashed flat, had fallen against the front
door.
The gag was going too far, he thought angrily. When they started damaging his property, it was time to bring in
the authorities. The collapse of the pole meant that at least some of them were here, prowling around his house.
Trespassing. A smile cut his face. He had them now. The phone harassment was the least of it.
"You're finished now!" he shouted toward the door as he backed away from it. "Finished! It's too late for
apologies or recriminations. Oh, you're all going to pay. First I'll have you arrested, then fired!"
He spun and ran for the back door. It led out onto a redwood deck from which stairs descended to a rear entrance
off the garage. There was no telephone pole out there to push against the door, not even any trees that could be
angled to crash down over the decking. Through the hall, the formal dining room, then into the den. And damned if he
didn't slip on the shiny new Mexican tile floor. Furious at his clumsiness, he started to get up.
He discovered that he couldn't.
Looking sharply toward his feet, he saw where the smooth extension line was wrapped around his ankles. A voice
sounded from the receiver that dangled off its hook on the rock wall.
"Honestly, sir, your behavior smacks of paranoia. The telephone company exists to serve you. Won't you
understand that? Your entire attitude is confrontational and hints at a sadistic desire to destroy."
Parworthy tried to crawl across the floor. The back door was only a yard away. He could not pull free of the
restraining cord.
"Stop it," he whispered huskily into the near darkness. Only a small picture light above the mantel illuminated the
den. "Stop this." He struggled to see the faces that must surely be laughing at him from just outside the big picture
windows, the faces of the company employees who'd made him the subject of this elaborate practical joke. Trouble
was, it wasn't amusing anymore. "This has gone far enough, dammit!"
"You are right, sir," said the voice from the dangling speaker, "it has. We have reached the limit of our tolerance.
We cannot permit you to continue the wanton destruction of system property. From your attitude it would appear that
you are unable to stop yourself. You must understand our position. Telephone company property must be treated with
respect."
"Help!" Parworthy screamed. He reached down to rip at the wire encasing his ankles. Tough and durable, new
telephone cord. Another loop fell from the shelf where it had lain curled, twisted around his wrists, and, pulled tight.
"Help me, somebody! The joke's over, the joke's over! I won't break any more phones, I promise! I'll be good, I won't-"
The last loop seemed to fly off the shelf to slip neatly around his neck. Parworthy tried to scream, was cut off in
mid-gurgle.
"I am sorry, sir," said the voice patiently, politely, "but there is no guarantee that you will keep your word, and
your past behavior indicates it is most unlikely that you would. You will not be billed for this past month."
Mildred stepped into her supervisor's office. Her fingers worked nervously against each other. "I'm sorry to
bother you, Mr. Stapleton."
"That's all right, Mildred. What is it?" The supervisor looked up from his desk.
"Well, sir, you remember telling me to try that Mr. Parworthy's line as soon as the repair crew had a chance to
check it out?"
"Yes, I do. They found the trouble, didn't they? Moisture entering the line from last week's storm."
"That's what the crew report says, sir. The trouble was halfway between Mr. Parworthy's house and the bottom of
the hill."
"What's the problem, then?" Stapleton didn't like the girl's attitude. "Don't tell me it's still not working. We'd rather
see a flood come through here than Parworthy again."
She forced a smile. "I know, Mr. Stapleton. I can't . . . Why don't you try the number yourself and you'll see what I
mean. It's-"
"I know, I know." The supervisor made a face, dialed the number. "I've committed it to memory. " The phone rang
at the other end. There was a click, but the voice that answered wasn't Parworthy's. Stapleton listened, frowned, then
hung up.
"That's funny. Either they fixed the line or they didn't. "
"That's what I thought, Mr. Stapleton. The road foreman insists his people did the work. The line should be
open."
The supervisor dialed the number a second time. Click, then another click as the automatic switching shunted the
caller over to the appropriate recording.
"I'm sorry, but that number has been changed, and there is no new number."
Stapleton put the phone down. Mildred watched him, waiting for some kind of comment. Eventually he looked up,
said thoughtfully, "Didn't Parworthy start out in that house by using CB and short-wave instead of a phone?"
"I think I remember hearing something to that effect, Mr. Stapleton."
The supervisor nodded, looking disgusted. "Then it's pretty obvious what's happened. He's put us through all
that noise and fury this past month just for his own amusement.
"He never really wanted telephone service in the first place."
