Читать книгу The Return of Captain Conquer - Mel Gilden - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

A RING AS BIG AS A WALNUT

Watson hung a sign on the shop’s door that said BACK AT 4:30, then ducked around the green cur­tain after his father. The back room was dim but for the gooseneck lamp that reached over the work­bench, and it was crowded with the same stuff that was displayed in the PX, but not stored as neatly.

Watson followed his father along the narrow path of blue carpeting between the jumbled piles of post­ers and T-shirts to the back of the room, where Mr. Congruent’s workshop was located.

The workshop was even messier than the rest of the room. Revealed on the workbench by the light coming from the gooseneck lamp, standing among bits of wire, circuit boards and tools, was an oscillo­scope that showed a strange curve that shuddered and re-formed time and time again on the round green screen. Big circuit diagrams smudged with clouds of fingerprints covered the walls.

Near the oscilloscope, a finely machined piece of equipment stood on the bench. It looked something like an electric fan, but the round part where the blades might have been was completely encased in metal. A plate had been unscrewed from its side, and alligator clips clamped wires to blocky shapes inside. The wires led from the electric-fan-like thing to the oscilloscope.

Watson watched the oscilloscope for a few seconds.

“How’s the motivator coming?”

Mr. Congruent carefully inserted a long thin screwdriver down into the motivator’s exposed in­nards. “Oh, I’m pretty close now.” They watched the luminous line on the screen of the oscilloscope wrig­gle while Mr. Congruent turned the screwdriver slowly, first one way and then the other.

Mr. Congruent put down the screwdriver, then spun a lazy Susan that stood on one corner of the bench. A television set swung into view. Watson switched it on, and adjusted the sound on the Corny Cobs commercial that was on the screen, then sat in a big raggedy overstuffed chair next to the one in which his father was already sitting.

As the jaunty march music that was the theme of The Adventures of Captain Conquer began, and clips of Captain Conquer taking off in the Great Auk, thwarting bad guys and shaking hands with Chuckles, his assistant, rolled across the screen, Mr. Congruent leaned forward expectantly in his chair. When the words “The Attack of the Proto-Penguins” flashed on the screen, he said, “Oh, I remember this. This is a good one.”

Watson was not surprised at his father’s words. Mr. Congruent rarely said anything else when he saw the title of each day’s episode.

Mr. Congruent studied his fingers and picked at his thumb while the first Chocolatron commercial was on. He said, “I wish they were still giving pre­miums. I’ll bet a lot of people would want an authen­tic metal-tone styrene plastic Captain Conquer Signet Ring. Or a model of the Great Auk, or a Chuckles activity book. After all, when you’re a Captain Con­quer fan, you’re a member of a big happy family. Don’t you agree, Watson?”

“It’s nice to think so,” Watson said. His family had consisted of just his father and himself for so long that the possibility of being a member of a big happy family made Watson feel warm and wistful.

“Yes,” said Mr. Congruent, “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: ‘Fandom is a way of life’.”

Soon “The Attack of the Proto-Penguins” began. Mr. Congruent instantly stopped playing with his fingers, leaned forward and followed with interest the story of android penguins from the ice floes of Venus. When Captain Conquer spoke, Mr. Congru­ent paid attention as if the Captain were speaking directly to him.

He nodded when Captain Conquer wisely did not use weapons until the true nature of the penguins and their mission was discovered. As it turned out, the penguins were programmed by the evil Destruc­towitz to explode if attacked. If the Captain had fired at them, as so many of his advisers wanted him to, the laboratory and half the mountain it sat on would have been blown to smithereens.

Mr. Congruent laughed at the antics of Chuckles as he tried to free himself from the evil Destructo­witz’s quicksand field. He shook his head and groaned when Captain Conquer was captured by the evil Destructowitz.

During the next Chocolatron commercial, Watson handed the mail to his father. One of the letters was from the Charlieville Planning Commission.

“At last,” Mr. Congruent said as he tore open the envelope and started to read the thin sheet of paper inside. He stopped smiling as he continued.

“What is it?” Watson said.

“The Planning Commission has denied our re­quest to build a Captain Conquer Museum next door.”

“Can they do that?” Watson said hotly. “They don’t own the land. We do.” Watson’s sense of honor was often offended by the Charlieville Planning Commission.

“It says here that building on that land would violate certain city zoning ordinances and planning policies.” Mr. Congruent angrily balled up the paper and threw it to Watson, who smoothed out the paper on his knee and read the legal language with disbelief. Yes, it did seem to say what his father claimed, though only a lawyer could be sure.

“I wish they would write these things in English, don’t you?” Watson said. Mr. Congruent did not answer, for suddenly, there on the television, Captain Conquer was once again in the clutches of the evil Destructowitz and Mr. Congruent once more became engrossed in the story. He seemed to have entirely forgotten how angry he was at the Planning Com­mission.

Watson knew it was impossible to distract his father while The Adventures of Captain Conquer was on. He folded the letter from the Planning Com­mission and stuffed it back into its envelope.

