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I Sing the Body Electric
Ray Douglas Bradbury
One of Ray Bradbury’s classic short story collections, available in ebook for the first time.Science fiction, fantasy, small town life, and small town people are the materials from which Ray Bradbury weaves his unique and magical stories of the natural and supernatural, the past, the present , and the future.This book contains eighteen short stories from one of the genre's master storytellers.



I Sing the Body Electric!
And Other Stories

Ray Bradbury



Copyright
HarperVoyager an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by Alfred A. Knopf 1969
First published in Great Britain by Hart-Davis 1970
Copyright © Ray Bradbury 1969
“Any Friend of Nicholas Nickleby’s Is a Friend of Mine” (originally titled “Charlie Is My Darling”) and “I Sing the Body Electric!” (originally titled “The Beautiful One Is Here”) first appeared in McCall’s magazine. “The Cold Wind and the Warm” was originally published in Harper’s magazine. “The Women” was originally published in Famous Fantastic Mysteries. “The Tombling Day” was originally published in Shenandoah. “Heavy-Set,” “The Man in the Rorschach Suit,” “Lost City of Mars,” and “Downwind from Gettysburg” were originally published in Playboy magazine “The Kilimanjaro Device” (originally titled “The Kilimanjaro Machine”) first appeared in Life magazine. “Henry IX” (originally titled “A Final Sceptre, a Lasting Crown”) first appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction. “The Blue Bottle” Copyright 1950 by Love Romances Publishing Inc. “Punishment Without Crime” Copyright 1950 by Other Worlds. “One Timeless Spring” first appeared in Collier’s. “A Piece of Wood” first appeared in Esquire. “The Utterly Perfect Murder” (originally titled “My Perfect Murder”) and “The Parrot Who Met Papa” first appeared in Playboy magazine. “Drink Entire: Against the Madness of Crowds” first appeared in Gallery.
Ray Bradbury asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007541706
Version: 2018-02-27

Dedication
This book, a bit late in the
day, but with admiration, affection,
and friendship, is for
NORMAN CORWIN.
Epigraph
I Sing the Body Electric;
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them,
And charge them full with the charge of the Soul.
WALT WHITMAN

Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
The Kilimanjaro Device
The Terrible Conflagration Up at the Place
Tomorrow’s Child
The Women
The Inspired Chicken Motel
Downwind from Gettysburg
Yes, We’ll Gather at the River
The Cold Wind and the Warm
Night Call, Collect
The Haunting of the New
I Sing the Body Electric!
The Tombling Day
Any Friend of Nicholas Nickleby’s Is a Friend of Mine
Heavy-Set
The Man in the Rorschach Shirt
Henry the Ninth
The Lost City of Mars
The Blue Bottle
One Timeless Spring
The Parrot Who Met Papa
The Burning Man
A Piece of Wood
The Messiah
G.B.S.—Mark V
The Utterly Perfect Murder
Punishment Without Crime
Getting Through Sunday Somehow
Drink Entire: Against the Madness of Crowds
Christus Apollo
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Also by the Author
About the Publisher

The Kilimanjaro Device
I arrived in the truck very early in the morning. I had been driving all night, for I hadn’t been able to sleep at the motel so I thought I might as well drive and I arrived among the mountains and hills near Ketchum and Sun Valley just as the sun came up and I was glad I had kept busy with driving.
I drove into the town itself without looking up at that one hill. I was afraid if I looked at it, I would make a mistake. It was very important not to look at the grave. At least that is how I felt. And I had to go on my hunch.
I parked the truck in front of an old saloon and walked around the town and talked to a few people and breathed the air and it was sweet and clear. I found a young hunter, but he was wrong; I knew that after talking to him for a few minutes. I found a very old man, but he was no better. Then I found me a hunter about fifty, and he was just right. He knew, or sensed, everything I was looking for.
I bought him a beer and we talked about a lot of things, and then I bought him another beer and led the conversation around to what I was doing here and why I wanted to talk to him. We were silent for a while and I waited, not showing my impatience, for the hunter, on his own, to bring up the past, to speak of other days three years ago, and of driving toward Sun Valley at this time or that and what he saw and knew about a man who had once sat in this bar and drunk beer and talked about hunting or gone hunting out beyond.
And at last, looking off at the wall as if it were the highway and the mountains, the hunter gathered up his quiet voice and was ready to speak.
“That old man,” he said. “Oh, that old man on the road. Oh, that poor old man.”
I waited.
“I just can’t get over that old man on the road,” he said, looking down now into his drink.
I drank some more of my beer, not feeling well, feeling very old myself and tired.
When the silence prolonged itself, I got out a local map and laid it on the wooden table. The bar was quiet. It was midmorning and we were completely alone there.
“This is where you saw him most often?” I asked.
The hunter touched the map three times. “I used to see him walking here. And along there. Then he’d cut across the land here. That poor old man. I wanted to tell him to keep off the road. I didn’t want to hurt or insult him. You don’t tell a man like that about roads or that maybe he’ll be hit. If he’s going to be hit, well that’s it. You figure it’s his business, and you go on. Oh, but he was old there at the last.”
“He was,” I said, and folded the map and put it in my pocket.
“You another of those reporters?” said the hunter.
“Not quite those,” I said.
“Didn’t mean to lump you in with them,” he said.
“No apology needed,” I said. “Let’s just say I was one of his readers.”
“Oh, he had readers all right, all kinds of readers. Even me. I don’t touch books from one autumn to the next. But I touched his. I think I liked the Michigan stories best. About the fishing. I think the stories about the fishing are good. I don’t think anybody ever wrote about fishing that way and maybe won’t ever again. Of course, the bullfight stuff is good, too. But that’s a little far off. Some of the cowpokes like them; they been around the animals all their life. A bull here or a bull there, I guess it’s the same. I know one cowpoke has read just the bull stuff in the Spanish stories of the old man’s forty times. He could go over there and fight, I swear.”
“I think all of us felt,” I said, “at least once in our lives, when we were young, we could go over there, after reading the bull stuff in the Spanish stories, that we could go over there and fight. Or at least jog ahead of the running of the bulls, in the early morning, with a good drink waiting at the other end of the run, and your best girl with you there for the long weekend.”
I stopped. I laughed quietly. For my voice had, without knowing, fallen into the rhythm of his way of saying, either out of his mouth, or from his hand. I shook my head and was silent.
“You been up to the grave yet?” asked the hunter, as if he knew I would answer yes.
“No,” I said.
That really surprised him. He tried not to show it.
“They all go up to the grave,” he said.
“Not this one.”
He explored around in his mind for a polite way of asking. “I mean…” he said. “Why not?”
“Because it’s the wrong grave,” I said.
“All graves are wrong graves when you come down to it,” he said.
“No,” I said. “There are right graves and wrong ones, just as there are good times to die and bad times.”
He nodded at this. I had come back to something he knew, or at least smelled was right.
“Sure, I knew men,” he said, “died just perfect. You always felt, yes, that was good. One man I knew, sitting at the table waiting for supper, his wife in the kitchen, when she came in with a big bowl of soup there he was sitting dead and neat at the table. Bad for her, but, I mean, wasn’t that a good way for him? No sickness. No nothing but sitting there waiting for supper to come and never knowing if it came or not. Like another friend. Had an old dog. Fourteen years old. Dog was going blind and tired. Decided at last to take the dog to the pound and have him put to sleep. Loaded the old blind tired dog on the front seat of his car. The dog licked his hand, once. The man felt awful. He drove toward the pound. On the way there, with not one sound, the dog passed away, died on the front seat, as if he knew and, knowing, picked the better way, just handed over his ghost, and there you are. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”
I nodded.
“So you think that grave up on the hill is a wrong grave for a right man, do you?”
“That’s about it,” I said.
“You think there are all kinds of graves along the road for all of us?”
“Could be,” I said.
“And if we could see all our life one way or another, we’d choose better? At the end, looking back,” said the hunter, “we’d say, hell, that was the year and the place, not the other year and the other place, but that one year, that one place. Would we say that?”
“Since we have to choose or be pushed finally,” I said, “yes.”
“That’s a nice idea,” said the hunter. “But how many of us have that much sense? Most of us don’t have brains enough to leave a party when the gin runs out. We hang around.”
“We hang around,” I said, “and what a shame.”
We ordered some more beer.
The hunter drank half the glass and wiped his mouth.
“So what can you do about wrong graves?” he said.
“Treat them as if they didn’t exist,” I said. “And maybe they’ll go away, like a bad dream.”
The hunter laughed once, a kind of forlorn cry. “God, you’re crazy. But I like listening to crazy people. Blow some more.”
“That’s all,” I said.
“Are you the Resurrection and the Life?” said the hunter.
“No.”
“You going to say Lazarus come forth?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I just want, very late in the day,” I said, “to choose right places, right times, right graves.”
“Drink that drink,” said the hunter. “You need it. Who in hell sent you?”
“Me,” I said. “I did. And some friends. We all chipped in and picked one out of ten. We bought that truck out on the street and I drove it across country. On the way I did a lot of hunting and fishing to put myself in the right frame. I was in Cuba last year. Spain the summer before. Africa the summer before that. I got a lot to think about. That’s why they picked me.”
“To do what, to do what, goddammit?” said the hunter urgently, half wildly, shaking his head. “You can’t do anything. It’s all over.”
“Most of it,” I said. “Come on.”
I walked to the door. The hunter sat there. At last, examining the fires lit in my face by my talking, he grunted, got up, walked over, and came outside with me.
I pointed at the curb. We looked together at the truck parked there.
“I’ve seen those before,” he said. “A truck like that, in a movie. Don’t they hunt rhino from a truck like that? And lions and things like that? Or at least travel in them around Africa?”
“You remember right.”
“No lions around here,” he said. “No rhino, no water buffalo, nothing.”
“No?” I asked.
He didn’t answer that.
I walked over and touched the open truck.
“You know what this is?”
“I’m playing dumb from here on,” said the hunter. “What is it?”
I stroked the fender for a long moment.
“A Time Machine,” I said.
His eyes widened and then narrowed and he sipped the beer he was carrying in one large hand. He nodded me on.
“A Time Machine,” I repeated.
“I heard you,” he said.
He walked out around the safari truck and stood in the street looking at it. He wouldn’t look at me. He circled the truck one entire round and stood back on the curb and looked at the cap on the gas tank.
“What kind of mileage you get?” he said.
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know anything,” he said.
“This is the first trip,” I said. “I won’t know until it’s over.”
“What do you fuel a thing like that with?” he said.
I was silent.
“What kind of stuff you put in?” he asked.
I could have said: Reading late at night, reading many nights over the years until almost morning, reading up in the mountains in the snow or reading at noon in Pamplona, or reading by the streams or out in a boat somewhere along the Florida coast. Or I could have said: All of us put our hands on this Machine, all of us thought about it and bought it and touched it and put our love in it and our remembering what his words did to us twenty years or twenty-five or thirty years ago. There’s a lot of life and remembering and love put by here, and that’s the gas and the fuel and the stuff or whatever you want to call it; the rain in Paris, the sun in Madrid, the snow in the high Alps, the smoke off the guns in the Tyrol, the shine of light off the Gulf Stream, the explosion of bombs or explosions of leapt fish, that’s the gas and the fuel and the stuff here; I should have said that, I thought it, but I let it stay unsaid.
The hunter must have smelled my thought, for his eyes squinted up and, telepath that he was from long years in the forest, chewed over my thinking.
Then he walked over and did an unexpected thing. He reached out and…touched…my Machine.
He laid his hand on it and left it there, as if feeling for the life, and approving what he sensed beneath his hand. He stood that way for a long time.
Then he turned without a word, not looking at me, and went back into the bar and sat drinking alone, his back turned toward the door.
I didn’t want to break the silence. It seemed a good time to go, to try.
I got in the truck and started the motor.
What kind of mileage? What kind of fuel? I thought. And drove away.
I kept on the road and didn’t look right or left and I drove for what must have been an hour, first this direction and then that, part of the time my eyes shut for full seconds, taking a chance I might go off and get hurt or killed.
And then, just before noon, with the clouds over the sun, suddenly I knew it was all right.
I looked up at the hill and I almost yelled.
The grave was gone.
I drove down into a little hollow just then and on the road ahead, wandering along by himself, was an old man in a heavy sweater.
I idled the safari truck along until I was pacing him as he walked. I saw he was wearing steel-rimmed glasses and for a long moment we moved together, each ignoring the other until I called his name.
He hesitated, and then walked on.
I caught up with him in the truck and said again, “Papa.”
He stopped and waited.
I braked the car and sat there in the front seat.
“Papa,” I said.
He came over and stood near the door.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you.”
He looked me in the eyes and studied my face and mouth. “Yes. I think you do.”
“I saw you on the road. I think I’m going your way. Want a lift?”
“It’s good walking this time of day,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Let me tell you where I’m going,” I said.
He had started off but now stopped and, without looking at me, said, “Where?”
“A long way,” I said.
“It sounds long, the way you tell it. Can’t you make it shorter?”
“No. A long way,” I said. “About two thousand six hundred days, give or take some days, and half an afternoon.”
He came back and looked into the car.
“Is that how far you’re going?”
“That’s how far.”
“In which direction? Ahead?”
“Don’t you want to go ahead?”
He looked at the sky. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“It’s not ahead,” I said. “It’s back.”
His eyes took on a different color. It was a subtle shift, a flex, like a man stepping out from the shade of a tree into sunlight on a cloudy day.
“Back.”
“Somewhere between two thousand and three thousand days, split half a day, give or take an hour, borrow or loan a minute, haggle over a second,” I said.
“You really talk,” he said.
“Compulsive,” I said.
“You’d make a lousy writer,” he said. “I never knew a writer yet was a good talker.”
“That’s my albatross,” I said.
“Back?” He weighed the word.
“I’m turning the car around,” I said. “And I’m going back down the road.”
“Not miles but days?”
“Not miles but days.”
“Is it that kind of car?”
“That’s how it’s built.”
“You’re an inventor then?”
“A reader who happens to invent.”
“If the car works, that’s some car you got there.”
“At your service,” I said.
“And when you get where you’re going,” said the old man, putting his hand on the door and leaning and then, seeing what he had done, taking his hand away and standing taller to speak to me, “where will you be?”
“January 10, 1954.”
“That’s quite a date,” he said.
“It is, it was. It can be more of a date.”
Without moving, his eyes took another step out into fuller light.
“And where will you be on that day?”
“Africa,” I said.
He was silent. His mouth did not work. His eyes did not shift.
“Not far from Nairobi,” I said.
He nodded, once, slowly.
“Africa, not far from Nairobi.”
I waited.
“And when we get there, if we go?” he said.
“I leave you there.”
“And then?”
“You stay there.”
“And then?”
“That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Forever,” I said.
The old man breathed out and in, and ran his hand over the edge of the doorsill.
“This car,” he said, “somewhere along the way does it turn into a plane?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Somewhere along the way do you turn into my pilot?”
“It could be. I’ve never done this before.”
“But you’re willing to try?”
I nodded.
“Why?” he said, and leaned in and stared me directly in the face with a terrible, quietly wild intensity. “Why?”
Old man, I thought, I can’t tell you why. Don’t ask me.
He withdrew, sensing he had gone too far.
“I didn’t say that,” he said.
“You didn’t say it,” I said.
“And when you bring the plane in for a forced landing,” he said, “will you land a little differently this time?”
“Different, yes.”
“A little harder?”
“I’ll see what can be done.”
“And will I be thrown out but the rest of you okay?”
“The odds are in favor.”
He looked up at the hill where there was no grave. I looked at the same hill. And maybe he guessed the digging of it there.
He gazed back down the road at the mountains and the sea that could not be seen beyond the mountains and a continent beyond the sea. “That’s a good day you’re talking about.”
“The best.”
“And a good hour and a good second.”
“Really, nothing better.”
“Worth thinking about.”
His hand lay on the doorsill, not leaning, but testing, feeling, touching, tremulous, undecided. But his eyes came full into the light of African noon.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” I said.
“I think,” he said, “I’ll grab a lift with you.”
I waited one heartbeat, then reached over and opened the door.
Silently he got in the front seat and sat there and quietly shut the door without slamming it. He sat there, very old and very tired. I waited. “Start her up,” he said.
I started the engine and gentled it.
“Turn her around,” he said.
I turned the car so it was going back on the road.
“Is this really,” he said, “that kind of car?”
“Really, that kind of car.”
He looked out at the land and the mountains and the distant house.
I waited, idling the motor.
“When we get there,” he said, “will you remember something…?”
“I’ll try.”
“There’s a mountain,” he said, and stopped and sat there, his mouth quiet, and he didn’t go on.
But I went on for him. There is a mountain in Africa named Kilimanjaro, I thought. And on the western slope of that mountain was once found the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has ever explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.
We will put you up on that same slope, I thought, on Kilimanjaro, near the leopard, and write your name and under it say nobody knew what he was doing here so high, but here he is. And write the date born and died, and go away down toward the hot summer grass and let mainly dark warriors and white hunters and swift okapis know the grave.
The old man shaded his eyes, looking at the road winding away over the hills. He nodded.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Yes, Papa,” I said.