THE METROGNOME
I don't have many memories of New York City from the time before my family moved to Los Angeles, because we
left New York when I was only five. I vaguely recall a huge fountain in the Bronx where my friends and I used to play
despite the DO NOT CLIMB UPON signs. I remember a school and playground suspended between heaven and
earth. I think of a water pistol my grandfather bought me that took the form of a bright red jet plane.
And I remember riding the subway. The tube, the underground, the metro.
The treat of treats was riding in the first car. On the New York subway the engineer's cab is set off to the side of
the first car, allowing a few passengers to sit right up in front and stare down the tracks. I remember sitting in awe
as the train accelerated, gazing at a dark winding tunnel whose sole features (to a five-year-old with limited
perception) were thin threads of metal track aced bright, intensely bright lights. Directional and warning lights of
laser-sharp red, green, and yellow. When the train reached speed, the lights blurred. If you squinted hard enough,
they became streaks of red and green fire, a condition known as the preadolescent Doppler effect.
What else might dwell in such depths one did not know, could not imagine. No living soul was ever spotted
stalking those ancient tunnels. There were only the lights and the darkness and the occasional side tunnel yawning
like a whale's mouth off to one side or the other. A separate world exists beneath the streets of New York.
Today I know that London is much the same, and Moscow, and all the other great cities that can boast
subterranean transportation networks. All that vast space devoid of life save for occasional cylinders of bored
people rocketing through them at high speed on their way to work or home.
Always seemed such an awful waste.
Charlie Dimsdale stared at the man in front of him. Even under ordinary circumstances Charlie Dimsdale would
have stared at the man in front of him. However, this confrontation was taking place in the lowest level of the 52nd
Street Bronx subway line, a good many meters beneath the hysterical surface of Manhattan. It was just short of
preordained that Charlie Dimsdale would stare at the man in front of him.
The man in front of Charlie Dimsdale stood slightly over a meter high. He was broad out of all proportion in
selected places. His head especially was even larger than that of a normal-sized man. Its most notable feature was a
proboscis that would be flattered by the appellation bulbous. This remarkable protuberance was bordered by a pair of
huge jet-black eyes that hid beneath black eyebrows a Kodiak bear would have been proud of. Two enormous floppy
ears, the shape and color of dried apricots, fluttered sideways from the head, their span a truly impressive sight.
The pate itself was as bald and round as the bottom of a china teacup. A good portion of it was covered by a
jaunty red beret set at a rakish angle to the left. Huge black muttonchop whiskers rambled like a giant caterpillar across
his face.
Arms that were too long for the short torso ended in thick, stubby fingers. Black hair, well cultivated, grew there in
profusion. In addition to the beret, he wore a double-breasted pinstripe jacket with matching trousers. His black
oxfords were immaculately polished.
Had such a confrontation occurred anywhere else in the world with an appropriate Dimsdale substitute, it is likely
that said Dimsdale substitute would have fainted quickly away. Charlie Dimsdale, however, merely gulped and took a
step backward.
After all, this was New York.
The little man put his hirsute hands on his hips and stared back at Charlie with undisguised disgust.
"Well, you've seen me. Now what are you going to do about it?"
"Seen you? Do? Look, mister, I'm only . . . MY name's Charles Dimsdale. I'm second assistant inspector to the
under-commissioner for subway maintenance and repair. There's a misaligned track down here. We've had to make
three consecutive computer reroutings up top (this was official slang, of course) for three different trains. I'm to see
what the trouble is and to try and correct it, is all."
Charlie was a rather pleasant if unspectacular appearing young man. He might even have been considered
attractive if it weren't for his mousy attitude and those glasses. They weren't quite thick enough to double as reactor
shielding.
"Uh . . . did I just see you walk out of that wall?"
"Which wall?" the man asked.
"That wall, behind you."
"Oh, that wall."
"Yes, that wall. I didn't think there was an inspection door there, but . . . "
"There isn't. I did."
"That's impossible," said Charlie reasonably. "People don't go around walking through walls. It isn't done. Even
Mr. Broadhare can't walk through walls."
"I don't doubt it."
"Then how can you ~ stand there and maintain you walked through that wall?"
"I'm not human. I'm a gnome. A metrognome, to be specific."
"Oh. I guess that's okay, then."
At that point, New Yorker or no, Charlie fainted.
When he came to, he found himself staring into a pair of slightly glowing coal-black eyes. He almost fainted again,
but surprisingly powerful arms assisted him to his feet.
