“George, maybe it’s really an SOS message. Turn it back on.”
George turned it back on. The tobacco ad was still going. “—gentlemen of the most dit-dit-dit -ing taste prefer the finer taste of dit-dit-dit- arettes. In the new package that keeps them dit-dit-dit and ultra fresh—”
“It’s not SOS. It’s just S’s.”
“Like a teakettle or—say, George, maybe it’s just some advertising gag.”
George shook his head. “Not when it can blank out the name of the product. Just a minute till I—”
He reached over and turned the dial of the radio a bit to the right and then a bit to the left, and an incredulous look came into his face. He turned the dial to the extreme left, as far as it would go. There wasn’t any station there, not even the hum of a carrier wave. But:
“ Dit-dit-dit,” said the radio, “ dit-dit-dit. ”
He turned the dial to the extreme right. “ Dit-dit-dit.” George switched it off and stared at Maisie without seeing her, which was hard to do.
“Something wrong, George?”
“I hope so,” said George Bailey. “I certainly hope so.” He started to reach for another drink and changed his mind. He had a sudden hunch that something big was happening and he wanted to sober up to appreciate it. He didn’t have the faintest idea how big it was. “George, what do you mean?”