The thing (and Bart Chester had been in show business too long to jump at snap labels) hung there, suspended by hangings of nothing, as if waiting. It stretched up out between the trench of buildings, towering a good ten feet over the tallest one. The structure--whatever it was--appeared to be over nine hundred feet high. It hung above the ground, over the traffic island dividing Broadway and Seventh Avenue, the flickering of a million lights coloring its smooth tube body.
Even as he watched, the seemingly unbroken skin of the structure parted circularly and a flat plate emerged. The plate was dotted with small holes, and in another instant a thousand metallic filaments pushed through the holes. Rigidly, they weaved in the air.
Newspaper stories of the last few years, coupled with a natural childlike credulity, joined. Migod, thought Chester, and somehow knew his assumption was correct, they're testing the atmosphere! They're finding out if they can live here! When he had said this to himself, the greater implication struck him: it's a spaceship! That--that thing came from another planet! Another planet?
It had been many months since the Emery Bros. Circus, in which Bart had sunk all his ready cash, had folded. It had been many months since Bart had paid his rent, and not many less since he'd had three full meals in one twenty-four-hour period. He was desperately looking for an angle. Any angle!
Then, with the innate entrepreneur blood coursing through him beating fiercely, he thought joyously, Good God, what an attraction this would make!
Concessions. Balloons saying "Souvenir of the Spaceship." Popcorn, peanuts, Cracker Jacks, binoculars, pennants! Food! Hot dogs, candied apples; what a pitch! What a perfect pitch!
If I can get to it first, he added, mentally clicking his fingers.
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