The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction - August 1980 Read online

  At last, one sultry day toward the end of July, when the satisfactions of this dutiful and well-regulated life were beginning to wear thin, the little toaster spoke up again.

  "We can't go on like this," it declared. "It isn't natural for appliances to live all by themselves. We need people to take care of, and we need people to take care of us. Soon, one by one, we'll all wear out, like the poor air conditioner. And no one will fix us, because no one will know what has happened."

  "I daresay we're all of us sturdier than any air conditioner," said the blanket, trying to be brave. (Also, it is true, the blanket had never shown much fellow feeling for the air conditioner or any other appliances whose function was to make things cooler.)

  "That's all very well for you to say," the tensor lamp retorted. "You'll go on for years, I suppose, but what will become of me when my bulb burns out? What will become of the radio when his tubes start to go?"

  The radio made a dismal, staticky groan.

  "The toaster is right," the old Hoovers said. "Something must be done. Something definitely must be done. Do any of you have a suggestion?"

  "If we could telephone the master," said the toaster, thinking aloud, "the radio could simply ask him outright. He'd know what we should do. But the telephone has been disconnected for nearly three years."

  "Two years, ten months, and three days, to be exact," said the radio/alarm.

  "Then there's nothing else for us to do but to find the master ourselves."

  The other four appliances looked at the toaster in mute amazement.

  "It isn't unheard of," the toaster insisted. "Don't you remember—only last week there was a story that the radio was telling us, about a dear little fox terrier who'd been accidentally left behind, like us, at a summer cottage. What was his name?"

  "Grover," said the radio. "We heard it on the Early Morning Roundup."

  "Right. And Grover found his way to his master, hundreds of miles away in a city somewhere in Canada.''

  "Winnipeg, as I recall," said the radio.

  "Right. And to get there he had to cross swamps and mountains and face all sorts of dangers, but he finally did find his way. So, if one silly dog can do all that, think what five sensible appliances, working together, should be able to accomplish."

  "Dogs have legs," the blanket objected.

  "Oh, don't be a wet blanket," the toaster replied in a bantering way.

  It should have known better. The blanket, who didn't have much of a sense of humor and whose feelings were therefore easily hurt, began to whimper and complain that it was time for it to go to bed. Nothing would serve, finally, but that the toaster should make a formal apology, which it did.

  "Besides," said the blanket, mollified, "dogs have noses. That's how they find their way."

  "As to that," said the old Hoover, "I'd like to see the nose that functions better than mine." And to demonstrate its capabilities in turned itself on and gave a deep, rumbling snuffle up and down the rug.

  "Splendid!" declared the toaster. "The vacuum shall be our nose—and our legs as well."

  The Hoover turned itself off and said, "I beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, I meant to say our wheels. Wheels, as I'm sure everyone knows by now, are really more efficient than legs.".

  "What about the rest of us," the blanket demanded, "who don't have wheels or legs? What shall we do? I can't crawl all the way to wherever it is, and if I tried to, I'd soon be shredded to rags.''

  The blanket was certainly in a fretful state, but the toaster was a born diplomat, answering every objection in a tone of sweet, unswervable logic.

  "You're entirely right, and the radio and I would be in an even sorrier state if we tried to travel such a distance on our own. But that isn't necessary. Because we'll borrow some wheels...."

  The tensor lamp lighted up. "And build a kind of carriage!"

  "And ride all the way there," said the radio, "in comfort and luxury." It sounded, at such moments, exactly like the announcer in an advertisement.

  "Well, I'm not sure," said the blanket. "I might be able to do that."

  "The question is," said the toaster, turning to the Hoover, "will you be able to?"

  Deep in its motor the vacuum cleaner rumbled a rumble of quiet confidence.

  It was not as easy a matter as the toaster had supposed to find a serviceable set of wheels. Those he'd had in mind at first belonged to the lawnmower out in the lean-to shed, but the task of disconnecting them from the mower's heavy blades was beyond the appliances' limited know-how. So, unless the Hoover were willing to cut a swatch of lawn everywhere it went, which it wasn't, the lawnmower's sturdy rubber wheels had to be put out of mind.

  The blanket, who was now full of the spirit of adventure, suggested that the bed in the sleeping loft might be used, since it had four castor-type wheels. However, the weight and unwieldiness of the bed were such as to rule out that notion as well. Even on a level road the Hoover would not have had the strength to draw such a load — much less across raw wilderness!

  And that seemed to be that. There were no other wheels to be found anywhere about the cottage, unless one counted a tiny knife-sharpener that worked by being rolled along the counter top. The toaster racked its brains trying to turn the knife-sharpener to account, but what kind of carriage can you build with a single wheel that is one and a half inches in diameter?

  Then, one Friday, as the Hoover was doing its chores, the idea the toaster had been waiting for finally arrived. The Hoover, as usual, had been grumbling about the old metal office chair that stood in front of the master's desk. No amount of nudging and bumping would ever dislodge its tubular legs from where they bore down on the rug. As the vacuum became more and more fussed, the toaster realized that the chair would have moved very easily...if it had still possessed its original wheels!

