Sirens of Titan - Kurt Vonnegut [30]
It was as though Malachi Constant had walked forty feet, and had then dissolved into thin air.
On the following Tuesday, the space ship known as The Whale was rechristened The Rumfoord and was readied for firing.
Beatrice Rumfoord smugly watched the ceremonies on a television set two thousand miles away. She was still in Newport. The Rumfoord was going to be fired in exactly one minute. If destiny was going to get Beatrice Rumfoord on board, it was going to have to do it in one hell of a hurry.
Beatrice was feeling marvelous. She had proved so many good things. She had proved that she was mistress of her own fate, could say no whenever she pleased—and make it stick. She had proved that her husband’s omniscient bullying was all a bluff—that he wasn’t much better at forecasts than the United States Weather Bureau.
She had, moreover, worked out a plan that would enable her to live in modest comfort for the rest of her days, and would, at the same time, give her husband the treatment he deserved. The next time he materialized, he would find the estate teeming with gawkers. Beatrice was going to charge them five dollars a head to come in through the Alice-in-Wonderland door.
This was no pipe dream. She had discussed it with two supposed representatives of the mortgage-holders on the estate—and they were enthusiastic.
They were with her now, watching the preparations for the firing of The Rumfoord on television. The television set was in the same room with the huge painting of Beatrice as an immaculate little girl in white, with a white pony all her own. Beatrice smiled up at the painting. The little girl had yet to get the least bit soiled.
The television announcer now began the last minute’s countdown for the firing of The Rumfoord.
During the countdown, Beatrice’s mood was birdlike. She could not sit still and she could not keep quiet. Her restlessness was a result of happiness, not of suspense. It was a matter of indifference to her whether The Rumfoord was a fizzle or not.
Her two visitors, on the other hand, seemed to take the firing very seriously—seemed to be praying for the success of the shot. They were a man and a woman, a Mr. George M. Helmholtz and his secretary, a Miss Roberta Wiley. Miss Wiley was a funny-looking little old thing, but very alert and witty.
The rocket went up with a roar.
It was a flawless shot.
Helmholtz sat back and heaved a manly sigh of relief. Then he smiled and beat his thick thighs exuberantly. "By glory—" he said, "I’m proud to be an American—and proud to be living in the time I do."
"Would you like something to drink?" said Beatrice.
"Thank you very much—" said Helmholtz, "but I daren’t mix business with pleasure."
"Isn’t the business all over?" said Beatrice. "Haven’t we discussed everything?"
"Well—Miss Wiley and I had hoped to take an inventory of the larger buildings on the grounds," said Helmholtz, "but I’m afraid it’s gotten quite dark. Are there floodlights?"
Beatrice shook her head. "Sorry," she said.
"Perhaps you have a powerful flashlight?" said Helmholtz.
"I can probably get you a flashlight," said Beatrice, "but I don’t think it’s really necessary for you to go out there. I can tell you what all the buildings are." She rang for the butler, told him to bring a flashlight. "There’s the tennis house, the greenhouse, the gardener’s cottage, what used to be the gate house, the carriage house, the guest house, the tool shed, the bath house, the kennel, and the old water tower."
"Which one is the new one?" said Helmholtz.
"The new one?" said Beatrice.
The butler returned with a flashlight, which Beatrice gave to Helmholtz.
"The metal one," said Miss Wiley.
"Metal?" said Beatrice puzzled. "There aren’t any metal buildings. Maybe some of the weathered shingles have kind of a silvery look." She frowned. "Did somebody tell you there was a metal building here?"
"We saw it when we came in," said Helmholtz.
"Right by the path—in the undergrowth near the fountain," said Miss Wiley.
"I can’t imagine," said Beatrice.
"Could we go out