And we motored away, myself at the wheel, going slow, and the old man beside me, and as we went down the first hill and topped the next, the sun came out full and the wind smelled of fire. We ran like a lion in the long grass. Rivers and streams flashed by. I wished we might stop for one hour and wade and fish and lie by the stream frying the fish and talking or not talking. But if we stopped we might never go on again. I gunned the engine. It made a great fierce wondrous animal’s roar. The old man grinned.
“It’s going to be a great day!” he shouted.
“A great day.”
Back on the road, I thought, How must it be now, and now, us disappearing? And now, us gone? And now, the road empty. Sun Valley quiet in the sun. What must it be, having us gone?
I had the car up to ninety.
We both yelled like boys.
After that I didn’t know anything.
“By God,” said the old man, toward the end. “You know? I think we’re … flying?”

The Terrible Conflagration Up at the Place
The men had been hiding down by the gatekeeper’s lodge for half an hour or so, passing a bottle of the best between, and then, the gatekeeper having been carried off to bed, they dodged up the path at six in the evening and looked at the great house with the warm lights lit in each window.
“That’s the place,” said Riordan.
“Hell, what do you mean, ‘that’s the place’?” cried Casey, then softly added, “We seen it all our lives.”
“Sure,” said Kelly, “but with the Troubles over and around us, sudden-like a place looks different. It’s quite a toy, lying there in the snow.”
And that’s what it seemed to the fourteen of them, a grand playhouse laid out in the softly falling feathers of a spring night.
“Did you bring the matches?” asked Kelly.
“Did I bring the—what do you think I am!”
“Well, did you, is all I ask.”
Casey searched himself. When his pockets hung from his suit he swore and said, “I did not.”
“Ah, what the hell,” said Nolan. “They’ll have matches inside. We’ll borrow a few. Come on.”
Going up the road, Timulty tripped and fell.
“For God’s sake, Timulty,” said Nolan, “where’s your sense of romance? In the midst of a big Easter Rebellion we want to do everything just so. Years from now we want to go into a pub and tell about the Terrible Conflagration up at the Place, do we not? If it’s all mucked up with the sight of you landing on your ass in the snow, that makes no fit picture of the Rebellion we are now in, does it?”
Timulty, rising, focused the picture and nodded. “I’ll mind me manners.”
“Hist! Here we are!” cried Riordan.
“Jesus, stop saying things like ‘that’s the place’ and ‘here we are,’” said Casey. “We see the damned house. Now what do we do next?”
“Destroy it?” suggested Murphy tentatively.
“Gah, you’re so dumb you’re hideous,” said Casey. “Of course we destroy it, but first … blueprints and plans.”
“It seemed simple enough back at Hickey’s Pub,” said Murphy. “We would just come tear the damn place down. Seeing as how my wife outweighs me, I need to tear something down.”
“It seems to me,” said Timulty, drinking from the bottle, “we go rap on the door and ask permission.”
“Permission!” said Murphy. “I’d hate to have you running hell, the lost souls would never get fried! We—”
But the front door swung wide suddenly, cutting him off.
A man peered out into the night.
“I say,” said a gentle and reasonable voice, “would you mind keeping your voices down. The lady of the house is sleeping before we drive to Dublin for the evening, and—”
The men, revealed in the hearth-light glow of the door, blinked and stood back, lifting their caps.
“Is that you, Lord Kilgotten?”
“It is,” said the man in the door.
“We will keep our voices down,” said Timulty, smiling, all amiability.
“Beg pardon, your Lordship,” said Casey.
“Kind of you,” said his Lordship. And the door closed gently.
All the men gasped.
“‘Beg pardon, your Lordship,’ ‘We’ll keep our voices down, your Lordship.’” Casey slapped his head. “What were we saying? Why didn’t someone catch the door while he was still there?”
“We was dumfounded, that’s why; he took us by surprise, just like them damned high and mighties. I mean, we weren’t doing anything out here, were we?”
“Our voices were a bit high,” admitted Timulty.
“Voices, hell,” said Casey. “The damn Lord’s come and gone from our fell clutches!”
“Shh, not so loud,” said Timulty.
Casey lowered his voice. “So, let us sneak up on the door, and—”
“That strikes me as unnecessary,” said Nolan. “He knows we’re here now.”
“Sneak up on the door,” repeated Casey, grinding his teeth, “and batter it down—”
The door opened again.
The Lord, a shadow, peered out at them and the soft, patient, frail old voice inquired, “I say, what are you doing out there?”
“Well, it’s this way, your Lordship—” began Casey, and stopped, paling.
“We come,” blurted Murphy, “we come … to burn the Place!”
His Lordship stood for a moment looking out at the men, watching the snow, his hand on the doorknob. He shut his eyes for a moment, thought, conquered a tic in both eyelids after a silent struggle, and then said, “Hmm, well in that case, you had best come in.”
The men said that was fine, great, good enough, and started off when Casey cried, “Wait!” Then to the old man in the doorway, “We’ll come in, when we are good and ready.”
“Very well,” said the old man. “I shall leave the door ajar and when you have decided the time, enter. I shall be in the library.”
Leaving the door a half inch open, the old man started away when Timulty cried out, “When we are ready? Jesus, God, when will we ever be readier? Out of the way, Casey!”
And they all ran up on the porch.
Hearing this, his Lordship turned to look at them with his bland and not-unfriendly face, the face of an old hound who has seen many foxes killed and just as many escape, who has run well, and now in late years, paced himself down to a soft, shuffling walk.
“Scrape your feet, please, gentlemen.”
“Scraped they are.” And everyone carefully got the snow and mud off his shoes.
“This way,” said his Lordship, going off, his clear, pale eyes set in lines and bags and creases from too many years of drinking brandy, his cheeks bright as cherry wine. “I will get you all a drink, and we shall see what we can do about your … how did you put it … burning the Place?”
“You’re Sweet Reason itself,” admitted Timulty, following as Lord Kilgotten led them into the library, where he poured whisky all around.
“Gentlemen.” He let his bones sink into a wing-backed chair. “Drink.”
“We decline,” said Casey.
“Decline?” gasped everyone, the drinks almost in their hands.
“This is a sober thing we are doing and we must be sober for it,” said Casey, flinching from their gaze.
“Who do we listen to?” asked Riordan. “His Lordship or Casey?”
For answer all the men downed their drinks and fell to coughing and gasping. Courage showed immediately in a red color through their faces, which they turned so that Casey could see the difference. Casey drank his, to catch up.
Meanwhile, the old man sipped his whisky, and something about his calm and easy way of drinking put them far out in Dublin Bay and sank them again. Until Casey said, “Your Honor, you’ve heard of the Troubles? I mean not just the Kaiser’s war going on across the sea, but our own very great Troubles and the Rebellion that has reached even this far, to our town, our pub, and now, your Place?”
“An alarming amount of evidence convinces me this is an unhappy time,” said his Lordship. “I suppose what must be must be. I know you all. You have worked for me. I think I have paid you rather well on occasion.”
“There’s no doubt of that, your Lordship.” Casey took a step forward. “It’s just, ‘the old order changeth,’ and we have heard of the great houses out near Tara and the great manors beyond Killashandra going up in flames to celebrate freedom and—”
“Whose freedom?” asked the old man, mildly. “Mine? From the burden of caring for this house which my wife and I rattle around in like dice in a cup or—well, get on. When would you like to burn the Place?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble, sir,” said Timulty, “now.”
The old man seemed to sink deeper into his chair.
“Oh, dear,” he said.
“Of course,” said Nolan quickly, “if it’s inconvenient, we could come back later—”
“Later! What kind of talk is that?” asked Casey.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said the old man. “Please allow me to explain. Lady Kilgotten is asleep now, we have guests coming to take us into Dublin for the opening of a play by Synge—”
“That’s a damn fine writer,” said Riordan.
“Saw one of his plays a year ago,” said Nolan, “and—”
“Stand off!” said Casey.
The men stood back. His Lordship went on with his frail moth voice, “We have a dinner planned back here at midnight for ten people. I don’t suppose—you could give us until tomorrow night to get ready?”
“No,” said Casey.
“Hold on,” said everyone else.
“Burning,” said Timulty, “is one thing, but tickets is another. I mean, the theater is there, and a dire waste not to see the play, and all that food set up, it might as well be eaten. And all the guests coming. It would be hard to notify them ahead.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said his Lordship.
“Yes, I know!” shouted Casey, shutting his eyes, running his hands over his cheeks and jaw and mouth and clenching his fists and turning around in frustration. “But you don’t put off burnings, you don’t reschedule them like tea parties, dammit, you do them!”
“You do if you remember to bring the matches,” said Riordan under his breath.
Casey whirled and looked as if he might hit Riordan, but the impact of the truth slowed him down.
“On top of which,” said Nolan, “the Missus above is a fine lady and needs a last night of entertainment and rest.”
“Very kind of you.” His Lordship refilled the man’s glass.
“Let’s take a vote,” said Nolan.
“Hell.” Casey scowled around. “I see the vote counted already. Tomorrow night will do, dammit.”
“Bless you,” said old Lord Kilgotten. “There will be cold cuts laid out in the kitchen, you might check in there first, you shall probably be hungry, for it will be heavy work. Shall we say eight o’clock tomorrow night? By then I shall have Lady Kilgotten safely to a hotel in Dublin. I should not want her knowing until later that her home no longer exists.”
“God, you’re a Christian,” muttered Riordan.
“Well, let us not brood on it,” said the old man. “I consider it past already, and I never think of the past. Gentlemen.”
He arose. And, like a blind old sheepherder-saint, he wandered out into the hall with the flock straying and ambling and softly colliding after.
Half down the hall, almost to the door, Lord Kilgotten saw something from the corner of his blear eye and stopped. He turned back and stood brooding before a large portrait of an Italian nobleman.
The more he looked the more his eyes began to tic and his mouth to work over a nameless thing.
Finally Nolan said, “Your Lordship, what is it?”
“I was just thinking,” said the Lord, at last, “you love Ireland, do you not?”
My God, yes! said everyone. Need he ask?
“Even as do I,” said the old man gently. “And do you love all that is in it, in the land, in her heritage?”
That too, said all, went without saying!
“I worry then,” said the Lord, “about things like this. This portrait is by Van Dyck. It is very old and very fine and very important and very expensive. It is, gentlemen, a National Art Treasure.”
“Is that what it is!” said everyone, more or less, and crowded around for a sight.
“Ah, God, it’s fine work,” said Timulty.
“The flesh itself,” said Nolan.
“Notice,” said Riordan, “the way his little eyes seem to follow you?”
Uncanny, everyone said.
And were about to move on, when his Lordship said, “Do you realize this Treasure, which does not truly belong to me, nor you, but to all the people as precious heritage, this picture will be lost forever tomorrow night?”
Everyone gasped. They had not realized.
“God save us,” said Timulty, “we can’t have that!”
“We’ll move it out of the house, first,” said Riordan.
“Hold on!” cried Casey.
“Thank you,” said his Lordship, “but where would you put it? Out in the weather it would soon be torn to shreds by wind, dampened by rain, flaked by hail; no, no, perhaps it is best it burns quickly—”
“None of that!” said Timulty. “I’ll take it home, myself.”
“And when the great strife is over,” said his Lordship, “you will then deliver into the hands of the new government this precious gift of Art and Beauty from the past?”
“Er … every single one of those things, I’ll do,” said Timulty.
But Casey was eyeing the immense canvas, and said, “How much does the monster weigh?”
“I would imagine,” said the old man, faintly, “seventy to one hundred pounds, within that range.”
“Then how in hell do we get it to Timulty’s house?” asked Casey.
“Me and Brannahan will carry the damn treasure,” said Timulty, “and if need be, Nolan, you lend a hand.”
“Posterity will thank you,” said his Lordship.
They moved on along the hall, and again his Lordship stopped, before yet two more paintings.
“These are two nudes—”
They are that! said everyone.
“By Renoir,” finished the old man.
“That’s the French gent who made them?” asked Rooney. “If you’ll excuse the expression?”
It looks French all right, said everyone.
And a lot of ribs received a lot of knocking elbows.
“These are worth several thousand pounds,” said the old man.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” said Nolan, putting out his finger, which was slapped down by Casey.
“I—” said Blinky Watts, whose fish eyes swam about continuously in tears behind his thick glasses, “I would like to volunteer a home for the two French ladies. I thought I might tuck those two Art Treasures one under each arm and hoist them to the wee cot.”
“Accepted,” said the Lord with gratitude.
Along the hall they came to another, vaster landscape with all sorts of monster beast-men cavorting about treading fruit and squeezing summer-melon women. Everyone craned forward to read the brass plate under it: Twilight of the Gods.
“Twilight, hell,” said Rooney, “it looks more like the start of a great afternoon!”
“I believe,” said the gentle old man, “there is irony intended both in title and subject. Note the glowering sky, the hideous figures hidden in the clouds. The gods are unaware, in the midst of their bacchanal, that Doom is about to descend.”
“I do not see,” said Blinky Watts, “the Church or any of her girly priests up in them clouds.”
“It was a different kind of Doom in them days,” said Nolan. “Everyone knows that.”
“Me and Tuohy,” said Flannery, “will carry the demon gods to my place. Right, Tuohy?”
“Right!”
And so it went now, along the hall, the squad pausing here or there as on a grand tour of a museum, and each in turn volunteering to scurry home through the snowfall night with a Degas or a Rembrandt sketch or a large oil by one of the Dutch masters, until they came to a rather grisly oil of a man, hung in a dim alcove.
“Portrait of myself,” muttered the old man, “done by her Ladyship. Leave it there, please.”
“You mean,” gasped Nolan, “you want it to go up in the Conflagration?”
“Now, this next picture—” said the old man, moving on.
And finally the tour was at an end.
“Of course,” said his Lordship, “if you really want to be saving, there are a dozen exquisite Ming vases in the house—”
“As good as collected,” said Nolan.
“A Persian carpet on the landing—”
“We will roll it and deliver it to the Dublin Museum.”
“And that exquisite chandelier in the main dining room.”
“It shall be hidden away until the Troubles are over,” sighed Casey, tired already.
“Well, then,” said the old man, shaking each hand as he passed. “Perhaps you might start now, don’t you imagine? I mean, you do indeed have a largish job preserving the National Treasures. Think I shall nap five minutes now before dressing.”
And the old man wandered off upstairs.
Leaving the men stunned and isolated in a mob in the hall below, watching him go away out of sight.
“Casey,” said Blinky Watts, “has it crossed your small mind, if you’d remembered to bring the matches there would be no such long night of work as this ahead?”
“Jesus, where’s your taste for the ass-thetics?” cried Riordan.
“Shut up!” said Casey. “Okay, Flannery, you on one end of the Twilight of the Gods, you, Tuohy, on the far end where the maid is being given what’s good for her. Ha! Lift!”
And the gods, soaring crazily, took to the air.
By seven o’clock most of the paintings were out of the house and racked against each other in the snow, waiting to be taken off in various directions toward various huts. At seven fifteen, Lord and Lady Kilgotten came out and drove away, and Casey quickly formed the mob in front of the stacked paintings so the nice old lady wouldn’t see what they were up to. The boys cheered as the car went down the drive. Lady Kilgotten waved frailly back.
From seven thirty until ten the rest of the paintings walked out in one’s and two’s.
When all the pictures were gone save one, Kelly stood in the dim alcove worrying over Lady Kilgotten’s Sunday painting of the old Lord. He shuddered, decided on a supreme humanitarianism, and carried the portrait safely out into the night.
At midnight, Lord and Lady Kilgotten, returning with guests, found only great shuffling tracks in the snow where Flannery and Tuohy had set off one way with the dear bacchanal; where Casey, grumbling, had led a parade of Van Dycks, Rembrandts, Bouchers, and Piranesis another; and, where last of all, Blinky Watts, kicking his heels, had trotted happily into the woods with his nude Renoirs.
The dinner party was over by two. Lady Kilgotten went to bed satisfied that all the paintings had been sent out, en masse, to be cleaned.
At three in the morning, Lord Kilgotten still sat sleepless in his library, alone among empty walls, before a fireless hearth, a muffler about his thin neck, a glass of brandy in his faintly trembling hand.
About three fifteen there was a stealthy creaking of parquetry, a shift of shadows, and, after a time, cap in hand, there stood Casey at the library door.
“Hist!” he called softly.
The Lord, who had dozed somewhat, blinked his eyes wide. “Oh dear me,” he said, “is it time for us to go?”
“That’s tomorrow night,” said Casey. “And anyways, it’s not you that’s going, it’s Them is coming back.”
“Them? Your friends?”
“No, yours.” And Casey beckoned.
The old man let himself be led through the hall to look out the front door into a deep well of night.
There, like Napoleon’s numbed dog-army of foot-weary, undecided, and demoralized men, stood the shadowy but familiar mob, their hands full of pictures—pictures leaned against their legs, pictures on their backs, pictures stood upright and held by trembling, panic-whitened hands in the drifted snow. A terrible silence lay over and among the men. They seemed stranded, as if one enemy had gone off to fight far better wars while yet another enemy, as yet unnamed, nipped silent and trackless at their behinds. They kept glancing over their shoulders at the hills and the town as if at any moment Chaos herself might unleash her dogs from there. They alone, in the infiltering night, heard the far-off baying of dismays and despairs that cast a spell.
