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rushed the length of the room and lifted his hatchet threateningly above the
juke-box.
"I can't stand it!" he cried hysterically. "You spiteful little-I'll fix you
before you fix me!"
So saying, and ignoring the purposeful approach of the bartender, the blond
man brought down his hatchet heavily on the juke-box. There was a blue crackle
of flame, a tearing noise, and the blond man collapsed without a sound.
Foster stayed where he was. There was a bottle on the bar near him, and he
captured it. Rather dimly, he realized what was happening. An ambulance was
summoned. A doctor said the blond man had been painfully shocked, but was
still alive. The juke-box had a smashed panel, but appeared uninjured
otherwise. Austin came from somewhere and poured himself a shot from under the
bar.
"Each man kills the thing he loves," Austin said to Foster. "You're the guy
who was quoting Omar at me the other night, aren't you?"
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"What?" Foster said.
Austin nodded at the motionless figure being loaded on a stretcher.
"Funny business. That fella used to come in all the time just to play the
juke-box. He was in love with the thing. Sat here by the hour listening to it.
Course, when I say he was in love with it, I'm merely using a figure of
speech, catch?" | ;r
"Sure," Foster said.
"Then a couple of days ago he blows up. Crazy as a loon. I come in and find
the guy on his knees hi front of the juke-box, begging it to forgive him for
something or other. I don't get it. Some people shouldn't drink, I guess.
What's yours?" '
"The same," Foster said, watching the ambulance men carry the stretcher out of
the bar.
"Just mild electric shock," an intern said. "He'll be all right."
The juke-box clicked, and a new record swung across. Something must have gone
wrong with the amplification, for the song bellowed out with deafening
intensity.
" 'Chlo-eee!' " screamed the juke-box urgently, " 'Chlo-eeee!'"
Deafened, fighting the feeling that this was hallucination, Foster found
himself beside the juke-
box. He clung to it against the mad billows of sound. He shook it, and the
roaring subsided.
" 'Chlo-eee!'" the juke-box sang softly and sweetly.
There was confusion nearby, but Foster ignored it. He had been struck by an
idea. He peered into the phonograph's innards through the glass pane. The
record was slowing now, and as the needle lifted Foster could read the title
on the circular label.
It said, "Springtime in the Rockies."
The record hastily lifted itself and swung back to concealment among the
others in the rack.
Another black disc moved over under the needle. It was "Twilight hi Turkey."
But what the juke-box played, with great expression, was: "We'll Always Be
Sweethearts."
After a while the confusion died down. Austin came over, examined the
phonograph, and made a note to get the broken panel replaced. Foster had
entirely for-
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gotten the fat, unshaven, untidy man till he heard an irritated voice behind
him say:
"It can't be April!"
"What?"
"You're a liar. It's still March."
"Oh, take a walk," said Foster, who was profoundly shaken, though he did not
quite know why. The obvious reasons for his nervousness, he suspected, weren't
the real ones.
"You're a liar, I said," the fat man snarled, breathing heavily in Foster's
face. "It's March!
You'll either admit it's March, or-or-"
But Foster had had enough. He pushed the fat man away and had taken two steps
when a tingling shock raced through him and the small, cold, spot of clarity
sprang into existence within his brain.
The juke-box started to play; "Accentuate the Positive, Eliminate the
Negative."
"It's March!" the fat man yelped. "Isn't it March?"
"Yes," Foster said thickly. "It's M,arch."
All that night the song-title blazed in his mind. He went home with the fat
man. He drank with the fat man. He agreed with the fat man. He never used a
negative. And, by morning, he was surprised to find that the fat man had hired
him as a song-writer for Summit Studios, simply because Foster didn't say no
when he was asked whether he could write songs.
"Good," the fat man said. "Now I'd better get home. Oh, I am home, aren't I?
Well, I gotta go to the studio tomorrow. We're starting a super-musical April
second, and-This is April, isn't it?"
"Sure."
"Let's get some sleep. No, not that door. The swimming-pool's out there. Here,
I'll show you a spare bedroom. You're sleepy, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Foster, who wasn't.
But he slept, nevertheless, and the next morning found himself at Summit
Studios with the fat man, putting his signature on a contract. Nobody asked
his qualifications. Taliaferro, the fat man, had okayed him. That was enough.
He was given an office with a piano and a secretary, and sat dazedly behind
his desk for most of the day, wondering how the devil it had all happened. At
the commissary, however, he picked up some scraps of information.
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Taliaferro was a big shot-a very big shot. He had one idiosyncrasy. He
couldn't endure disagreement. Only yes-men were allowed around him. Those who
worked for Taliaferro had to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative.
Foster got his assignment. A romantic love song for the new picture. A duet.
Everyone took it for granted that Foster knew on4 note from another. He did,
having studied piano in his youth, but counterpoint and the mysteries of minor
keys were far beyond him.
That night he went back to the little downtown bar.
It was just a hunch, but he thought the juke-box might be able to help him.
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