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it?'
'You should know,' I said. 'You just hit the jackpot.'
When I got back home, Nancy was waiting for me. She was sitting on the
steps that led up to the porch, huddled there, crouched against the world. I
saw her from a block away and hurried, gladder at the sight of her than I
had ever been before. Glad and humble, and with a tenderness I never knew I
had welling up so hard inside of me that I nearly choked.
Poor kid, I thought. It had been rough on her. Just one day home and
the world of Millville, the world that she remembered and thought of as her
home, had suddenly come unstuck.
Someone was shouting in the garden where tiny fifty-dollar bills
presumably were still growing on the little bushes.
Coming in the gate, I stopped short at the sound of bellowing.
Nancy looked up and saw me.
'It's nothing, Brad,' she said. 'It's just Hiram down there.
Higgy has him guarding all that money. The kids keep sneaking in, the
little eight and ten-year-olds. They only want to count the money on each
bush. They aren't doing any harm.
But Hiram chases them. There are times,' she said, 'when I feel sorry
for Hiram.'
'Sorry for him?' I asked, astonished. He was the last person in the
world I'd suspected anyone might feel sorry for. 'He's just a stupid slob.'
'A stupid slob,' she said, 'who's trying to prove something and is not
entirely sure what he wants to prove.'
'That he has more muscle...'
'No,' she told me, 'that's not it at all.'
Two kids came tearing out of the garden and vanished down the street.
There was no sign of Hiram. And no more hollering. He had done his job; he
had chased them off.
I sat down on the step beside her.
'Brad,' she said, 'it's not going well. I can feel it isn't going
well.'
I shook my head, agreeing with her.
'I was down at the village hall,' she said. 'Where that terrible,
shrivelled creature is conducting a clinic. Daddy's down there, too. He's
helping out. But I couldn't stay. It's awful.'
'What's so bad about it? That thing - whatever you may call it fixed up
Doc. He's up and walking around and he looks as good as new. And Floyd
Caldwell's heart and...'
She shuddered. 'That's the terrible thing about it. They are as good as
new. They're better than new. They aren't cured, Brad; they are repaired,
like a machine. It's like witchcraft. It's indecent. This wizened thing
looks them over and he never makes a sound, but just glides around and looks
them over and you can see that he's not looking at the outside of them but
at their very insides. I don't know how you know this, but you do. As if he
were reaching deep inside of them and...'
She stopped. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't talk this way.' It's
not very decent talk.'
'It's not a very decent situation,' I said. 'We may have to change our
minds a great deal about what is decent and indecent. There are a lot of
ways we may have to change. I don't suppose that we will like it...'
'You talk as if it's settled.'
'I'm afraid it is,' I said, and I told her what Smith had told the
newsmen. It felt good to tell her. There was no one else I could have told
right then. It was a piece of news so weighted with guilt I would have been
ashamed to tell it to anyone but Nancy.
'But now,' said Nancy, 'there can't be war - not the kind of war the
whole world feared.'
'No,' I said, 'there can't be any war.' But I couldn't seem to feel too
good about it. 'We may have something now that's worse than war.'
'There is nothing worse than war,' she said.
And that, of course, would be what everyone would say. Maybe they'd be
right. But now the aliens would come into this world of ours and once we'd
let them in we'd be entirely at their mercy. They had tricked us and we had
nothing with which we could defend ourselves. Once here they could take over
and supersede all plant life upon the Earth, without our knowing it, without
our ever being able to find out. Once we let them in we never could be sure.
And once they'd done that, then they'd own us. For all the animal life on
Earth, including man, depended on the plants of Earth for their energy.
'What puzzles me,' I said, 'is that they could have taken over, anyhow.
If they'd had a little patience, if they had taken a little time, they could
have taken over and we never would have known. For there are some of them
right here, their roots in Millville ground. They needn't have stayed as
flowers. They could have been anything. In a hundred years they could have
been every branch and leaf, every blade of grass...'
'Maybe there was a time factor of some sort,' said Nancy. 'Maybe they
couldn't afford to wait.'
I shook my head. 'They had lots of time. If they needed more, they
could have made it.'
'Maybe they need the human race,' she said. 'Perhaps we have something
they want. A plant society couldn't do a thing itself. They can't move about
and they haven't any hands. They can store a lot of knowledge and they can
think long thoughts - they can scheme and plan. But they can't put any of
that planning into execution. They would need a partner to carry out their
plans.'
'They've had partners,' I reminded her. 'They have a lot of partners
even now. There are the people who made the time machine. There's this funny
little doctor and that big windbag of a Smith. The Flowers have all the
partners they need. It must be something else.'
'These people that you mention,' she said, 'may not be the right kind
of people. Perhaps they searched world after world for the right kind of
human beings. For the right kind of partner. Maybe that's us.'
'Perhaps,' I said, 'the others weren't mean enough. They may be looking
for a deadly race. And a deadly race, that's us. Maybe they want someone
who'll go slashing into parallel world after parallel world, in a sort of
frenzy; brutal, ruthless, terrible. For when you come right down to it, we
are pretty terrible. They may figure that, working with us, there's nothing
that can stop them. Probably they are right. With all their accumulated
knowledge and their mental powers, plus our understanding of physical
concepts and our flair for technology, there probably is no limit to what
the two of us could do.'
'I don't think that's it,' she said. 'What's the matter with you? I
gained the impression to start with that you thought the Flowers might be
all right.'
'They still may be,' I told her, 'but they used so many tricks and I
fell for all the tricks. They used me for a fall guy.'
'So that's what bothers you.'
'I feel like a heel,' I said.
We sat quietly side by side upon the step. The Street was silent and
empty. During all the time we had sat there, no one had passed.
Nancy said, 'It's strange that anyone could submit himself to that
alien doctor. He's a creepy sort of being, and you can't be sure...'
'There are a lot of people,' I told her, 'who run most willingly to
quackery.'
'But this isn't quackery,' she said. 'He did cure Doc and the rest of
them. I didn't mean he was a faker, but only that he's horrid and
repulsive.'
'Perhaps we appear the same to him.'
'There's something else,' she said. 'His technique is so different. No
drugs, no instruments, no therapy. He just looks you over and probes into
you with nothing, but you can see him probing, and then you're whole again -
not only well, but whole. And if he can do that to our bodies, what about
our minds? Can he change our minds, can he re-orient our thoughts?'
'For some people in this village,' I told her, 'that might be a good
idea. Higgy, for example.'
She said, sharply, 'Don't joke about it, Brad.'
'All right,' I said. 'I won't.'
'You're just talking that way to keep from being scared.'
'And you,' I said, 'are talking seriously about it in an effort to
reduce it to a commonplace.'
She nodded. 'But it doesn't help,' she said. 'It isn't commonplace.'
She stood up. 'Take me home,' she said.
So I walked her home.
Twilight was falling when I walked downtown. I don't know why I went
there. Restlessness, I guess. The house was too big and empty (emptier than
it had ever been before) and the neighbourhood too quiet. There was no noise
at all except for the occasional snatch of voices either excited or
pontifical, strained through the electronic media. There was not a house in
the entire village, I was certain, that did not have a television set or
radio turned on.
But when I turned on the TV in the living-room and settled back to
watch, it did no more than make me nervous and uneasy.
A commentator, one of the better known ones, was holding forth with a
calm and deep assurance.
'...no way of knowing whether this contraption which is circling the
skies can really do the job which our Mr Smith from the other world has
announced to be its purpose. It has been picked up on a number of occasions
by tracking stations which do not seem to be able, for one reason or
another, to keep it in their range, and there have been instances,
apparently verified, of visual sightings of it. But it is something about
which it is difficult to get any solid news.'
'Washington, it is understood, is taking the position that the word of
an unknown being - unknown by either race or reputation - scarcely can be
taken as undisputed fact. The capital tonight seems to be waiting for more
word and until something of a solid nature can be deduced, it is unlikely
there will be any sort of statement. That is the public position, of course;
what is going on behind the scenes may be anybody's guess. And the same
situation applies fairly well to all other capitals throughout the entire
world.
'But this is not the situation outside the governmental circles.
Everywhere the news has touched off wild celebration.
There are joyous, spontaneous marches breaking out in London, and in
Moscow a shouting, happy mob has packed Red Square. The churches everywhere
have been filled since the first news broke, people thronging there to utter
prayers of thankfulness.