“Is that you, Riordan?” called Casey, nervously.
“Ah, who the hell would it be!” cried a voice out beyond.
“What do they want?” asked the old party.
“It’s not so much what we want as what you might now want from us,” called a voice.
“You see,” said another, advancing until all could see it was Hannahan in the light, “considered in all its aspects, your Honor, we’ve decided, you’re such a fine gent, we—”
“We will not burn your house!” cried Blinky Watts.
“Shut up and let the man talk!” said several voices.
Hannahan nodded. “That’s it. We will not burn your house.”
“But see here,” said the Lord, “I’m quite prepared. Everything can easily be moved out.”
“You’re taking the whole thing too lightly, begging your pardon, your Honor,” said Kelly. “Easy for you is not easy for us.”
“I see,” said the old man, not seeing at all.
“It seems,” said Tuohy, “we have all of us, in just the last few hours, developed problems. Some to do with the home and some to do with transport and cartage, if you get my drift. Who’ll explain first? Kelly? No? Casey? Riordan?”
Nobody spoke.
At last, with a sigh, Flannery edged forward. “It’s this way—” he said.
“Yes?” said the old man, gently.
“Well,” said Flannery, “me and Tuohy here got half through the woods, like damn fools, and was across two thirds of the bog with the large picture of the Twilight of the Gods when we began to sink.”
“Your strength failed?” inquired the Lord kindly.
“Sink, your Honor, just plain sink, into the ground,” Tuohy put in.
“Dear me,” said the Lord.
“You can say that again, your Lordship,” said Tuohy. “Why together, me and Flannery and the demon gods must have weighed close on to six hundred pounds, and that bog out there is infirm if it’s anything, and the more we walk the deeper we sink, and a cry strangled in me throat, for I’m thinking of those scenes in the old story where the Hound of the Baskervilles or some such fiend chases the heroine out in the moor and down she goes, in a watery pit, wishing she had kept at that diet, but it’s too late, and bubbles rise to pop on the surface. All of this a-throttling in me mind, your Honor.”
“And so?” the Lord put in, seeing he was expected to ask.
“And so,” said Flannery, “we just walked off and left the damn gods there in their twilight.”
“In the middle of the bog?” asked the elderly man, just a trifle upset.
“Ah, we covered them up, I mean we put our mufflers over the scene. The gods will not die twice, your Honor. Say, did you hear that, boys? The gods—”
“Ah, shut up,” cried Kelly. “Ya dimwits. Why didn’t you bring the damn portrait in off the bog?”
“We thought we would come get two more boys to help—”
“Two more!” cried Nolan. “That’s four men, plus a parcel of gods, you’d all sink twice as fast, and the bubbles rising, ya nitwit!”
“Ah! said Tuohy. “I never thought of that.”
“It has been thought of now,” said the old man. “And perhaps several of you will form a rescue team—”
“It’s done, your Honor,” said Casey. “Bob, you and Tim dash off and save the pagan deities.”
“You won’t tell Father Leary?”
“Father Leary my behind. Get!” And Tim and Bob panted off.
His Lordship turned now to Nolan and Kelly.
“I see that you, too, have brought your rather large picture back.”
“At least we made it within a hundred yards of the door, sir,” said Kelly. “I suppose you’re wondering why we have returned it, your Honor?”
“With the gathering in of coincidence upon coincidence,” said the old man, going back in to get his overcoat and putting on his tweed cap so he could stand out in the cold and finish what looked to be a long converse, “yes, I was given to speculate.”
“It’s me back,” said Kelley. “It gave out not five hundred yards down the main road. The back has been springing out and in for five years now, and me suffering the agonies of Christ. I sneeze and fall to my knees, your Honor.”
“I have suffered the self-same delinquency,” said the old man. “It is as if someone had driven a spike into one’s spine.” The old man touched his back, carefully, remembering, which brought a gasp from all, nodding.
“The agonies of Christ, as I said,” said Kelly.
“Most understandable then that you could not finish your journey with that heavy frame,” said the old man, “and most commendable that you were able to struggle back this far with the dreadful weight.”
Kelly stood taller immediately, as he heard his plight described. He beamed. “It was nothing. And I’d do it again, save for the string of bones above me ass. Begging pardon, your Honor.”
But already his Lordship had passed his kind if tremulous gray-blue, unfocused gaze toward Blinky Watts who had, under either arm, like a dartful prancer, the two Renoir peach ladies.
“Ah, God, there was no trouble with sinking into bogs or knocking my spine out of shape,” said Watts, treading the earth to demonstrate his passage home. “I made it back to the house in ten minutes flat, dashed into the wee cot, and began hanging the pictures on the wall, when my wife came up behind me. Have ya ever had your wife come up behind ya, your Honor, and just stand there mum’s the word?”
“I seem to recall a similar circumstance,” said the old man, trying to remember if he did, then nodding as indeed several memories flashed over his fitful baby mind.
“Well, your Lordship, there is no silence like a woman’s silence, do you agree? And no standing there like a woman’s standing there like a monument out of Stonehenge. The mean temperature dropped in the room so quick I suffered from the polar concussions, as we call it in our house. I did not dare turn to confront the Beast, or the daughter of the Beast, as I call her in deference to her mom. But finally I heard her suck in a great breath and let it out very cool and calm like a Prussian general. ‘That woman is naked as a jay bird,’ and ‘That other woman is raw as the inside of a clam at low tide.’
“‘But,’ said I, ‘these are studies of natural physique by a famous French artist.’
“‘Jesus-come-after-me-French,’ she cried; ‘the-skirts-half-up-to-your-bum-French. The-dress-half-down-to-your-navel-French. And the gulping and smothering they do with their mouths in their dirty novels French, and now you come home and nail ‘French’ on the walls, why don’t you while you’re at it, pull the crucifix down and nail one fat naked lady there?’
“Well, your Honor, I just shut up my eyes and wished my ears would fall off. ‘Is this what you want our boys to look at last thing at night as they go to sleep?’ she says. Next thing I know, I’m on the path and here I am and here’s the raw-oyster nudes, your Honor, beg your pardon, thanks, and much obliged.”
“They do seem to be unclothed,” said the old man, looking at the two pictures, one in either hand, as if he wished to find all that this man’s wife said was in them. “I had always thought of summer, looking at them.”
“From your seventieth birthday on, your Lordship, perhaps. But before that?”
“Uh, yes, yes,” said the old man, watching a speck of half-remembered lechery drift across one eye.
When his eye stopped drifting it found Bannock and Toolery on the edge of the far rim of the uneasy sheepfold crowd. Behind each, dwarfing them, stood a giant painting.
Bannock had got his picture home only to find he could not get the damn thing through the door, nor any window.
Toolery had actually got his picture in the door when his wife said what a laughingstock they’d be, the only family in the village with a Rubens worth half a million pounds and not even a cow to milk!
So that was the sum, total, and substance of this long night. Each man had a similar chill, dread, and awful tale to tell, and all were told at last, and as they finished a cold snow began to fall among these brave members of the local, hard-fighting I.R.A.
The old man said nothing, for there was nothing really to say that wouldn’t be obvious as their pale breaths ghosting the wind. Then, very quietly, the old man opened wide the front door and had the decency not even to nod or point.
Slowly and silently they began to file by, as past a familiar teacher in an old school, and then faster they moved. So in flowed the river returned, the Ark emptied out before, not after, the Flood, and the tide of animals and angels, nudes that flamed and smoked in the hands, and noble gods that pranced on wings and hoofs, went by, and the old man’s eyes shifted gently, and his mouth silently named each, the Renoirs, the Van Dycks, the Lautrec, and so on until Kelly, in passing, felt a touch at his arm.
Surprised, Kelly looked over.
And saw that the old man was staring at the small painting beneath his arm.
“My wife’s portrait of me?”
“None other,” said Kelly.
The old man stared at Kelly and at the painting beneath his arm and then out toward the snowing night.
Kelly smiled softly.
Walking soft as a burglar, he vanished out into the wilderness, carrying the picture. A moment later, you heard him laughing as he ran back, hands empty.
The old man shook his hand, once, tremblingly, and shut the door.
Then he turned away as if the event was already lost to his wandering child mind and toddled down the hall with his scarf like a gentle weariness over his thin shoulders, and the mob followed him in where they found drinks in their great paws and saw that Lord Kilgotten was blinking at the picture over the fireplace as if trying to remember, was the Sack of Rome there in the years past? or was it the Fall of Troy? Then he felt their gaze and looked full on the encircled army and said:
“Well now, what shall we drink to?”
The men shuffled their feet.
Then Flannery cried, “Why, to his Lordship, of course!”
“His Lordship!” cried all, eagerly, and drank, and coughed and choked and sneezed, while the old man felt a peculiar glistering about his eyes, and did not drink at all till the commotion stilled, and then said, “To Our Ireland,” and drank, and all said Ah God and Amen to that, and the old man looked at the picture over the hearth and then at last shyly observed, “I do hate to mention it—that picture—”
“Sir?”
“It seems to me,” said the old man, apologetically, “to be a trifle off-centered, on the tilt. I wonder if you might—”
“Mightn’t we, boys!” cried Casey.
And fourteen men rushed to put it right.

Tomorrow’s Child
He did not want to be the father of a small blue pyramid. Peter Horn hadn’t planned it that way at all. Neither he nor his wife imagined that such a thing could happen to them. They had talked quietly for days about the birth of their coming child, they had eaten normal foods, slept a great deal, taken in a few shows, and, when it was time for her to fly in the helicopter to the hospital, her husband held her and kissed her.
“Honey, you’ll be home in six hours,” he said. “These new birth-mechanisms do everything but father the child for you.”
She remembered an old-time song. “No, no, they can’t take that away from me!” and sang it, and they laughed as the helicopter lifted them over the green way from country to city.
The doctor, a quiet gentlemen named Wolcott, was very confident. Polly Ann, the wife, was made ready for the task ahead and the father was put, as usual, out in the waiting room where he could suck on cigarettes or take highballs from a convenient mixer. He was feeling pretty good. This was the first baby, but there was not a thing to worry about. Polly Ann was in good hands.
Dr. Wolcott came into the waiting room an hour later. He looked like a man who has seen death. Peter Horn, on his third highball, did not move. His hand tightened on the glass and he whispered:
“She’s dead.”
“No,” said Wolcott, quietly. “No, no, she’s fine. It’s the baby.”
“The baby’s dead, then.”
“The baby’s alive, too, but—drink the rest of that drink and come along after me. Something’s happened.”
Yes, indeed, something had happened. The “something” that had happened had brought the entire hospital out into the corridors. People were going and coming from one room to another. As Peter Horn was led through a hallway where attendants in white uniforms were standing around peering into each other’s faces and whispering, he became quite ill.
“Hey, looky looky! The child of Peter Horn! Incredible!”
They entered a small clean room. There was a crowd in the room, looking down at a low table. There was something on the table.
A small blue pyramid.
“Why’ve you brought me here?” said Horn, turning to the doctor.
The small blue pyramid moved. It began to cry.
Peter Horn pushed forward and looked down wildly. He was very white and he was breathing rapidly. “You don’t mean that’s it?”
The doctor named Wolcott nodded.
The blue pyramid had six blue snakelike appendages and three eyes that blinked from the tips of projecting structures.
Horn didn’t move.
“It weighs seven pounds, eight ounces,” someone said.
Horn thought to himself, they’re kidding me. This is some joke. Charlie Ruscoll is behind all this. He’ll pop in a door any moment and cry “April Fool!” and everybody’ll laugh. That’s not my child. Oh, horrible! They’re kidding me.
Horn stood there, and the sweat rolled down his face.
“Get me away from here.” Horn turned and his hands were opening and closing without purpose, his eyes were flickering.
Wolcott held his elbow, talking calmly. “This is your child. Understand that, Mr. Horn.”
“No. No, it’s not.” His mind wouldn’t touch the thing. “It’s a nightmare. Destroy it!”
“You can’t kill a human being.”
“Human?” Horn blinked tears. “That’s not human! That’s a crime against God!”
The doctor went on, quickly. “We’ve examined this—child—and we’ve decided that it is not a mutant, a result of gene destruction or rearrangement. It’s not a freak. Nor is it sick. Please listen to everything I say to you.”
Horn stared at the wall, his eyes wide and sick. He swayed. The doctor talked distantly, with assurance.
“The child was somehow affected by the birth pressure. There was a dimensional distructure caused by the simultaneous short-circuitings and malfunctionings of the new birth and hypnosis machines. Well, anyway,” the doctor ended lamely, “your baby was born into—another dimension.”
Horn did not even nod. He stood there, waiting.
Dr. Wolcott made it emphatic. “Your child is alive, well, and happy. It is lying there, on the table. But because it was born into another dimension it has a shape alien to us. Our eyes, adjusted to a three-dimensional concept, cannot recognize it as a baby. But it is. Underneath that camouflage, the strange pyramidal shape and appendages, it is your child.”
Horn closed his mouth and shut his eyes. “Can I have a drink?”
“Certainly.” A drink was thrust into Horn’s hands.
“Now, let me just sit down, sit down somewhere a moment.” Horn sank wearily into a chair. It was coming clear. Everything shifted slowly into place. It was his child, no matter what. He shuddered. No matter how horrible it looked, it was his first child.
At last he looked up and tried to see the doctor. “What’ll we tell Polly?” His voice was hardly a whisper.
“We’ll work that out this morning, as soon as you feel up to it.”
“What happens after that? Is there any way to—change it back?”
“We’ll try. That is, if you give us permission to try. After all, it’s your child. You can do anything with him you want to do.”
“Him?” Horn laughed ironically, shutting his eyes. “How do you know it’s a him?” He sank down into darkness. His ears roared.
Wolcott was visibly upset. “Why, we—that is—well, we don’t know, for sure.”
Horn drank more of his drink. “What if you can’t change him back?”
“I realize what a shock it is to you, Mr. Horn. If you can’t bear to look upon the child, we’ll be glad to raise him here, at the Institute, for you.”
Horn thought it over. “Thanks. But he still belongs to me and Polly. I’ll give him a home. Raise him like I’d raise any kid. Give him a normal home life. Try to learn to love him. Treat him right.” His lips were numb, he couldn’t think.
“You realize what a job you’re taking on, Mr. Horn? This child can’t be allowed to have normal playmates; why, they’d pester it to death in no time. You know how children are. If you decide to raise the child at home, his life will be strictly regimented, he must never be seen by anyone. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s clear. Doc. Doc, is he all right mentally?”
“Yes. We’ve tested his reactions. He’s a fine healthy child as far as nervous response and such things go.”
“I just wanted to be sure. Now, the only problem is Polly.”
Wolcott frowned. “I confess that one has me stumped. You know it is pretty hard on a woman to hear that her child has been born dead. But this, telling a woman she’s given birth to something not recognizable as human. It’s not as clean as death. There’s too much chance for shock. And yet I must tell her the truth. A doctor gets nowhere by lying to his patient.”
Horn put his glass down. “I don’t want to lose Polly, too. I’d be prepared now, if you destroyed the child, to take it. But I don’t want Polly killed by the shock of this whole thing.”
“I think we may be able to change the child back. That’s the point which makes me hesitate. If I thought the case was hopeless I’d make out a certificate of euthanasia immediately. But it’s at least worth a chance.”
Horn was very tired. He was shivering quietly, deeply. “All right, doctor. It needs food, milk, and love until you can fix it up. It’s had a raw deal so far, no reason for it to go on getting a raw deal. When will we tell Polly?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, when she wakes up.”
Horn got up and walked to the table which was warmed by a soft illumination from overhead. The blue pyramid sat upon the table as Horn held out his hand.
“Hello, Baby,” said Horn.
The blue pyramid looked up at Horn with three bright blue eyes. It shifted a tiny blue tendril, touching Horn’s fingers with it.
Horn shivered.
“Hello, Baby.”
The doctor produced a special feeding bottle.
“This is woman’s milk. Here we go.”
Baby looked upward through clearing mists. Baby saw the shapes moving over him and knew them to be friendly. Baby was newborn, but already alert, strangely alert. Baby was aware.
There were moving objects above and around Baby. Six cubes of a gray-white color, bending down. Six cubes with hexagonal appendages and three eyes to each cube. Then there were two other cubes coming from a distance over a crystalline plateau. One of the cubes was white. It had three eyes, too. There was something about this White Cube that Baby liked. There was an attraction. Some relation. There was an odor to the White Cube that reminded Baby of itself.
Shrill sounds came from the six bending-down gray-white cubes. Sounds of curiosity and wonder. It was like a kind of piccolo music, all playing at once.
Now the two newly arrived cubes, the White Cube and the Gray Cube, were whistling. After a while the White Cube extended one of its hexagonal appendages to touch Baby. Baby responded by putting out one of its tendrils from its pyramidal body. Baby liked the White Cube. Baby liked. Baby was hungry. Baby liked. Maybe the White Cube would give it food…
The Gray Cube produced a pink globe for Baby. Baby was now to be fed. Good. Good. Baby accepted food eagerly.
Food was good. All the gray-white cubes drifted away, leaving only the nice White Cube standing over Baby looking down and whistling over and over. Over and over.