  It took the five appliances the better part of an afternoon to jack up the bed in the sleeping loft and remove the castors. But it was no trouble at all to put them on the chair. They slipped right into the tubular legs as though they'd been made for it. Interchangeable parts are such a blessing.

  And there it was, their carriage, ready to roll. There was quite enough room on the padded seat for all four riders, and being so high it gave them a good view besides. They spent the rest of the day delightedly driving back and forth between the cottage's overgrown flower beds and down the gravel drive to the mailbox. There, however, they had to stop, for that was as far as the Hoover could get, using every extension cord in the cottage.

  "If only," said the radio with a longing sigh, "I still had my old batteries...."

  "Batteries?" inquired the toaster. "I didn't know you had batteries."

  "It was before you joined us," said the radio sadly. "When I was new. After my first batteries corroded, the master didn't see fit to replace them. What need had I for batteries when I could always use the house current?"

  "I don't see what possible relevance your little volt-and-a-half batteries could have to my problem," observed the Hoover testily.

  The radio looked hurt. Usually the Hoover would never have made such an unkind and slighting remark, but the weeks of worry were having their effect on all of them.

  "It's our problem," the toaster pointed out in a tone of mild reproof, "and the radio is right, you know. If we could find a large enough battery, we could strap it under the seat of the chair and set off this very afternoon."

  "If!" sniffed the Hoover scornfully. "If! If!"

  "And I know where there may be a battery as big as we need!" the tensor lamp piped. "Have you ever looked inside that lean-to behind the cottage?"

  "Into the tool shed!" said the blanket with a shudder of horror. "Certainly not! It's dark and musty and filled with spiders."

  "Well, I was in it just yesterday, poking about, and there was something behind the broken rake and some old paint cans—a big, black, boxy thing. Of course it was nothing like your pretty red cylinders." The tensor lamp tipped its hood towards the radio. "
But now that I think of it, it may have been a kind of battery."

  The appliances all trooped out to the lean-to, and there in the darkest corner, just as the lamp had supposed, was the spare battery that had come from the master's old Volkswagen. The battery had been brand-new at the time that he'd decided to trade in the VW on a yellow Saab, and so he'd replaced it with a less valuable battery, keeping this one in the lean-to and then—wasn't it just his way?—forgetting all about it.

  Between them, the old Hoover and the toaster knew enough about the basic principles of electricity to be able, very quickly, to wire the battery so that it would serve their needs instead of an automobile's. But before any of the small appliances who may be listening to this tale should begin to think that they might do the same thing, let them be warned: ELECTRICITY IS VERY DANGEROUS. Never play with old batteries! Never put your plug in a strange socket! And if you are in any doubt about the voltage of the current where you are living, ask a major appliance.

  And so they set off to find their master in the faraway city where he lived. Soon the dear little summer cottage was lost from sight behind the leaves and branches of the forest trees. Deeper and deeper they journeyed into the woods. Only the dimmest dapplings of sunlight penetrated through the dense tangle overhead to guide them on their way. The path wound round and twisted about with bewildering complexity. The road map they had brought with them proved quite useless.

  It would have been ever so much easier, of course, to have followed the highway directly into the city, since that is where highways always go. Unfortunately that option was not open to them. Five such sturdy and functional appliances would certainly not have been able to escape the notice of human beings traveling along the same thoroughfare, and it is a rule, which all appliances must obey, that whenever human beings are observing them they must remain perfectly still. On a busy highway they would therefore have been immobilized most of the time. Besides, there was an even stronger reason for staying off the highway—the danger of pirates. But that's a possibility so frightening and awful that we should all simply refuse to think any more about it. Anyhow who ever heard of pirates in the middle of the woods?

  The path twisted and turned and rose and fell, and the poor old Hoover became very tired indeed. Even with the power from the battery it was no easy task making its way over such a rugged terrain, especially with the added burden of the office chair and its four riders. But except for its rumbling a little more loudly than usual the old vacuum cleaner did its job without a complaint. What a lesson for us all!

  As for the rest of them, they were in the highest spirits. The lamp craned its long neck every which way, exclaiming over the views, and even the blanket soon forgot its fears and joined in the general spirit of holiday adventuring. The toaster's coils were in a continual tingle of excitement. It was all so strange and interesting and full of new information!

  "Isn't it wonderful!" exclaimed the radio. "Listen! Do you hear them? Birds!" It did an imitation of the song it had just heard—not one that would have fooled any of the actual birds there in the forest, for in truth it sounded more like a clarinet than a bird. Even so, a thrush, a wood pigeon, and several chickadees did come fluttering down from their roosts and perches high above to cock their heads and listen. But only a moment. After a twitter or two of polite approval they returned to the trees. Birds are like that. They'll pay attention to you for a minute or two and then go right back to being birds.

