Twinkle, Twinkle, "Killer" Kane (16 page)

Spoor looked plainly exasperated, but tried to lower his voice. “Colonel Kane, do me a favor,” he said; “a small but important favor. Kindly explain to this idiot that in the plays of William Shakespeare there can be no part for
Superman!
”

“There
could
be!” pouted Alterman. “There could be, the way I explained it.”

“The way you
explained
it!” erupted Spoor. He whirled on Kane. “Know what he
wants?
Do you
know?
When the conspirators pull out their knives, he wants to
rescue
Julius
Caesar!
Sure! Swoop down and grab him! Yes! Hurdling mighty temples at a single, incredible bound! Alterman, what in the hell is
wrong
with you?
Tell
him, Colonel,
tell
him!”

“Can’t be done,” said Kane to Alterman in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

“What a pussycat!” beamed Spoor, patting the colonel’s cheek with affection. Then he swiftly turned on Alterman. “See, you stubborn? Eh? Do you see? Also, stupid, you’re not a dog!”

Paint splattered down on the trio. Lieutenant Spoor pointed up at Corfu, who was busily brushing away. “That man is
crazy!
” he declared.

Zook pounced on Kane. “So
there
you are,” he said angrily, “invisible giant brain!”

Spoor shook his head with sadness. “Another planet heard from. Krebs,” he called, “who’s next?” A large Dalmatian raced into his office. Spoor followed him in and closed the door, muttering, “Television actors! Always in a hurry!”

Kane turned to Zook. “What’s the trouble?” he calmly asked him.

“Hell, you
know
the trouble! You
caused
the trouble! Pretend to give me the belt and then one of your stooges takes it away!”

Kane had procured for him the flying belt. Developed by the Army, it was worn like a shoulder harness and could propel a man in the air for a space of from three to four minutes at most. After that, it required recharging. Its guidance system, fortunately, was simple and safe to manage.

Kane turned to Alterman, the candidate most likely to have pilfered the belt from Zook. “Captain, did you take the belt?”

“No, not
him!
” interjected Zook. “It was the brain you all call Bemish! Yeah, he
robbed
it from me!
Stole
it! And for
what,
I ask you,
what?
To take a flying leap at
walls!
I want it
back,
you hear me,
back!
”

All of them looked to the door on hearing a muffled yelp of pain. Out, then, raced the Dalmatian, almost bowling over Zook. Spoor was at the door, looking outraged and chagrined. He was also gripping his wrist. “He
bit
me! Can you imagine? Told him he was rotten and he
bit
me!” Spoor shook a threatening fist at the dogs. “Maybe instead I’ll use
penguins!
You hear, you little bums? I said
penguins;
yes,
penguins!
A penguin never bit
nobody!
”

Bemish flew past them, wearing Zook’s belt. He was four feet off the ground, and how he zoomed, and how he hurtled, until a plastery crash and crunching announced the terminal point of his flight to be a staunchly resisting wall. Krebs raced to his aid, followed by Fromme, who’d burst out of the dorm.

Zook raced to the spot, bawling, “Bemish, take it off!”

Bemish lay sprawled on the ground, his sturdy helmet white with plaster. Fromme stood over him, pushing at Krebs and shouting, “Back! You vultures, stand back! Give the man air! Give the man air!”

Groper had seen enough. He went to his room and closed the door. Then lay on his bed and counted the years until he’d be eligible for retirement. It seemed a long, long time.

Kane entered his office feeling giddy and elated; felt that wash of airy freedom that accompanies decision and the following of a plan. Beyond the completion of that plan he could not see; nor did he care to. It was sufficient to be moving forward, to be reaching for something palpable. And good. That was important, very important: he was striving, with maximum hazard, for something clearly and obviously good; not merely by Caesar’s standards, or by God’s, but by both. By both. Very important. Something else was very important; some haunting, ultimate end hovering over all of the others, making them somehow intermediate. But still, he couldn’t remember.

Outside, it began to rain. Kane thought back to that night in the jungle, to that night of his wild decision. Something back there. Or in a dream. He didn’t know; he didn’t know.
Domine non sum dignus.
Sunday mornings at the altar, holding the cruets for the priest. He felt an aching, poignant yearning for some end that was out of sight.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.
What was today? Was it Saturday? Tomorrow he’d go to Mass. Early, when it was quiet; no squalling babies rending his peace. Abruptly, without reason, he wanted to laugh; then to cry. But he knew himself incapable.