They told Polly the next day. Not everything. Just enough. Just a hint. They told her the baby was not well, in a certain way. They talked slowly, and in ever-tightening circles, in upon Polly. Then Dr. Wolcott gave a long lecture on the birth-mechanisms, how they helped a woman in her labor, and how, this time, they short-circuited. There was another man of scientific means present and he gave her a dry little talk on dimensions, holding up his fingers, so! one, two, three, and four. Still another man talked of energy and matter. Another spoke of underprivileged children.
Polly finally sat up in bed and said, “What’s all the talk for? What’s wrong with my baby that you should all be talking so long?”
Wolcott told her.
“Of course, you can wait a week and see it,” he said. “Or you can sign over guardianship of the child to the Institute.”
“There’s only one thing I want to know,” said Polly.
Dr. Wolcott raised his brows.
“Did I make the child that way?” asked Polly.
“You most certainly did not!”
“The child isn’t a monster, genetically?” asked Polly.
“The child was thrust into another continuum. Otherwise, it is perfectly normal.”
Polly’s tight, lined mouth relaxed. She said, simply, “Then, bring me my baby. I want to see him. Please. Now.”
They brought the “child.”
The Horns left the hospital the next day. Polly walked out on her own two good legs, with Peter Horn following her, looking at her in quiet amazement.
They did not have the baby with them. That would come later. Horn helped his wife into their helicopter and sat beside her. He lifted the ship, whirring, into the warm air.
“You’re a wonder,” he said.
“Am I?” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“You are. You didn’t cry. You didn’t do anything.”
“He’s not so bad, you know,” she said. “Once you get to know him. I can even—hold him in my arms. He’s warm and he cries and he even needs his triangular diapers.” Here she laughed. He noticed a nervous tremor in the laugh, however. “No, I didn’t cry, Pete, because that’s my baby. Or he will be. He isn’t dead, I thank God for that. He’s—I don’t know how to explain—still unborn. I like to think he hasn’t been born yet. We’re waiting for him to show up. I have confidence in Dr. Wolcott. Haven’t you?”
“You’re right. You’re right.” He reached over and held her hand. “You know something? You’re a peach.”
“I can hold on,” she said, sitting there looking ahead as the green country swung under them. “As long as I know something good will happen, I won’t let it hurt or shock me. I’ll wait six months, and then maybe I’ll kill myself.”
“Polly!”
She looked at him as if he’d just come in. “Pete, I’m sorry. But this sort of thing doesn’t happen. Once it’s over and the baby is finally ‘born’ I’ll forget it so quick it’ll never have occurred. But if the doctor can’t help us, then a mind can’t take it, a mind can only tell the body to climb out on a roof and jump.”
“Things’ll be all right,” he said, holding to the guide-wheel. “They have to be.”
She said nothing, but let the cigarette smoke blow out of her mouth in the pounding concussion of the helicopter fan.
Three weeks passed. Every day they flew in to the Institute to visit “Py.” For that was the quiet calm name that Polly Horn gave to the blue pyramid that lay on the warm sleeping-table and blinked up at them. Dr. Wolcott was careful to point out that the habits of the “child” were as normal as any others; so many hours sleep, so many awake, so much attentiveness, so much boredom, so much food, so much elimination. Polly Horn listened, and her face softened and her eyes warmed.
At the end of the third week, Dr. Wolcott said, “Feel up to taking him home now? You live in the country, don’t you? All right, you have an enclosed patio, he can be out there in the sunlight, on occasion. He needs a mother’s love. That’s trite, but nevertheless true. He should be suckled. We have an arrangement where he’s been fed by the new feed-mech; cooing voice, warmth, hands, and all.” Dr. Wolcott’s voice was dry. “But still I feel you are familiar enough with him now to know he’s a pretty healthy child. Are you game, Mrs. Horn?”
“Yes, I’m game.”
“Good. Bring him in every third day for a checkup. Here’s his formula. We’re working on several solutions now, Mrs. Horn. We should have some results for you by the end of the year. I don’t want to say anything definite, but I have reason to believe we’ll pull that boy right out of the fourth dimension, like a rabbit out of a hat.”
The doctor was mildly surprised and pleased when Polly Horn kissed him, then and there.
Pete Horn took the copter home over the smooth rolling greens of Griffith. From time to time he looked at the pyramid lying in Polly’s arms. She was making cooing noises at it, it was replying in approximately the same way.
“I wonder,” said Polly.
“What?”
“How do we look to it?” asked his wife.
“I asked Wolcott about that. He said we probably look funny to him, also. He’s in one dimension, we’re in another.”
“You mean we don’t look like men and women to him?”
“If we could see ourselves, no. But remember, the baby knows nothing of men or women. To the baby whatever shape we’re in, we are natural. It’s accustomed to seeing us shaped like cubes or squares or pyramids, as it sees us from its separate dimension. The baby’s had no other experience, no other norm with which to compare what it sees. We are its norm. On the other hand, the baby seems weird to us because we compare it to our accustomed shapes and sizes.”
“Yes, I see. I see.”
Baby was conscious of movement. One White Cube held him in warm appendages. Another White Cube sat further over, within an oblong of purple. The oblong moved in the air over a vast bright plain of pyramids. hexagons, oblongs, pillars, bubbles, and multi-colored cubes.
One White Cube made a whistling noise. The other White Cube replied with a whistling. The White Cube that held him shifted about. Baby watched the two White Cubes, and watched the fleeing world outside the traveling bubble.
Baby felt—sleepy. Baby closed his eyes, settled his pyramidal youngness upon the lap of the White Cube, and made faint little noises…
“He’s asleep,” said Polly Horn.
Summer came, Peter Horn himself was busy with his export-import business. But he made certain he was home every night. Polly was all right during the day, but, at night, when she had to be alone with the child, she got to smoking too much, and one night he found her passed out on the davenport, an empty sherry bottle on the table beside her. From then on, he took care of the child himself nights. When it cried it made a weird whistling noise, like some jungle animal lost and wailing. It wasn’t the sound of a child.
Peter Horn had the nursery soundproofed.
“So your wife won’t hear your baby crying?” asked the workman.
“Yes,” said Pete Horn. “So she won’t hear.”
They had few visitors. They were afraid that someone might stumble on Py, dear sweet pyramid little Py.
“What’s that noise?” asked a visitor one evening, over his cocktail. “Sounds like some sort of bird. You didn’t tell me you had an aviary, Peter?”
“Oh, yes,” said Horn, closing the nursery door. “Have another drink. Let’s drink, everyone.”
It was like having a dog or a cat in the house. At least that’s how Polly looked upon it. Peter Horn watched her and observed exactly how she talked and petted the small Py. It was Py this and Py that, but somehow with some reserve, and sometimes she would look around the room and touch herself, and her hands would clench, and she would look lost and afraid, as if she were waiting for someone to arrive.
In September, Polly reported to her husband: “He can say Father. Yes he can. Come on. Py. Say, Father!”
She held the blue warm pyramid up.
“Wheelly,” whistled the little warm blue pyramid.
“Again,” repeated Polly.
“Wheelly!” whistled the pyramid.
“For God’s sake, stop!” said Pete Horn. He took the child from her and put it in the nursery where it whistled over and over that name, that name, that name. Horn came out and poured himself a stiff drink. Polly was laughing quietly.
“Isn’t that terrific?” she said. “Even his voice is in the fourth dimension. Won’t it be nice when he learns to talk later? We’ll give him Hamlet’s soliloquy to memorize and he’ll say it but it’ll come out like something from James Joyce! Aren’t we lucky? Give me a drink.”
“You’ve had enough,” he said.
“Thanks, I’ll help myself,” she said and did.
October, and then November. Py was learning to talk now. He whistled and squealed and made a bell-like tone when he was hungry. Dr. Wolcott visited. “When his color is a constant bright blue,” said the doctor, “that means he’s healthy. When the color fades, dull—the child is feeling poorly. Remember that.”
“Oh, yes, I will, I will,” said Polly. “Robin’s-egg blue for health, dull cobalt for illness.”
“Young lady,” said Wolcott. “You’d better take a couple of these pills and come see me tomorrow for a little chat. I don’t like the way you’re talking. Stick out your tongue. Ah-hmm. You been drinking? Look at the stains on your fingers. Cut the cigarettes in half. See you tomorrow.”
“You don’t give me much to go on,” said Polly. “It’s been almost a year now.”
“My dear Mrs. Horn, I don’t want to excite you continually. When we have our mechs ready we’ll let you know. We’re working every day. There’ll be an experiment soon. Take those pills now and shut that nice mouth.” He chucked Py under the “chin.” “Good healthy baby, by God! Twenty pounds if he’s an ounce!”
Baby was conscious of the goings and comings of the two nice White Cubes who were with him during all of his waking hours. There was another cube, a gray one, who visited on certain days. But mostly it was the two White Cubes who cared for and loved him. He looked up at the one warm, rounder, softer White Cube and made the low warbling soft sound of contentment. The White Cube fed him. He was content. He grew. All was familiar and good.
The New Year, the year 1989, arrived.
Rocket ships flashed on the sky, and helicopters whirred and flourished the warm California winds.
Peter Horn carted home large plates of specially poured blue and gray polarized glass, secretly. Through these, he peered at his “child.” Nothing. The pyramid remained a pyramid, no matter if he viewed it through X-ray or yellow cellophane. The barrier was unbreakable. Horn returned quietly to his drinking.
The big thing happened early in February. Horn, arriving home in his helicopter, was appalled to see a crowd of neighbors gathered on the lawn of his home. Some of them were sitting, others were standing, still others were moving away, with frightened expressions on their faces.
Polly was walking the “child” in the yard.
Polly was quite drunk. She held the small blue pyramid by the hand and walked him up and down. She did not see the helicopter land, nor did she pay much attention as Horn came running up.
One of the neighbors turned. “Oh, Mr. Horn, it’s the cutest thing. Where’d you find it?”
One of the others cried, “Hey, you’re quite the traveler, Horn. Pick it up in South America?”
Polly held the pyramid up. “Say Father!” she cried, trying to focus on her husband.
“Wheel!” cried the pyramid.
“Polly!” Peter Horn said.
“He’s friendly as a dog or a cat,” said Polly moving the child with her. “Oh, no, he’s not dangerous. He’s friendly as a baby. My husband brought him from Afghanistan.”
The neighbors began to move off.
“Come back!” Polly waved at them. “Don’t you want to see my baby? Isn’t he simply beautiful!”
He slapped her face.
“My baby,” she said, brokenly.
He slapped her again and again until she quit saying it and collapsed. He picked her up and took her into the house. Then he came out and took Py in and then he sat down and phoned the Institute.
“Dr. Wolcott, this is Horn. You’d better have your stuff ready. It’s tonight or not at all.”
There was a hesitation. Finally Wolcott sighed. “All right. Bring your wife and the child. We’ll try to have things in shape.”
They hung up.
Horn sat there studying the pyramid.
“The neighbors thought he was grand,” said his wife, lying on the couch, her eyes shut, her lips trembling…
The Institute hall smelled clean, neat, sterile. Dr. Wolcott walked along it, followed by Peter Horn and his wife Polly, who was holding Py in her arms. They turned in at a doorway and stood in a large room. In the center of the room were two tables with large black hoods suspended over them.
Behind the tables were a number of machines with dials and levers on them. There was the faintest perceptible hum in the room. Pete Horn looked at Polly for a moment.
Wolcott gave her a glass of liquid. “Drink this.” She drank it. “Now. Sit down.” They both sat. The doctor put his hands together and looked at them for a moment.
“I want to tell you what I’ve been doing in the last few months,” he said. “I’ve tried to bring the baby out of whatever hell dimension, fourth, fifth, or sixth, that it is in. Each time you left the baby for a checkup we worked on the problem. Now, we have a solution, but it has nothing to do with bringing the baby out of the dimension in which it exists.”
Polly sank back. Horn simply watched the doctor carefully for anything he might say. Wolcott leaned forward.
“I can’t bring Py out, but I can put you people in. That’s it.” He spread his hands.
Horn looked at the machine in the corner. “You mean you can send us into Py’s dimension?”
“If you want to go badly enough.”
Polly said nothing. She held Py quietly and looked at him.
Dr. Wolcott explained. “We know what series of malfunctions, mechanical and electrical, forced Py into his present state. We can reproduce those accidents and stresses. But bringing him back is something else. It might take a million trials and failures before we got the combination. The combination that jammed him into another space was an accident, but luckily we saw, observed, and recorded it. There are no records for bringing one back. We have to work in the dark. Therefore, it will be easier to put you in the fourth dimension than to bring Py into ours.”
Polly asked, simply and earnestly, “Will I see my baby as he really is, if I go into his dimension?”
Wolcott nodded.
Polly said, “Then, I want to go.”
“Hold on,” said Peter Horn. “We’ve only been in this office five minutes and already you’re promising away the rest of your life.”
“I’ll be with my real baby. I won’t care.”
“Dr. Wolcott, what will it be like, in that dimension on the other side?”
“There will be no change that you will notice. You will both seem the same size and shape to one another. The pyramid will become a baby, however. You will have added an extra sense, you will be able to interpret what you see differently.”
“But won’t we turn into oblongs or pyramids ourselves? And won’t you, doctor, look like some geometrical form instead of a human?”
“Does a blind man who sees for the first time give up his ability to hear or taste?”
“No.”
“All right, then. Stop thinking in terms of subtraction. Think in terms of addition. You’re gaining something. You lose nothing. You know what a human looks like, which is an advantage Py doesn’t have, looking out from his dimension. When you arrive ‘over there’ you can see Dr. Wolcott as both things, a geometrical abstract or a human, as you choose. It will probably make quite a philosopher out of you. There’s one other thing, however.”
“And that?”
“To everyone else in the world you, your wife and the child will look like abstract forms. The baby a triangle. Your wife an oblong perhaps. Yourself a hexagonal solid. The world will be shocked, not you.”
“We’ll be freaks.”
“You’ll be freaks. But you won’t know it. You’ll have to lead a secluded life.”
“Until you find a way to bring all three of us out together.”
“That’s right. It may be ten years, twenty. I won’t recommend it to you, you may both go quite mad as a result of feeling apart, different. If there’s a grain of paranoia in you, it’ll come out. It’s up to you, naturally.”
Peter Horn looked at his wife, she looked back gravely.
“We’ll go,” said Peter Horn.
“Into Py’s dimension?” said Wolcott.
“Into Py’s dimension.”
They stood up from their chairs. “We’ll lose no other sense, you’re certain, doctor? Will you be able to understand us when we talk to you? Py’s talk is incomprehensible.”
“Py talks that way because that’s what he thinks we sound like when our talk comes through the dimensions to him. He imitates the sound. When you are over there and talk to me, you’ll be talking perfect English, because you know how. Dimensions have to do with senses and time and knowledge.”
“And what about Py? When we come into his strata of existence. Will he see us as humans, immediately, and won’t that be a shock to him? Won’t it be dangerous?”
“He’s awfully young. Things haven’t got too set for him. There’ll be a slight shock, but your odors will be the same, and your voices will have the same timber and pitch and you’ll be just as warm and loving, which is most important of all. You’ll get on with him well.”
Horn scratched his head slowly. “This seems such a long way around to where we want to go.” He sighed. “I wish we could have another kid and forget all about this one.”
“This baby is the one that counts. I dare say Polly here wouldn’t want any other, would you, Polly?”
“This baby, this baby,” said Polly.
Wolcott gave Peter Horn a meaningful look. Horn interpreted it correctly. This baby or no more Polly ever again. This baby or Polly would be in a quiet room somewhere staring into space for the rest of her life.
They moved toward the machine together. “I guess I can stand it, if she can,” said Horn, taking her hand. “I’ve worked hard for a good many years now, it might be fun retiring and being an abstract for a change.”
“I envy you the journey, to be honest with you,” said Wolcott, making adjustments on the large dark machine. “I don’t mind telling you that as a result of your being ‘over there’ you may very well write a volume of philosophy that will set Dewey, Bergson, Hegel, or any of the others on their ears. I might ‘come over’ to visit you one day.”
“You’ll be welcome. What do we need for the trip?”
“Nothing. Just lie on these tables and be still.”
A humming filled the room. A sound of power and energy and warmth.
They lay on the tables, holding hands, Polly and Peter Horn. A double black hood came down over them. They were both in darkness. From somewhere far off in the hospital, a voice-clock sang, “Tick tock, seven o’clock. Tick tock, seven o’clock…” fading away in a little soft gong.
The low humming grew louder. The machine glittered with hidden, shifting, compressed power.
“Is there any danger?” cried Peter Horn.
“None!”
The power screamed. The very atoms of the room divided against each other, into alien and enemy camps. The two sides fought for supremacy. Horn gaped his mouth to shout. His insides became pyramidal, oblong with terrific electric seizures. He felt a pulling, sucking, demanding power claw at his body. The power yearned and nuzzled and pressed through the room. The dimensions of the black hood over his torso were stretched, pulled into wild planes of incomprehension. Sweat, pouring down his face, was not sweat, but a pure dimensional essence! His limbs were wrenched, flung, jabbed, suddenly caught. He began to melt like running wax.
A clicking sliding noise.
Horn thought swiftly, but calmly. How will it be in the future with Polly and me and Py at home and people coming over for a cocktail party? How will it be?