  The radio pretended not to feel slighted, but he soon left off doing imitations and recited, instead, some of his favorite ads, the beautiful songs about Coca-Cola and Esso and a long comic jingle about Barney's Hi-Styles for Guys and Gals. There's nothing that so instantly civilizes a forest as the sound of a familiar advertisement, and soon they were all feeling a lot more confident and cheerful.

  As the day wore on, the Hoover was obliged to stop for a rest more and more frequently—ostensibly to empty its dustbag. "Can you believe," it grieved, shaking a last moldering leaf from the bag, "how filthy this forest is?"

  "On the contrary," the blanket declared. "It's thoroughly agreeable. The air's so fresh, and just feel the breeze! I feel renewed, as if I'd just come out of my original box. Oh, why, why, why don't they ever take electric blankets on picnics? It isn't fair!"

  "Enjoy it while it lasts, kiddo," said the radio ominously. "According to the latest Weather and Traffic Roundup, we're in for rain."

  "Won't the trees work like a roof?" asked the lamp. "They keep the sunlight out well enough."

  None of them knew the answer to the lamp's question, but as it happens, trees do not work like a roof. They all got more or less wet, and the poor blanket was drenched through and through. Fortunately the storm did not last long and the sun came out immediately afterwards. The wet appliances trudged on along the muddy path, which led them, after a little while, to a clearing in the wood. There in a glade full of sunshine and flowers the blanket was able to spread itself out on the grass and begin to get dry.

  The afternoon was wearing on, and the toaster had begun to feel, as all of us do at times, a definite need for solitude. Much as it liked its fellow appliances, it wasn't used to spending the entire day socializing. It longed to be off by itself a moment to be private and think its own thoughts. So, without saying anything to the others, it made its way to the farthest corner of the meadow and began to toast an imaginary muffin. That was always the best way to unwind when things got to be too much for it.

  The imaginary muffin had scarcely begun to warm before the toaster's reveries were interrupted by the gentlest of interrogatories.

  "Charming flower, tell me, do,

  What genera and species you

  Belong to. I, as may be seen

  At once, am just a daisy, green

  Of leaf and white of petal. You

  Are neither green nor white nor blue

  Nor any color I have known.

  In what Eden have you grown?

  Sprang you from earth or sky above?

  In either case, accept my love."

  "Why, thank you," the toaster replied, addressing the daisy that was pressing its petaled face close to the toaster's gleaming chrome. "It's kind of you to ask, but in fact I'm not a flower at all. I'm an electric toaster."

  "Flower, forebear! You can't deceive

  The being that adores you. Weave

  Your thick black root with mine.

  O beautiful! O half-divine!"

  These fervent declarations so embarrassed the toaster that for a moment it was at a loss for words. It had never heard flowers speaking in their own language and didn't realize how they would say any absurd thing that would help them to a rhyme. Flowers, as botanists well know, can only speak in verse. Daisies, being among the simpler flowers, characteristically employ a rough sort of octosyllabic doggerel, but more evolved species, especially those in the tropics, can produce sestinas, rondeaux, and villanelles of the highest order.

  The daisy was not, however, simply snared in its own rhyme scheme. It had genuinely fallen in love with the toaster—or, rather, with its own reflection in the toaster's side. Here was a flower (the daisy reflected) strangely like itself and yet utterly unlike itself too. Such a paradox has often been the basis for the most impassioned love. The daisy writhed on its stem and fluttered its white petals as though in the grip of cyclone winds.

  The toaster, thoroughly alarmed by such immoderate behavior, said that it really was time to be getting back to its friends on the other side of the meadow.

  "Oh, stay, beloved blossom, stay!

  They say our lives are but a day:

  If that be true, how shall I bear

  To spend that brief day anywhere

  Except with you? You are my light,

  My soil, my air. Stay but one night

  Beside me here—I ask no more.

  Stay, lovely bloom—let me adore

  Those polished petals bright as the dew

  When dawn attempts to rival you, />
  That single perfect coiling root—

  Imperishable! Absolute!

  O beautiful! O half-divine!

  Weave your thick black root with mine."

  "Now really," said the toaster in a tone of gentle reprimand, "there's no cause to be carrying on like this. We scarcely know each other, and, what's more, you seem to be under a misapprehension as to my nature. Can't you see that what you call my root is an electric cord? As to petals, I can't think what you may mean, for I simply don't have any. Now—I really must go and join my friends, for we are journeying to our master's apartment far, far away, and we shall never get there if we don't get a move on."

  "Alas the day and woe is me!

  I tremble in such misery

  As never flower knew before.

  If you must go, let me implore

  One parting boon, one final gift:

  Be merciful as you are swift

  And pluck me from my native ground—

  Pluck me and take me where you're bound.

  I cannot live without you here:

  Then let your bosom be my bier."

  Feeling truly shocked by the daisy's suggestion and seeing that the creature was deaf to reason, the toaster hastened to the other side of the meadow and began to urge his friends to set out at once on their journey. The blanket protested that it was still somewhat damp, the Hoover that it was still tired, and the lamp proposed that they spend the night there in the meadow.