'In the people there is no doubt and not the slightest hesitation. The
man in the street, here in the United States and in Britain and in France -
in fact, throughout the world - has accepted this strange announcement at
face value. It may be simply a matter of believing what one chooses to
believe, or it may be for some other reason, but the fact remains that there
has been a bewildering suspension of the disbelief which characterized mass
reaction so short a time ago as this morning.'
'There seems, in the popular mind, to be no consideration of all the
other factors which may be involved. The news of the end of any possibility
of nuclear war has drowned out all else. It serves to underline the quiet
and terrible, perhaps subconscious, tension under which the world has
lived...'
I shut off the television and prowled about the house, my footsteps
echoing strangely in the darkening rooms.
It was well enough, I thought, for a smug, complacent commentator to
sit in the bright-lit studio a thousand miles away and analyse these
happenings in a measured and well-modulated manner. And it was well enough,
perhaps, for people other than myself even here in Millville, to sit and
listen to him. But I couldn't listen - I couldn't stand to listen.
Guilt, I asked myself? And it might be guilt, for I had been the one
who'd brought the time machine to Earth and I had been the one who had taken
Smith to meet the newsmen at the barrier. I had played the fool - the utter,
perfect fool and it seemed to me the entire world must know.
Or might it be the conviction that had been growing since I talked with
Nancy that there was some hidden incident or fact - some minor motive or
some small point of evidence -that I had failed to see, that we all had
failed to grasp, and that if one could only put his finger on this single
truth then all that had happened might become simpler of understanding and
all that was about to happen might make some sort of sense?
I sought for it, for this hidden factor, for this joker in the deck,
for the thing so small it had been overlooked and yet held within it a vast
significance, and I did not find it.
I might be wrong, I thought. There might be no saving factor. We might
be trapped and doomed and no way to get out.
I left the house and went down the street. There was no place I really
wanted to go, but I had to walk, hoping that the freshness of the evening
air, the very fact of walking might somehow clear my head.
A half a block away I caught the tapping sound. It appeared to be
moving down the street toward me and in a little while I saw a bobbing halo
of white that seemed to go with the steady tapping. I stopped and stared at
it and it came bobbing closer and the tapping sound went on. And in another
moment I saw that it was Mrs Tyler with her snow-white hair and cane.
'Good evening, Mrs Tyler,' I said as gently as I could, not to frighten
her.
She stopped and twisted around to face me.
'It's Bradshaw, isn't it?' she asked. 'I can't see you well, but I
recognize your voice.'
'Yes, it is,' I said. 'You're out late, Mrs Tyler.'
'I came to see you,' she said, 'but I missed your house. I am so
forgetful that I walked right past it. Then I remembered and I was coming
back.'
'What can I do for you?' I asked.
'Why, they tell me that you've seen Tupper. Spent some time with him.'
'That's true,' I said, sweating just a little, afraid of what might be
coming next.
She moved a little closer, head tilted back, staring up at me.
'Is it true,' she asked, 'that he has a good position?'
'Yes,' I said, 'a very good position.'
'He holds the trust of his employers?'
'That is the impression that I gained. I would say he held a post of
some importance.'
'He spoke of me?' she asked.
'Yes,' I lied. 'He asked after you. He said he'd meant to write, but he
was too busy.'
'Poor boy,' she said, 'he never was a hand to write. He was looking
well?'
'Very well, indeed.'
'Foreign service, I understand,' she said. 'Who would ever have thought
he'd wind up in foreign service. To tell the truth, I often worried over
him. But that was foolish, wasn't it?'
'Yes, it was,' 'I said. 'He's making out all right.' 'Did he say when
he would be coming home?'
'Not for a time,' I told her. 'It seems he's very busy.'
Well, then,' she said, quite cheerfully, 'I won't be looking for him. I
can rest content. I won't be having to go out every hour or so to see if
he's come back.'
She turned away and started down the street.
'Mrs Tyler,' I said, 'can't I see you home? It's getting dark and...'
'Oh, my, no,' she said. 'There is no need of it. I won't be afraid. Now
that I know Tupper's all right, I'll never be afraid.'
I stood and watched her go, the white halo of her head bobbing in the
darkness, her cane tapping out the way as she moved down the long and
twisting path of her world of fantasy.
And it was better that way, I knew, better that she could take harsh
reality and twist it into something that was strange and beautiful.
I stood and watched until she turned the corner and the tapping of the
cane grew dim, then I turned about and headed downtown.
In the shopping district the street lamps had turned on, but all the
stores were dark and this, when one saw it, was a bit upsetting, for most of
them stayed open until nine o'clock. But now even the Happy Hollow tavern
and the movie house were closed.
The village hall was lighted and a small group of people loitered near
the door. The clinic, I imagined, must be coming to a close. I wondered,
looking at the hall, what Doc Fabian might think of all of this. His testy
old medic's soul, I knew, would surely stand aghast despite the fact he'd
been the first to benefit.
I turned from looking at the hall, and plodded down the street, hands
plunged deep into my trouser pockets, walking aimlessly and restlessly, not
knowing what to do. On a night like this, I wondered, what was a man to do?
Sit in his living-room and watch the flickering rectangle of a television
screen? Sit down with a bottle and methodically get drunk? Seek out a friend
or neighbour for endless speculation and senseless conversation? Or find
some place to huddle, waiting limply for what would happen next?
I came to an intersection and up the side street to my right I saw a
splash of light that fell across the sidewalk from a lighted window. I
looked at it, astonished, then realized that the light came from the window
of the Tribune office, and that Joe Evans would be there, talking on the
phone, perhaps, with someone from the Associated Press or the New York Times
or one of the other papers that had been calling him for news. Joe was a
busy man and I didn't want to bother him, but perhaps he wouldn't mind, I
thought, if I dropped in for a minute.
He was busy on the phone, crouched above his desk, with the receiver
pressed against his ear. The screen door clicked behind me and he looked up
and saw me.
'Just a minute,' he said into the phone, holding the receiver out to
me.
'Joe, what's the matter?'
For something was the matter. His face wore a look of shock and his
eyes were stiff and staring. Little beads of sweat trickled down his
forehead and ran into his eyebrows.
'It's A1f' he said, lips moving stiffly.
'Alf' I said into the phone, but I kept my eyes on Joe Evans' face. He
had the look of a man who had been hit on the head with something large and
solid.
'Brad!' cried Alf. 'Is that you, Brad?'
'Yes,' I said, 'it is.'
'Where have you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you. When
your phone didn't answer...'
'What's the matter, Alf? Take it easy, Alf.'
'All right,' he said. 'I'll try to take it easy. I'll take it from the
top.'
I didn't like the sound of his voice. He was scared and he was trying
not to be.
'Go ahead,' I said.
'I finally got to Elmore,' he told me. 'The traffic's something awful.
You can't imagine what the traffic is out here. They have military check
points and...'
'But you finally got to Elmore. You told me you were going.'
'Yes, I finally got here. On the radio I heard about this delegation
that came out to see you. The senator and the general and the rest of them,
and when I got to Elmore I found that they were stopping at the Corn Belt
hotel. Isn't that the damndest name...?
'But, anyhow, I figured that they should know more about what was going
on down in Mississippi. I thought it might throw some light on the
situation. So I went down to the hotel to see the senator - that is, to try
to see him. It was a madhouse down there. There were great crowds of people
and the police were trying to keep order, but they had their hands full.
There were television cameras all over the place and newsmen and the radio
people - well, anyhow, I never saw the senator. But I saw someone else. Saw
him and recognized him from the pictures in the paper. The one called
Davenport...'
'The biologist,' I said.
'Yes, that's it. The scientist. I got him cornered and I tried to
explain I had to see the senator. He wasn't too much help. I'm not even sure
be was hearing what I was saying. He seemed to be upset and he was sweating
like a mule and he was paper-white. I thought he might be sick and I asked
him if he was, if there was anything I could do for him. Then he told me. I
don't think he meant to tell me. I think maybe he was sorry that he did
after he had told me. But he was so full of anger it was spilling out of him
and for the moment he didn't care. The man was in anguish, I tell you. I
never saw a man as upset as be was. He grabbed me by the lapels and he stuck
his face up close to mine and he was so excited and he talked so fast that
he spit all over me. He wouldn't have done a thing like that for all the
world; he's not that sort of man...'