Suddenly he knew how it would be and the thought of it filled him with a great awe and a sense of credulous faith and time. They would live in the same white house on the same quiet, green hill, with a high fence around it to keep out the merely curious. And Dr. Wolcott would come to visit, park his beetle in the yard below, come up the steps and at the door would be a tall slim White Rectangle to meet him with a dry martini in its snakelike hand.
And in an easy chair across the room would sit a Salt White Oblong with a copy of Nietzsche open, reading, smoking a pipe. And on the floor would be Py, running about. And there would be talk and more friends would come in and the White Oblong and the White Rectangle would laugh and joke and offer little finger sandwiches and more drinks and it would be a good evening of talk and laughter.
That’s how it would be.
Click.
The humming noise stopped.
The hood lifted from Horn.
It was all over.
They were in another dimension.
He heard Polly cry out. There was much light. Then he slipped from the table, stood blinking. Polly was running. She stooped and picked up something from the floor.
It was Peter Horn’s son. A living, pink-faced, blue-eyed boy, lying in her arms, gasping and blinking and crying.
The pyramidal shape was gone. Polly was crying with happiness.
Peter Horn walked across the room, trembling, trying to smile himself, to hold on to Polly and the child, both at the same time, and weep with them.
“Well!” said Wolcott, standing back. He did not move for a long while. He only watched the White Oblong and the slim White Rectangle holding the Blue Pyramid on the opposite side of the room. An assistant came in the door.
“Shhh,” said Wolcott, hand to his lips. “They’ll want to be alone awhile. Come along.” He took the assistant by the arm and tiptoed across the room. The White Rectangle and the White Oblong didn’t even look up when the door closed.

The Women
It was as if a light came on in a green room.
The ocean burned. A white phosphorescence stirred like a breath of steam through the autumn morning sea, rising. Bubbles rose from the throat of some hidden sea ravine.
Like lightning in the reversed green sky of the sea it was aware. It was old and beautiful. Out of the deeps it came, indolently. A shell, a wisp, a bubble, a weed, a glitter, a whisper, a gill. Suspended in its depths were brainlike trees of frosted coral, eyelike pips of yellow kelp, hairlike fluids of weed. Growing with the tides, growing with the ages, collecting and hoarding and saving unto itself identities and ancient dusts, octopus-inks and all the trivia of the sea.
Until now—it was aware.
It was a shining green intelligence, breathing in the autumn sea. Eyeless but seeing, earless but hearing, bodyless but feeling. It was of the sea. And being of the sea it was—feminine.
It in no way resembled man or woman. But it had a woman’s ways, the silken, sly, and hidden ways. It moved with a woman’s grace. It was all the evil things of vain women.
Dark waters flowed through and by and mingled with strange memory on its way to the gulf streams. In the water were carnival caps, horns, serpentine, confetti. They passed through this blossoming mass of long green hair like wind through an ancient tree. Orange peels, napkins, papers, eggshells, and burnt kindling from night fires on the beaches; all the flotsam of the gaunt high people who stalked on the lone sands of the continental islands, people from brick cities, people who shrieked in metal demons down concrete highways, gone.
It rose softly, shimmering, foaming, into cool morning airs.
The green hair rose softly, shimmering, foaming, into cool morning airs. It lay in the swell after the long time of forming through darkness.
It perceived the shore.
The man was there.
He was a sun-darkened man with strong legs and a cow body.
Each day he should have come down to the water, to bathe, to swim. But he had never moved. There was a woman on the sand with him, a woman in a black bathing suit who lay next to him talking quietly, laughing. Sometimes they held hands, sometimes they listened to a little sounding machine that they dialed and out of which music came.
The phosphorescence hung quietly in the waves. It was the end of the season. September. Things were shutting down.
Any day now he might go away and never return.
Today he must come in the water.
They lay on the sand with the heat in them. The radio played softly and the woman in the black bathing suit stirred fitfully, eyes closed.
The man did not lift his head from where he cushioned it on his muscled left arm. He drank the sun with his face, his open mouth, his nostrils. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“A bad dream,” said the woman in the black suit.
“Dreams in the daytime?”
“Don’t you ever dream in the afternoon?”
“I never dream. I’ve never had a dream in my life.”
She lay there, fingers twitching. “God, I had a horrible dream.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know,” she said, as if she really didn’t. It was so bad she had forgotten. Now, eyes shut, she tried to remember.
“It was about me,” he said, lazily, stretching.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, smiling to himself. “I was off with another woman, that’s what.”
“No.”
“I insist,” he said. “There I was, off with another woman, and you discovered us, and somehow, in all the mix-up, I got shot or something.”
She winced involuntarily. “Don’t talk that way.”
“Let’s see now,” he said. “What sort of woman was I with? Gentlemen prefer blondes, don’t they?”
“Please don’t joke,” she said. “I don’t feel well.”
He opened his eyes. “Did it affect you that much?”
She nodded. “Whenever I dream in the daytime this way, it depresses me something terrible.”
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand. “Anything I can get you?”
“No.”
“Ice-cream cone? Eskimo pie? A Coke?”
“You’re a dear, but no. I’ll be all right. It’s just that, the last four days haven’t been right. This isn’t like it used to be early in the summer. Something’s happened.”
“Not between us,” he said.
“Oh, no, of course not,” she said quickly. “But don’t you feel that sometimes places change? Even a thing like a pier changes, and the merry-go-rounds, and all that. Even the hot dogs taste different this week.”
“How do you mean?”
“They taste old. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve lost my appetite, and I wish this vacation were over. Really, what I want to do most of all is go home.”
“Tomorrow’s our last day. You know how much this extra week means to me.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “If only this place didn’t feel so funny and changed. I don’t know. But all of a sudden I just had a feeling I wanted to get up and run.”
“Because of your dream? Me and my blonde and me dead all of a sudden.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t talk about dying that way!”
She lay there very close to him. “If I only knew what it was.”
“There.” He stroked her. “I’ll protect you.”
“It’s not me, it’s you,” her breath whispered in his ear. “I had the feeling that you were tired of me and went away.”
“I wouldn’t do that; I love you.”
“I’m silly.” She forced a laugh. “God, what a silly thing I am.”
They lay quietly, the sun and sky over them like a lid.
“You know,” he said, thoughtfully, “I get a little of that feeling you’re talking about. This place has changed. There is something different.”
“I’m glad you feel it, too.”
He shook his head, drowsily, smiling softly, shutting his eyes, drinking the sun. “Both crazy. Both crazy.” Murmuring. “Both.”
The sea came in on the shore three times, softly.
The afternoon came on. The sun struck the skies a grazing blow. The yachts bobbed hot and shining white in the harbor swells. The smells of fried meat and burnt onion filled the wind. The sand whispered and stirred like an image in a vast, melting mirror.
The radio at their elbow murmured discreetly. They lay like dark arrows on the white sand. They did not move. Only their eyelids flickered with awareness, only their ears were alert. Now and again their tongues might slide along their baking lips. Sly prickles of moisture appeared on their brows to be burned away by the sun.
He lifted his head, blindly, listening to the heat.
The radio sighed.
He put his head down for a minute.
She felt him lift himself again. She opened one eye and he rested on one elbow looking around, at the pier, at the sky, at the water, at the sand.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, lying down again.
“Something,” she said.
“I thought I heard something.”
“The radio.”
“No, not the radio. Something else.”
“Somebody else’s radio.”
He didn’t answer. She felt his arm tense and relax, tense and relax. “Dammit,” he said. “There it is, again.”
They both lay listening.
“I don’t hear anything—”
“Shh!” he cried. “For God’s sake—”
The waves broke on the shore, silent mirrors, heaps of melting, whispering glass.
“Somebody singing.”
“What?”
“I’d swear it was someone singing.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, listen.”
They did that for a while.
“I don’t hear a thing,” she said, turning very cold.
He was on his feet. There was nothing in the sky, nothing on the pier, nothing on the sand, nothing in the hot-dog stands. There was a staring silence, the wind blowing over his ears, the wind preening along the light, blowing hairs of his arms and legs.
He took a step toward the sea.
“Don’t!” she said.
He looked down at her, oddly, as if she were not there. He was still listening.
She turned the portable radio up full, loud. It exploded words and rhythm and melody:
“—I found a million-dollar baby—”
He made a wry face, raising his open palm violently. “Turn it off.”
“No, I like it!” She turned it louder. She snapped her fingers, rocking her body vaguely, trying to smile.
It was two o’clock.
The sun steamed the waters. The ancient pier expanded with a loud groan in the heat. The birds were held in the hot sky, unable to move. The sun struck through the green liquors that poured about the pier; struck, caught and burnished an idle whiteness that drifted in the offshore ripples.
The white foam, the frosted coral brain, the kelp pip, the tide dust lay in the water, spreading.
The dark man still lay on the sand, the woman in the black suit beside him.
Music drifted up like mist from the water. It was a whispering music of deep tides and passed years, of salt and travel, of accepted and familiar strangenesses. The music sounded not unlike water on the shore, rain falling, the turn of soft limbs in the depths. It was a singing of a time-lost voice in a caverned seashell. The hissing and sighing of tides in deserted holds of treasure ships. The sound the wind makes in an empty skull thrown out on the baked sand.
But the radio on the blanket on the beach played louder.
The phosphorescence, light as a woman, sank down, tired, from sight. Only a few more hours. They might leave at any time. If only he would come in, for an instant, just an instant. The mists stirred silently, aware of his face and his body in the water, deep under. Aware of him caught, held, as they sank ten fathoms down, on a sluice that bore them twisting and turning in frantic gesticulations, to the depths of a hidden gulf in the sea.
The heat of his body, the water taking fire from his warmth, and the frosted coral brain, the jeweled dusts, the salted mists feeding on his hot breath from his open lips.
The waves moved the soft and changing thoughts into the shallows which were tepid as bath waters from the two o’clock sun.
He mustn’t go away. If he goes now, he’ll not return.
Now. The cold coral brain drifted, drifted. Now. Calling across the hot spaces of windless air in the early afternoon. Come down to the water. Now, said the music. Now.
The woman in the black bathing suit twisted the radio dial.
“Attention!” cried the radio. “Now, today, you can buy a new car at—”
“Jesus!” The man reached over and tuned the scream down. “Must you have it so loud!”
“I like it loud,” said the woman in the black bathing suit, looking over her shoulder at the sea.
It was three o’clock. The sky was all sun.
Sweating, he stood up. “I’m going in,” he said.
“Get me a hot dog first?” she said.
“Can’t you wait until I come out?”
“Please.” She pouted. “Now.”
“Everything on it?”
“Yes, and bring three of them.”
“Three? God, what an appetite!” He ran off to the small café.
She waited until he was gone. Then she turned the radio off. She lay listening a long time. She heard nothing. She looked at the water until the glints and shatters of sun stabbed through her eyes like needles.
The sea had quieted. There was only a faint, far and fine net of ripples giving off sunlight in infinite repetition. She squinted again and again at the water, scowling.
He bounded back. “Damn, but the sand’s hot; burns my feet off!” He flung himself on the blanket. “Eat ’em up!”
She took the three hot dogs and fed quietly on one of them. When she finished it, she handed him the remaining two. “Here, you finish them. My eyes are bigger than my stomach.”
He swallowed the hot dogs in silence. “Next time,” he said, finishing, “don’t order more than you can use. Helluva waste.”
“Here,” she said, unscrewing a thermos, “you must be thirsty. Finish our lemonade.”
“Thanks.” He drank. Then he slapped his hands together and said, “Well, I’ll go jump in the water now.” He looked anxiously at the bright sea.
“Just one more thing,” she said, just remembering it. “Will you buy me a bottle of suntan oil? I’m all out.”
“Haven’t you some in your purse?”
“I used it all.”
“I wish you’d told me when I was up there buying the hot dogs,” he said. “But, okay.” He ran back, loping steadily.
When he was gone, she took the suntan bottle from her purse, half full, unscrewed the cap, and poured the liquid into the sand, covering it over surreptitiously, looking out at the sea, and smiling. She rose then and went down to the edge of the sea and looked out, searching the innumerable small and insignificant waves.
You can’t have him, she thought. Whoever or whatever you are, he’s mine, and you can’t have him. I don’t know what’s going on; I don’t know anything, really. All I know is we’re going on a train tonight at seven. And we won’t be here tomorrow. So you can just stay here and wait, ocean, sea, or whatever it is that’s wrong here today.
Do your damnedest; you’re no match for me, she thought. She picked up a stone and threw it at the sea.
“There!” she cried. “You.”
He was standing beside her.
“Oh?” She jumped back.
“Hey, what gives? You standing here, muttering?”
“Was I?” She was surprised at herself. “Where’s the suntan oil? Will you put it on my back?”
He poured a yellow twine of oil and massaged it onto her golden back. She looked out at the water from time to time, eyes sly, nodding at the water as if to say, “Look! You see? Ah-ha!” She purred like a kitten.
“There.” He gave her the bottle.
He was half into the water before she yelled.
“Where are you going! Come here!”
He turned as if she were someone he didn’t know. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong?”
“Why, you just finished your hot dogs and lemonade—you can’t go in the water now and get cramps!”
He scoffed. “Old wives’ tales.”
“Just the same, you come back up on the sand and wait an hour before you go in, do you hear? I won’t have you getting a cramp and drowning.”
“Ah,” he said, disgusted.
“Come along.” She turned, and he followed, looking back at the sea.
Three o’clock. Four.
The change came at four ten. Lying on the sand, the woman in the black suit saw it coming and relaxed. The clouds had been forming since three. Now, with a sudden rush, the fog came in from off the bay. Where it had been warm, now it was cold. A wind blew up out of nothing. Darker clouds moved in.
“It’s going to rain,” she said.
“You sound absolutely pleased,” he observed, sitting with arms folded. “Maybe our last day, and you sound pleased because it’s clouding up.”
“The weatherman,” she confided, “said there’d be thunder showers all tonight and tomorrow. It might be a good idea to leave tonight.”
“We’ll stay, just in case it clears. I want to get one more day of swimming in, anyway,” he said. “I haven’t been in the water yet today.”
“We’ve had so much fun talking and eating, time passes.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking at his hands.
The fog flailed across the sand in soft strips.
“There,” she said. “That was a raindrop on my nose!” She laughed ridiculously at it. Her eyes were bright and young again. She was almost triumphant. “Good old rain.”
“Why are you so pleased? You’re an odd duck.”
“Come on, rain!” she said. “Well, help me with these blankets. We’d better run!”
He picked up the blankets slowly, preoccupied. “Not even one last swim, dammit. I’ve a mind to take just one dive.” He smiled at her. “Only a minute!”
“No.” Her face paled. “You’ll catch cold, and I’ll have to nurse you!”
“Okay, okay.” He turned away from the sea. Gentle rain began to fall.
Marching ahead of him, she headed for the hotel. She was singing softly to herself.
“Hold on!” he said.
She halted. She did not turn. She only listened to his voice far away.
“There’s someone out in the water!” he cried. “Drowning!”
She couldn’t move. She heard his feet running.
“Wait here!” he shouted. “I’ll be right back! There’s someone there! A woman, I think!”
“Let the lifeguards get her!”
“Aren’t any! Off duty; late!” He ran down to the shore, the sea, the waves.
“Come back!” she screamed. “There’s no one out there! Don’t, oh, don’t!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right back!” he called. “She’s drowning out there, see?”
The fog came in, the rain pattered down, a white flashing light raised in the waves. He ran, and the woman in the black suit ran after him, scattering beach implements behind her, crying, tears rushing from her eyes. “Don’t!” She put out her hands.
He leaped into an onrushing dark wave.
The woman in the black bathing suit waited in the rain.
At six o’clock the sun set somewhere behind black clouds. The rain rattled softly on the water, a distant drum snare.
Under the sea, a move of illuminant white.
The soft shape, the foam, the weed, the long strands of strange green hair lay in the shallows. Among the stirring glitter, deep under, was the man.
Fragile. The foam bubbled and broke. The frosted coral brain rang against a pebble with thought, as quickly lost as found. Men. Fragile. Like dolls, they break. Nothing, nothing to them. A minute under water and they’re sick and pay no attention and they vomit out and kick and then, suddenly, just lie there, doing nothing. Doing nothing at all. Strange. Disappointing, after all the days of waiting.
What to do with him now? His head lolls, his mouth opens, his eyelids loosen, his eyes stare, his skin pales. Silly man, wake up! Wake up!
The water surged about him.
The man hung limply, loosely, mouth agape.
The phosphorescence, the green hair weed withdrew.
He was released. A wave carried him back to the silent shore. Back to his wife, who was waiting for him there in the cold rain.
The rain poured over the black waters.
Distantly, under the leaden skies, from the twilight shore, a woman screamed.
Ah—the ancient dusts stirred sluggishly in the water—isn’t that like a woman? Now, she doesn’t want him, either!
At seven o’clock the rain fell thick. It was night and very cold and the hotels all along the sea had to turn on the heat.

The Inspired Chicken Motel
It was in the Depression, deep down in the empty soul of the Depression in 1932, when we were heading west by 1928 Buick, that my mother, father, my brother Skip, and I came upon what we ever after called the Inspired Chicken Motel.
