sk.cujo-第36节

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　this　tin　can；　I'll　cat　you　alive；　I'll　he　swallowing　pieces　of　you　while　you're　still　screaming。
Rabid；　she　thought。　That　dog　is　rabid。
With　steadily　mounting　fear；　she　looked　past　the　dog　on　the　hood　and　at　Joe　Camber's　parked　truck。　Had　the　dog　bitten　him？
She　found　the　horn　buttons　and　pressed　them。　The　Pinto's　horn　blared　and　the　dog　skittered　back；　again　almost　losing　its　balance。　'Don't　like　that　much；　do　you？'　she　shrieked　triumphantly　at　it。　'Hurts　your　ears；　doesn't　it？'　She　jammed　the　horn　down　again。
Cujo　leaped　off　the　hood。
；Mommy；　pleeease　let's　go　home。'
She　turned　the　key　in　the　ignition。　The　motor　cranked　and　cranked　and　cranked　。。。　but　the　Pinto　did　not　start。　At　last　she　turned　the　key　off　again。
'Honey；　we　can't　go　just　yet。　The　car
'Yes！　Yes！　Now！　Right　now！'
Her　head　began　to　thud。　Big；　whacking　pains　that　were　in　perfect　sync　with　her　heartbeat。
'Tad。　Listen　to　me。　The　car　doesn't　want　to　start。　It's　that　needle　valve　thing。　We've　got　to　wait　until　the　engine　cools　off。　It'll　go　then；　I　think。　We　can　leave。'
All　we　have　to　do　is　get　back　out　of　the　driveway　and　get　pointed　down　the　bill。　Then　it　won't　matter　even　if　it　does　stall；　because　we　can　coast。　If　I　don't　chicken　out　and　bit　the　brake。　I　should　be　able　to　make　it　most　of　the　way　back　to　the　Maple　Sugar　Road　even　with　the　engine　shut　down。
or　。。。
She　thought　of　the　house　at　the　bottom　of　the　hill；　the　one　with　the　honeysuckle　running　wild　all　over　the　east　side。　There　were　people　there。　She　had　seen　cars。
People！
She　began　to　use　the　horn　again。　Three　short　blasts；　three　long　blasts；　three　shorts；　over　and　over；　the　only　Morse　she　remembered　from　her　two　years　in　the　Girl　Scouts。　They　would　hear。　Even　if　they　didn't　understand　the　message；　they　would　e　up　to　see　who　was　raising　bell　at　Joe　Camber's　…　and　why。
Where　was　the　dog？　She　couldn't　see　him　any　more。　But　it　didn't　matter。　The　dog　couldn't　get　in　and　help　would　be　here　shortly。
'Everything's　going　to　be　fine；'　she　told　Tad。　'Wait　and　see。'
A　dirty　brick　building　in　Cambridge　housed　the　offices　of　Image…Eye　Studios。　The　business　offices　were　on　the　fourth　floor；　a　suite　of　two　studios　were　on　the　fifth；　and　a　poorly　air…conditioned　screening　room　only　big　enough　to　hold　sixteen　seats　in　rows　of　four　was　on　the　sixth　and　top　floor。
On　that　early　Monday　evening　Vic　Trenton　and　Roger　Breakstone　sat　in　the　third　row　of　the　screening　room；　jackets　off；　ties　pulled　down。　They　had　watched　the　kinescopes　of　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　mercials　five　times　each。　There　were　exactly　twenty　of　them。　Of　the　twenty；　three　were　the　infamous　Red　Razberry　Zingers　spots。
The　last　reel　of　six　spots　had　finished　half　an　hour　ago；　and　the　projectionist　had　called　good　night　and　gone　to　his　evening　job；　which　was　running　films　at　the　Orson　Welles　Cinema。　Fifteen　minutes　later　Rob　Martin；　the　president　of　Image…Eye；　had　bade　them　a　glum　good　night；　adding　that　his　door　would　be　open　to　them　all　day　tomorrow　and　Wednesday；　if　they　needed　him。　He　avoided　what　was　in　all　three　of　their　minds：　The　door'll　be　open　if　you　think　of　something　worth　talking　about。