Cutshaw burst in on him, wrapped from head to foot in a gaudily striped towel. He clutched a child’s pail and shovel. “Let’s go to the beach!” he announced to Kane.

“That is impossible and you know it.”

“
Foot,
you’re moody!”

“Moreover, it’s raining.”

“
Sure,
it’s raining! That’s the
point,
you dummy, the
point!
Judas,
everyone
goes when it’s
bright!
”

“Is going to the beach some new demand?” asked Kane.

“Since
when
have I made demands!” squawked Cutshaw, leaping onto the couch. He slapped his shovel against the wall. “By the way, have you fixed this freaking wall?”

“No.”

“See? Do you hear me complaining? I want a sucker,” he demanded plaintively.

“A
what?
”

“A sucker! A common sucker! Is that wrong? Is it a sin?”

“Cutshaw, kindly come down off that couch.”

“So! Once a priest,
always
a priest! Well, what is the use in goodness, Hud, if I cannot have a sucker! You’re Anthony Quinn or Jack Palance! There isn’t a
chance
that you’re Pat O’Brien! Pat O’Brien would have given me candy! Yes! Pat O’Brien would have given me
suckers!
”

“Captain, I’ll give you a sucker tomorrow.”

“Hell, I don’t want one. Think you can bribe me? Listen, how do you like this towel?”

“Where did you get it?”

“Pat O’Brien. Any further idiot questions, Hud? Or did that one win the prize?”

“No further questions,” said Kane.

“Thank Foot! Want to play jacks?”

“No.”

“
Christ,
you don’t want to do
anything!
What about riddles? Can I ask you a riddle?”

“Yes.”

“Big freaking deal! Now listen to this. Are you ready?” asked Cutshaw.

“Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”

“What is red, reads the New York
Times,
has fourteen legs and wears a sombrero?”

“I give up.”

“Took you
long
enough! I gave up on that one three
days
ago, Lothar! Now listen, here’s another. How many times can you break a shish kebab skewer in half?”

“How many times?” answered Kane.

Cutshaw leaped from the couch, springing nimbly onto the desk in his customary fashion and squatting in front of Kane. “I’ll put it another way,” he said. “Everything has parts. The
skewer
has parts. Now, how many times can I break it in half? An infinite number of times or a limited number of times? If it’s an
infinite
number of times, then the skewer must be infinite. Which is moose piss, let’s face it. But if I can only cut the skewer in half for a
limited
number of times—if I get down to a piece of skewer that can no longer be cut in half—I mean, assuming I were Foot and could do anything I wanted—then I’m down to a piece of skewer that has no parts—no parts at all; that is absolutely simple. And Hudkins,
that
is moose piss! If it has no parts, it can’t
exist!
Am I right? Am I right? No! I see it in your eyes! You think I’m a crazy old man!”

“Not at all,” responded Kane. He found the problem rather intriguing. “You have merely failed to distinguish,” he said, “between the real and mental orders. Mentally—or theoretically—there isn’t any limit at all on how many times you can halve that skewer. But in the
real
order of things—or, in other words, practically speaking—you would finally come to a point where, when you cut the skewer in half, the halves would convert themselves into energy.”

“
Foot,
you are wise!” breathed Cutshaw, probing Kane’s eyes with a look like hope. He’s been testing me, Kane decided. “Do you believe in the Resurrection?” asked the astronaut intently.

“Yes,” answered Kane.

“That Christ rose from the dead?”

“Yes.”

“But the guards might have fallen asleep while cunning caribou stole his body!”

“Pilate was warned of that possibility,” said Kane. “And the penalty for sleeping on duty for Roman soldiers happened to be death.”

“They could always plead insanity,” said Cutshaw, his face a mask of sobriety.

Kane’s stomach muscles tightened. “Temporary?” he probed.

Something stirred in Cutshaw’s eyes: something vaguely like a smile. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.” Then he fell into another temper. “Enough of these quips and quiddities! To the matter, Hud, the matter! Sir, I speak of Captain Fell!”

“What about him?”