It was, my father said, a motel straight out of Revelations. And the one strange chicken at that motel could no more help making said Revelations, write on eggs, than a holy roller can help going wild with utterances of God, Time, and Eternity writhing along his limbs, seeking passage out the mouth.
Some creatures are given to talents inclined one way, some another. But chickens are the greatest dumb brute mystery of them all. Especially hens who think or intuit messages calcium-scrawled forth in a nice neat hand upon the shells wherein their offspring twitch asleep.
Little did we know that long autumn of 1932, as we blew tires and flung fan bells like lost garters down Highway 66, that somewhere ahead that motel, and that most peculiar chicken, were waiting.
Along the way, our family was a wonderful nest of amiable contempt. Holding the maps, my brother and I knew we were a helluva lot smarter than Dad, Dad knew he was smarter than Mom, and Mom knew she could brain the whole bunch, any time.
That makes for perfection.
I mean, any family that has a proper disrespect, each for the other, can stay together. As long as there is something to fight about, people will come to meals. Lose that and the family disintegrates.
So we leaped out of bed each day hardly able to wait to hear what dumb thing someone might say over the hard-fried bacon and the under-fried scrambleds. The toast was too dark or too light. There was jam for only one person. Or it was a flavor that two out of four hated. Hand us a set of bells and we could ring all the wrong changes. If Dad claimed he was still growing, Skip and I ran the tape measure out to prove he’d shrunk during the night. That’s humanity. That’s nature. That’s family.
But like I said, there we were grousing down Illinois, quarreling through the leaf change in the Ozarks autumn where we stopped sniping all of ten minutes to see the fiery colors. Then, pot-shotting and sniveling across Kansas and Oklahoma we plowed into a fine deep-red muck and slid off the road on a detour where each of us could bless himself and blame others for the excavations, the badly painted signs, and the lack of brakeage in our old Buick. Out of the ditch, we unloaded ourselves into a great Buck-a-Night Bungalow Court in a murderers’ ambush behind a woods and on the rim of a deep rock-quarry where our bodies might be found years later at the bottom of a lost and sourceless lake, and spent the night counting the rain that leaked in through the shingle-sieve roof and fighting over who had the most covers on the wrong side of the bed.
The next day was even better. We steamed out of the rain into 100-degree heat that took the sap and spunk out of us, save for a few ricochet slaps Dad threw at Skip but landed on me. By noon we were sweated fresh out of contempt, and were settling into a rather refined if exhausted period of familiar insult, when we drove up by this chicken farm outside Amarillo, Texas.
We sat up, instantly.
Why?
Because we found that chickens are kicked the same as families kick each other, to get them out of the way.
We saw an old man boot a rooster and smile as he came toward the auto gate. We all beamed. He leaned in to say he rented rooms for fifty cents a night, the price being low because the smell was high.
The starch being out of Dad, and him sunk in a despond of good will, and this looking like another dandy place to raise grouse, he turned in his chauffeur’s cap and shelled out fifty cents in nickels and pennies.
Our great expectations were not punctured. The flimsy room we moved into was a beaut. Not only did all the springs give injections wherever you put flesh down, but the entire bungalow suffered from an oft-rehearsed palsy. Its foundations were still in shock from the thousand mean invaders who had cried “Timber!” and fallen upon the impaling beds.
By its smell, some wild parties had died here. There was an odor of false sincerity and lust masquerading as love. A wind blew up between the floorboards redolent of chickens under the bungalow who spent nights running crazy from diarrhea induced by pecking the bathtub liquor that seeped down through the fake Oriental linoleum.
Anyway, once we had hunched in out of the sun and slunk through a cold pork-and-beans-on-bread lunch, with white oleomargarine greasing it down the ways, my brother and I found a desert creek nearby and heaved rocks at each other to cool off. That night we went into town and found a greasy spoon and read the flyspecks and fought off the crickets that came into the café to skinnydip in the soup. We saw a ten-cent James Cagney gangster movie and came out heading back to the chicken ranch delighted with all the mayhem, the Great Depression gone and forgotten.
At eleven that hot night everyone in Texas was awake because of the heat. The landlady, a frail woman whose picture I had seen in every newsphoto of Dust Bowl country, eroded down to the bones but with a fragile sort of candlelight hollowed in her eyes, came to sit and chat with us about the eighteen million unemployed and what might happen next and where we were going and what would next year bring.
Which was the first cool respite of the day. A cold wind blew out of tomorrow. We grew restive. I looked at my brother, he looked at Mom, Mom looked at Dad, and we were a family, no matter what, and we were together tonight, going somewhere.
“Well…” Dad took out a road map and unfolded it and showed the lady where he had marked in red ink as if it was a chart of our four lives’ territory, just how we would live in the days ahead, just how survive, just how make do, sleep just so, eat how much, and sleep with no dreams guaranteed. “Tomorrow”—he touched the roads with one nicotine-stained finger—“we’ll be in Tombstone. Day after that Tucson. Stay in Tucson looking for work. We got enough cash for two weeks there if we cut it close. No jobs there, we move on to San Diego. Got a cousin there in Customs Inspection on the docks. We figure one week in San Diego, three weeks in Los Angeles. Then we’ve just enough money to head home to Illinois, where we can put in on relief or, who knows, maybe get our job back at the Power and Light Company that laid me off six months ago.”
“I see,” said the landlady.
And she did see. For all eighteen million people had come along this road and stopped here going somewhere anywhere nowhere and then going back to the nowhere somewhere anywhere they had got lost from in the first place and, not needed, gone wandering away.
“What kind of job are you looking for?” asked the landlady.
And it was a joke. She knew it as soon as she said it. Dad thought about it and laughed. Mother laughed. My brother and I laughed. We all laughed together.
For of course no one asked what kind of job, there were just jobs to be found, jobs without names, jobs to buy gas and feed faces and maybe, on occasion, buy ice-cream cones. Movies? They were something to be seen once a month, perhaps. Beyond that, my brother and I snuck in around back theaters or in side doors or down through basements up through orchestra pits or up fire escapes and down into balconies. Nothing could keep us from Saturday matinees except Adolph Menjou.
We all stopped laughing. Sensing that a proper time had come for a particular act, the landlady excused herself, went out, and in a few minutes returned. She brought with her two small gray cardboard boxes. The way she carried them at first it almost seemed she was bearing the family heirlooms or the ashes of a beloved uncle. She sat and held the two small boxes on her aproned lap for a long moment, shielding them quietly. She waited with the inherent sense of drama most people learn when small quick events must be slowed and made to seem large.
And strangely, we were moved by the hush of the woman herself, by the lostness of her face. For it was a face in which a whole lifetime of lostness showed. It was a face in which children, never born, gave cry. Or it was a face in which children, born, had passed to be buried not in the earth but in her flesh. Or it was a face in which children, born, raised, had gone off over the world never to write. It was a face in which her life and the life of her husband and the ranch they lived on struggled to survive and somehow managed. God’s breath threatened to blow out her wits, but somehow, with awe at her own survival, her soul stayed lit.
Any face like that, with so much loss in it, when it finds something to hold and look at, how can you help but pay attention?
For now our landlady was holding out the boxes and opening the small lid of the first.
And inside the first box…
“Why,” said Skip, “it’s just an egg…”
“Look close,” she said.
And we all looked close at the fresh white egg lying on a small bed of aspirin-bottle cotton.
“Hey,” said Skip.
“Oh, yeah,” I whispered. “Hey.”
For there in the center of the egg, as if cracked, bumped and formed by mysterious nature, was the skull and horns of a longhorn steer.
It was as fine and beautiful as if a jewelsmith had worked the egg some magic way to raise the calcium in obedient ridges to shape that skull and those prodigious horns. It was, therefore, an egg any boy would have proudly worn on a string about his neck or carried to school for friends to gasp over and appraise.
“This egg,” said our landlady, “was laid, with this design on it, exactly three days ago.”
Our hearts beat once or twice. We opened our mouths to speak. “It—”
She shut the box. Which shut our mouths. She took a deep breath, half closed her eyes, then opened the lid of the second box.
Skip cried, “I bet I know what’s—”
His guess would have been right.
In the second box, revealed, lay a second fat white egg on cotton.
“There,” said the lady who owned the motel and the chicken ranch way out in the middle of the land under a sky that went forever and fell over the horizon into more land that went on forever and more sky over that.
We all bent forward, squinting.
For there were words written on this egg in white calcium outline, as if the nervous system of the chicken, moved by strange night talks that only it could hear, had lettered the shell in painful half-neat inscriptions.
And the words we saw upon the egg were these:
REST IN PEACE. PROSPERITY IS NEAR.
And suddenly it was very quiet.
We had begun to ask questions about that first egg. Our mouths had jumped wide to ask: How could a chicken, in its small insides, make marks on shells? Was the hen’s wristwatch machinery tampered with by outside influences? Had God used that small and simple beast as a Ouija board on which to spell out shapes, forms, remonstrances, unveilings?
But now, with the second egg before us, our mouths stayed numbly shut.
REST IN PEACE. PROSPERITY IS NEAR.
Dad could not take his eyes from that egg.
Nor could any of us.
Our lips moved at last, saying the words soundlessly.
Dad looked up, once, at our landlady. She gazed back at him with a gaze that was as calm, steady, and honest as the plains were long, hot, empty, and dry. The light of fifty years withered and bloomed there. She neither complained nor explained. She had found an egg beneath a hen. Here the egg was. Look at it, her face said. Read the words. Then … please … read them again.
We inhaled and exhaled.
Dad turned slowly at last and walked away. At the screen door he looked back and his eyes were blinking rapidly. He did not put his hand up to his eyes, but they were wet and bright and nervous. Then he went out the door and down the steps and between the old bungalows, his hands deep in his pockets.
My brother and I were still staring at that egg, when the landlady closed the lid, carefully, rose, and went to the door. We followed, silent.
Outside, we found Dad standing in the last of the sun and the first of the moon by the wire fence. We all looked over at ten thousand chickens veering this way and that in tides, suddenly panicked by wind or startled by cloud shadows or dogs barking off on the prairie, or a lone car moving on the hot-tar road.
“There,” said our landlady. “There she is.”
She pointed at the sea of rambling fowl.
We saw thousands of chickens hustling, heard thousands of bird voices suddenly raised, suddenly dying away.
“There’s my pet, there’s my precious. See?”
She held her hand steady, moving it slowly to point to one particular hen among the ten thousand. And somewhere in all the flurry …
“Isn’t she grand?” said our landlady.
I looked, I stood on tiptoe. I squinted. I stared wildly.
“There! I think—!” cried my brother.
“The white one.” supplied our landlady, “with ginger flecks.”
I looked at her. Her face was very serene. She knew her hen. She knew the look of her love. Even if we could not find and see, the hen was there, like the world and the sky, a small fact in much that was large.
“There.” said my brother, and stopped, confused. “No, there. No, wait … over there!”
“Yeah,” I said. “I see him!”
“Her, you dimwit!”
“Her!” I said.
And for a brief moment I thought I did see one chicken among many, one grand bird whiter than the rest, plumper than the rest, happier than the rest, faster, more frolicsome and somehow strutting proud. It was as if the sea of creatures parted before our Bible gaze to show us, alone among island shadows of moon on warm grass, a single bird transfixed for an instant before a final dog bark and a rifle shot from a passing car exhaust panicked and scattered the fowls. The hen was gone.
“You saw?” asked the landlady, holding to the wire fence, searching for her love lost in the rivering hens.
“Yes.” I could not see my father’s face, whether it was serious or if he gave a dry smile to himself. “I saw.”
He and mother walked back to our bungalow.
But the landlady and Skip and I stayed on at the fence not saying anything, not even pointing anymore, for at least another ten minutes.
Then it was time for bed.
I lay there wide awake with Skip. For I remembered all the other nights when Dad and Mom talked and we liked to listen to them talk about grown-up things and grown-up places. Mother asking concerned and Dad answering final and very sure and calm and quiet. Pot of Gold, End of Rainbow. I didn’t believe in that. Land of Milk and Honey. I didn’t believe in that. We had traveled far and seen too much for me to believe … but …
Someday My Ship Will Come in …
I believed that.
Whenever I heard Dad say it, tears welled in my eyes. I had seen such ships on Lake Michigan summer morns coming in from festivals across the water full of merry people, confetti on the air, horns blowing, and in my private dream, projected on my bedroom wall through countless nights, there we stood on the dock, Mom, Dad, Skip, and I! and the ship huge, snow-white, coming in with millionaires on her upper decks tossing not confetti but greenbacks and gold coins down in a clattering rain all around, so we danced to catch and dodge and cry Ouch! when hit about the ears by especially fierce coins or laughed when licked by a snow flurry of cash …
Mom asked about it. Dad answered. And in the night. Skip and I went down in the same dream to wait on a dock.
And this night here, lying in bed, after a long while I said, “Dad? What does it mean?”
“What does what mean?” said Dad, way over there in the dark with Mom.
“The message on the egg. Does it mean the Ship? It’ll come in soon?”
There was a long silence.
“Yes,” said Dad. “That’s what it means. Go to sleep, Doug.”
“Yes, sir.”
And, weeping tears, I turned away.
We drove out of Amarillo at six the next morning in order to beat the heat, and for the first hour out we didn’t say anything because we weren’t awake, and for the second hour we said nothing because we were thinking about the night before. And then at last Dad’s coffee started perking in him and he said:
“Ten thousand.”
We waited for him to go on and he did, shaking his head slowly:
“Ten thousand dumb chickens. And one of them, out of nowhere, takes it to mind to scribble us a note.”
“Dad,” said Mom.
And her voice by its inflection said, You don’t really believe?
“Yeah, Dad,” said my brother in the same voice, with the same faint criticism.
“It’s something to think about,” said Dad, his eyes just on the road, riding easy, his hands on the wheel not gripping tight, steering our small raft over the desert. Just beyond the hill was another hill and beyond that another hill, but just beyond that…?
Mother looked over at Dad’s face and hadn’t the heart to say his name in just that way right now. She looked back at the road and said so we could barely hear it:
“How did it go again?”
Dad took us around a long turn in the desert highway toward White Sands, and then he cleared his throat and cleared a space on the sky ahead as he drove and said, remembering:
“Rest in Peace. Prosperity Is Near.”
I let another mile go by before I said, “How much … unh. How much … an egg like that worth, Dad?”
“There’s no putting a human price on a thing like that,” he said, not looking back, just driving for the horizon, just going on. “Boy, you can’t set a price on an egg like that, laid by an inspired chicken at the Inspired Chicken Motel. Years from now, that’s what we’ll call it. The Inspired Chicken Motel.”
We drove on at an even forty miles an hour into the heat and dust of day-after-tomorrow.
My brother didn’t hit me, I didn’t hit my brother, carefully, secretly, until just before noon when we got out to water the flowers by the side of the road.

Downwind from Gellysburg
At eight thirty that night he heard the sharp crack from the theater down the hall.
Backfire, he thought. No. Gun.
A moment later he heard the great lift and drop of voices like an ocean surprised by a landfall which stopped it dead. A door banged. Feet ran.
An usher burst through his office door, glanced swiftly about as if blind, his face pale, his mouth trying words that would not come.
“Lincoln … Lincoln…”
Bayes glanced up from his desk.
“What about Lincoln?”
“He … he’s been shot.”
“Good joke. Now—”
“Shot. Don’t you understand? Shot. Really shot. For the second time, shot!”
The usher wandered out, holding to the wall.
Bayes felt himself rise. “Oh, for Christ—”
And he was running and passed the usher who, feeling him pass, began to run with him.
“No, no,” said Bayes. “It didn’t happen. It didn’t. It couldn’t. It didn’t, couldn’t…”
“Shot,” said the usher.
As they made the corridor turn, the theater doors exploded wide and a crowd that had turned mob shouted or yelled or screamed or stunned simply said, “Where is he?” “There!” “Is that him?” “Where?” “Who did it?” “He did? Him?” “Hold him!” “Watch out!” “Stop!”
Two security guards stumbled to view, pushed, pulled, twisted now this way and that, and between them a man who struggled to heave back from the bodies, the grasping hands and now the upflung and downfell fists. People snatched, pecked, pummeled, beat at him with packages or frail sun parasols which splintered like kites in a great storm. Women turned in dazed circles seeking lost friends, whimpering. Men, crying out, shoved them aside to squirm through to the center of the push and thrust and backward-pumping guards and the assaulted man who now masked his cut face with splayed fingers.
“Oh God, God.” Bayes froze, beginning to believe. He stared upon the scene. Then he sprang forward. “This way! Back inside! Clear off! Here! Here!”
And somehow the mob was breached, a door cracked wide to shove flesh through, then slammed.
Outside, the mob hammered, threatening damnations and scourges unheard of by living men. The whole theatre structure quaked with their muted wails, cries and estimates of doom.
Bayes stared a long moment at the shaken and twisted door-knobs, the chattering locks, then over to the guards and the man slumped between them.
Bayes leaped back suddenly, as if an even fresher truth had exploded there in the aisle.
Dimly, he felt his left shoe kick something which spun skittering like a rat chasing its tail along the carpeting under the seats. He bent to let his blind hand search, grope, find the still-half-warm pistol which, looked at but disbelieved, he shoved in his coat pocket as he backed down the aisle. It was a full half minute before he forced himself to turn and face the inevitable stage and that figure in the center of the stage.