Things got worse for Captain Conquer. Ravenous proto-penguins attacked seafood restaurants all over the Earth, ate out their freezers, put everyone of them out of business. People who frequented sushi bars could not get enough raw fish, and were rioting in the streets.

Just before the proto-penguins were about to dive into the ocean to eat everything that swam or crawled, Captain Conquer wriggled out of the ropes holding him and got to the Great Auk. He flew over the crowd of proto-penguins and dropped a powder that reduced them to their component organic mole­cules. The evil Destructowitz escaped back to Venus, vowing revenge. As he flew into the sunset, Captain Conquer spoke the famous line he said to Chuckles at the end of every show: “So much for that mess!”

Mr. Congruent shook his head in wonderment. “Wasn’t that swell?” he said.

“Swell. Yeah,” said Watson with all the enthusiasm he could muster.

The same Corny Cobs commercial they had seen at the beginning of the show was running again.

“Well,” said Mr. Congruent as he hit his knees with the palms of his hands and stood up, “I think it’s time for a little celebration.”

“What sort of celebration?” Watson asked innocently.

Mr. Congruent opened a cupboard above his workbench and took a cake from it and displayed it before Watson. “It’s your birthday!” he said. The cake was really a package of Twinkies. Thirteen candles, each in a pink plastic candleholder, had been punched through the cellophane and into the yellow cakes.

“Gee,” Watson said happily.

Mr. Congruent lit the candles, and with one huge breath, Watson blew them out. They removed the candles and opened the package of Twinkies. Mr. Congruent said, “Let’s get outside that cake!” Mr. Congruent never “ate” anything. He always “got outside” it. He and Watson each had a Twinkie with vanilla ice cream on a little paper plate. They had big glasses of cold milk and Chocolatron to wash it down.

As they got outside their cake, ice cream, and Chocolatron, Watson and his father joked and laughed. Mr. Congruent mentioned how proud his wife would have been of a fine young man such as Watson.

When they were done eating, Mr. Congruent threw away the paper plates and plastic forks. Wat­son said, “Thanks for the birthday party, Dad. I enjoyed it a lot.” He stood up. “Well, I guess we’d better get back to work.”

“The store will wait, Watson. We’ll hear the bell over the door tinkle if someone comes in. I have a little something for you on your birthday.” From a pocket, he pulled a small white box.

“Jewelry?” Watson said. He and Mr. Congruent laughed and Mr. Congruent handed him the box. “I suppose it is jewelry of a sort. You’re old enough to use it properly now.”

Trying to make the surprise last longer, Watson slowly pulled off the top of the box. Inside was a mound of cotton. Beneath the cotton was a bulbous hunk of plastic about the size of a walnut. It was connected to a plastic ring. On the surface of the hunk of plastic, Watson could see a tiny compass and a chip of mirror. The thing that Watson held in his hand was not something that he had expected. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“It’s a Captain Conquer Signet Ring,” Watson said evenly.

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Congruent said proudly. “And it is not one of those replicas. It is a genuine metal­-tone styrene plastic Captain Conquer Signet Ring that I got for five inner seals from Chocolatron when I was about your age. Do you like it?”

“It’s a real surprise,” Watson said.

“Well, I figure that I won’t be around forever, and you’ll need something like that in case you ever get into some really big trouble. The ring has many secret features that might come in handy.” Mr. Con­gruent spent the next half hour explaining all the features of the ring. Watson smiled and nodded, though he’d been familiar with Captain Conquer rings since he could remember, and could have as easily demonstrated the ring to Mr. Congruent.

“Here,” said Mr. Congruent, handing the ring back, “let’s see how it looks on you.”

Watson took the ring, but he held it gingerly, as if he were holding a live stinging insect. “Uh, maybe later, Dad. I have to go back to work now.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll hear the bell. Put it on.” When Watson still hesitated, Mr. Congruent said, “Is there something wrong?”

Watson shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me about it,” Mr. Congruent said.

Watson looked at the toes of his shoes. “I...well...that is, you see, Dad, most of the kids in school don’t understand about Captain Conquer.”

Mr. Congruent was genuinely puzzled. “What’s not to understand?” he said.

Watson turned the ring over and over in his hand. “Well, most of them never heard of him. And the ones who have heard of him think he’s just for kids.”

“Just for kids? The greatest Force for Good on Earth?”

“Dad,” Watson said softly, “it’s comforting to know that the fans Captain Conquer does have all stick together and help each other. But aside from the good that comes from fandom being a way of life, Captain Conquer is not a force for anything, except maybe Chocolatron.”

“I see.”

“The kids already think I’m strange because my name is Watson and your name is Sherlock. I have Sherlock Holmes jokes coming out of my ears. I don’t know what some of the kids will do if I show up at school wearing this ring.”

Except for the sound of the crew digging up the street outside, the back room of the Captain Conquer PX was silent. Watson and Mr. Congruent could not look at each other.