'Alf,' I pleaded. 'Alf, get down to facts.'
'I forgot to tell you,' Alf said, 'that the news had just broken about
that flying saucer you brought back. The radio was full of it. About how it
was spotting the nuclear concentrations. Well, I started to tell the
scientist about why I had to see the senator, about the project down in
Greenbriar. And that was when he began to talk, grabbing hold of me so I
couldn't get away. He said the news of the aliens' one condition, that we
disperse our nuclear capacity, was the worst thing that could have happened.
He said the Pentagon is convinced the aliens are a threat and that they must
be stopped...'
'Alf,' I said, suddenly weak, guessing what was coming.
'And he said they know they must be stopped before they control more
territory and the only way to do it is an H-bomb right on top of Miilville.'
He stopped, half out of breath.
I didn't say a thing. I couldn't say a word, I was too paralysed. I was
remembering how the general had looked when I'd talked with him that morning
and the senator saying, 'We have to trust you, boy. You hold us in your
hands.'
'Brad,' Alf asked, anxiously, 'are you there? Did you hear me?'
'Yes,' I said, 'I'm here.'
'Davenport told me he was afraid this new development of the nuclear
pinpointing might push the military into action without due consideration -
knowing that they had to act or they'd not have anything to use. Like a man
with a gun, he said, facing a wild beast. He doesn't want to kill the beast
unless he has to and there is always the chance the beast will slink away
and he won't have to fire. But suppose he knows that in the next two minutes
his gun will disappear into thin air well, then he has to take a chance and
shoot before the gun can disappear. He has to kill the beast while he still
has a gun.'
'And now,' I said, speaking more levelly than I would have thought
possible, 'Millville is the beast.'
'Not Millville, Brad. Just...'
'Yes,' I said, 'most certainly not Millville. Tell that to the people
when the bomb explodes.'
'This Davenport was beside himself. He had no business talking to
me...'
'You think he knows what he is talking about? He had a row with the
general this morning.'
'I think he knows more than he told me, Brad. He talked for a couple of
minutes and then he buttoned up. As though he knew he had no business
talking. But he's obsessed with one idea. He thinks the only thing that can
stop the military is the force of public opinion. He thinks that if what
they plan is known, there'll be such an uproar they'd be afraid to move.
Not only, he pointed out, would the public be outraged at such
cold-bloodedness, but the public wants these aliens in; they're for anyone
who can break the bomb. And this biologist of yours is going to plant this
story. He didn't say he would, but that's what he was working up to. He'll
tip off some newspaperman, I'm sure of that.'
I felt my guts turn over and my knees were weak. I pressed my legs hard
against the desk to keep from keeling over.
'This village will go howling mad,' I said. 'I asked the general this
morning...'
'You asked the general! For Christ sake, did you know?'
'Of course I knew. Not that they would do it. Just that, they were
thinking of it.'
'And you didn't say a word?'
'Who could I tell? What good would it have done? And it wasn't certain.
It was just an alternative - a last alternative. Three hundred lives against
three billion...'
'But you, yourself! All your friends...'
'Alf,' I pleaded, 'there was nothing I could do. What would you have
done? Told the village and driven everyone stark mad?'
'I don't know,' said Alf, 'I don't know what I'd have done.'
'Alf, is the senator at the hotel? I mean, is he there right now?'
'I think he is. You mean to call him, Brad?'
'I don't know what good it'll do,' I said, 'but perhaps I should.'
'I'll get off the line,' said Aif. 'And Brad...'
'Yes.'
'Brad, the best of luck. I mean - oh, hell, just the best of luck.'
'Thanks, Alf.'
I heard the click of the receiver as he hung up and the line droned
empty in my ear. My hand began to shake and I laid the receiver carefully on
the desk, not trying to put it back into the cradle.
Joe Evans was looking at me hard. 'You knew,' he said. 'You knew all
the time.'
I shook my head. 'Not that they meant to do it. The general mentioned
it as a last resort. Davenport jumped on him...'
I didn't finish what I meant to say. The words just dwindled off. Joe
kept on staring at me.
I exploded at him. 'Damn it, man,' I shouted, 'I couldn't tell anyone.
I asked the general, if he had to do it, to do it without notice. Not to let
us know. That way there'd be a flash we'd probably never see. We'd die, of
course, but only once. Not a thousand deaths...'
Joe picked up the phone. 'I'll try to raise the senator,' he said.
I sat down in a chair.
I felt empty. There was nothing in me. I heard Joe talking into the
telephone, but I didn't really hear his words, for it seemed that I had, for
the moment, created a small world all of my own (as though there were no
longer room for me in the normal world) and had drawn it about me as one
would draw a blanket.
I was miserable and at the same time angry, and perhaps considerably
confused.
Joe was saying something to me and I became aware of it only after he
had almost finished speaking.
'What was that?' I asked.
'The call is in,' said Joe. 'They'll call us back.'
I nodded.
'I told them it was important.'
'I wonder if it is,' I said.
'What do you mean? Of course it...'
'I wonder what the senator can do. I wonder what difference it will
make if I, or you, or anyone, talks to him about it.'
'The senator has a lot of weight,' said Joe. 'He likes to throw it
around.'
We sat in silence for a moment, waiting for the call, waiting for the
senator and what he knew about it.
'If no one will stand up for us,' asked Joe, 'if no one will fight for
us, what are we to do?'
'What can we do?' I asked. 'We can't even run. We can't get away. We're
sitting ducks.'
'When the village knows...'
'They'll know,' I said, 'as soon as the news leaks out. If it does leak
out. It'll be bulletined on TV and radio and everyone in this village is
plastered to a set.'
'Maybe someone will get hold of Davenport and hush him up.'
I shook my head. 'He was pretty sore this morning. Right down the
general's throat.'
And who was right? I asked myself. How could one tell in this short
space of time who was right or wrong?
For years man had fought insects and blights and noxious weeds. He'd
fought them any way he could. He'd killed them any way he could. Let one's
guard down for a moment and the weeds would have taken over. They crowded
every fence corner, every hedgerow, sprang up in every vacant lot. They'd
grow anywhere. When drought killed the grain and sickened the corn, the
weeds would keep on growing, green and tough and wiry.
And now came another noxious weed, out of another time, a weed that
very possibly could destroy not only corn and grain but the human race. If
this should be the case, the only thing to do was to fight it as one fought
any weed, with everything one had.
But suppose that this was a different sort of weed, no ordinary weed,
but a highly adaptive weed that had studied the ways of man and weed, and
out of its vast knowledge and adaptability could manage to survive anything
that man might throw at it. Anything, that is, except massive radiation.
For that had been the answer when the problem had been posed in that
strange project down in Mississippi.
And the Flowers' reaction to that answer would be a simple one. Get rid
of radiation. And while you were getting rid of it, win the affection of the
world.'
If that should be the situation, then the Pentagon was right.
The phone buzzed from the desk.
Joe picked up the receiver and handed it to me.
My lips seemed to be stiff. The words I spoke came out hard arid dry.
'Hello,' I said. 'Hello. Is this the senator?
'Yes.'
'This is Bradshaw Carter. Millville. Met you this morning. At the
barrier.'
'Certainly, Mr Carter. What can I do for you?
'There is a rumour...'
'There are many rumours, Carter. I've heard a dozen of them.'
'About a bomb on Millville. The general said this morning...'
'Yes,' said the senator, far too calmly. 'I have heard that rumour,
too, and am quite disturbed by it. But there is no confirmation. It is
nothing but a rumour.'
'Senator,' I said. 'I wish you'd level with me. To you it's a
disturbing thing to hear. It's personal with us.'
'Well,' said the senator. You could fairly hear him debating with
himself.
'Tell me,' I insisted. 'We're the ones involved...'
'Yes. Yes,' said the senator. 'You have the right to know. I'd not deny
you that.'
'So what is going on?
'There is only one solid piece of information,' said the senator.
'There are top level consultations going on among the nuclear powers. Quite
a blow to them, you know, this condition of the aliens. The consultations
are highly secret, as you might imagine. You realize, of course...'
'It's perfectly all right,' I said. 'I can guarantee...'