Abraham Lincoln sat in his carved highback chair, his head bent forward at an unfamiliar angle. Eyes flexed wide, he gazed upon nothing. His large hands rested gently on the chair arms, as if he might momentarily shift weight, rise, and declare this sad emergency at an end.
Moving as under a tide of cold water, Bayes mounted the steps.
“Lights, dammit! Give us more lights!”
Somewhere, an unseen technician remembered what switches were for. A kind of dawn grew in the dim place.
Bayes, on the platform, circled the occupant of the chair, and stopped.
Yes. There it was. A neat bullet hole at the base of the skull, behind the left ear.
“Sic semper tyrannis,” a voice murmured somewhere.
Bayes jerked his head up.
The assassin, seated now in the last row of the theatre, face down but sensing Bayes’ preoccupation with Lincoln, spoke to the floor, to himself:
“Sic—”
He stopped. For there was an outraged stir above him. One security guard’s fist flew up, as if the man had nothing to do with it. The fist, urgent to itself, was on its way down to silence the killer when—
“Stop!” said Bayes.
The fist paused halfway, then withdrew to be nursed by the guard with mixtures of anger and frustration.
None, thought Bayes, I believe none of it. Not that man, not the guards and not … he turned to again see the bullet hole in the skull of the slain leader.
From the hole a slow trickle of machinery oil dripped.
From Mr. Lincoln’s mouth, a similar slow exudation of liquid moved down over the chin and whiskers to rain drop by drop upon his tie and shirt.
Bayes knelt and put his ear to the figure’s chest.
Faintly within there was the whine and hum of wheels, cogs, and circuitries still intact but malfunctioning.
For some reason this sound reared him to his feet in alarm.
“Phipps…!?”
The guards blinked with incomprehension.
Bayes snapped his fingers. “Is Phipps coming in tonight? Oh God, he mustn’t see this! Head him off! Tell him there’s an emergency, yes, emergency at the machine plant in Glendale! Move!”
One of the guards hurried out the door.
And watching him run, Bayes thought, please, God, keep Phipps home, keep him off…
Strange, at such a time, not your own life but the lives of others flashed by.
Remember … that day five years past when Phipps first slung his blueprints, his paintings, his watercolors out on a table and announced his Grand Plan? And how they had all stared at the plans and then up at him and gasped:
Lincoln?
Yes! Phipps had laughed like a father just come from a church where some sweet high vision in some strange Annunciation has promised him a most peculiar son.
Lincoln. That was the idea. Lincoln born again.
And Phipps? He would both engender and nurture this fabulous ever-ready giant robot child.
Wouldn’t it be fine … if they could stand in the meadow fields of Gettysburg, listen, learn, see, hone the edge of their razor souls, and live?
Bayes circled the slumped figure in the chair and, circling, numbered the days and remembered years.
Phipps, holding up a cocktail glass one night, like a lens that simultaneously proportions out the light of the past and the illumination of the future:
“I have always wanted to do a film on Gettysburg and the vast crowd there and far away out at the edge of that sun-drowsed impatient lost thick crowd, a farmer and his son trying so hard to hear, not hearing, trying to catch the wind-blown words from the tall speaker there on the distant stand, that gaunt man in the stovepipe hat who now takes off his hat, looks in it as to his soul rummaged there on scribbled letterbacks and begins to speak.
“And this farmer, in order to get his son up out of the crush, why, he hefts the boy up to sit upon his shoulders. There the boy, nine years old, a frail encumbrance, becomes ears to the man, for the man indeed cannot hear nor see but only guess what the President is speaking far across a sea of people there at Gettysburg and the President’s voice is high and drifts now clear, now gone, seized and dispersed by contesting breeze and wind. And there have been too many speakers before him and the crowd all crumpled wool and sweat, all mindless stockyard squirm and jostled elbow, and the farmer talks up to his son on his shoulders in a yearning whisper: What? What’s he say? And the boy, tilting his head, leaning his peach-fuzz ear to the wind, replies:
“‘Fourscore and seven years …’”
“Yes?”
“‘… ago, our fathers brought forth …’”
“Yes, yes!?”
“‘… on this continent …’”
“Eh?”
“Continent! ‘A new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are…’
“And so it goes, the wind leaning against the frail words, the far man uttering, the farmer never tiring of his sweet burden of son and the son obedient cupping and catching and telling it all down in a fierce good whisper and the father hearing the broken bits and some parts missing and some whole but all fine somehow to the end…
“‘… of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’
“The boy stops whispering.
“It is done.
“And the crowd disperses to the four directions. And Gettysburg is history.
“And for a long time the father cannot bring himself to ease his translator of the wind down to set him on the earth, but the boy, changed, comes down at last…”
Bayes sat looking at Phipps.
Phipps slugged down his drink, suddenly chagrined at his own expansiveness, then snorted:
“I’ll never make that film. But I will make this!”
And that was the moment he pulled forth and unfolded the blueprints of the Phipps Eveready Salem, Illinois, and Springfield Ghost Machine, the Lincoln mechanical, the electro-oil-lubricated plastic India-rubber perfect-motioned and outspoken dream.
Phipps and his born-full-tall-at-birth Lincoln. Lincoln. Summoned live from the grave of technology, fathered by a romantic, drawn by need, slapped to life by small lightnings, given voice by an unknown actor, to be placed there to live forever in this far southwest corner of old-new America! Phipps and Lincoln.
And that was the day, yes, of the first wild bursts of laughter which Phipps ignored by simply saying, “We must, oh we must, stand all of us, downwind from Gettysburg. It’s the only hearing place.”
And he shared out his pride amongst them. This man he gave armatures, to that the splendid skull, another must trap the Ouija-spirit voice and sounding word, yet others must grow the precious skin, hair, and fingerprints. Yes, even Lincoln’s touch must be borrowed, copied, the same!
Derision then was their style of life.
Abe would never really speak, they all knew that, nor move. It would all be summed and written off with taxes as a loss.
But as the months lengthened into years, their outcries of hilarity turned to accepting smiles and stunned wild grins. They were a gang of boys caught up in some furtive but irritably joyous mortuary society who met midnights in marble vaults to disperse through graveyards at dawn.
The Lincoln Resurrection Brigade yeasted full and prospered. Instead of one mad fool, a dozen maniacs fell to rifling old mummy-dust news-files, begging and then pilfering death masks, burying and then digging up new plastic bones.
Some toured the Civil War battlefields in hopes that history, borne on some morning wind, might whip their coats like flags. Some prowled the October fields of Salem, starched brown with farewell summer, sniffing airs, pricking ears, alert for some lank lawyer’s unrecorded voice, anxious for echoes, pleading their case.
And none more anxious nor paternal-proud worrying than Phipps until the month when the robot was spread out on delivery tables, there to be ball and socketed, voice box locked in, rubber eyelids peeled back to sink therein the deep sad eyes which, gazing out, had seen too much. The generous ears were appended that might hear only time lost. The large-knuckled hands were hung like pendulums to guess that time. And then upon the tall man’s nakedness they shucked on suiting, buttoned buttons, fixed his tie, a gathering of tailors, no, Disciples now on a bright and glorious Easter mom and them on Jerusalem’s hills ready to roll aside the rock and stand Him forth at their cry.
And in the last hour of the last day Phipps had locked them all out as he finished the final touches on the recumbent flesh and spirit and at last opened the door and, not literally, no, but in some metaphoric sense, asked them to hoist him on their shoulders a last time.
And in silence watched as Phipps called across the old battlefield and beyond, saying the tomb was not his place; arise.
And Lincoln, deep in his cool Springfield marbled keep, turned in his slumbers and dreamed himself awake.
And rose up.
And spoke.
A phone rang.
Bayes jerked.
The memories fell away.
The theater phone on one far stage wall buzzed.
Oh, God, he thought, and ran to lift the phone.
“Bayes? This is Phipps. Buck just called and told me to get over there! Said something about Lincoln—”
“No,” said Bayes. “You know Buck. Must have called from the nearest bar. I’m here in the theater. Everything’s fine. One of the generator’s acted up. We just finished repairs—”
“He’s all right, then?”
“He’s great.” He could not take his eyes off the slumped body. Oh Christ. Oh God. Absurd.
“I—I’m coming over.”
“No, don’t!”
“Jesus, why are you shouting?”
Bayes bit his tongue, took a deep breath, shut his eyes so he could not see the thing in the chair and said, slowly:
“Phipps, I’m not shouting. There. The lights just came back on. I can’t keep the crowd waiting. I swear to you—”
“You’re lying.”
“Phipps!”
But Phipps had hung up.
Ten minutes, thought Bayes wildly, oh God, he’ll be here in ten minutes. Ten minutes before the man who brought Lincoln out of the grave meets the man who put him back in it…
He moved. A mad impulse made him wish to run backstage, start the tapes, see how much of the fallen creature would motivate, which limbs jerk, which lie numb—more madness. Time for that tomorrow.
There was only time now for the mystery.
And the mystery was enclosed in the man who sat in the third seat over in the last row back from the stage.
The assassin—he was an assassin, wasn’t he? The assassin, what did he look like?
He had seen his face, some few moments ago, hadn’t he? And wasn’t it a face from an old, a familiar, a faded and put-away daguerreotype? Was there a full mustache? Were there dark and arrogant eyes?
Slowly Bayes stepped down from the stage. Slowly he moved up the aisle and stopped, looking in at that man with his head bent into clutching fingers.
Bayes inhaled then slowly exhaled a question in two words:
“Mr.... Booth?”
The strange faraway man stiffened, then shuddered and let forth a terrible whisper:
“Yes…”
Bayes waited. Then he dared ask:
“Mr … John Wilkes Booth?”
To this the assassin laughed quietly. The laugh faded into a kind of dry croak.
“Norman Llewellyn Booth. Only the last name is … the same.”
Thank God, thought Bayes. I couldn’t have stood the other.
Bayes spun and paced up the aisle, stopped, and fixed his eyes to his watch. No time. Phipps was on the freeway now. Any moment, he’d be hammering at the door. Bayes spoke rigidly to the theater wall directly in front of him:
“Why?”
And it was an echo of the affrighted cry of three hundred people who had sat here not ten minutes ago and jumped to terror at the shot.
“Why!?”
“I don’t know!” cried Booth.
“Liar!” cried Bayes, in the same breath and instant.
“Too good a chance to miss.”
“What?” Bayes whirled.
“…nothing.”
“You don’t dare say that again!”
“Because,” said Booth, head down, half hid, now light, now dark, jerking into and out of emotions he only sensed as they came, went, rose, faded with barks of laughter and then silence. “Because … it’s the truth.” In awe, he whispered, stroking his cheeks. “I did it. I actually did it.”
“Bastard!”
Bayes had to keep walking up, around, down the aisles, circling, afraid to stop, afraid he might rush and strike and keep on striking this stupid genius, this bright killer—
Booth saw this and said:
“What are you waiting for? Get it over.”
“I will not—!” Bayes forced his yell down to a steady calmness. “I will not be tried for murder because I killed a man who killed another man who wasn’t really a man at all, but a machine. It’s enough to shoot a thing that seems alive. I won’t have some judge or jury trying to figure a law for a man who kills because a humanoid computer was shot. I won’t repeat your stupidity.”
“Pity,” mourned the man named Booth, and saying it, the light went out of his face.
“Talk,” said Bayes, gazing through the wall, imagining the night roads, Phipps in his car, and time running out. “You’ve got five minutes, maybe more, maybe less. Why did you do it, why? Start somewhere. Start with the fact you’re a coward.”
He waited. The security guard waited behind Booth, creaking uneasily in his shoes.
“Coward, yes.” said Booth. “How did you know?”
“I know.”
“Coward,” said Booth. “That’s me. Always afraid. You name it. Things. People. Places. Afraid. People I wanted to hit, but never hit. Things I always wanted, never had. Places I wanted to go, never went. Always wanted to be big, famous, why not? That didn’t work either. So, I thought, if you can’t find something to be glad about, find something to be sad. Lots of ways to enjoy being sad. Why? Who knows? I just had to find something awful to do and then cry about what I had done. That way you felt you had accomplished something. So, I set out to do something bad.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
Booth gazed down at his hands hung between his knees as if they held an old but suddenly remembered and simple weapon.
“Did you ever kill a turtle?”
“What?”
“When I was ten I found out about death. I found out that the turtle, that big dumb rocklike thing, was going to live long after I was dead. I figured if I had to go, the turtle went first. So I took a brick and hit him on the back until I broke his shell and he died…”
Bayes slowed in his constant pacing and said, “For the same reason, I once let a butterfly live.”
“No,” said Booth, quickly, then added, “no, not for the same reason. A butterfly lit on my hand once. The butterfly opened and shut its wings, just resting there. I knew I could crush it. But I didn’t because I knew that in ten minutes or an hour some bird would eat it. So I let it just fly away. But turtles?! They lie around backyards and live forever. So I went and got a brick and I was sorry for months after. Maybe I still am. Look…”
His hands trembled before him.
“And what,” said Bayes, “has all this to do with your being here tonight?”
“Do? What!” cried Booth, looking at Bayes as if he were mad. “Haven’t you been listening? Great God, I’m jealous! Jealous of anything that works right, anything that’s perfect, anything that’s beautiful all to itself, anything that lasts I don’t care what it is! Jealous!”
“You can’t be jealous of machines.”
“Why not, dammit?” Booth clutched the back of the seat in front of him and slowly pulled himself forward staring at the slumped figure in that highback chair in the center of the stage. “Aren’t machines more perfect, ninety-nine times out of a hundred than most people you’ve ever known? I mean really? Don’t they do things right? How many people can you name do things right one third, one half the time? That damned thing up there, that machine, not only looks perfection, but speaks and acts perfection. More, if you keep it oiled and wound and fixed it’ll be looking, speaking, acting right and grand and beautiful a hundred, two hundred years after I’m in the earth! Jealous? Damn right I am!”
“But a machine doesn’t know what it is.”
“I know, I feel!” said Booth. “I’m outside it looking in. I’m always outside things like that. I’ve never been in. The machine has it. I don’t. It was built to do one or two things exactly on the nose. No matter how much I learned or knew or tried the rest of my life, no matter what I did, I could never be as perfect, as fine, as maddening, as deserving of destruction as that thing up there, that man, that thing, that creature, that president…”
He was on his feet now, shouting at the stage eighty feet away.
Lincoln said nothing. Machinery oil gathered glistening on the floor under the chair.
“That president—” murmured Booth, as if he had come upon the real truth at last. “That president. Yes. Lincoln. Don’t you see? He died a long time ago. He can’t be alive. He just can’t be. It’s not right. A hundred years ago and yet here he is. He was shot once, buried once, yet here he is going on and on and on. Tomorrow and the day after that and all the days. So his name being Lincoln and mine Booth … I just had to come…”
His voice faded. His eyes had glazed over.
“Sit down,” said Bayes, quietly.
Booth sat, and Bayes nodded to the remaining security guard. “Wait outside, please.”
When the guard was gone and there was only Booth and himself and the quiet thing waiting up there in the chair, Bayes turned slowly at last and looked at the assassin. He weighed his words carefully and said:
“Good but not good enough.”
“What?”
“You haven’t given all the reasons why you came here tonight.”
“I have!”
“You just think you have. You’re kidding yourself. All Romantics do. One way or the other. Phipps when he invented this machine. You when you destroyed it. But it all comes down to this … very plain and very simple, you’d love to have your picture in the papers, wouldn’t you?”
Booth did not answer, but his shoulder straightened, imperceptibly.
“Like to be seen coast-to-coast on magazine covers?”
“No.”
“Get free time on TV?”
“No.”
“Be interviewed on radio?”
“No!”
“Like to have trials and lawyers arguing whether a man can be tried for proxy-murder…”
“No!”
“…that is, attacking, shooting a humanoid machine…”
“No!”
Booth was breathing fast now, his eyes moving wildly in his face. Bayes let more out:
“Great to have two hundred million people talking about you tomorrow morning, next week, next month, next year!”
Silence.
But a smile appeared, like the faintest drip of saliva, at the corner of Booth’s mouth. He must have felt it. He raised a hand to touch it away.
“Fine to sell your personal true real story to the international syndicates for a fine chunk?”
Sweat moved down Booth’s face and itched in his palms.
“Shall I give you the answer to all, all the questions I have just asked? Eh? Eh? Well,” said Bayes, “the answer is—”
Someone rapped on a far theater door.
Bayes jumped. Booth turned to stare.
The knock came, louder.
“Bayes, let me in, this is Phipps,” a voice cried outside in the night.
Hammering, pounding, then silence. In the silence, Booth and Bayes looked at each other like conspirators.
“Let me in, oh Christ, let me in!”
More hammering, then a pause and again the insistent onslaught, a crazy drum and tattoo, then silence again, the man outside panting, circling perhaps to find another door.
“Where was I?” said Bayes. “No. Yes. The answer to all those questions? Do you get worldwide TV radio film magazine newspaper gossip broadcast publicity…?”
A pause.
“No.”
Booth’s mouth jerked but he stayed silent.
“N,” Bayes spelled it, “O.”