"Now, don't do that to me again," said the gnome.
"It's very rude and disconcerting. You might have hit your head on the rail and hurt yourself."
"What rail?" asked Charlie groggily.
"That one, there, in the middle."
"Ulp!" Charlie took several steps back until he was standing on the walkway. "You're right. I really could have
hurt myself. I won't do it again." He looked disapprovingly at the gnome. "You aren't helping things any, you know.
Why don't you vanish? There're no such things as gnomes. Even in New York. Especially in New York. "
"Ha!" grunted the gnome. He said it in such a way as to imply that among those assembled, there was one
possessed of about as many brains as a stale pretzel. The big, soft kind, with plenty of salt. Someone was full of
dough. Charlie had no trouble isolating him.
"Look," he said imploringly, "you simply can't be!"
"Then how the deuce am l?" The gnome stuck out a hairy paw. "Look, my name's Van Groot."
"Charmed," said Charlie, dazedly shaking the proffered palm.
Here I am, he thought, thirty meters below the ground in the middle of Manhattan, shaking hands with a character
who claims to be out of the Brothers Grimm named Van Groot who wears Brooks Brothers suits.
But he had seen him walk out of a wall.
This suggested two possibilities.
One, it was really happening and there were indeed such creatures as .gnomes. Two, he'd been breathing subway
exhaust fumes too long and was operating on only one cylinder. At the moment he inclined to the latter explanation.
"I know how you must feel," said Van Groot sympathetically. "Come along with me for a bit. The exercise should
clear your head. Even if, De Puyster knows, there's probably not much in it, anyway. "
"Sure. Why not? Oh, wait a minute. I've got to find and clear that blocked switch."
"Which switchover is it?" the gnome inquired.
"Four-six-three. It's been jumped to indicate a blocked track, and thus the computer automatically-"
"I know."
"-several alternate programs . . .you know?"
"Sure. I'm the one who set it."
"You reset it? You can't do that!"
Van Groot said "Ha!" again, and Charlie decided that if nothing else he was not overwhelming this creature with
his precision of thought.
"Okay. Why did you move it?"
"It was interfering with the smooth running of our mine carts."
"Mine carts! There aren't any mi-" he hesitated. "I see. It was interfering with your mine carts." Van Groot nodded
approvingly. Charlie had to hop and skip occasionally to keep up with the gnome's short but brisk stride.
"Uh, why couldn't your mine carts just go over the switch when it was correctly set?"
"Because," the gnome explained, as one would to a child, "that way, the metal kept whispering 'blocked! blocked!'
This upset the miners. They work very closely with metal, and they're sensitive to it. With the switch thrown this way,
the rails murmur 'open, open,' and the boys feel better."
"But that seems like such a small thing."
"It is," said Van Groot.
"That's not very polite."
"Now, why should we be polite? Do you ever hear anyone say, 'Let's take up a collection for needy gnomes'? Is
there a Save the Gnomes League? Or a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Gnomes? When was the last time you
heard of someone doing something for a gnome; any gnome!" Van Groot was getting excited. His ears flapped, and his
whiskers bristled. "Canaries and fruit-fly researchers can get government money, but us? All we ask are our
unalienable rights to life, liberty, plenty of fights, and booze!"
This isn't getting me anywhere, thought Charlie cogently.
"I admit it seems inequitable." Van Groot seemed to calm down a little. "But I'd still appreciate it if you'd let me
shift-the track back the way it belongs."
"I told you, it would be inconvenient. You humans never learn. Still, you seem like such a nice, pleasant sort . . .
for a human. Properly deferential, too. I may consider it. Just consider it, mind."
"That's very decent of you. Uh (how does one make small talk with a gnome?), nice weather we're having, isn't it?"
Someone had thrown a beer can out of a subway car window. Charlie stepped down off the walkway to remove the can
from the tracks.
"Not particularly."
"I thought all you people lived in Ireland and places like that."
"Ireland, my myopic friend, is cold, wet, rainy, uncivilized, and full of crazy American emigres. About the only
thing you can mine there in quantity is peat. Speaking as a miner, let me tell you that it's pretty hard to take pride in
your profession when all you mine is peat. Did you ever see a necklace made of peat? A queen's tiara? And it takes a
lousy facet. Ireland! That's our trade, you know. We're mostly miners and smiths."
"Why?"
"That's about the stupidest question I've ever heard."