'Oh, it's not that so much,' said the senator. 'One of the newspaper
boys will sniff it out before the night is over. But I don't like it. It
sounds as if some sort of mutual agreement is being sought. In view of
public opinion, I am very much afraid...'
'Senator! Please, not politics.'
'I'm sorry,' said the senator. 'I didn't mean it that way. I won't try
to conceal from you that I am perturbed. I'm trying to get what facts I
can...'
'Then it's critical.'
'If that barrier moves another foot,' said the senator, 'if anything
else should happen, it's not inconceivable that we might act unilaterally.
The military can always argue that they moved to save the world from
invasion by an alien horde. They can claim, as well, that they had
information held by no one else. They could say it was classified and refuse
to give it out. They would have a cover story and once it had been done,
they could settle back and let time take its course. There would be hell to
pay, of course, but they could ride it out.'
'What do you think?' I asked. 'What are the chances?'
'God,' said the senator, 'I don't know. I don't have the facts. I don't
know what the Pentagon is thinking. I don't know the facts they have. I
don't know what the chiefs of staff have told the President. There is no way
of knowing the attitudes of Britain or Russia, or of France.'
The wire sang cold and empty.
'Is there,' asked the senator, 'anything that you can do from the
Millville end?'
'An appeal,' I said. 'A public appeal. The newspapers and the radio...'
I could almost see him shake his head. 'It wouldn't work,' he said. 'No
one has any way of knowing what's happening there behind the barrier. There
is always the possibility of influence by the aliens. And the pleading of
special favour even when that would be prejudicial to the world. The
communications media would snap it up, of course, and would play it up and
make a big thing of it. But it would not influence official opinion in the
least. It would only serve to stir up the people - the people everywhere.
And there is enough emotionalism now. What we need are some solid facts and
some common sense.'
He was fearful, I thought, that we'd upset the boat. He wanted to keep
everything all quiet and decent.
'And, anyhow,' he said, 'there is no real evidence...'
'Davenport thinks there is.'
'You have talked with him?'
'No,' I said, quite truthfully, 'I haven't talked with him.'
'Davenport,' he said, 'doesn't understand. He stepped out of the
isolation of his laboratory and...'
'He sounded good to me,' I said. 'He sounded civilized.'
And was sorry I'd said it, for now I'd embarrassed him as well as
frightened him.
'I'll let you know,' he said, a little stiffly. 'As soon as I hear
anything I'll let you or Gerald know. I'll do the best I can. I don't think
you need to worry. Just keep that barrier from moving, just keep things
quiet. That's all you have to do.'
'Sure, Senator,' I said, disgusted.
'Thanks for calling,' said the senator. 'I'll keep in touch.'
'Goodbye, Senator,' I said.
I put the receiver back into the cradle. Joe looked at me inquiringly.
I shook my head. 'He doesn't know and he isn't talking. And I gather he
is helpless. He can't do anything for us.'
Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk and a second later the door came
open. I swung around and there stood Higgy Morris.
Of all the people who would come walking in at this particular moment,
it would be Higgy Morris.
He looked from one to the other of us.
'What's the matter with you guys?' he asked.
I kept on looking at him, wishing that he'd go away, but knowing that
he wouldn't.
'Brad,' said Joe, 'we've got to tell him.'
'All right,' I said. 'You go ahead and tell him.'
Higgy didn't move. He stood beside the door while Joe told him how it
was. Higgy got wall-eyed and seemed to turn into a statue. He never moved a
muscle; he didn't interrupt.
For a long moment there was silence, then Higgy said to me, 'What do
you think? Could they do a thing like that to us?'
I nodded. 'They could. They might. If the barrier moves again. If
something else should happen.'
'Well, then,' said Higgy, springing into action, 'what are we standing
here for? We must start to dig.'
'Dig?'
'Sure. A bomb shelter. We've got all sorts of manpower. There's no one
in the village who's doing anything. We could put everyone to work. There's
road equipment in the shed down by the railroad station and there must be a
dozen or more trucks scattered here and there. I'll appoint a committee and
we'll. . . Say, what's the matter with you fellows?'
'Higgy,' said Joe, almost gently, 'you just don't understand. This
isn't fallout - this would be a hit with the village as ground zero. You
can't build a shelter that would do any good. Not in a hundred years, you
couldn't.'
'We could try,' said Higgy, stubbornly.
'You can't dig deep enough,' I said, 'or build strong enough to
withstand the blast. And even if you could, there'd be the oxygen . . .'
'But we got to do something,' Higgy shouted. 'We can't simply sit and
take it. Why, we'd all be killed!'
'Chum,' I told him, 'that's too damned bad.'
'Now, see here. . .' said Higgy.
'Cut it out!' yelled Joe. 'Cut it out, both of you. Maybe you don't
care for one another, but we have to work together. And there is a way. We
do have a shelter.'
I stared at him for a moment, then I saw what he was getting at.
'No!' I shouted. 'No, we can't do that. Not yet. Don't you see? That
would be throwing away any chance we have for negotiation. We can't let them
know.'
'Ten to one,' said Joe, 'they already know.'
'I don't get it at all,' Higgy pleaded. 'What shelter have we got?
'The other world,' said Joe. 'The parallel world, the one that Brad was
in. We could go back there if we had to. They would take care of us, they
would let us stay. They'd grow food for us and there'd be stewards to keep
us healthy and...'
'You forget one thing,' I said. 'We don't know how to go. There's just
that one place in the garden and now it's all changed. The flowers are gone
and there's nothing there but the money bushes.'
'The steward and Smith could show us,' said Joe. 'They would know the
way.'
'They aren't here,' said Higgy. 'They went home. There was no one at
the clinic and they said they had to go, but they'd be back again if we
needed them. I drove them down to Brad's place and they didn't have no
trouble finding the door or whatever you call it. They just walked a ways
across the garden and then they disappeared.'
'You could find it, then?' asked Joe.
'I could come pretty close.'
'We can find it if we have to, then,' said Joe. 'We can form lines, arm
in arm, and march across the garden.'
'I don't know,' I said. 'It may not be always open.'
'Open?'
'If it stayed open all the time,' I said, 'we'd have lost a lot of
people in the last ten years. Kids played down there and other people used
it for a short cut. I went across it to go over to Doc Fabian's, and there
were a lot of people who walked back and forth across it. Some of them would
have hit that door if it had been open.'
'Well, anyhow,' said Higgy, 'we can call them up. We can pick up one of
those phones...'
'Not,' I said, 'until we absolutely have to. We'd probably be cutting
ourselves off forever from the human race.'
'It would be better,' Higgy said, 'than dying.'
'Let's not rush into anything,' I pleaded with them. 'Let's give our
own people time to try to work it out. It's possible that nothing will
happen. We can't go begging for sanctuary until we know we need it. There's
still a chance that the two races may be able to negotiate. I know it
doesn't look too good now, but if it's possible, humanity has to have a
chance to negotiate.'
'Brad,' said Joe, 'I don't think there'll be any negotiations. I don't
think the aliens ever meant there should be any.'
'And,' said Higgy, 'this never would have happened if it hadn't been
for your father.'
I choked down my anger and I said, 'It would have happened somewhere.
If not in Millville, then it would have happened some place else. If not
right now, then a little later.'
'But that's the point,' said Higgy, nastily. 'It wouldn't have happened
here; it would have happened somewhere else.'
I had no answer for him. There was an answer, certainly, but not the
kind of answer that Higgy would accept.
'And let me tell you something else,' said Higgy. 'Just a friendly
warning. You better watch your step. Hiram's out to get you. The beating you
gave him didn't help the situation any. And there are a lot of hotheads who
feel as Hiram does about it. They blame you and your family for what has
happened here.'
'Higgy,' protested Joe, 'no one has any right...'
'I know they don't,' said Higgy, 'but that's the way it is. I'll try to
uphold law and order, but I can't guarantee it now.'
He turned and spoke directly to me. 'You better hope,' he said, 'that
this thing gets straightened out and soon. And if it doesn't, you better
find a big, deep hole to hide in.'
'Why, you ...' I said. I jumped to my feet and I would have slugged
him, but Joe came fast around the desk and grabbed hold of me and pushed me
back.
'Cut it out!' he said, exasperated. 'We got trouble enough without you
two tangling.'
'If the bombing rumour does get out,' said Higgy, viciously, 'I
wouldn't give a nickel for your life. You're too mixed up in it. Folks will
begin to wonder...'
