Читать книгу Mr. and Mrs. Saturday Night - Robert F. Young - Страница 5

We doubt if the real television people will ever go as far as the fictional ones in this story. But if they do—wow!

The Altar

Gary watched the telem-pathy tech make the final adjustments on the portable transmitter. The steel-encased machine, with its crystalline absorber hovering over it like a disembodied eye, made the room seem cramped, and Gary couldn’t help wondering how the small apartment could possibly accommodate all the guests who would be coming to visit the following night, even though he knew that the guests wouldn’t be there physically—that the apartment, in a telempathic sense, was large enough to accommodate the whole world.

Judy was watching the tech, too. Her hazel eyes were still wide from the shock of learning, that the TE Programs Department had named her and Gary as the next “Mr. and Mrs. Saturday Night.” It was hard to believe, Gary conceded, especially when you considered the increasing number of newly married couples daily matriculating from the adolescence academies and the corresponding increase in the eligibility list.

The tech was tall and capable, and his neat gray tech-suit emphasized both qualities. His long, aristocratic fingers played adroitly over the intricate mass of tubes and wires, adjusting here, tightening there, chording a complex melody that only he could hear.

*

Gary cleared his throat. “Just what will we have to do?” he asked.

“Mr. Llewelyn will be around to brief you this evening,” the tech said.

“I know, but you must have some idea.”

“Well, as nearly as I understand it, all you’re supposed to do is what you’d ordinarily do on any other Saturday night. Just be yourselves. That’s what it amounts to.”

Judy laughed nervously. “Sounds easy enough,” she said. “But think of all those people tuning in!”

“Yes, just think of them!” said Gary.

“You’re not supposed to think of them.” The tech inserted a long screwdriver into the bowels of the transmitter, plied it deftly. “That’s why we install our equipment a day ahead of time—to give you a chance to accustom yourselves to it...Say, from the way you two talk, you’d think you didn’t want to be hosts!”

“Oh, we want to be, all right,” Judy said quickly. “We —we just haven’t got used to the idea yet.”

“About Paradise Isle—” Gary said, “—is it really as lovely as they say it is?”

The tech gave the screwdriver a final turn, withdrew it and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. He fitted the cover of the transmitter into place and locked it, then to riled and regarded Gary obliquely. “You’d be surprised at the number of things they don’t tell a t-tech—and Paradise Isle is number one on the list...Why don’t you drop me a line after you get there and tell me whether it’s lovely or not?”

“All right,” Gary said. “We will.”

“I’ll bet you will!” The tech closed his calfskin tool bag. “You’ll forget me and all the rest of the world, just like all the others. Too good for us.” He picked up the tool bag and started for the door.

“Don’t be bitter,” Judy said. “Maybe someday you’ll be chosen.”