Mr. Congruent sighed and said, “Are you ashamed of your old man?”

Watson looked up suddenly. “What? Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“Then wear the ring. If anybody asks, tell ’em you’re a member of the Conquer Corps.”

“You really think that’ll help?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Watson looked from the ring in his hand to his father’s expectant face. He saw that argument would lead only to bad feelings and frustration. His father would never understand that not everybody shared his enthusiasm for Captain Conquer. It was some­times futile to argue with adults.

Watson decided that he would have to figure some­thing out for himself. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to wear the ring around the store. He could tell him­self that it was good for business.

Watson slipped the ring onto his finger. Mr. Congruent smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. They each went back to work.

* * * *

On Monday morning, Watson walked out the front door of the private living quarters of the house, ready for school and wearing the Captain Conquer Signet Ring. There had been no way to avoid it.

As Watson dawdled toward the bus stop, a plan took shape in his head. As he had expected, he was alone when he got to the bus stop. Feeling silly for feeling guilty, Watson slipped the ring off his finger, and slid it into his pocket. For a few minutes his finger felt cold and empty, as his legs might feel if he’d forgotten to wear his pants. But by the time the bus came, he felt a lot better and did not need to hide his hands.

When he arrived at Casablanca Junior High School, he strolled through the crowded corridors to his locker as casually as he could, knowing what he carried in his pocket. He opened his locker, and like a magician attempting to show by his nonchalance how unimportant was the wave of his hand, Watson pulled the ring from his pocket and threw it into the locker.

The ring rebounded from the back of the locker with a boom, bounced off his algebra book, and rolled across the floor of the corridor. Perhaps think­ing it was a mouse, students backed out of the way of the ring’s flight—some of them squealing with surprise—until it was picked up by a hulking foot­ball player that Watson shared an English class with. The fellow’s name was Pemberton, and Watson was of the opinion that Pemberton was lucky to under­stand English, let alone speak it.

Pemberton held the Captain Conquer Signet Ring up to his eyes with a big meaty paw and blinked at it. “Hey, Congruent, what is this thing?”

“It’s a ring,” Watson said, and grabbed for it.

Pemberton pulled the ring away and continued to study it. “Hey, I know what it is,” he said with the joy of a caveman finding a particularly tasty louse in his hair, “it’s one-a them Captain Concourse rings! Hey, Maxwell,” he called to one of his gridiron friends, “lookit this!” He winked at three girls who stood together in the crowd that had gathered, and threw the ring to Maxwell. Watson dashed after it.

“Hiya, Watson, solve any good crimes lately?” Maxwell laughed at his own wit. Somewhere, he had read a comic book about Sherlock Holmes, and his knowledge was forever a source of irritation for Wat­son. Watson tried to grab the ring as Maxwell tossed and caught it in one hand. Maxwell threw the ring back to Pemberton.

Pemberton caught the ring easily in one hand and the girls sighed. He said, “My little sister watches this crap. She says she knows your old man, Con­gruent. Says he’s some kinda weird guy.” He held the ring out of reach while Watson stood with his arms folded and glared at him.

The bell rang for first period. Pemberton tossed the Captain Conquer ring at Watson and said, “Stay outa trouble, Captain,” and iaughed as he and Max­well and two cheerleaders walked off together.

The ring dropped. at Watson’s feet, and he had to scramble among rapidly moving legs, following it as it was kicked and spun this way and that and as it ricocheted along the corridor. He hoped the styrene plastic could stand up under this kind of punish­ment.

Even before he took a good look at the ring, Watson could feel that it was broken. It was cracked along one seam, and a big triangular shard was miss­ing. Worst of all, the little mirror was cracked. Cer­tainly, nothing could follow now but bad luck.

Wondering what he would.tell his father, Watson carefully buried the ring beneath some stiff fragrant sweat socks that had been in the back of his locker for two semesters, then walked off to his biology class hoping that nobody who knew him had seen his adventure with Pemberton and Maxwell.

Watson needn’t have worried because the two football players had spread the story of his humilia­tion all over the school. Even his physical education teacher called him Captain Concourse once.

There was no relief even when he was alone, be­cause Watson had to think about what he would tell his father, and what his father would say, and how awful both of them would feel. It was a terrible day.

On the bus ride home, Watson opened his history book and pretended to be studying. But all he saw before him was his father’s disappointed face.

However, the day at school was nothing compared to what life was like when Watson got home. To begin with, traffic was snarled when he got off the bus, and it got worse as he walked toward his house. The Department of Transportation work crew had gone, but they had left behind yellow sawhorses straddling the open trenches they had dug into the street. People honked and shouted nasty things at each other as they tried to steer slowly by in their cars.

Watson watched the traffic for as long as he could, then he sighed. He could not put off forever telling his father that the ring was broken. But when he turned to look at the house with two front doors, he found nothing but a path leading up to an empty dirt plot where his house had once been.