Joe grabbed hold of Higgy and shoved him against the wall. 'Shut your
mouth,' he said, 'or I'll shut it for you.' He balled up a fist and showed
it to Higgy and Higgy shut his mouth.
'And now,' I said to Joe, 'since you've restored law and order and
everything is peaceable and smooth, you won't be needing me. I'll run
along.'
'Brad,' said Joe, between his teeth, 'just a minute, there...'
But I went out and slammed the door behind me.
Outside, the dusk had deepened and the street was empty. Light still
burned in the village hall, but the few loungers at the door were gone.
Maybe, I told myself, I should have stayed. If for no other reason than
to help Joe keep Higgy from making some fool move.
But there had, it seemed to me, been no point in staying. Even if I had
something to offer (which I didn't), it would have been suspect. For by now,
apparently, I was fairly well discredited. More than likely Hiram and Tom
Preston had been busy all afternoon lining people up in the Hate Bradshaw
Carter movement.
I turned off Main Street and headed back toward home. All along the
Street lay a sense of peacefulness. Shadows flickered on the lawns
quartering the intersections as a light summer breeze set the street lamps,
hung on their arms, to swaying. Windows were open against the heat and to
catch the breeze and soft lights shone within the houses, while from the
open windows came snatches of muttering from the TV or radio. Peaceful, and
yet I knew that beneath that quiet exterior lay the fear and hate and terror
that could turn the village into a howling bedlam at a single word or an
unexpected action.
There was resentment here, a smouldering resentment that one little
group of people should be penned like cattle while all the others in the
world were free. And a feeling of rebellion against the cosmic unfairness
that we, of all the people in the world, should have been picked for
penning. Perhaps, as well, a strange unquiet at being stared at by the world
and talked of by the world, as if we were something monstrous and unkempt.
And perhaps the shameful fear that the world might think we had brought all
this on ourselves through some moral or mental relapse.
Thrown into this sort of situation, it was only natural that the people
of the village should be avid to grasp at any sort of interpretation that
might clear their names and set them right, not only with themselves, but
with the aliens and the world; that they should be willing to believe
anything at all (the worst or best), to embrace all rumours, to wallow in
outlandish speculation, to attempt to paint the entire picture in
contrasting black and white (even when they knew that all of it was grey),
because in this direction of blackness and of whiteness lay the desired
simplicity that served an easier understanding and a comfortable acceptance.
They could not be blamed, I told myself. They were not equipped to take
a thing like this in stride. For years they had lived unspectacularly in a
tiny backwash off the mainstream of the world. The small events of village
life were their great events, the landmarks of their living that time the
crazy Johnson kid had rammed his beat-up jalopy into the tree on Elm Street,
the day the fire department had been called to rescue Grandma Jones' cat,
marooned on the roof of the Presbyterian parsonage (and to this day no one
could figure out how the cat had got there), the afternoon Pappy Andrews had
fallen asleep while fishing on the river bank, and had tumbled down into the
stream, to be hauled out, now thoroughly awakened, but with water in his
lungs, spewing and gasping, by Len Streeter (and the speculation as to why
Len Streeter should have been walking along the river bank). Of such things
had their lives been made, the thin grist of excitement.
But now they faced a bigger thing, something they could not comprehend,
a happening and a situation that was, for the moment, too big for the world
to comprehend. And because they could not reduce this situation to the
simple formula of aimless wonder that could be accorded a cat that had
somehow attained the parsonage roof, they were uneasy and upset and their
tempers were on edge, ready to flare into an antagonistic attitude, and very
probably into violence - if they could find something or someone against
which such a violence could be aimed. And now I knew that Tom Preston and
Hiram Martin had provided them with a target for their violence - if and
when the violence came.
I saw now that I was almost home. I was in front of the house of Daniel
Willoughby, a big brick house, upstanding and foursquare, the kind of house
you'd know, without even thinking of it, that a man like Daniel Willoughby
would own. Across the street, on the corner, was the old Perkins house.
New people had moved into the place a week or so ago. It was one of the
few houses in the village that was put up for rent, and people moved in and
out of it every year or so. No one ever went out of their way to get
acquainted with these renters; it wasn't worth one's while. And just down
the street was Doc Fabian's place.
A few minutes more, I thought, and I would be home, back in the house
with the hole punched in the roof, back with the echoing emptiness and the
lonely question, with the hatred and suspicion of the town performing
sentry-go just outside the gate.
Across the street a screen door slammed and feet tramped across the
porch boards.
A voice yelled: 'Wally, they're going to bomb us! It was on
television!'
A shadow hunched up out of the darkness of the earth - a man who had
been lying on the grass or sitting in a low-slung lawn chair, invisible
until the cry had jerked hint upright.
He gurgled as he tried to form some word, but it came out wrong.
'There was a bulletin!' the other one shouted from the porch. 'Just
now. On television.'
The man out in the yard was up and running, heading for the house.
And I was running, too. Heading for home, as fast as I could go, my
legs moving of their own accord, unprompted by the brain.
I'd expected I'd have a little time, but there'd been no time. The
rumour had broken sooner than I had anticipated.
For the bulletin, of course, had been no more than rumour, I was sure
of that - that a bombing might take place; that, as a last resort, a bomb
might be dropped on Millville. But I also knew that so far as this village
was concerned, it would make no difference. The people in the village would
not differentiate between fact and rumour.
This was the trigger that would turn this village into a hate-filled
'You should know,' I said. 'You just hit the jackpot.'
When I got back home, Nancy was waiting for me. She was sitting on the
steps that led up to the porch, huddled there, crouched against the world. I
saw her from a block away and hurried, gladder at the sight of her than I
had ever been before. Glad and humble, and with a tenderness I never knew I
had welling up so hard inside of me that I nearly choked.
Poor kid, I thought. It had been rough on her. Just one day home and
the world of Millville, the world that she remembered and thought of as her
home, had suddenly come unstuck.
Someone was shouting in the garden where tiny fifty-dollar bills
presumably were still growing on the little bushes.
Coming in the gate, I stopped short at the sound of bellowing.
Nancy looked up and saw me.
'It's nothing, Brad,' she said. 'It's just Hiram down there.
Higgy has him guarding all that money. The kids keep sneaking in, the
little eight and ten-year-olds. They only want to count the money on each
bush. They aren't doing any harm.
But Hiram chases them. There are times,' she said, 'when I feel sorry
for Hiram.'
'Sorry for him?' I asked, astonished. He was the last person in the
world I'd suspected anyone might feel sorry for. 'He's just a stupid slob.'
'A stupid slob,' she said, 'who's trying to prove something and is not
entirely sure what he wants to prove.'
'That he has more muscle...'
'No,' she told me, 'that's not it at all.'
Two kids came tearing out of the garden and vanished down the street.
There was no sign of Hiram. And no more hollering. He had done his job; he
had chased them off.
I sat down on the step beside her.
'Brad,' she said, 'it's not going well. I can feel it isn't going
well.'
I shook my head, agreeing with her.
'I was down at the village hall,' she said. 'Where that terrible,
shrivelled creature is conducting a clinic. Daddy's down there, too. He's
helping out. But I couldn't stay. It's awful.'
'What's so bad about it? That thing - whatever you may call it fixed up
Doc. He's up and walking around and he looks as good as new. And Floyd
Caldwell's heart and...'
She shuddered. 'That's the terrible thing about it. They are as good as
new. They're better than new. They aren't cured, Brad; they are repaired,
like a machine. It's like witchcraft. It's indecent. This wizened thing
looks them over and he never makes a sound, but just glides around and looks
them over and you can see that he's not looking at the outside of them but
at their very insides. I don't know how you know this, but you do. As if he
were reaching deep inside of them and...'
She stopped. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't talk this way.' It's
not very decent talk.'
'It's not a very decent situation,' I said. 'We may have to change our
minds a great deal about what is decent and indecent. There are a lot of
ways we may have to change. I don't suppose that we will like it...'
'You talk as if it's settled.'
'I'm afraid it is,' I said, and I told her what Smith had told the
newsmen. It felt good to tell her. There was no one else I could have told
right then. It was a piece of news so weighted with guilt I would have been
ashamed to tell it to anyone but Nancy.
'But now,' said Nancy, 'there can't be war - not the kind of war the
whole world feared.'