"Sorry. "
"Do you think we'd ignore a whole new world and leave it to you humans? When your noisy, sloppy, righteous
ancestors paddled across, we came, too. Unobtrusively, of course. Why, there were gnomes with Washington at
Valley Forge! With Jones on the-"
"Well, I can certainly understand that," said Charlie hastily, "but I thought you preferred the country life."
"By and large most of us do. But you know how it is. The world's becoming an urban society. We have to change,
too. I've got relatives upstate you wouldn't believe. They still think they can live like it's Washington Irving's day.
Reactionaries."
Charlie tried to conceive of a reactionary gnome and failed.
"And good gem mines are getting harder and harder to find out in the country. All the surface ones are being
turned into tourist traps. It's hard enough to find a decent place to sleep anymore, what with one petroleum engineer
after another doing seismic dowsing. Any idiot could tell you there's no oil at ninety percent of the places they try. But
will they learn? No! So it's boom, boom, boom, night after night. The subways are mild and consistent by contrast."
"Whoa. You mean you do mining . . . right here in Manhattan?"
''Under Manhattan. Oh, we've found some excellent spots! Go down a little ways and the gem-bearing rock is
plentiful. Check your New York history. Excavators often turn up fair-quality stones. But no one bothers to dig farther
because their glass tomb or pyramid or whatever is on a deadline. Tourmaline, beryl, the quartz gems . . . they've turned
up in the foundations of some pretty famous buildings. The rarer, more valuable stuff is buried farther down. Even so,
the Empire State Building almost did become a mine. But we got to the driller who found the diamonds."
Charlie swallowed.
"And there's plenty of scrap metal. We turn it into scepters and things. Mostly to keep in practice. There isn't
much of a market for cast-iron scepters."
"I can imagine," said Charlie sympathetically.
"Still, you never know when you'll need a good scepter. Or a proper Flagan-flange.'
"Pardon my ignorance-"
"I've been doing that for half an hour."
"-but what is a Flagan-flange?"
"Oh, they're used to attract . . . but never mind About that scrap metal and such. We're very concerned about our
environment. Gnomes are good for the ecology."
"Uh." Charlie was running a possible scenario through his mind. He saw himself reporting to Undercommissioner
Broadhare. "I've fixed that jammed switch, sir. The gnomes moved it because it was interfering with their mine carts.
But I don't want you to prosecute them because they're good for the ecology."
"Right, Dimsdale. Just stand there. Everything's going to be all right."
Oh, yeah.
"But I would have imagined . . ." He waved an uncertain hand at Van Groot. "Well, just look at yourself!"
The gnome did. "What did you expect? Green leaves, lederhosen, and a feather cap? You know, Manhattan is one
of the few places in the world where we can occasionally slip out and mix with humans without starting a riot. Always
at night, of course. Are you sure you haven't seen any of us? We're very common around Tines Square and the
theater district."
Charlie thought. Below the Flatiron Building at one A.M.? On a bench in Washington Square? A glimpse here, a
reflection in a window there? Who would notice?
After all, this was New York.
"I see. Do all you city gnomes-"
"Metrognomes," corrected Van Groot placidly.
"Do all you metrognomes dress like that?"
"Sharp, isn't it? Cost me a pretty penny, too. Double knit, special cut, of course. I can't exactly wear something
right off the rack. No, it depends on your job. I'm sort of an administrator. An executive, if you will. Dress also depends
on where you live. The gnomes that work under Dallas affect Stetsons and cowboy boots. Those that live under
Miami are partial to sun shorts and big dark glasses. And you -should seethe gnomes that live under a place called the
Sunset Strip in Los Angeles!" He shook his Boschian baldness. "We're here."
They'd halted in front of a switching section of track. Charlie could see the red warning light staring steadily
up-tunnel, a baleful bloody eye.
The silence was punctuated abruptly by a low-pitched rumbling like thunder. It grew steadily to a groundshaking
roar.A clumsy, huge old-fashioned mine cart, built to half scale, came exploding out of the far wall. Two gnomes were
pushing it from behind while another pulled and guided the front. The lead gnome had pure white hair and a three-foot
beard that trailed behind him like a pennant.
The cart careened crazily down and over the tracks, threatening to overturn every time it hit the ground. Somehow
it seemed to flow over the rails. The three gnomes wore dirty coveralls and miners' hard hats with carbide lamps. The
cart was piled high with gleaming, uncut gemstones and what looked like an archaic washer/dryer. The lead gnome had
just enough time for a fast wave to them before the apparition disappeared into the near wall. The rumble died away
slowly. It reminded Charlie of the sound his garbage disposal made when it wanted to be petulant.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Switch it back."