He reached in, found Booth’s wallet, snapped out all the identity cards, pocketed them, and handed the empty wallet back to the assassin.
“No?” said Booth, stunned.
“No, Mr. Booth. No pictures. No coast-to-coast TV. No magazines. No columns. No papers. No advertisement. No glory. No fame. No fun. No self-pity. No resignation. No immortality. No nonsense about triumphing over the dehumanization of man by machines. No martyrdom. No respite from your own mediocrity. No splendid suffering. No maudlin tears. No renunciation of possible futures. No trial. No lawyers. No analysts speeding you up this month, this year, thirty years, sixty years, ninety years after, no stories with double spreads, no money, no.”
Booth rose up as if a rope had hauled him tall and stretched him gaunt and washed him pale.
“I don’t understand. I—”
“You went to all this trouble? Yes. And I’m ruining the game. For when all is said and done, Mr. Booth, all the reasons listed and all the sums summed, you’re a has-been that never was. And you’re going to stay that way, spoiled and narcissistic and small and mean and rotten. You’re a short man and I intend to squash and squeeze and press and batter you an inch shorter instead of force-growing you, helping you gloat nine feet tall.”
“You can’t!” cried Booth.
“Oh, Mr. Booth,” said Bayes, on the instant, almost happy, “I can. I can do anything with this case I wish, and I wish not to press charges. More than that, Mr. Booth, it never happened.”
The hammering came again, this time on a locked door up on the stage.
“Bayes, for God’s sake, let me in! This is Phipps! Bayes! Bayes!”
Booth stared at the trembling, the thundershaken, the rattling door, even while Bayes called very calmly and with an ease that was beautiful:
“Just a moment.”
He knew that in a few minutes this calm would pass, something would break, but for now there was this splendidly serene thing he was doing; he must play it out. With fine round tones he addressed the assassin and watched him dwindle and spoke further and watched him shrink.
“It never happened, Mr. Booth. Tell your story, but we’ll deny it. You were never here, no gun, no shot, no computerized data-processed assassination, no outrage, no shock, no panic, no mob. Why now, look at your face. Why are you falling back? Why are you sitting down? Why do you shake? Is it the disappointment? Have I turned your fun the wrong way? Good.” He nodded at the aisle. “And now, Mr. Booth, get out.”
“You can’t make—”
“Sorry you said that, Mr. Booth.” Bayes took a soft step in, reached down, took hold of the man’s tie and slowly pulled him to his feet so he was breathing full in his face.
“If you ever tell your wife, any friend, employer, child, man, woman, stranger, uncle, aunt, cousin, if you ever tell even yourself out loud going to sleep some night about this thing you did, do you know what I am going to do to you, Mr. Booth? If I hear one whisper, one word, one breath, I shall stalk you, I shall follow you for a dozen or a hundred or two hundred days, you’ll never know what day, what night, what noon, where, when or how but suddenly I’ll be there when you least expect and then do you know what I am going to do to you, Mr. Booth? I won’t say, Mr. Booth, I can’t tell. But it will be awful and it will be terrible and you’ll wish you had never been born, that’s how awful and terrible it will be.”
Booth’s pale face shook, his head bobbed, his eyes peeled wide, his mouth open like one who walks in a heavy rain.
“What did I just say, Mr. Booth? Tell me!”
“You’ll kill me?”
“Say it again!”
He shook Booth until the words fell out of his chattered teeth:
“Kill me!”
He held tight, shaking and shaking the man firmly and steadily, holding and massaging the shirt and the flesh beneath the shirt, stirring up the panic beneath the cloth.
So long, Mr. Nobody, and no magazine stories and no fun and no TV, no celebrity, an unmarked grave and you not in the history books, no, now get out of here, get out, run, run before I kill you.
He shoved Booth. Booth ran, fell, picked himself up, and lunged toward a theater door which, on the instant, from outside, was shaken, pounded, riven.
Phipps was there, calling in the darkness.
“The other door,” said Bayes.
He pointed and Booth wheeled to stumble in a new direction to stand swaying by yet another door, putting one hand out—
“Wait,” said Bayes.
He walked across the theater and when he reached Booth raised his flat hand up and hit Booth once, hard, a slapping strike across the face. Sweat flew in a rain upon the air.
“I,” said Bayes, “I just had to do that. Just once.”
He looked at his hand, then turned to open the door.
They both looked out into a world of night and cool stars and no mob.
Booth pulled back, his great dark liquid eyes the eyes of an eternally wounded and surprised child, with the look of the self-shot deer that would go on wounding, being shot by itself forever.
“Get,” said Bayes.
Booth darted. The door slammed shut. Bayes fell against it, breathing hard.
Far across the arena at another locked door, the hammering, pounding, the crying out began again. Bayes stared at that shuddering but remote door. Phipps. But Phipps would have to wait. Now…
The theater was as vast and empty as Gettysburg in the late day with the crowd gone home and the sun set. Where the crowd had been and was no more, where the Father had lifted the Boy high on his shoulders and where the Boy had spoken and said the words, but the words now, also, gone…
On the stage, after a long moment, he reached out. His fingers brushed Lincoln’s shoulder.
Fool, he thought standing there in the dusk. Don’t. Now, don’t. Stop it. Why are you doing this? Silly. Stop. Stop.
And what he had come to find he found. What he needed to do he did.
For tears were running down his face.
He wept. Sobs choked his mouth. He could not stop them. They would not cease.
Mr. Lincoln was dead. Mr. Lincoln was dead!
And he had let his murderer go.

Yes, We’ll Gather at the River
At one minute to nine he should have rolled the wooden Indian back into warm tobacco darkness and turned the key in the lock. But somehow he waited because there were so many lost men walking by in no special direction for no special reason. A few of them wandered in to drift their gaze over the tribal cigars laid out in their neat brown boxes, then glanced up suddenly surprised to find where they were and said, evasively, “Evening, Charlie.”
“So it is,” said Charlie Moore.
Some of the men wandered off empty-handed, others moved on with a nickel cigar unlit in their mouths.
So it was nine thirty of a Thursday night before Charlie Moore finally touched the wooden Indian’s elbow as if disturbing a friend and hating to bother. Gently he maneuvered the savage to where he became watchman of the night. In the shadows, the carved face stared raw and blind through the door.
“Well, Chief, what do you see?”
Charlie followed that silent gaze beyond to the highway that cut through the very center of their lives.
In locust hordes, cars roared up from Los Angeles. With irritation they slowed to thirty miles per hour here. They crept between some three dozen shops, stores, and old livery stables become gas stations, to the north rim of town. There the cars exploded back to eighty, racing like Furies on San Francisco, to teach it violence.
Charlie snorted softly.
A man passed, saw him standing with his silent wooden friend, said, “Last night, eh?” and was gone.
Last night.
There. Someone had dared use the words.
Charlie wheeled to switch off the lights, lock the door and, on the sidewalk, eyes down, freeze.
As if hypnotized, he felt his gaze rise again to the old highway which swept by with winds that smelled a billion years ago. Great bursts of headlight arrived, then cut away in departures of red taillight, like schools of small bright fish darting in the wake of sharks and blind-traveling whales. The lights sank away and were lost in the black hills.
Charlie broke his stare. He walked slowly on through his town as the clock over the Oddfellows Lodge struck the quarter hour and moved on toward ten and still he walked and was amazed and then not amazed anymore to see how every shop was still open long after hours and in every door stood a man or woman transfixed even as he and his Indian brave had been transfixed by a talked-about and dreadful future suddenly become Here Now Tonight.
Fred Ferguson, the taxidermist, kin to the family of wild owls and panicked deer which stayed on forever in his window, spoke to the night air as Charlie passed:
“Hard to believe, ain’t it?”
He wished no answer, for he went on, immediately:
“Keep thinking: just can’t be. Tomorrow, the highway dead and us dead with it.”
“Oh, it won’t be that bad,” said Charlie.
Ferguson gave him a shocked look. “Wait. Ain’t you the one hollered two years ago, wanted to bomb the legislature, shoot the road contractors, steal the concrete mixers and earth-movers when they started the new highway three hundred yards west of here? What you mean, it won’t be bad? It will, and you know it!”
“I know,” said Charlie Moore, at last.
Ferguson brooded on the near distance.
“Three hundred little bitty yards. Not much, eh? But seeing as how our town is only a hundred yards wide, that puts us, give or take, about two hundred yards from the new superroad. Two hundred yards from people who need nuts, bolts, or house-paint. Two hundred from jokers who barrel down from the mountains with deer or fresh shot alley-cats of all sorts and need the services of the only A-l taxidermist on the Coast. Two hundred yards from ladies who need aspirin—” He eyed the drugstore. “Haircuts.” He watched the red-striped pole spin in its glass case down the street. “Strawberry sodas.” He nodded at the malt shop. “You name it.”
They named it all in silence, sliding their gaze along the stores, the shops, the arcades.
“Maybe it’s not too late.”
“Late, Charlie? Hell. Cement’s mixed and poured and set. Come dawn they yank the roadblocks both ends of the new road. Governor might cut a ribbon from the first car. Then … people might remember Oak Lane the first week, sure. The second week not so much. A month from now? We’ll be a smear of old paint on their right running north, on their left running south, burning rubber. There’s Oak Lane! Remember? Ghost town. Oops! It’s gone.”
Charlie let his heart beat two or three times.
“Fred … what you going to do?”
“Stay on awhile. Stuff a few birds the local boys bring in. Then crank the old Tin Lizzie and drive that new superfreeway myself going nowhere, anywhere, and so long to you, Charlie Moore.”
“Night, Fred. Hope you sleep.”
“What, and miss welcoming in the New Year, middle of July…?”
Charlie walked and that voice faded behind and he came to the barbershop where three men, laid out, were being strenuously barbered behind plate glass. The highway traffic slid over them in bright reflections. They looked like they were drowning under a stream of huge fireflies.
Charlie stepped in. Everyone glanced up.
“Anyone got any ideas?”
“Progress, Charlie,” said Frank Mariano, combing and cutting, “is an idea can’t be stopped with no other idea. Let’s yank up the whole damn town, lock, stock, and tar barrel, carry it over, nail it down by that new road.”
“We figured the cost last year. Four dozen stores at three thousand dollars average to haul them just three hundred yards west.”
“So ends that master plan,” muttered someone under a hot-steam towel, buried in inescapable fact.
“One good hurricane would do the job, carriage-free.”
They all laughed quietly.
“We should all celebrate tonight,” said the man under the hot towel. He sat up, revealing himself as Hank Summers, the groceryman. “Snort a few stiff drinks and wonder where the hell we’ll all be this time next year.”
“We didn’t fight hard enough,” said Charlie. “When it started, we didn’t pitch in.”
“Hell.” Frank snipped a hair out of the inside of a fairly large car. “When times move, not a day passes someone’s not hurt. This month, this year, it’s our turn. Next time we want something, someone else gets stepped on, all in the name of Get Up and Go. Look, Charlie, go form a vigilantes. Mine that new road. But watch out. Just crossing the lanes to place the bomb, you’re sure to be run down by a manure truck bound for Salinas.”
More laughter, which faded quickly.
“Look,” said Hank Summers, and everybody looked. He spoke to his own fly-specked image in the ancient mirror as if trying to sell his twin on a shared logic. “We lived here thirty years now, you, me, all of us. Won’t kill us to move on. Good God, we’re all root and a yard wide. Graduation. School of hard knocks is throwing us out the door with no never-mind’s and no thank-you’s. I’m ready. Charlie, are you?”
“Me, now,” said Frank Mariano. “Monday morning six a.m. I load my barbership in a trailer and shoot off after those customers, ninety miles an hour!”
There was a laugh sounded like the very last one of the day, so Charlie turned with one superb and mindless drift and was back on the street.
And still the shops stayed open, the lights stayed on, the doors stood wide, as if each owner was reluctant to go home, so long as that river out there was flowing and there was the great motion and glint and sound of people and metal and light in a tide they had grown so accustomed to it was hard to believe the river bottom would ever know a dry season.
Charlie lingered on, straying from shop to shop, sipping a chocolate Coke at the malted-milk counter, buying some stationery he couldn’t use from the drugstore under the soft fluttering wood fan that whispered to itself in the ceiling. He loitered like a common criminal, thieving sights. He paused in alleys where, Saturday afternoons, gypsy tie salesmen or kitchenware spielers laid out their suitcase worlds to con the pedestrians. Then, at last he reached the gas station where Pete Britz, deep in the oil pit, was mending the dumb brute underside of a dead and uncomplaining 1947 Ford.
At ten o’clock, as if by some secret but mutual consent, all the shops went dark, all the people walked home, Charlie Moore among them.
He caught up with Hank Summers, whose face was still shining pink from the shave he hadn’t needed. They ambled in silence for a time past houses where it seemed the whole population was sitting out smoking or knitting, rocking in chairs or fanning themselves against a nonexistent hot spell.
Hank laughed suddenly at some private thought. A few paces on, he decided to make it public:
“Yes, we’ll gather at the River.
River, River.
Yes, we’ll gather at the River
That flows by the Throne of God.”
He half-sang it and Charlie nodded.
“First Baptist Church, when I was twelve.”
“The Lord giveth and the Highway Commissioner taketh away,” said Hank, drily. “Funny. Never thought how much a town is people. Doing things, that is. Under the hot towel back there, thought: what’s this place to me? Shaved. I had the answer. Russ Newell banging a carburetor at the Night Owl Garage? Yep. Allie Mae Simpson…”
He swallowed his voice in embarrassment.
Allie Mae Simpson … Charlie took up the count in his own mind … Allie Mae fixing wet curlicues in old ladies’ hair in the bay window of her Vogue Salon … Doc Knight stacking pill bottles in the drug emporium cases … hardware store laid out in the hot noon sun, Clint Simpson middle of it all, running his hands over, sorting out the million blinks and shines of brass and silver and gold, all the nails, hinges, knobs, all the saws, hammers, and snaked up copper wire and stacks of aluminum foil like the junk shaken free of a thousand boys’ pockets in a thousand summers past … and then…
…then there was his own place, warm dark, brown, comfortable, musky as the den of a tobacco smoking bear … thick with the humidor smells of whole families of odd-sized cigars, imported cigarettes, snuffs just waiting to be exploded on the air…
Take all that away, thought Charlie, you got nothing. Buildings, sure. Anyone can raise a frame, paint a sign to say what might go on inside. But it was people that made the damn thing get.
Hank surfaced in his own long thoughts.
“Guess right now I’m sad. Want to send everyone back to open their shops so I can see what they were up to. Why wasn’t I looking closer, all these years? Hell, hell. What’s got into you. Hank Summers. There’s another Oak Lane on up the line or down the line and people there busy as they are here. Wherever I land, next time I’ll look close, swear to God. Good-bye, Charlie.”
“To hell with good-bye.”
“All right, then, good night.”
And Hank was gone and Charlie was home and Clara was waiting at the screen door with a glass of ice water.
“Sit out awhile?”
“Like everyone else? Why not?”
They sat in the dark on the porch in the chain-hung wooden swing and watched the highway flush and drain, flush and drain with arrivals of headlight and departures of angry red fire like the coals from an immense brazier scattered to the fields.
Charlie drank the water slowly and. drinking, thought: In the old days you couldn’t see the roads die. You felt them gradually fade, yes, lying in bed nights, maybe your mind got hold of some hint, some nudge or commotion that warned you it was sinking away. But it took years and years for any one road to give up its dusty ghost and another to stir alive. That’s how things were, slow arriving and slow passing away. That’s how things had always been.
But no more. Now, in a matter of hours.
He paused.
He touched in upon himself to find a new thing.
“Good,” said his wife.
They rocked awhile, two halves of a similar content.
“My God, I was stirred up there for awhile.”
“I remember,” she said.
“But now I figure, well…” he drifted his voice, mostly to himself. “Millions of cars come through every year. Like it or not, the road’s just not big enough, we’re holding up the world, that old road there and this old town. The world says it’s got to move. So now, on that new road, not one but two million will pass just a shotgun blast away, going where they got to go to get things done they say are important, doesn’t matter if they’re important or not, folks think they are, and thinking makes the game. If we’d really seen it coming, thought in on it from every side, we’d have taken a steam-driven sledge and just mashed the town flat and said. ‘Drive through!’ instead of making them lay the damn road over in that next clover patch. This way, the town dies hard, strangled on a piece of butcher string instead of being dropped off a cliff. Well, well.” He lit his pipe and blew great clouds of smoke in which to poke for past mistakes and present revelations. “Us being human, I guess we couldn’t have done but as we did…”
They heard the drugstore clock strike eleven and the Oddfellows Hall clock chime eleven thirty, and at twelve they lay in bed in the dark, each with a ceilingful of thoughts above them.
“Graduation.”
“What?”
“Frank the barber said it and had it right. This whole week feels like the last days of school, years ago. I remember how I felt, how I was afraid, ready to cry, and how I promised myself to live every last moment right up to the time the diploma was in my hand, for God only knew what tomorrow might bring. Unemployment. Depression. War. And then the day arrived, tomorrow did get around to finally coming, and I found myself still alive, by God, and I was still all in one piece and things were starting over, more of the same, and hell, everything turned out okay. So this is another graduation all right. Frank said, and I’m the last to doubt.”

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