Rob　had　every　right　to　look　glum。　He　was　a　Vietnam　vet　who　had　lost　a　leg　in　the　Tet　offensive。　He　had　opened　I…E　Studios　in　late　1970　with　his　disability　money　and　a　lot　of　help　from　his　in…laws。　The　studio　had　gasped　and　struggled　along　since　then；　mostly　catching　crumbs　from　that　wellstocked　media　table　at　which　the　larger　Boston　studios　banqueted。　Vic　and　Roger　had　been　taken　with　him　because　he　reminded　them　of　themselves；　in　a　way　…　struggling　to　make　a　90　of　it；　to　get　up　to　that　fabled　er　and　turn　it。　And；　of　course；　Boston　was　good　because　it　was　an　easier　mute　than　New　York。
In　the　last　sixteen　months；　Image…Eye　had　taken　off。　Rob　had　been　able　to　use　the　fact　that　his　studio　was　doing　the　Sharp　spots　to　land　other　business；　and　for　the　first　time　things　had　looked　solid。　In　May；　just　before　the　cereal　had　hit　the　fan；　he　sent　Vic　and　Roger　a　postcard　showing　a　Boston　T…bus　going　away。　On　the　back　were　four　lovely　ladies；　bent　over　to　show　their　fannies；　which　were　encased　in　designer　jeans。　Written　on　the　back　of　the　card；　tabloid　style；　was　this　meassage：　IMAGE…EYE　LANDS　CONTRACT　TO　DO　BUTTS　FOR　BOSTON　BUSES；　BILLS　BIG　BUCKS。　Funny　then。　Not　such　a　hoot　now。　Since　the　Zingers　fiasco；　two　clients　（including　Cannes…Look　jeans）　had　canceled　their　arrangements　with　I…E；　and　if　Ad　Worx　lost　the　Sharp　account；　Rob　would　lose　other　accounts　in　addition　to　Sharp。　It　had　left　him　feeling　angry　and　scared。　。　。　emotions　Vic　understood　perfectly。
They　had　been　sitting　and　smoking　in　silence　for　almost　five　minutes　when　Roger　said　in　a　low　voice；　'It　just　makes　me　want　to　puke；　Vic。　I　see　that　guy　sitting　on　his　desk　and　looking　out　at　me　like　butter　wouldn't　melt　in　his　mouth；　taking　a　big　bite　of　that　cereal　with　the　runny　dye　in　it　and　saying；　〃Nope；　nothing　wrong　here；〃　and　I　get　sick　to　my　stomach。　Physically　sick　to　my　stomach。　I'm　glad　the　projectionist　had　to　go。　If　I　watched　them　one　more　time；　I'd　have　to　do　it　with　an　airsick　bag　in　my　lap。'
He　stubbed　out　his　cigarette　in　the　ashtray　set　into　the　arm　of　his　chair。　He　did　look　ill；　his　face　had　a　yellowish　sheen　that　Vic　didn't　like　at　all。　Call　it　shellshock；　bat　fatigue；　whatever　you　wanted；　but　what　you　meant　was　scared　shitless；　backed　into　a　rathole。　It　was　looking　into　the　dark　and　seeing　something　that　was　going　to　cat　you　up。
'I　kept　telling　myself；'　Roger　said；　reaching　for　another　cigarette；　'that　I'd　see　something。　You　know？　Something。　I　couldn't　believe　it　was　as　bad　as　it　seemed。　But　the　cumulative　effect　of　those　spots　。。。　it's　like　watching　Jimmy
Carter　saying；　〃I'll　never　lie　to　you〃。'　He　took　a　drag　from　the　new　cigarette；　grimaced；　and　stuffed　it　into　the　ashtray。　'No　wonder　George　Carlin　and　Steve　Martin　and　fucking　Saturday　Night　Live　had　a　field　day。　That　guy　just　looks　so　sanctimonious　to　me　now　。　。　。'　His　voice　had　developed　a　sudden　watery　tremble。　He　shut　his　mouth　with　a　snap。
'I've　got　an　idea；'　Vic　said　quietly。
'Yeah；　you　said　something　on　the　plane。'　Roger　looked　at　him；　but　without　much　hope。　'If　you　got　one；　let's　hear　it。'
