Gremlins Page 10

  “Wait, sir,” he said. “There’s too much light. It may even be enough to kill him in a few minutes.”

  Hanson turned off the overhead lights.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “We’d better pull the shades, just to make sure,” Billy urged.

  Hanson did so, wondering if he had a monster on his hands. But it would take only a few minutes to examine the creature, probably less time than it was taking to get the proper amount of subdued illumination.

  “That’s fine,” Billy said finally.

  Hanson smiled, opened the box, and looked inside.

  “Good Lord,” he said slowly.

  He had never seen such an animal. Touching it gently, he took its pulse, which was incredibly slow for what seemed to be a mammalian, and stroked its soft fur, which was subtly different from every other wild or domestic animal he’d encountered.

  “I don’t know what this thing is,” he confessed.

  Pete smiled broadly. “It’s a new species. We’ll be rich, won’t we? Tell me we’ll be rich.”

  Hanson smiled. “I can’t promise that,” he said. “Maybe my knowledge is incomplete. I thought I knew every type of animal on this planet, but this is certainly a new one on me.” He looked at Billy. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “My dad . . . brought it back from Chinatown.”

  “No papers or anything came with it?”

  Billy shook his head.

  “Do the thing with the water,” Pete urged.

  “What was that?” Hanson murmured.

  “I told you,” Pete said, “the thing makes another animal when you put water on it.”

  Roy recalled a garbled description of the creature’s reproductive technique, something about a drop of water, but at the time it had seemed like more of Pete’s ramblings. Now he was inclined to be more respectful.

  “Just one drop, though,” Billy said. “We don’t want to make any more than necessary.”

  Hanson nodded, located an eyedropper, and loaded it from the sink. “One drop of water coming up,” he said.

  He paused.

  “On the back,” Billy said, sensing the reason for his hesitation.

  Holding the Mogwai in one hand, Roy allowed a single bead of water to fall onto its back. For a long moment nothing happened. Then the crackling sound started and the creature began to shriek wildly. Kate, her hands over her face, leaped back, then slowly spread her fingers to peer out at the Mogwai’s writhings. A minute later, as the frying sound reached a crescendo, a huge blister grew, abscesslike, on the Mogwai’s skin, gradually broke apart, and emitted a fur ball onto the lab table.

  The four watched as the sound diminished and the Mogwai’s sufferings obviously subsided.

  “I can’t believe it,” Roy murmured.

  The fur ball was growing, gradually forming itself into a miniature version of its parent as it expanded.

  “It’s incredible,” Roy breathed. “Looks like we got us our own little Christmas miracle.”

  Another minute passed, all of their eyes still on the growing new Mogwai.

  “It’ll keep growing until it’s as big as the other one,” Billy said. “That’ll be a little while.”

  “Don’t worry.” Roy smiled. “I was all ready for dinner when you folks got here, but I don’t think I’ll be eating soon tonight.”

  “What’ll we do next?” Billy asked.

  “I’d like to run some blood tests. That may give me a lot of information. So why don’t you take the old specimen home and leave the new one here?”

  “Sure,” Billy replied. “But please don’t make any more of them, O.K.?”

  “You can bet on that,” Roy assured him. “Not until I’m darn sure what these babies are.”

  The three young people left then, discussing the phenomenon animatedly until they were nearly home. Then Billy grimaced and slapped his hand to his forehead.

  “What is it?” Kate asked.

  “I forgot to tell him not to feed them after midnight,” he said, disgusted with himself.

  “Don’t worry,” Pete said. “I’ll stop by after I do my Christmas tree routine. It’ll only be eight o’clock.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  Pete crossed his heart. “Word of honor,” he promised. “May I turn into a Christmas tree forever if I forget.”

  C H A P T E R

  ELEVEN

  Pete forgot.

  C H A P T E R

  TWELVE

  The greatest frustration of Gizmo’s existence was that he could not communicate very well with other species. As a highly intelligent form of life, he often understood by intuition the general context of what alien beings said, but making them understand him was another matter.

