Free The Müller-Fokker Effect by John Sladek Page B

glory. At eight years old, he wasn’t so much of an old campaigner that he couldn’t be bothered to scratch out a post card.
    Spot had his plan. Fouts seemed to be carrying on the school traditions, and television was forbidden (images of women), but cadets were after all encouraged to be religious. Spot simply waited until Billy Koch was on one channel, then watched whatever he wanted.
    It was the evening recreation hour, a time when cadets were inclined to find ways to be by themselves. Therefore the school was heavily patrolled by (pairs of) upper classmen, officers.
    Sensing rather than hearing their approach, Spot switched over from a cowboy program to
Healing Hand
and dropped to his knees before the set.
    ‘DON’T YOU KNOW ENOUGH TO STAND AT ATTENTION WHEN AN UPPER CLASSMAN ENTERS THE ROOM ?’ said one of the two officers. It was Jerry Zurkenhall, a pimply fifteen-year-old who, it was said, had hair in the palm of his hand.
    Spot did not move or look around.
    ‘OKAY, I’M GIVING YOU FIFTEEN DEMERITS…’
    ‘Knock it off, Jerry,’ said the other. ‘You can’t give a guy demerits when he’s praying, stupid. It’s in the rules.’
    ‘Yeah? So who’s he praying to, Billy Koch? My old man works for him.’
    ‘No kidding?’
    ‘Yeah, he’s in computers.’ Jerry put his hairy palm on the doorknob.
    ‘Hey, what does a preacher need computers for? To give him hymn numbers? Hah haha hahaha…’
    The door closed and the two went off to harass someone else. Spot, anxious for the life of the Negro sheriff on channel two, switched over at once.
    ‘Here’s news for BUSY HOUSEWIVES! Have
you
tried my DIN-DIN ? You know, each package of DIN-DIN contains
everything
you need for a meal with—mmmm—
man appeal!
You just add water through this little door in the convenient, no-mess foil pack, pop it in the oven—and Bette Cooke takes over! Then just sit back and let your men-folk fall in love with you all over again!’
    She was on the screen, serving dinner to a red-haired, freckle-faced boy with a disgusting grin, to a man who sniffed, went silly and rose to peck at her cheek. Mom’s face was soft with pleasure, as Spot had never seen it.
    Of course it was all acting, but still. Her letters never mentioned his letters. She ignored his plea to be allowed to come home again, she seemed unmoved by his stories of life at the academy. So here she was, living it up with television actors (and her last letter: ‘Guess what? Your Mom’s got a new job. But I guess you’re not very interested in that kind of news…guess you’re pretty busy with medals and marching bands and military balls…’) while Spot languished in prison, sweeping from the Northwest corner, mitering the corners of his bed…
    To the fading smile of Bette Cooke he whispered a threat, a curse that took in Fouts, the upper classmen, all mortal enemies.
    ‘I don’t care,’ it went. ‘I don’t care. My old man’s in computers, too.’
    Ank switched off the freeze-dried lemon meringue pie commercial before answering the door.
    ‘Ank Bullard? Package for you.’ It was the paint, the last thing he needed for his painting machine. Ank paid the COD charges and dragged the big box into his flat. Since his right shoulder still ached from the accident, he began mixing colors with his left hand.
    The accident had been a miracle. First, he’d come to in the hospital to find on his bedside table the very thing he’d have given a leg for: a reel of Müller-Fokker tape. And no one seemed to know who the anonymous donor was.
    Then, his second day in the hospital, there had been a visitor with still another gift. He was a lawyer from the Billy Koch Crusade, and though he wanted Ank to understand his clients accepted no responsibility whatever, they were willing to pay him three thousand dollars over his hospital expenses if he would sign this waiver.
    Ank had given notice at the newspaper the day he came out. Today he was just an ex-art-critic.