'No,' I said, 'there can't be any war.' But I couldn't seem to feel too
good about it. 'We may have something now that's worse than war.'
'There is nothing worse than war,' she said.
And that, of course, would be what everyone would say. Maybe they'd be
right. But now the aliens would come into this world of ours and once we'd
let them in we'd be entirely at their mercy. They had tricked us and we had
nothing with which we could defend ourselves. Once here they could take over
and supersede all plant life upon the Earth, without our knowing it, without
our ever being able to find out. Once we let them in we never could be sure.
And once they'd done that, then they'd own us. For all the animal life on
Earth, including man, depended on the plants of Earth for their energy.
'What puzzles me,' I said, 'is that they could have taken over, anyhow.
If they'd had a little patience, if they had taken a little time, they could
have taken over and we never would have known. For there are some of them
right here, their roots in Millville ground. They needn't have stayed as
flowers. They could have been anything. In a hundred years they could have
been every branch and leaf, every blade of grass...'
'Maybe there was a time factor of some sort,' said Nancy. 'Maybe they
couldn't afford to wait.'
I shook my head. 'They had lots of time. If they needed more, they
could have made it.'
'Maybe they need the human race,' she said. 'Perhaps we have something
they want. A plant society couldn't do a thing itself. They can't move about
and they haven't any hands. They can store a lot of knowledge and they can
think long thoughts - they can scheme and plan. But they can't put any of
that planning into execution. They would need a partner to carry out their
plans.'
'They've had partners,' I reminded her. 'They have a lot of partners
even now. There are the people who made the time machine. There's this funny
little doctor and that big windbag of a Smith. The Flowers have all the
partners they need. It must be something else.'
'These people that you mention,' she said, 'may not be the right kind
of people. Perhaps they searched world after world for the right kind of
human beings. For the right kind of partner. Maybe that's us.'
'Perhaps,' I said, 'the others weren't mean enough. They may be looking
for a deadly race. And a deadly race, that's us. Maybe they want someone
who'll go slashing into parallel world after parallel world, in a sort of
frenzy; brutal, ruthless, terrible. For when you come right down to it, we
are pretty terrible. They may figure that, working with us, there's nothing
that can stop them. Probably they are right. With all their accumulated
knowledge and their mental powers, plus our understanding of physical
concepts and our flair for technology, there probably is no limit to what
the two of us could do.'
'I don't think that's it,' she said. 'What's the matter with you? I
gained the impression to start with that you thought the Flowers might be
all right.'
'They still may be,' I told her, 'but they used so many tricks and I
fell for all the tricks. They used me for a fall guy.'
'So that's what bothers you.'
'I feel like a heel,' I said.
We sat quietly side by side upon the step. The Street was silent and
empty. During all the time we had sat there, no one had passed.
Nancy said, 'It's strange that anyone could submit himself to that
alien doctor. He's a creepy sort of being, and you can't be sure...'
'There are a lot of people,' I told her, 'who run most willingly to
quackery.'
'But this isn't quackery,' she said. 'He did cure Doc and the rest of
them. I didn't mean he was a faker, but only that he's horrid and
repulsive.'
'Perhaps we appear the same to him.'
'There's something else,' she said. 'His technique is so different. No
drugs, no instruments, no therapy. He just looks you over and probes into
you with nothing, but you can see him probing, and then you're whole again -
not only well, but whole. And if he can do that to our bodies, what about
our minds? Can he change our minds, can he re-orient our thoughts?'
'For some people in this village,' I told her, 'that might be a good
idea. Higgy, for example.'
She said, sharply, 'Don't joke about it, Brad.'
'All right,' I said. 'I won't.'
'You're just talking that way to keep from being scared.'
'And you,' I said, 'are talking seriously about it in an effort to
reduce it to a commonplace.'
She nodded. 'But it doesn't help,' she said. 'It isn't commonplace.'
She stood up. 'Take me home,' she said.
So I walked her home.
Twilight was falling when I walked downtown. I don't know why I went
there. Restlessness, I guess. The house was too big and empty (emptier than
it had ever been before) and the neighbourhood too quiet. There was no noise
at all except for the occasional snatch of voices either excited or
pontifical, strained through the electronic media. There was not a house in
the entire village, I was certain, that did not have a television set or
radio turned on.
But when I turned on the TV in the living-room and settled back to
watch, it did no more than make me nervous and uneasy.
A commentator, one of the better known ones, was holding forth with a
calm and deep assurance.
'...no way of knowing whether this contraption which is circling the
skies can really do the job which our Mr Smith from the other world has
announced to be its purpose. It has been picked up on a number of occasions
by tracking stations which do not seem to be able, for one reason or
another, to keep it in their range, and there have been instances,
apparently verified, of visual sightings of it. But it is something about
which it is difficult to get any solid news.'
'Washington, it is understood, is taking the position that the word of
an unknown being - unknown by either race or reputation - scarcely can be
taken as undisputed fact. The capital tonight seems to be waiting for more
word and until something of a solid nature can be deduced, it is unlikely
there will be any sort of statement. That is the public position, of course;
what is going on behind the scenes may be anybody's guess. And the same
situation applies fairly well to all other capitals throughout the entire
world.
'But this is not the situation outside the governmental circles.
Everywhere the news has touched off wild celebration.
There are joyous, spontaneous marches breaking out in London, and in
Moscow a shouting, happy mob has packed Red Square. The churches everywhere
have been filled since the first news broke, people thronging there to utter
prayers of thankfulness.
'In the people there is no doubt and not the slightest hesitation. The
man in the street, here in the United States and in Britain and in France -
in fact, throughout the world - has accepted this strange announcement at
face value. It may be simply a matter of believing what one chooses to
believe, or it may be for some other reason, but the fact remains that there
has been a bewildering suspension of the disbelief which characterized mass
reaction so short a time ago as this morning.'
'There seems, in the popular mind, to be no consideration of all the
other factors which may be involved. The news of the end of any possibility
of nuclear war has drowned out all else. It serves to underline the quiet
and terrible, perhaps subconscious, tension under which the world has
lived...'
I shut off the television and prowled about the house, my footsteps
echoing strangely in the darkening rooms.
It was well enough, I thought, for a smug, complacent commentator to
sit in the bright-lit studio a thousand miles away and analyse these
happenings in a measured and well-modulated manner. And it was well enough,
perhaps, for people other than myself even here in Millville, to sit and
listen to him. But I couldn't listen - I couldn't stand to listen.
Guilt, I asked myself? And it might be guilt, for I had been the one
who'd brought the time machine to Earth and I had been the one who had taken
Smith to meet the newsmen at the barrier. I had played the fool - the utter,
perfect fool and it seemed to me the entire world must know.
Or might it be the conviction that had been growing since I talked with
Nancy that there was some hidden incident or fact - some minor motive or
some small point of evidence -that I had failed to see, that we all had
failed to grasp, and that if one could only put his finger on this single
truth then all that had happened might become simpler of understanding and
all that was about to happen might make some sort of sense?
I sought for it, for this hidden factor, for this joker in the deck,
for the thing so small it had been overlooked and yet held within it a vast
significance, and I did not find it.
I might be wrong, I thought. There might be no saving factor. We might
be trapped and doomed and no way to get out.
I left the house and went down the street. There was no place I really
wanted to go, but I had to walk, hoping that the freshness of the evening
air, the very fact of walking might somehow clear my head.
A half a block away I caught the tapping sound. It appeared to be
moving down the street toward me and in a little while I saw a bobbing halo
of white that seemed to go with the steady tapping. I stopped and stared at
it and it came bobbing closer and the tapping sound went on. And in another
moment I saw that it was Mrs Tyler with her snow-white hair and cane.
'Good evening, Mrs Tyler,' I said as gently as I could, not to frighten
her.
She stopped and twisted around to face me.
'It's Bradshaw, isn't it?' she asked. 'I can't see you well, but I
recognize your voice.'
'Yes, it is,' I said. 'You're out late, Mrs Tyler.'
'I came to see you,' she said, 'but I missed your house. I am so
forgetful that I walked right past it. Then I remembered and I was coming
back.'
'What can I do for you?' I asked.
'Why, they tell me that you've seen Tupper. Spent some time with him.'
'That's true,' I said, sweating just a little, afraid of what might be
coming next.
