While Mortals Sleep: Unpublished Short Fiction by Vonnegut Kurt

Author:Vonnegut, Kurt [Vonnegut, Kurt]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Published: 2011-01-24T16:00:00+00:00

The search was more a spontaneous, playful pageant than an earnest hunt for the missing figures. Realistically, the searchers didn’t have much of a chance. They made a lot of noise, and went only where they thought it would be pleasant or interesting to go. The thief, who was apparently a nut, would have had little trouble keeping his peculiar loot out of sight.

But the searchers were so caught up in the allegory of what they were doing that a powerful expectation grew of its own accord, with no help from the paper. Everyone was convinced that the holy family would be found on Christmas Eve.

But on that eve, no new star shone over the city save the five-hundred-watt lamp hung from a balloon over the mansion of J. Sprague Fleetwood, alias Mad Dog Gribbon, the victim of the theft.

The mayor, the president of a big manufacturing company, and the chairman of the Real Estate Board rode in the back seat of the mayor’s limousine, while Hackleman and I sat on the jump seats in front of them. We were on our way to award the first-prize scroll to Gribbon, who had replaced the missing figures with new ones.

“Turn down this street here?” said the chauffeur.

“Just follow the star,” I said.

“It’s a light, a goddamn electric light that anybody can hang over his house if he’s got the money,” said Hackleman.

“Follow the goddamn electric light,” I said.

Gribbon was waiting for us, wearing a tuxedo, and he opened the car door himself. “Gentlemen—Merry Christmas.” His eyes down, his hands folded piously across his round belly, he led us down a path, bounded by ropes, that led around the display and back to the street again. He passed by the corner of the mansion, just short of the point where we would be able to see the display. “I like to think of it as a shrine,” he said, “with people coming from miles around, following the stars.” He stepped aside, motioning us to go ahead.

And the dumbfounding panorama dazzled us again, looking like an outdoor class in calisthenics, with expressionless figures bobbing, waving their arms, flapping their wings.

“Gangster heaven,” whispered Hackleman.

“Oh, my,” said the mayor.

The chairman of the Real Estate Board looked appalled, but cleared his throat and recovered gamely. “Now, there’s a display,” he said, clinging doggedly to his integrity.

“Where’d you get the new figures?” said Hackleman.

“Wholesale from a department-store supply house,” said Gribbon.

“What an engineering feat,” said the manufacturer.

“Took four engineers to do it,” said Gribbon proudly. “Whoever swiped the figures left the neon halos behind, thank God. They’re rigged so I can make ’em blink, if you think that’d look better.”

“No, no,” said the mayor. “Mustn’t gild the lily.”

“Uh … do I win?” said Gribbon politely.

“Hmmm?” said the mayor. “Oh—do you win? Well, we have to deliberate, of course. We’ll let you know this evening.”

No one seemed able to think of anything more to say, and we shuffled back to the limousine.

“Thirty-two electric motors, two miles of wire, nine hundred and seventy-six lightbulbs, not counting neon,” said Gribbon as we pulled away.

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