cells tovacuum-tube cells. It didn't hurt the man and it didn't make themachine into a monster.
But they made Burckhardt uncomfortable all the same.
He put Barth and the factory and all his other little irritations outof his mind and tackled the tax returns. It took him until noon toverify the figures--which Barth could have done out of his memory andhis private ledger in ten minutes, Burckhardt resentfully remindedhimself.
He sealed them in an envelope and walked out to Miss Mitkin. "SinceMr. Barth isn't here, we'd better go to lunch in shifts," he said."You can go first."
"Thanks." Miss Mitkin languidly took her bag out of the desk drawerand began to apply makeup.
Burckhardt offered her the envelope. "Drop this in the mail for me,will you? Uh--wait a minute. I wonder if I ought to phone Mr. Barth tomake sure. Did his wife say whether he was able to take phone calls?"
"Didn't say." Miss Mitkin blotted her lips carefully with a Kleenex."Wasn't his wife, anyway. It was his daughter who called and left themessage."
"The kid?" Burckhardt frowned. "I thought she was away at school."
"She called, that's all I know."
Burckhardt went back to his own office and stared distastefully at theunopened mail on his desk. He didn't like nightmares; they spoiled hiswhole day. He should have stayed in bed, like Barth.
* * * * *
A funny thing happened on his way home. There was a disturbance at thecorner where he usually caught his bus--someone was screamingsomething about a new kind of deep-freeze--so he walked an extrablock. He saw the bus coming and started to trot. But behind him,someone was calling his name. He looked over his shoulder; a smallharried-looking man was hurrying toward him.
Burckhardt hesitated, and then recognized him. It was a casualacquaintance named Swanson. Burckhardt sourly observed that he hadalready missed the bus.
He said, "Hello."
Swanson's face was desperately eager. "Burckhardt?" he askedinquiringly, with an odd intensity. And then he just stood theresilently, watching Burckhardt's face, with a burning eagerness thatdwindled to a faint hope and died to a regret. He was searching forsomething, waiting for something, Burckhardt thought. But whatever itwas he wanted, Burckhardt didn't know how to supply it.
Burckhardt coughed and said again, "Hello, Swanson."
Swanson didn't even acknowledge the greeting. He merely sighed a verydeep sigh.
"Nothing doing," he mumbled, apparently to himself. He noddedabstractedly to Burckhardt and turned away.
Burckhardt watched the slumped shoulders disappear in the crowd. Itwas an _odd_ sort of day, he thought, and one he didn't much like.Things weren't going right.
Riding home on the next bus, he brooded about it. It wasn't anythingterrible or disastrous; it was something out of his experienceentirely. You live your life, like any man, and you form a network ofimpressions and reactions. You _expect_ things. When you open yourmedicine chest, your razor is expected to be on the second shelf; whenyou lock your front door, you expect to have to give it a slight extratug to make it latch.
It isn't the things that are right and perfect in your life that makeit familiar. It is the things that are just a little bit wrong--thesticking latch, the light switch at the head of the stairs that needsan extra push because the spring is old and weak, the rug thatunfailingly skids underfoot.
It wasn't just that things were wrong with the pattern of Burckhardt'slife; it was that the _wrong_ things were wrong. For instance, Barthhadn't come into the office, yet Barth _always_ came in.
Burckhardt brooded about it through dinner. He brooded about it,despite his wife's attempt to interest him in a game of bridge withthe neighbors, all through the evening. The neighbors were people heliked--Anne and Farley Dennerman. He had known them all their lives.But they were odd and brooding, too, this night and he barely listenedto Dennerman's complaints about not being able to get good phoneservice or his wife's comments on the disgusting variety of televisioncommercials they had these days.
Burckhardt was well on the way to setting an all-time record forcontinuous abstraction when, around midnight, with a suddenness thatsurprised him--he was strangely _aware_ of it happening--he turnedover in his bed and, quickly and completely, fell asleep.
II
On the morning of June 15th, Burckhardt woke up screaming.