She moved a little closer, head tilted back, staring up at me.
'Is it true,' she asked, 'that he has a good position?'
'Yes,' I said, 'a very good position.'
'He holds the trust of his employers?'
'That is the impression that I gained. I would say he held a post of
some importance.'
'He spoke of me?' she asked.
'Yes,' I lied. 'He asked after you. He said he'd meant to write, but he
was too busy.'
'Poor boy,' she said, 'he never was a hand to write. He was looking
well?'
'Very well, indeed.'
'Foreign service, I understand,' she said. 'Who would ever have thought
he'd wind up in foreign service. To tell the truth, I often worried over
him. But that was foolish, wasn't it?'
'Yes, it was,' 'I said. 'He's making out all right.' 'Did he say when
he would be coming home?'
'Not for a time,' I told her. 'It seems he's very busy.'
Well, then,' she said, quite cheerfully, 'I won't be looking for him. I
can rest content. I won't be having to go out every hour or so to see if
he's come back.'
She turned away and started down the street.
'Mrs Tyler,' I said, 'can't I see you home? It's getting dark and...'
'Oh, my, no,' she said. 'There is no need of it. I won't be afraid. Now
that I know Tupper's all right, I'll never be afraid.'
I stood and watched her go, the white halo of her head bobbing in the
darkness, her cane tapping out the way as she moved down the long and
twisting path of her world of fantasy.
And it was better that way, I knew, better that she could take harsh
reality and twist it into something that was strange and beautiful.
I stood and watched until she turned the corner and the tapping of the
cane grew dim, then I turned about and headed downtown.
In the shopping district the street lamps had turned on, but all the
stores were dark and this, when one saw it, was a bit upsetting, for most of
them stayed open until nine o'clock. But now even the Happy Hollow tavern
and the movie house were closed.
The village hall was lighted and a small group of people loitered near
the door. The clinic, I imagined, must be coming to a close. I wondered,
looking at the hall, what Doc Fabian might think of all of this. His testy
old medic's soul, I knew, would surely stand aghast despite the fact he'd
been the first to benefit.
I turned from looking at the hall, and plodded down the street, hands
plunged deep into my trouser pockets, walking aimlessly and restlessly, not
knowing what to do. On a night like this, I wondered, what was a man to do?
Sit in his living-room and watch the flickering rectangle of a television
screen? Sit down with a bottle and methodically get drunk? Seek out a friend
or neighbour for endless speculation and senseless conversation? Or find
some place to huddle, waiting limply for what would happen next?
I came to an intersection and up the side street to my right I saw a
splash of light that fell across the sidewalk from a lighted window. I
looked at it, astonished, then realized that the light came from the window
of the Tribune office, and that Joe Evans would be there, talking on the
phone, perhaps, with someone from the Associated Press or the New York Times
or one of the other papers that had been calling him for news. Joe was a
busy man and I didn't want to bother him, but perhaps he wouldn't mind, I
thought, if I dropped in for a minute.
He was busy on the phone, crouched above his desk, with the receiver
pressed against his ear. The screen door clicked behind me and he looked up
and saw me.
'Just a minute,' he said into the phone, holding the receiver out to
me.
'Joe, what's the matter?'
For something was the matter. His face wore a look of shock and his
eyes were stiff and staring. Little beads of sweat trickled down his
forehead and ran into his eyebrows.
'It's A1f' he said, lips moving stiffly.
'Alf' I said into the phone, but I kept my eyes on Joe Evans' face. He
had the look of a man who had been hit on the head with something large and
solid.
'Brad!' cried Alf. 'Is that you, Brad?'
'Yes,' I said, 'it is.'
'Where have you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you. When
your phone didn't answer...'
'What's the matter, Alf? Take it easy, Alf.'
'All right,' he said. 'I'll try to take it easy. I'll take it from the
top.'
I didn't like the sound of his voice. He was scared and he was trying
not to be.
'Go ahead,' I said.
'I finally got to Elmore,' he told me. 'The traffic's something awful.
You can't imagine what the traffic is out here. They have military check
points and...'
'But you finally got to Elmore. You told me you were going.'
'Yes, I finally got here. On the radio I heard about this delegation
that came out to see you. The senator and the general and the rest of them,
and when I got to Elmore I found that they were stopping at the Corn Belt
hotel. Isn't that the damndest name...?
'But, anyhow, I figured that they should know more about what was going
on down in Mississippi. I thought it might throw some light on the
situation. So I went down to the hotel to see the senator - that is, to try
to see him. It was a madhouse down there. There were great crowds of people
and the police were trying to keep order, but they had their hands full.
There were television cameras all over the place and newsmen and the radio
people - well, anyhow, I never saw the senator. But I saw someone else. Saw
him and recognized him from the pictures in the paper. The one called
Davenport...'
'The biologist,' I said.
'Yes, that's it. The scientist. I got him cornered and I tried to
explain I had to see the senator. He wasn't too much help. I'm not even sure
be was hearing what I was saying. He seemed to be upset and he was sweating
like a mule and he was paper-white. I thought he might be sick and I asked
him if he was, if there was anything I could do for him. Then he told me. I
don't think he meant to tell me. I think maybe he was sorry that he did
after he had told me. But he was so full of anger it was spilling out of him
and for the moment he didn't care. The man was in anguish, I tell you. I
never saw a man as upset as be was. He grabbed me by the lapels and he stuck
his face up close to mine and he was so excited and he talked so fast that
he spit all over me. He wouldn't have done a thing like that for all the
world; he's not that sort of man...'
'Alf,' I pleaded. 'Alf, get down to facts.'
'I forgot to tell you,' Alf said, 'that the news had just broken about
that flying saucer you brought back. The radio was full of it. About how it
was spotting the nuclear concentrations. Well, I started to tell the
scientist about why I had to see the senator, about the project down in
Greenbriar. And that was when he began to talk, grabbing hold of me so I
couldn't get away. He said the news of the aliens' one condition, that we
disperse our nuclear capacity, was the worst thing that could have happened.
He said the Pentagon is convinced the aliens are a threat and that they must
be stopped...'
'Alf,' I said, suddenly weak, guessing what was coming.
'And he said they know they must be stopped before they control more
territory and the only way to do it is an H-bomb right on top of Miilville.'
He stopped, half out of breath.
I didn't say a thing. I couldn't say a word, I was too paralysed. I was
remembering how the general had looked when I'd talked with him that morning
and the senator saying, 'We have to trust you, boy. You hold us in your
hands.'
'Brad,' Alf asked, anxiously, 'are you there? Did you hear me?'
'Yes,' I said, 'I'm here.'
'Davenport told me he was afraid this new development of the nuclear
pinpointing might push the military into action without due consideration -
knowing that they had to act or they'd not have anything to use. Like a man
with a gun, he said, facing a wild beast. He doesn't want to kill the beast
unless he has to and there is always the chance the beast will slink away
and he won't have to fire. But suppose he knows that in the next two minutes
his gun will disappear into thin air well, then he has to take a chance and
shoot before the gun can disappear. He has to kill the beast while he still
has a gun.'
'And now,' I said, speaking more levelly than I would have thought
possible, 'Millville is the beast.'
'Not Millville, Brad. Just...'
'Yes,' I said, 'most certainly not Millville. Tell that to the people
when the bomb explodes.'
'This Davenport was beside himself. He had no business talking to
me...'
'You think he knows what he is talking about? He had a row with the
general this morning.'
'I think he knows more than he told me, Brad. He talked for a couple of
minutes and then he buttoned up. As though he knew he had no business
talking. But he's obsessed with one idea. He thinks the only thing that can
stop the military is the force of public opinion. He thinks that if what
they plan is known, there'll be such an uproar they'd be afraid to move.
Not only, he pointed out, would the public be outraged at such
cold-bloodedness, but the public wants these aliens in; they're for anyone
who can break the bomb. And this biologist of yours is going to plant this
story. He didn't say he would, but that's what he was working up to. He'll
tip off some newspaperman, I'm sure of that.'
I felt my guts turn over and my knees were weak. I pressed my legs hard
against the desk to keep from keeling over.
'This village will go howling mad,' I said. 'I asked the general this
morning...'
'You asked the general! For Christ sake, did you know?'
'Of course I knew. Not that they would do it. Just that, they were
thinking of it.'
'And you didn't say a word?'