  Now, as Billy and the young woman returned with the shoe box, Gizmo had the feeling that things were not going very well. The only reason they could have had for taking the new Mogwai away was to study it; from that it followed that they had demonstrated how water made them reproduce; and from that it was logical to assume that one minute after the specimen Mogwai rejoined his friends, all would know. Stripe would know. And then only one piece of dangerous knowledge would separate Gizmo, Billy, and the rest of the human race from possible disaster.

  Watching the moments of safety tick away as Billy approached the pile of sleeping fur balls, Gizmo wanted to cry out: “Wait! Stop!” If only he could find a way to tell Billy that unless he segregated those four Mogwai from each other and from water, he was in danger of becoming one of the biggest jerks in the history of the world! But when Gizmo opened his mouth to articulate a clear and direct warning, nothing emerged but gibberish.

  “Look, Kate.” Billy smiled as he opened the shoe box. “Gizmo must be jealous.”

  He reached to stroke Gizmo’s head with one hand and dropped the new Mogwai into the bunch with his other.

  “There,” he said. “See, Giz? They don’t mean a thing to me. You’re the special one.”

  “He seems kind of . . . sad, doesn’t he?” Kate said.

  “Yeah, a little. I guess you can’t blame him. There’s been a lot of excitement the past couple days.”

  A few minutes later they went out, leaving Gizmo to watch the grim conspiracy unfolding before him. It began with the four Mogwai going into a huddle, from which constant whispering emanated punctuated by an occasional grunt or shout of triumph from Stripe. After several minutes they moved apart and, as one, looked directly at Gizmo. Their expressions told him they felt they were on the verge of a quantum power increase, that he had better stay out of their way when it happened.

  They were undoubtedly close to realizing this tremendous power surge; yet even the pessimistic Gizmo knew it was by no means automatic. During his own lifetime he had seen several dozen near-explosions averted, mostly by good fortune rather than planning, but these misses did serve to illustrate the point that until the final mystery was solved, containment was possible. Stripe, one of the most diabolically clever majority Mogwai Gizmo had so far encountered, knew that the last step was the most important.

  Moving to the front of the group, he spoke in Mogwai.

  “We’ve solved two problems,” he said coldly. “We know light is our enemy, so we won’t be trapped into exposing ourselves to it. We know that water makes us reproduce. All that remains is to discover how we become powerful.”

  Gizmo looked directly into Stripe’s eyes. “Well?” he asked. “Why don’t you reproduce then? This family can keep you locked in the house, but it’s foolish to believe they can keep you away from water.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Stripe smiled wickedly. “By reproducing now, we could succeed in doing nothing but creating an army of weak creatures that could be easily eradicated. You’ve seen such impatience fail in the past, haven’t you?”

  Gizmo allowed himself to smile faintly. In fact, he always hated to see unlimited reproduction for the simple reason that it mathematically increased the chances of
stumbling onto the final mystery’s solution. Consistent with this, he hoped Stripe and his three cohorts would not take the step right away. The best way to discourage their doing so, of course, was by making Stripe think he favored reproduction.

  And what, Gizmo mused, was the best way to delude Stripe into thinking he wanted them to reproduce now? By saying the opposite? No. (Since Stripe would automatically reject that as a ploy.) In fact, the best way to convince his enemy that he favored reproduction was to seem to favor it.

  It was an elliptical line of reasoning, but with the devious Stripe, one had to be wily.

  “There is an old adage,” Gizmo said. “It says that the opportunity should be grasped when it arises or that moment will never occur again.”

  “So you think we should reproduce now?” Stripe asked through narrowed eyes.

  “I am not your advisor. It just seems to me—”

  “Liar!” Stripe shot back. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you really think I’ll fall for such obvious psychological maneuvering?”

  Gizmo, summoning all his acting ability, did his best to look innocent.

