Cricket

It woke her up again that night. That damn chirping. Enough was enough. It needed to be stopped.

Her apartment was small but opulent. She spent a lot of money on what sparse furnishings there were, but she could afford it. She did not want for money. This building, like many others in the area, was owned by her father. Her father's contacts in the construction business would be able to help stop the chirping.

She called men up and they set immediately to work. They tore down her walls and put up new ones of a soundproof material over the span of a few tortuous days. They chirped even louder at her brother's house, lurking as they did in his basement. She couldn't catch a wink of sleep. It was a godsend when the men told her their work was done and that her noise problems were ended.

For over a week she lived in bliss. Sweet, sweet silence filled her nights. But one evening, just as she was about to crawl into bed, she thought she heard something, a quiet stridulation. As she focused on it, it grew clearer, louder.

Somehow it had come back. She did not know where it could be hiding. Certainly not in the walls, which were now solid, impervious blocks of material.

She looked around her bedroom. Her eyes narrowed. She ran to the phone, calling up other men she had known her whole life. Many of her calls went unanswered, and the constant buzz of a dial tone or a ringing phone was a splendid respite from the chirping that assailed the other. Finally someone picked up. She told him what she wanted to have done, and when. He was confused. It was late.

She promised him double his usual pay if he would come down and take care of things. After a brief pause, he told her to sit tight.

The next four hours were torture, the bustle of groggy, working men added to the hellish chirping. At las , as midnight drew near, her apartment was cleared of all furniture, all appliances. They were in transit to a storage locker until this problem sorted itself out. All she kept was a single spare set of clothes, a flashlight, a pillow, and a blanket.

The culprit would be found. There was nowhere for it to hide.

She spent the next two days searching every crevice for her culprit. When she heard the infernal racket start up she as she lay, awake and impatient, she flicked on the light, squinted and strained her eyes (and ears, her poor ears) to find the tiny black insect responsible for this torment.

Nothing. It was nowhere in her small apartment, but it was still everywhere. She could hear it. It had to be here.

She got hold of the first group of men, promising them triple their normal wage for another job. They came down immediately and began affixing thick padding to the walls. It must be inside the walls, somewhere, somehow. Let it choke and rot there, so long as she had peace.

The night after the workmen finished was the best night she had experienced in a long time. It was peaceful, quiet, marvelous. The day after she would see about moving back her things, then--

The vestigial muscles in her ears twitched. The chirping. It had come back. How? Where? She took up the flashlight and set to work, trying to uncover the lair of this taunting imp. She worked long and hard and would not stop, no, could not stop until she found it.

Her brother visited her the next day to make sure she was okay. There was no answer when he knocked on her door and called out to her. He turned the knob to let himself in.

He bolted out immediately afterward. He made a phone call.

A wispy halo of gray hair surrounded the man's head. His lips were pressed together in a tight line when he came out of her apartment. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses on his shirt slowly, surely.

He opened his mouth to speak. "Well, on the upside, her room is already well-padded."

What Could Have Been

The teacher, the astronaut, and the writer sat around a small table in a dingy room. The only source of light was a flickering incandescent bulb set in a naked fixture which hung from twisted wires above the table's center.

The astronaut, a handsome man and the oldest of the three, took a sip from his drink. "I was just selected as part of an exploratory force on Mars," he said in the uninterested tone of voice usually reserved for objective statements of fact.

The writer scratched at the bridge of his nose. "That's laudable. My works have been atop the best-seller lists for six months now, and the movie deal is coming through on one of them."

The astronaut sniffed. "If not one, then the other." He turned to the third man. "What about you?"

The teacher cradled his drink in both hands. His youthful appearance was marred with wrinkles and bags and other signs of weariness and defeat. "I don't go for glory, not like you two. I'm happy to just foster intellectual spirit and curiosity in the next generation."

"That's what they say, but surely you've accomplished something of note recently?" the writer asked.

The teacher opened his mouth to respond when the light bulb swung from side to side, as if something had jerked the snaking wires. A door appeared on one wall, its edges outlined brightly. The door opened and a figure stood silhouetted against the light spilling in from outside. The three men in the room squinted. The fourth man did not enter the room, but spoke from the portal. "Please be quiet. I'm trying to concentrate on work."

The writer, eyes still clenched against the extraordinary brilliance, studied his drink and sneered out of the corner of his mouth to the astronaut, "The garbageman talks down to us. Us!"

The teacher ignored his companion's resentful words. "I'm sorry. We will try to keep it down in here."

The silhouette nodded. "Thank you." He pulled the door shut and the light vanished, leaving the three men in the room, alone but for each other and their drinks.