The Loudest Sound
J.L. Shreve

From the moment Dr. Murray Cochlea stepped onto the street, he was caught up in a tornado of sounds for which he could find no eerily silent eye. All around him billboards and posters whispered, whimpered, exclaimed, and sang. "A man with stomach acid like yours needs Bascillica RX!" boomed one. "Murray. Oh Murray. It's been soo long since you came to our web site," cooed another. Phones beeped, whistled, and, most obnoxiously, screamed things like, "Pick up your goddamned phone, you asshole!" Cars, millions of them, zhyoooomed by and screeched to halts, the horns sounding at irregular intervals.

As Murray walked from his apartment to the vehicle hub where he had parked the night before, he thrust his index fingers deep into his ears, his shivering hands cupping his cold, soft earlobes. He bent slightly forward, as though to deflect rain, and he ran, and as he ran he thought about the five kids on the news last night who'd burned in their beds because they'd slept through their smoke alarm. The "ambient" noise level within city limits had reached new heights in decibels. And hadn't a new study just demonstrated conclusively that Noise Spastic Disorder, treatable only through expensive drug therapy, was on the rise among preschoolers? Where would it end?

The recent political scandal had been the most telling, in Murray's mind. After a roving cloud of toxic gas had enveloped poor, defenseless Roratonga, President of the Nations George Enron Halliburton Bush the Fourth had declared a minute of silence to be observed worldwide, for not a heart on the remote island-state had been left beating. Before a crowd of solemn international dignitaries and an even larger crowd of journalists and cameramen, the president declared, "Today we give a minute of silence for the brave people of Roratonga, whose lives were so tragically cut short by an act of God." But no sooner had those blank round eyes squinted shut, the presidential neck sloped earthwards in humble supplication, than did a dozen or so mobile phones start to whistle and chime, many dignitaries breaking the silence to embrace the siren's call. "Hey, hey, yeah, not a good time, Walt. Mind if I call you right back?" The billboards that lined the capitol mall hollered out, "Gourmet pet food! Give your pet the best!" and "Isn't it time you tried Slimming Slacks?" The moment of silence that wasn't proved, many said, that the president was nothing more than an inbred buffoon, incapable of commanding anyone's attention or respect. To Murray, though, it was just a dramatic example of noise pollution run amok.

Dr. Murray Cochlea was more sensitive than most to the voluminous soundscape of the big city. After all, sound itself was his area of expertise. He'd studied sounds both large and small, pitches so obscure they never troubled human ears, and the impact of noise pollution on the human psyche.

Most of his colleagues had gone on to high paying jobs in broadcasting where they'd developed, among other things, vibrations that moved your bowels before a spokesperson introduced a new diarrhea product, tones that soothed and wooed you into a somnambulant stupor while you shopped, pitches that flung themselves like dolphins above the sea of noise, commanding your attention without ever gaining your consent. The money was tempting, but Murray had declined to follow the corporate herd. It wasn't that he had scruples; he simply preferred to follow his own path to success--a path that had led him, quite early in his career, straight to what he felt would be his greatest discovery: silence. An imperceptible vibration, a unique combination of pitch and tone, that when unleashed into human ears sliced through all other noise, parting it like the Red Sea as you passed through it.

Murray had been convinced his discovery would make him rich, perhaps even rich enough to afford to live close to nature, what was left of it. Picture it, he'd say to anyone who would listen, personal silencers, just slip them over your ears, press play, and be released into a soothing, soundless deep. Who wouldn't want one? But rather than applaud his invention, the corporation funding his research had retracted its financial support, the university fired him and confiscated all his notes and files. The only job he could find was teaching sociology at a failing community college. All this merely convinced Murray that he was on to something big, so in the evenings and on weekends, he re-created silence from memory. And now, just a few remaining kinks needed to be worked out. His test subjects, when exposed to silence played over loud speakers, still had a tendency to get nervous, panicked. Some had vomited or fainted. A few experienced audio hallucinations, while others' sense of sight seemed to intensify with each mute minute. It wouldn't do to understimulate one area only to overstimulate another, Murray reasoned. It had taken a number of years and much trial and error, but he was close now, really close.

Rowina, the sociology department secretary, was waiting for him at his office door, through which he could hear his computer and phone chirping in salutation as he approached.

"Oh Dr. Cochlea, Dr. Cochlea! The most wonderful thing has happened," she burst out when he was not yet 10 feet away, "The president has called!" Her hot, red cheeks nearly sizzled beneath her spacious brown eyes. Her hands cast about for an invisible tether to stabilize her.

"The president of the college?" Murray asked, unimpressed.

"No, the president."

"Of the world?"

"Yes! He wants to speak with youuuuu, about your invention! You know, the quiet one. He'll be phoning again in a few minutes."

As he thrust the key into his office door, Murray's heart began flinging itself against his rib cage, faster, faster, his breath hastening to match its pace. This was the moment he'd always believed would come. He hated the president, sure, but he'd have to squash such interjections for the good of humanity. People needed silence, he thought, envisioning his dream home, a quiet gurgling stream, a remote place where stars could be seen and crickets heard. He would be vindicated at long last. His office phone began to jingle and gyrate as he approached his desk.

"Uh-hem. Hello. Murray, I mean, Dr. Cochlea here."

"Dr. Cock-la, this here is President E.H. Bush the Fourth. Heh. I hear you've got a little invention that I could really use right now."

It was to be revenge all around. A rescheduled moment of reinvented silence that none would forget. The president's power would be re-established as silence blasted from every communication device broadcasting the event. Murray would receive a large government grant, enabling him to take his product to the public. And what better advertising could he find than a worldwide moment of unbreakable silence?

"You will need to wait until it's completed; could be months," Murray warned the president.

"Of course, of course," he replied. "But you don't mind if my boys have a little fun with it, run some tests of their own, that sort of thing."

Misgivings pricked at Murray's skin, yet he agreed. A horrible ache tightened the muscular threads of his gut yet, mere hours later, he signed papers, duplicated his invention, and handed it over. It was all for silence, for the good of mankind, he reasoned, but the thought gave him no comfort. Nor should it have.

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