  Stripe raged, smiling finally in triumph. “If you, my dear enemy, advise us to reproduce now, it can only mean one thing: that that is what you want. You know it is my inclination to believe the opposite of what you say. Therefore if you speak in favor of reproduction, that is really what you favor.” His forehead furrowing as he followed his own convoluted reasoning, he paused, then rushed forward with the denouement. “Therefore, since you are in favor of reproduction now, we won’t do it.”

  Gizmo looked away, rolled himself into a ball, and cherished the brief moment of victory. He realized it was a temporary thing, however, subject to the mercurial whims of Stripe’s mind. But at least he had a little time to think.

  Roy Hanson hadn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours, thanks to Pete Fountaine and Billy Peltzer. He’d planned for his first sane Christmas in years, and now this. A biological find so stunning he was afraid to stop work for a minute lest he lose his train of thought. Just analyzing the creature’s blood, which ought to have been a reasonably simple matter, had been horrendously time-consuming. After extracting blood at least two dozen times (which endeared him to the Mogwai to the point where it shrieked whenever he approached), he had concluded that the blood actually changed composition in response to atmospheric, temperature, and humidity changes. This meant that the creature was theoretically capable of living in nearly every climate imaginable. It made blood testing a monumental task, though. And blood testing would be a snap compared to finding out how the animal reproduced via a single drop of water.

  “Don’t worry, fella,” he said, staring at the hostile Mogwai. “I’m gonna solve your identity problem and then you’ll love me.”

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the building was nearly deserted. Tomorrow would be the last day of classes; then Roy would have the entire Christmas holiday to study the animal.

  “I was really lookin’ forward to spending some time with my girlfriend,” he said to the Mogwai. “But I’d better get you while you’re hot.”

  Haunted by the idea that those kids would tell some television or newspaper reporter about the Mogwai and he would be lost in the shuffle, Roy worked compulsively and nonstop. Fortunately, he was used to such self-discipline, having worked two jobs while he was in college. He had learned to sleep on the run, think on the run, and eat on the run. Knowing that he would be spending many long hours in the lab this evening, he had sent one of his homeroom students out for some sandwiches. Munching on one, he noticed the Mogwai stare hungrily at it.

  “Why not?” He smiled. “We’re both in this together. Have a bite.”

  Pushing a morsel through the bars, he laughed as the Mogwai grabbed and downed the snack like a veteran fast-food addict.

  “O.K.,” he said. “Now it’s time for one more jab with the needle in the interests of science.”

  “I know you’re all caught up in this in the interests of science, but it’s not helping me get my petition signed.”

  Kate wasn’t exactly perturbed. She was concerned, however, that Billy seemed to have no time to help her contact people. While she understood that he was preoccupied with the Mogwai problem, she did not want to lose track of her main goal in life at the moment—to thwart Mrs. Deagle if there was a takeover plan in the works.

  It was late afternoon, only minutes after they had gotten off work. Dorry’s Pub was nearly deserted, only Murray Futterman sitting at the far end of the bar nursing a drink. Billy and Kate had said hello to him when they came in, but as he hadn’t seemed inclined to socialize, they’d left him alone. Taking a table in the corner farthest away from the video games, where space invaders were being zapped by some teenagers, they ordered coffee and slowly unwound from a rough day at the bank.

  “I’m sorry,” Billy explained. “Really I am. It’s just that I don’t feel right being away from home too long. Mom may not know what to do if those Mogwai get loose or something. If it wasn’t for that, I’d help you take that petition door to door—”

  “Where are you keeping them, by the way?” Kate asked. “Still in your room?”

  Billy nodded. “Mom lets them out every once in a while, though. Not outside the house, but downstairs. She thinks it’s mean to keep them cooped up all the time.”

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll get splashed with water?”

