something right off the rack. No, it depends on your job. I'm sort of an administrator. An executive, if you will. Dress also depends on where you live. The gnomes that work under Dallas affect Stetsons and cowboy boots. Those that live under Miami are partial to sun shorts and big dark glasses. And you –should seethe gnomes that live under a place called the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles!' He shook his Boschian baldness. 'We're here.'
They'd halted in front of a switching section of track. Charlie could see the red warning light staring steadily up-tunnel, a baleful bloody eye.
The silence was punctuated abruptly by a low-pitched rumbling like thunder. It grew steadily to a groundshaking roar.
A clumsy, huge old-fashioned mine cart, built to half scale, came exploding out of the far wall. Two gnomes were pushing it from behind while another pulled and guided the front. The lead gnome had pure white hair and a three-foot beard that trailed behind him like a pennant.
The cart careened crazily down and over the tracks, threatening to overturn every time it hit the ground. Somehow it seemed to flow over the rails. The three gnomes wore dirty coveralls and miners' hard hats with carbide lamps. The cart was piled high with gleaming, uncut gemstones and what looked like an archaic washer/dryer. The lead gnome had just enough time for a fast wave to them before the apparition disappeared into the near wall. The rumble died away slowly. It reminded Charlie of the sound his garbage disposal made when it wanted to be petulant.
'Well, what are you waiting for? Switch it back.'
'What?' said Charlie dazedly. 'You mean I can?'
'Yes. Now hurry up, before I change my mind.'
Charlie stumbled over and threw the manual switch. The heavy section of track slid ponderously into place, and the warning light changed to a beneficent leafy green. It would show green now on the master layout in the controller's office.
'Now,' said Van Groot wish enough force to startle Charlie, 'you owe me a favor!'
'Yeah. Sure. Uh . . . what did you have in mind?' said Charlie apprehensively, calling up images of bloodsucking and devil sacrifice.
'I don't mind telling you that things have been getting rather edgy down here. What with one skyscraper after another going up. And now you're expanding the subways again. I can't promise what might happen. One of these days someone's going to drive a shaft right down into one of our diggings and we'll have another strike on our hands.'
'Happen? Strike?'
'Boy, you sure are eloquent when you get humming. Sure. Gnomes aren't known for their even tempers, you know. When gnomes go on strike, they've got nothing to do but cause mischief. The last one we had was back in . . .' He murmured a date that momentarily had no meaning to Charlie.
Then, 'Hey, wasn't that the week of the big blackout, across the northeast?'
'Well, you know how strikes spread. The boys under Pittsburgh and Boston got together with some power plant gnomes and . . . It was a terrible mess! Most awkward! '
'Awkward! Good grief, another few days of that and . '
Van Groot nodded soberly. 'Exactly. Some of us finally appealed to the boys' reason, moral fiber, and good nature. When that didn't work, we got most of 'em dead drunk, and the executive committee repaired a lot of the damage.'
'No wonder the engineers could never figure out what caused it.'
'Oh, they made up excuses. Didn't stop them from taking credit for fixing the trouble,' said Van Groot. 'But then, who expects gratitude from humans?'
'You expect something like that might happen again? That would be awful!'
The gnome shrugged. 'That depends on your point of view.' He flicked away cigar ash daintily. 'As a matter of fact, it so happens that this new addition to your system-'
'It's not my system!'
'Yes. Anyhow, we've got a pretty nice chrysoberyl and emerald mine-'
'Emerald mine!'
'-right under the intersection of Sixth Avenue and 16th Street. That mean anything to you?'
'Why no, I . . . no, wait a minute. That's where . . . ?' He goggled at Van Groot.
'Yep. The new Bronx-Manhattan tunnel is going through just south of there. That's not the problem. It's the new express station that's set to go in-'
'Right over your mine,' whispered Charlie.
'The boys are pretty upset about it. They read the Times. It's a pretty explosive situation, Dimsdale. Explosive.' He looked hard at Charlie.
'But what do you expect me to do? I'm only second assistant inspector to the undercommissioner for subway maintenance and repair. I haven't got the power to order changes in things like station locations and routings and stuff! '
'That's not my problem,' said Van Groot. –
'But they're scheduled to start blasting for that station . . . my God, the day after tomorrow!'
'That's what I hear.' Van Groot sighed. 'Too bad. I don't know what'll happen this time. There's been talk of getting together with the Vermont and New Hampshire gnomes. They want to pour maple syrup into all the telephone cables and switches between Great Neck and Ottawa. A sticky situation, I can tell you!'
'But you can't-' Van Groot looked at Charlie as though he were examining a special species of earthworm.
'Yes, you can.'
'That's better,' said Van Groot. 'I'll do what I can. But while I disagree with the boys' methods, I sympathize with their sentiments. They took an emerald out of there once that was . . . ' He paused. 'Best I can give you is about twenty-four hours. No later than twelve o'clock tomorrow night.'
'Why twelve?' asked Charlie inanely.
'It's traditional. If you've managed to help any, I'll meet you back here. If not, go soak your head.'
'Look, I told you, I'm only a second assistant to-'
'I remember. I'm not responsible for your failings. Your problem.'
'Tomorrow's Saturday. On Sundays I always call my mother in Greenville. If you gum up the telephone lines, I won't be able to.'
'And the chairman of the board of General Computers, who usually calls his mistress in Geneva on Sunday mornings, won't be able to, either,' said Van Groot. 'It'll be a very democratic crisis. Remember, midnight tomorrow.'
Puffing mightily on the cigar and ignoring Charlie's entreaties, the gnome executive disappeared into the near wall of the tunnel.
The morning was cool and clear. On Saturday mornings Charlie usually went first to the Museum of Natural History. Then off to the Guggenheim to see if anything new had come in during the week. From there it was down to the Village for a quick tour through Heimacker's Acres of Books bookstore. Then home, where he would treat himself to an expensive TV dinner instead of the usual fried chicken or Swiss steak. Out to a film or concert and then home. .
Today, however, his schedule was markedly altered. He went to the museum on time. The usual thrill wasn't there. Even the exhibits of northwestern Indian dugouts failed to excite him as they usually did. Instead of envisioning himself perched in the bow, harpoon poised for the whale kill, he saw himself crouched in the rear, paddling furiously to escape the hordes of angry gnomes that were chasing him in birchbark canoes. And when he looked at the always imposing skeleton of the Tyrannosaurus Rex and saw Undercommissioner Broadhare's sour puss in the grinning skull, he decided it was definitely time to depart.
He made up a speech. He'd walk straight into Commissioner Feely's office, powerful and insistent, and say, 'Look here, Feely. You've got to shift the new Sixth Avenue station from the north to the south side of the tracks, because if you don't, the gnomes will destroy our great telephone network with maple syrup and-'
Charlie moaned.
He was still moaning when he stumbled out of the museum. The stone lions that guarded the portals
