Or Gershwin or Porter or Hammerstein, as the case might be.
Nobody exposed him. The song was new. It established Foster as a double-threat man, since he had done both melody and lyrics himself.
He was a success.
Every night he had his ritual. Alone, he visited a certain downtown bar. When necessary, the jukebox helped him with his songs. It seemed to know exactly what was needed. It asked little in return. It served him with the unquestioning fidelity of “Cigarette” in Under Two Flags. And sometimes it played love songs aimed at Foster’s ears and heart. It serenaded him. Sometimes, too, Foster thought he was going crazy.
Weeks passed. Foster got all his assignments done at the little downtown bar, and later whipped them into suitable shape with his secretary’s assistance. He had begun to notice that she was a strikingly pretty girl, with attractive eyes and lips. Lois seemed amenable, but so far Foster had held back from any definite commitment. He felt unsure of his new triumphs.
But he blossomed like the rose. His bank account grew fat, he looked sleeker and drank much less, and he visited the downtown bar every night. Once he asked Austin about it.
“That jukebox. Where’d it come from?”
“I don’t know,” Austin said. “It was here before I came.”
“Well, who puts new records in it?”
“The company, I suppose.”
“Ever see ’em do it?”
Austin thought. “Can’t say I have. I guess the man comes around when the other bartender’s on duty. It’s got a new set of records on every day, though. That’s good service.”
Foster made a note to ask the other bartender about it. But there was no time. For, the next day, he kissed Lois Kennedy.
That was a mistake. It was the booster charge. The next thing Jerry Foster knew, he was making the rounds with Lois, and it was after dark, and they were driving unsteadily along the Sunset Strip, discussing life and music.
“I’m going places,” Foster said, dodging an oddly ambulatory telephone pole. “We’re going places together.”
“Oh, honey!” Lois said.
Foster stopped the car and kissed her.
“That calls for another drink,” he remarked. “Is that a bar over there?”
The night wore on. Foster hadn’t realized he had been under a considerable strain. Now the lid was off. It was wonderful to have Lois in his arms, to kiss her, to feel her hair brushing his cheek. Everything became rosy.
Through the rosy mist he suddenly saw the face of Austin.
“The same?” Austin inquired.
Foster blinked. He was sitting in a booth, with Lois beside him. He had his arm around the girl, and he had an idea he had just kissed her.
“Austin,” he said, “how long have we been here?”
“About an hour. Don’t you remember, Mr. Foster?”
“Darling,” Lois murmured, leaning heavily against her escort.
Foster tried to think. It was difficult.
“Lois,” he finally said, “haven’t I got another song to write?”
“It’ll keep.”
“No. That torch song. Taliaferro wants it Friday.”
“That’s four days away.”
“Now I’m here, I might as well get the song,” Foster said, with alcoholic insistence, and stood up.
“Kiss me,” Lois murmured, leaning toward him.
He obeyed, though he had a feeling that there was more important business to be attended to. Then he stared around, located the jukebox, and went toward it.
“Hello, there,” he said, patting the sleek, glowing sides. “I’m back. Drunk, too. But that’s all right. Let’s have that song.”
The jukebox was silent. Foster felt Lois touch his arm.
“Come on back. We don’t want music.”
“Wait a minute, hon.”
Foster stared at the jukebox. Then he laughed.
“I know,” he said, and pulled out a handful of change. He slid a nickel into the coin-lever and pushed the lever hard.
Nothing happened.
“Wonder what’s wrong with it?” Foster muttered. “I’ll need that song by Friday.”
He decided that there were a lot of things he didn’t know about, and ought to. The muteness of the jukebox puzzled him.
All of a sudden he remembered something that had happened weeks ago, the blond man who had attacked the jukebox with a hatchet and had only got shocked for his pains. The blond man he vaguely recalled, used to spend hours en tête-à-tête with the jukebox.
“What a dope!” Foster said thickly.
Lois asked a question.
“I should have checked up before,” he answered her. “Maybe I can find out—oh, nothing, Lois. Nothing at all.”
Then he went after Austin. Austin gave him the blond man’s name and, an hour later, Foster found himself sitting by a white hospital bed, looking down at a man’s ravaged face under faded blond hair. Brashness, judicious tipping, and a statement that he was a relative had got him this far. Now he sat there and watched and felt questions die as they formed on his lips.
When he finally mentioned the jukebox, it was easier. He simply sat and listened.
“They carried me out of the bar on a stretcher,” the blond man said. “Then a car skidded and came right at me. I didn’t feel any pain. I still don’t feel anything. The driver—she said she’d heard somebody shouting her name. Chloe. That startled her so much she lost control, and hit me. You know who yelled ‘Chloe,’ don’t you?”
Foster thought back. There was a memory somewhere.
The jukebox had begun to play “Chloe,” and the amplification had gone haywire, so the song had bellowed out thunderously for a short time.
“I’m paralyzed,” the blond man said. “I’m dying, too. I might as well. I think I’ll be safer. She’s vindictive and plenty smart.”
“She?”
“A spy. Maybe there’s all sorts of gadgets masquerading as—as things we take for granted. I don’t know. They substituted that jukebox for the original one. It’s alive. No, not it! She! It’s a she, all right!”
And—“Who put her there?” The blond man said, in answer to Foster’s question. “Who are—they? People from another world or another time? Martians? They want information about us, I’ll bet, but they don’t dare appear personally. They plant gadgets that we’ll take for granted, like that jukebox, to act as spies. Only this one got out of control a