  “Not really. There aren’t any leaks or anything, and we keep the kitchen and bathrooms closed. Oh, I guess if they knew they could reproduce that way and wanted it, they’d find a way. But they’re pretty docile. And Barney follows them around. If they get in anything he thinks they shouldn’t he barks a warning.”

  Kate smiled. “Any more warnings from Mrs. Deagle?” she asked.

  “Yeah. She mumbled something under her breath today—just loud enough for me to hear—saying Barney’s time was almost up.”

  “What do you think she meant? Is she bluffing?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past her to hire somebody to put a drug in his food.”

  They sat silently a moment, sipping their coffee. Then, without looking up, Kate murmured, “Watch it. Here he comes. With one too many.”

  As the shuffling figure of Mr. Futterman nearly stumbled just before reaching their table, she added quickly, “Make that two.”

  “Hi, kids,” Futterman said, pulling up a chair. Putting his rough, scaly hand on Kate’s arm, he smiled. “Now here’s a new one. Most guys ask you when you get off work. But I want to know when you start.”

  “Not for another fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the best one to complain to around here,” Futterman replied thickly. “Dorry’s not interested. You listen. A fella can tell you his problems and you sympathize. But I can’t wait fifteen more minutes.”

  “All right.” Kate smiled. “I’m not working yet, but tell me anyway.”

  “It’s that stupid . . . cantankerous . . . can’t get her to cooperate no matter what—”

  “Not your wife?” Kate interjected.

  “No,” he said. “It’s that snowplow. Darn thing.”

  “But I thought you said it worked perfectly, Mr. Futterman,” Billy said.

  “It did. But that was before I took it in for a tune-up and they loaded ’er up with foreign parts. Every single gasket, spark plug—foreign! It’s no wonder she conked out. It’s like servin’ chop suey at a wedding. You ever heard of anybody ever servin’ chop suey at a wedding?”

  Billy shook his head.

  “ ’Course not! They serve good ol’ American food. Give the guests chop suey and they’d none of ’em move for the rest of the night. Same with cars and trucks. Foreign parts are like chop suey. Boiled rice. Thick, sticky.”

  “I’ve never heard it put that way before,” Kate said, humoring him, “but you may have something.”

  “They’re payin’ us back
for winning the war,” Futterman said in a somewhat slurred but unequivocal tone. “They’re puttin’ gremlins in their machinery, the same gremlins that brought down our planes in the big one.”

  “The big one?” Kate asked, puzzled.

  “World War Two,” Futterman rasped. “You know, the sequel to World War One.”

  Kate and Billy laughed.

  “Anyway,” Futterman continued, “they’re shippin’ their gremlins over here . . . in their cars, and stereos, and now in the spark plugs in my snowplow.”

  “Where’s the plow now?” Kate asked.

  “Around the corner. She conked out just as I pulled in a parking space. That was my only break today.”

  “Can I give you a lift home?” Kate offered.

  “No, thanks,” Futterman replied, getting shakily to his feet. “The wife’s on her way. Should be outside now. Thanks for listenin’ to me. I needed that.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kate answered with a smile. “Why don’t you pick up some chop suey on your way home? That should make you feel better.”

  “Fat chance,” Futterman laughed, waving as he headed for the door.

  Billy leaned back and smiled.

  “That was really nice,” he said. “The way you handled Mr. Futterman.”

  “I’m used to it,” Kate replied. “People are about the same all over. They just want somebody to listen to them. Especially around the holidays.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s because a lot of people get really depressed when they’re bombarded by all this cheer.”

  “I always thought everybody was happy during the holidays,” Billy mused.

  “Most people are,” Kate said. “But some aren’t. While everybody else is opening presents, they’re opening their wrists.”

  Billy winced. “A cheery thought.”

  “It’s true. The suicide rate is always highest around the holidays.”

  “Stop it. Now you’re making me depressed.”

  “Sorry. Can’t have that.”

  The slight edge to her voice bothered him. “Do you get depressed at Christmas?” he asked.