While Mortals Sleep_ Unpublished Short Fiction - Kurt Vonnegut [31]
The girl pool became a river, flowing down the fireproof iron stairway into the company street. At the very end of the river was my wife-to-be.
Amy stopped, and the river left her behind, in the little cyclones of fly ash, in the canyon walled by numbered building façades.
Amy returned to the girl pool. The only light now came from the orange fires of furnaces in the distance.
Trembling, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, and found the record gone.
Stunned and angry, she opened Miss Hostetter’s bottom drawer. The record was there. The only other objects in the green steel bin were a bottle of Mercurochrome and a clipping from the Montezuma Minutes, entitled, “Creed of a Woman of Montezuma.” “I am a Woman of Montezuma,” the creed began, “hand in hand with Men, marching to a Better Tomorrow under the three banners of God, Country, and Company, bearing the proud shield of Service.”
Amy wailed in anguish. She ran out of the girl pool, down the iron stairway, and down the company street to the main gate, to the headquarters of the company police. She was sure Miss Hostetter was there, proudly telling the police what she’d learned from the record.
The headquarters of the company police were in one corner of a great reception room by the main gate. Around the walls of the room were exhibits of the company’s products and methods. In its center was a stand, where a fat concessionaire sold candy, tobacco, and magazines.
A tall woman in a cloth coat was talking animatedly to the policeman on duty.
“Miss Hostetter!” said Amy breathlessly, coming up behind her.
The woman turned to look curiously at my wife-to-be, and then returned her attention to the policeman. She was not Miss Hostetter. She was a visitor, who had taken a tour of the works and lost her purse inside.
“It could have been lost or stolen just anywhere,” said the woman, “where all that terrible noise was, with all the hot steel and sparks; where that big hammer came crashing down; where that scientist showed us his whatchamacallit in his laboratory—anywhere! Maybe that killer who’s running around wild in there snatched it while I wasn’t looking.”
“Lady,” said the policeman patiently, “it’s almost sure he’s dead. And he isn’t after purses, if he is alive. He’s after something to eat. He’s after life.” He smiled grimly. “But he isn’t going to get it—not for long.”
The corners of my wife-to-be’s sweet red mouth pulled down involuntarily.
Somewhere out in the works, dogs bayed.
“Hear that?” said the policeman with satisfaction. “They got dogs looking for him now. If he’s got your purse, lady, which he doesn’t, we’ll have it back in jig time.”
Amy looked around the big room for Miss Hostetter. Miss Hostetter wasn’t there. Helplessness weakened Amy, and she sat down on a hard bench before a display entitled, “Can Silicones Solve Your Problems?”
Depression settled over Amy. She recognized it for what it was—the depression she always felt when a good movie ended. The theater lights were coming on, taking from her elation and importance and love she really had no claim to. She was only a spectator—one of many.
“Hear them dogs?” said the concessionaire to a customer behind Amy. “Special kind, I heard. Bloodhounds are the gentlest dogs alive, but the ones they’ve got after Barrow are half coonhound. They can teach that kind to be tough—to take care of the tough customers.”
Amy stood suddenly, and went to the candy counter. “I want a chocolate bar,” she said, “the big kind, the twenty-five-cent kind. And a Butterfinger and a Coconut Mounds bar, and one of those caramel things—and some peanuts.”
“Yes, ma’am!” said the concessionaire. “Going to have yourself a real banquet, aren’t you? Just watch out you don’t hurt that complexion with too much sweets—that’s all.”
* * *
Amy hurried back into the works, and squeezed into a crowded company bus. She was the only girl on