“What
about
him? Are you
mad?
Are you a
stone?
”

“Are you referring to his drinking?”

“I’m referring to his general coolth as well as a certain lack of class! Lieutenant Klenk came to him yesterday with a strange and wondrous malady, but do you know what that quack prescribed?
Aspirin,
Huddy,
aspirin!
”

“What was the malady?”

“I blush to say it.”

“Say it.”

“Very well, I will. Lieutenant Klenk has a tipped uterus.”

“I see.”

“I daresay you do. But how does that help Lieutenant Klenk? How does that comfort him in his agony? What shall I tell him? ‘Listen, Klenkie, easy—I have spoken to the Colonel and, while his kidney doubtless pulsates sympathetically with yours, he says to stuff your uterus with aspirin, seeing as Fell is erratic but fair?’ Is that the drill? Is that what I tell him?”

“Not at all.”

“Let’s go to the beach.”

“Cutshaw, it’s raining.”

“Tell that to Klenk and see if it comforts him. Look, why can’t we talk? Why can’t we be friends?”

“I
am
your friend,” said Kane.

“You’re my
albatross,
my
millstone,
my
flaming white elephant!
Tell me, why! Why won’t you tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“Why sometimes I cry. It’s a pain in the ass.”

“Yes, it is,” murmured Kane.

“That’s why I love you. You’re so freaking agreeable. Do you think cannibals think they’re grand?”

“What?”

“Cannibals, Hud, cannibals! Do they think it’s morally right to fricassee Martin and Osa Johnson?”

“Who is to say?” answered Kane.

“But it could be they do? Isn’t that right?”

“Right.”

“But Foot—what about him? Does he think fricasseed hunter is grand?”

“No.”

“So how come he hasn’t gotten out the word to all those cannibals, Hud? And to those pygmies shrinking heads out there in the jungles of the Amazon? What is it with him? What is it? Is he indifferent to right and wrong? Is he indifferent to what we do?”

“He sends missionaries there,” said Kane.

“He should send meat sauce and chutney, Hud; that the cannibals would use! Look, if Foot has some plan; if there’s some way he wants us to act, why, man, all he’d have to do is tell us! If we were convinced that he existed—really convinced—we’d all be good. So why the games and hocus-pocus? Why doesn’t Foot just make an appearance on top of the Empire State Building? What’s the problem, Hud? What is it? Is he short on tablets of stone? My Uncle Eddie owns a quarry, I can get them for him wholesale! All he has to do is
ask!
A burning bush is something else. This is not my regular work.”

“I gather you’re asking for signs and wonders,” said Kane.

“I’m asking for a modicum of honesty! For Foot to quit playing peek-a-boo! To shit or get off the pot! Diarrhetic strange gods have been waiting in line!”

Kane sighed. “Do you know the New Testament?”

“Do you know you’re a fatuous pedant?”

“The parables of Christ are neither simple,” said Kane, “nor direct. Christ always has to explain them. But you’ll notice he only explains them to the few who hang around; to the few who are interested; to those of goodwill. And there’s a reason for that, Cutshaw.”

Cutshaw leaned forward in exaggerated interest, his brow thick with furrows of intense concentration.

Kane continued: “To those who are
not
of goodwill, well—the truth can be harmful. As long as there is doubt, there is a lessening of guilt. But to give the truth to those who will believe it—but ignore it—is to seal their final damnation. I believe that’s why God hides. What do you think?”

Cutshaw blinked. “I think you are late for your tea party, you demented March Hare! Who do you claim to be today? Father Divine or Cassius Clay? Look, forget it, Hud, forget it! Stay Gregory Peck! At least you can vote!” Cutshaw flung a corner of towel over his shoulder and strode to the door. He pulled it open and turned to Kane. “One more thing,” he said, “I love you. You’re so dumb you’re adorable.” He falconed out the door then, crouching out of sight.

Kane felt a sense of failure; that he had somehow failed Cutshaw; somehow failed himself. This constant harping on theology seemed related to his problem. How lucid he was when he spoke of it! And halving the skewer of shish kebab. Testing, thought Kane, he was testing. Testing my intellect, apparently. Why? To what purpose? Would he feel better if Albert Einstein believed in Christ and the Resurrection?