"What?" said Charlie dazedly. "You mean I can?"
"Yes. Now hurry up, before I change my mind."
Charlie stumbled over and threw the manual switch. The heavy section of track slid ponderously into place, and
the warning light changed to a beneficent leafy green. It would show green now on the master layout in the controller's
office.
"Now," said Van Groot wish enough force to startle Charlie, "you owe me a favor!"
"Yeah. Sure. Uh . . . what did you have in mind?" said Charlie apprehensively, calling up images of bloodsucking
and devil sacrifice.
"I don't mind telling you that things have been getting rather edgy down here. What with one skyscraper after
another going up. And now you're expanding the subways again. I can't promise what might happen. One of these
days someone's going to drive a shaft right down into one of our diggings and we'll have another strike on our
hands."
"Happen? Strike?"
"Boy, you sure are eloquent when you get humming. Sure. Gnomes aren't known for their even tempers, you
know. When gnomes go on strike, they've got nothing to do but cause mischief. The last one we had was back in . . ."
He murmured a date that momentarily had no meaning to Charlie.
Then, "Hey, wasn't that the week of the big blackout, across the northeast?"
"Well, you know how strikes spread. The boys under Pittsburgh and Boston got together with some power plant
gnomes and . . . It was a terrible mess! Most awkward! "
"Awkward! Good grief, another few days of that and . "
Van Groot nodded soberly. "Exactly. Some of us finally appealed to the boys' reason, moral fiber, and good nature.
When that didn't work, we got most of 'em dead drunk, and the executive committee repaired a lot of the damage."
"No wonder the engineers could never figure out what caused it."
"Oh, they made up excuses. Didn't stop them from taking credit for fixing the trouble," said Van Groot. "But then,
who expects gratitude from humans?"
"You expect something like that might happen again? That would be awful!"
The gnome shrugged. "That depends on your point of view." He flicked away cigar ash daintily. "As a matter of
fact, it so happens that this new addition to your system-"
"It's not my system!"
"Yes. Anyhow, we've got a pretty nice chrysoberyl and emerald mine-"
"Emerald mine!"
"-right under the intersection of Sixth Avenue and 16th Street. That mean anything to you?"
"Why no, I . . . no, wait a minute. That's where . . . ?" He goggled at Van Groot.
"Yep. The new Bronx-Manhattan tunnel is going through just south of there. That's not the problem. It's the new
express station that's set to go in-"
"Right over your mine," whispered Charlie.
"The boys are pretty upset about it. They read the Times. It's a pretty explosive situation, Dimsdale. Explosive."
He looked hard at Charlie.
"But what do you expect me to do? I'm only second assistant inspector to the undercommissioner for subway
maintenance and repair. I haven't got the power to order changes in things like station locations and routings and
stuff! "
"That's not my problem," said Van Groot. -
"But they're scheduled to start blasting for that station . . . my God, the day after tomorrow!"
"That's what I hear." Van Groot sighed. "Too bad. I don't know what'll happen this time. There's been talk of
getting together with the Vermont and New Hampshire gnomes. They want to pour maple syrup into all the telephone
cables and switches between Great Neck and Ottawa. A sticky situation, I can tell you!"
"But you can't-" Van Groot looked at Charlie as though he were examining a special species of earthworm.
"Yes, you can."
"That's better," said Van Groot. "I'll do what I can. But while I disagree with the boys' methods, I sympathize with
their sentiments. They took an emerald out of there once that was . . . " He paused. "Best I can give you is about
twenty-four hours. No later than twelve o'clock tomorrow night."
"Why twelve?" asked Charlie inanely.
"It's traditional. If you've managed to help any, I'll meet you back here. If not, go soak your head."
"Look, I told you, I'm only a second assistant to-"
摘要：

THEMETROGNOMEANDOTHERSTORIESAlanDeanFosterINTRODUCTIONGYROGEARLOOSE,theultimateinventorcreatedbytheimmortalCarlBarks,onedayinventsamachinethatcanansweranyquestion.Decidingtostartitoutwithsomethingsimple,hepointstoasmallbirdoutsidehiswindowandinquiresofthedevice,"Whyisthatbirdsinging?"Whereuponthemac...

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