It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life. He couldstill hear the explosion, feel the blast that crushed him against awall. It did not seem right that he should be sitting bolt upright inbed in an undisturbed room.
His wife came pattering up the stairs. "Darling!" she cried. "What'sthe matter?"
He mumbled, "Nothing. Bad dream."
She relaxed, hand on heart. In an angry tone, she started to say: "Yougave me such a shock--"
But a noise from outside interrupted her. There was a wail of sirensand a clang of bells; it was loud and shocking.
The Burckhardts stared at each other for a heartbeat, then hurriedfearfully to the window.
There were no rumbling fire engines in the street, only a small paneltruck, cruising slowly along. Flaring loudspeaker horns crowned itstop. From them issued the screaming sound of sirens, growing inintensity, mixed with the rumble of heavy-duty engines and the soundof bells. It was a perfect record of fire engines arriving at afour-alarm blaze.
Burckhardt said in amazement, "Mary, that's against the law! Do youknow what they're doing? They're playing records of a fire. What arethey up to?"
"Maybe it's a practical joke," his wife offered.
"Joke? Waking up the whole neighborhood at six o'clock in themorning?" He shook his head. "The police will be here in ten minutes,"he predicted. "Wait and see."
But the police weren't--not in ten minutes, or at all. Whoever thepranksters in the car were, they apparently had a police permit fortheir games.
The car took a position in the middle of the block and stood silentfor a few minutes. Then there was a crackle from the speaker, and agiant voice chanted:
"Feckle Freezers! Feckle Freezers! Gotta have a Feckle Freezer! Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle--"
It went on and on. Every house on the block had faces staring out ofwindows by then. The voice was not merely loud; it was nearlydeafening.
Burckhardt shouted to his wife, over the uproar, "What the hell is aFeckle Freezer?"
"Some kind of a freezer, I guess, dear," she shrieked backunhelpfully.
* * * * *
Abruptly the noise stopped and the truck stood silent. It was stillmisty morning; the Sun's rays came horizontally across the rooftops.It was impossible to believe that, a moment ago, the silent block hadbeen bellowing the name of a freezer.
"A crazy advertising trick," Burckhardt said bitterly. He yawned andturned away from the window. "Might as well get dressed. I guessthat's the end of--"
The bellow caught him from behind; it was almost like a hard slap onthe ears. A harsh, sneering voice, louder than the arch-angel'strumpet, howled:
"Have you got a freezer? _It stinks!_ If it isn't a Feckle Freezer,_it stinks_! If it's a last year's Feckle Freezer, _it stinks_! Onlythis year's Feckle Freezer is any good at all! You know who owns anAjax Freezer? Fairies own Ajax Freezers! You know who owns aTriplecold Freezer? Commies own Triplecold Freezers! Every freezer buta brand-new Feckle Freezer _stinks_!"
The voice screamed inarticulately with rage. "I'm warning you! Get outand buy a Feckle Freezer right away! Hurry up! Hurry for Feckle! Hurryfor Feckle! Hurry, hurry, hurry, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle,Feckle, Feckle...."
It stopped eventually. Burckhardt licked his lips. He started to sayto his wife, "Maybe we ought to call the police about--" when thespeakers erupted again. It caught him off guard; it was intended tocatch him off guard. It screamed:
"Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle. Cheapfreezers ruin your food. You'll get sick and throw up. You'll get sickand die. Buy a Feck
le, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle! Ever take a piece ofmeat out of the freezer you've got and see how rotten and moldy it is?Buy a Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle. Do you want to eatrotten, stinking food? Or do you want to wise up and buy a Feckle,Feckle, Feckle--"
That did it. With fingers that kept stabbing the wrong holes,Burckhardt finally managed to dial the local police station. He got abusy signal--it was apparent that he was not the only one with thesame idea--and while he was shakingly dialing again, the noise outsidestopped.
He looked out the window. The truck was gone.
* * * * *
Burckhardt loosened his tie and ordered another Frosty-Flip from thewaiter. If only they