began to whirr. The cuckoo came rushing out, burstinginto sound. Larry moved toward him.
”Shut that din off,” he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. Thecuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. ”That'sbetter.” Larry studied Doris and Bob, standing mutely together.
”I came over to look at the clock,” Bob said. ”Doris told me that it's arare antique and that--”
”Nuts. I bought it myself.” Larry walked up to him. ”Get out of here.”He turned to Doris. ”You too. And take that damn clock with you.”
He paused, rubbing his chin. ”No. Leave the clock here. It's mine; Ibought it and paid for it.”
In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clockgot along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayedinside most of the time, sometimes even at twelve o'clock when he shouldhave been busiest. And if he did come out at all he usually spoke onlyonce or twice, never the correct number of times. And there was asullen, uncooperative note in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larryuneasy and a little angry.
But he kept the clock wound, because the house was very still and quietand it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around, talking anddropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him.
But he didn't like the cuckoo at all. And sometimes he spoke to him.
”Listen,” he said late one night to the closed little door. ”I know youcan hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans--back to the BlackForest.” He paced back and forth. ”I wonder what they're doing now, thetwo of them. That young punk with his books and his antiques. A manshouldn't be interested in antiques; that's for women.”
He set his jaw. ”Isn't that right?”
The clock said nothing. Larry walked up in front of it. ”Isn't thatright?” he demanded. ”Don't you have anything to say?”
He looked at the face of the clock. It was almost eleven, just a fewseconds before the hour. ”All right. I'll wait until eleven. Then I wantto hear what you have to say. You've been pretty quiet the last fewweeks since she left.”
He grinned wryly. ”Maybe you don't like it here since she's gone.” Hescowled. ”Well, I paid for you, and you're coming out whether you likeit or not. You hear me?”
Eleven o'clock came. Far off, at the end of town, the great tower clockboomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothingmoved. The minute hand passed on and the cuckoo did not stir. He wassomeplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote.
”All right, if that's the way you feel,” Larry murmured, his lipstwisting. ”But it isn't fair. It's your job to come out. We all have todo things we don't like.”
He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleamingrefrigerator. As he poured himself a drink he thought about the clock.
There was no doubt about it--the cuckoo should come out, Doris or noDoris. He had always liked her, from the very start. They had got alongwell, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too--probably he had seenenough of Bob to get to know him. They would be quite happy together,Bob and Doris and the cuckoo.
Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took outthe hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining-room. The clock wasticking gently to itself on the wall.
”Look,” he said, waving the hammer. ”You know what I have here? You knowwhat I'm going to do with it? I'm going to start on you--first.” Hesmiled. ”Birds of a feather, that's what you are--the three of you.”
The room was silent.
”Are you coming out? Or do I have to come in and get you?”
The clock whirred a little.
”I hear you in there. You've got a lot of talking to do, enough for thelast three weeks. As I figure it, you owe me--”
The door opened. The cuckoo came out fast, straight at him. Larry waslooking down, his brow wrinkled in thought. He glanced up, and thecuckoo caught him squarely in the eye.
Down he went, hammer and chair and everything, hitting the floor with atremendous crash. For a moment the cuckoo paused, its small body poisedrigidly. Then it went back inside its house. The door snapped tight-shutafter it.
The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, his head bent overto one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent,except, of course, for the ticking of the clock.
* * * * *
”I see,” Doris said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her,steadying her.
”Doctor,” Bob said, ”can I ask you something?”
”Of course,” the doctor said.
”Is it very easy to break your neck, falling from so low a chair? Itwasn't very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident.Is there any chance it might have been--”
”Suicide?” the doctor rubbed his jaw. ”I never heard of anyonecommitting suicide that way. It was an accident; I'm positive.”
”I don't mean suicide,” Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at theclock on the wall. ”I meant _something else_.”
But no one heard him.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ January 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.