'I　think　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　has　to　make　one　more　spot；'　Vic　said。　'I　think　we　have　to　convince　old　man　Sharp　of　that。　Not　the　kid。　The　old　man。'
'What's　the　old　prof　gonna　sell　this　time？'　Roger　asked；　twisting　open　another　button　on　his　shirt。　'Rat　poison　or　Agent　Orange？'
'e　on；　Roger。　No　one　got　poisoned。'
'Might　as　well　have；'　Roger　said；　and　laughed　shrilly。　'Sometimes　I　wonder　if　you　understand　what　advertising　really　is。　It's　holding　a　wolf　by　the　tail。　Well；　we　lost　our　grip　on　this　particular　wolf　and　he's　just　about　to　e　back　on　us　and　eat　us　whole。'
'Roger　
'This　is　the　country　where　it's　front…page　news　when　some　consumer　group　weighed　the　McDonald's　Quarter　Pounder　and　found　out　it　weighed　a　little　shy　of　a　quarter　pound。　Some　obscure　California　magazine　publishes　a　report　that　a　rear…end　collision　can　cause　a　gas…tank　explosion　in　Pintos；　and　the　Ford　Motor　pany　shakes　in　its　shoes　…'
'Don't　get　on　that；'　Vic　said；　laughing　a　little。　'My　wife's　got　a　Pinto。　I　got　problems　enough。'
'All　I'm　saying　is　that　getting　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　to　do　another　spot　seems　about　as　shrewd　to　me　as　having　Richard　Nixon　do　an　encore　State　of　the　Union　address。　He's　promised；　Vic；　he's　totally　blown！'　He　paused；　looking　at　Vic。　Vic　looked　back　at　him　gravely。　'What　do　you　want　him　to　say？'
'That　he's　sorry。'
Roger　blinked　at　him　glassily　for　a　moment。　Then　he　threw　back　his　head　and　cackled。　'That　he's　sorry。　Sorry？　Oh；　dear；　that's　wonderful。　Was　that　your　great　idea？
'Hold　on；　Rog。　You're　not　even　giving　me　a　chance。　That's　not　like　you。'
'No；'　Roger　said。　'I　guess　it's　not。　Tell　me　what　you　mean。　But　I　can't　believe　you're　…'
'Serious？　I'm　serious；　all　right。　You　took　the　courses。　What's　the　basis　of　all　successful　advertising？　Why　bother　to　advertise　at　all？'
'The　basis　of　all　successful　advertising　is　that　people　want　to　believe。　That　people　sell　themselves。
'Yeah。　When　the　Maytag　Repairman　says　he's　the　loneliest　guy　in　town；　people　want　to　believe　that　there　really　is　such　a　guy　someplace；　not　doing　anything　but　listening　to　the　radio　and　maybe　jacking　off　once　in　awhile。　People　want　to　believe　that　their　Maytags　will　never　need　repairs。　When　Joe　DiMaggio　es　on　and　says　Mr。　Coffee　saves　coffee；　saves　money；　people　want　to　believe　that。　If。。
'But　isn't　that　why　we've　got　our　asses　in　a　crack？　They　wanted　to　believe　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　and　he　let　them　down。　Just　like　they　wanted　to　believe　in　Nixon；　and　he　…~
'Nixon；　Nixon；　Nixon！'　Vic　said；　surprised　by　his　own　angry　vehemence。　'You're　getting　blinded　by　that　particular　parison；　I've　heard　you　make　it　two　hundred　times　since　this　thing　blew；　and　it　doesn't　fit！'
Roger　was　looking　at　him；　stunned。
'Nixon　was　a　crook；　he　knew　he　was　a　crook；　and　he　said　he　wasn't　a　crook。　The　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　said　there　was　nothing　wrong　with　Red　Razberry　Zingers　and　there　was　something　wrong；　but　he　didn't　know　it。'　Vic　leaned　forward　and　pushed　his　finger　gently　against　Roger's　arm；　emphasizing。　'There　was　no　breach　of　faith。　He　has　to　say　that；　Rog。　He　has