Short Stories - Metrognome and other Stories, Page 3

  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 nig
ht. 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 to
ok 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‑"

  "I remember. I'm not responsible for your failings. Your problem."

  "Tomorrow's Saturday. On Sundays I always call my mother in Greenville. If you gum up the telephone lines, I won't be able to."

  "And the chairman of the board of General Comput­ers, who usually calls his mistress in Geneva on Sunday mornings, won't be able to, either," said Van Groot. "It'll be a very democratic crisis. Remember, midnight tomorrow."

  Puffing mightily on the cigar and ignoring Charlie's entreaties, the gnome executive disappeared into the near wall of the tunnel.

  The morning was cool and clear. On Saturday morn­ings Charlie usually went first to the Museum of Natural History. Then off to the Guggenheim to see if anything new had come in during the week. From there it was down to the Village for a quick tour through Heimacker's Acres of Books bookstore. Then home, where he would treat himself to an expensive TV dinner instead of the usual fried chicken or Swiss steak. Out to a film or con­cert and then home. .

  Today, however, his schedule was markedly altered. He went to the museum on time. The usual thrill wasn't there. Even the exhibits of northwestern Indian dugouts failed to excite him as they usually did. Instead of envi­sioning himself perched in the bow, harpoon poised for the whale kill, he saw himself crouched in the rear, pad­dling furiously to escape the hordes of angry gnomes that were chasing him in birchbark canoes. And when he looked at the always imposing skeleton of the Tyranno­saurus Rex and saw Undercommissioner Broadhare's sour puss in the grinning skull, he decided it was definitely time to depart.

  He made up a speech. He'd walk straight into Com­missioner Feely's office, powerful and insistent, and say, "Look here, Feely. You've got to shift the new Sixth Avenue station from the north to the south side of the tracks, because if you don't, the gnomes will destroy our great telephone network with maple syrup and‑"