'Who could I tell? What good would it have done? And it wasn't certain.
It was just an alternative - a last alternative. Three hundred lives against
three billion...'
'But you, yourself! All your friends...'
'Alf,' I pleaded, 'there was nothing I could do. What would you have
done? Told the village and driven everyone stark mad?'
'I don't know,' said Alf, 'I don't know what I'd have done.'
'Alf, is the senator at the hotel? I mean, is he there right now?'
'I think he is. You mean to call him, Brad?'
'I don't know what good it'll do,' I said, 'but perhaps I should.'
'I'll get off the line,' said Aif. 'And Brad...'
'Yes.'
'Brad, the best of luck. I mean - oh, hell, just the best of luck.'
'Thanks, Alf.'
I heard the click of the receiver as he hung up and the line droned
empty in my ear. My hand began to shake and I laid the receiver carefully on
the desk, not trying to put it back into the cradle.
Joe Evans was looking at me hard. 'You knew,' he said. 'You knew all
the time.'
I shook my head. 'Not that they meant to do it. The general mentioned
it as a last resort. Davenport jumped on him...'
I didn't finish what I meant to say. The words just dwindled off. Joe
kept on staring at me.
I exploded at him. 'Damn it, man,' I shouted, 'I couldn't tell anyone.
I asked the general, if he had to do it, to do it without notice. Not to let
us know. That way there'd be a flash we'd probably never see. We'd die, of
course, but only once. Not a thousand deaths...'
Joe picked up the phone. 'I'll try to raise the senator,' he said.
I sat down in a chair.
I felt empty. There was nothing in me. I heard Joe talking into the
telephone, but I didn't really hear his words, for it seemed that I had, for
the moment, created a small world all of my own (as though there were no
longer room for me in the normal world) and had drawn it about me as one
would draw a blanket.
I was miserable and at the same time angry, and perhaps considerably
confused.
Joe was saying something to me and I became aware of it only after he
had almost finished speaking.
'What was that?' I asked.
'The call is in,' said Joe. 'They'll call us back.'
I nodded.
'I told them it was important.'
'I wonder if it is,' I said.
'What do you mean? Of course it...'
'I wonder what the senator can do. I wonder what difference it will
make if I, or you, or anyone, talks to him about it.'
'The senator has a lot of weight,' said Joe. 'He likes to throw it
around.'
We sat in silence for a moment, waiting for the call, waiting for the
senator and what he knew about it.
'If no one will stand up for us,' asked Joe, 'if no one will fight for
us, what are we to do?'
'What can we do?' I asked. 'We can't even run. We can't get away. We're
sitting ducks.'
'When the village knows...'
'They'll know,' I said, 'as soon as the news leaks out. If it does leak
out. It'll be bulletined on TV and radio and everyone in this village is
plastered to a set.'
'Maybe someone will get hold of Davenport and hush him up.'
I shook my head. 'He was pretty sore this morning. Right down the
general's throat.'
And who was right? I asked myself. How could one tell in this short
space of time who was right or wrong?
For years man had fought insects and blights and noxious weeds. He'd
fought them any way he could. He'd killed them any way he could. Let one's
guard down for a moment and the weeds would have taken over. They crowded
every fence corner, every hedgerow, sprang up in every vacant lot. They'd
grow anywhere. When drought killed the grain and sickened the corn, the
weeds would keep on growing, green and tough and wiry.
And now came another noxious weed, out of another time, a weed that
very possibly could destroy not only corn and grain but the human race. If
this should be the case, the only thing to do was to fight it as one fought
any weed, with everything one had.
But suppose that this was a different sort of weed, no ordinary weed,
but a highly adaptive weed that had studied the ways of man and weed, and
out of its vast knowledge and adaptability could manage to survive anything
that man might throw at it. Anything, that is, except massive radiation.
For that had been the answer when the problem had been posed in that
strange project down in Mississippi.
And the Flowers' reaction to that answer would be a simple one. Get rid
of radiation. And while you were getting rid of it, win the affection of the
world.'
If that should be the situation, then the Pentagon was right.
The phone buzzed from the desk.
Joe picked up the receiver and handed it to me.
My lips seemed to be stiff. The words I spoke came out hard arid dry.
'Hello,' I said. 'Hello. Is this the senator?
'Yes.'
'This is Bradshaw Carter. Millville. Met you this morning. At the
barrier.'
'Certainly, Mr Carter. What can I do for you?
'There is a rumour...'
'There are many rumours, Carter. I've heard a dozen of them.'
'About a bomb on Millville. The general said this morning...'
'Yes,' said the senator, far too calmly. 'I have heard that rumour,
too, and am quite disturbed by it. But there is no confirmation. It is
nothing but a rumour.'
'Senator,' I said. 'I wish you'd level with me. To you it's a
disturbing thing to hear. It's personal with us.'
'Well,' said the senator. You could fairly hear him debating with
himself.
'Tell me,' I insisted. 'We're the ones involved...'
'Yes. Yes,' said the senator. 'You have the right to know. I'd not deny
you that.'
'So what is going on?
'There is only one solid piece of information,' said the senator.
'There are top level consultations going on among the nuclear powers. Quite
a blow to them, you know, this condition of the aliens. The consultations
are highly secret, as you might imagine. You realize, of course...'
'It's perfectly all right,' I said. 'I can guarantee...'
'Oh, it's not that so much,' said the senator. 'One of the newspaper
boys will sniff it out before the night is over. But I don't like it. It
sounds as if some sort of mutual agreement is being sought. In view of
public opinion, I am very much afraid...'
'Senator! Please, not politics.'
'I'm sorry,' said the senator. 'I didn't mean it that way. I won't try
to conceal from you that I am perturbed. I'm trying to get what facts I
can...'
'Then it's critical.'
'If that barrier moves another foot,' said the senator, 'if anything
else should happen, it's not inconceivable that we might act unilaterally.
The military can always argue that they moved to save the world from
invasion by an alien horde. They can claim, as well, that they had
information held by no one else. They could say it was classified and refuse
to give it out. They would have a cover story and once it had been done,
they could settle back and let time take its course. There would be hell to
pay, of course, but they could ride it out.'
'What do you think?' I asked. 'What are the chances?'
'God,' said the senator, 'I don't know. I don't have the facts. I don't
know what the Pentagon is thinking. I don't know the facts they have. I
don't know what the chiefs of staff have told the President. There is no way
of knowing the attitudes of Britain or Russia, or of France.'
The wire sang cold and empty.
'Is there,' asked the senator, 'anything that you can do from the
Millville end?'
'An appeal,' I said. 'A public appeal. The newspapers and the radio...'
I could almost see him shake his head. 'It wouldn't work,' he said. 'No
one has any way of knowing what's happening there behind the barrier. There
is always the possibility of influence by the aliens. And the pleading of
special favour even when that would be prejudicial to the world. The
communications media would snap it up, of course, and would play it up and
make a big thing of it. But it would not influence official opinion in the
least. It would only serve to stir up the people - the people everywhere.
And there is enough emotionalism now. What we need are some solid facts and
some common sense.'
He was fearful, I thought, that we'd upset the boat. He wanted to keep
everything all quiet and decent.
'And, anyhow,' he said, 'there is no real evidence...'
'Davenport thinks there is.'
'You have talked with him?'
'No,' I said, quite truthfully, 'I haven't talked with him.'
'Davenport,' he said, 'doesn't understand. He stepped out of the
isolation of his laboratory and...'
'He sounded good to me,' I said. 'He sounded civilized.'
And was sorry I'd said it, for now I'd embarrassed him as well as
frightened him.
'I'll let you know,' he said, a little stiffly. 'As soon as I hear
anything I'll let you or Gerald know. I'll do the best I can. I don't think
you need to worry. Just keep that barrier from moving, just keep things
quiet. That's all you have to do.'
'Sure, Senator,' I said, disgusted.
'Thanks for calling,' said the senator. 'I'll keep in touch.'
'Goodbye, Senator,' I said.
I put the receiver back into the cradle. Joe looked at me inquiringly.
I shook my head. 'He doesn't know and he isn't talking. And I gather he
is helpless. He can't do anything for us.'
Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk and a second later the door came
open. I swung around and there stood Higgy Morris.
Of all the people who would come walking in at this particular moment,
it would be Higgy Morris.
He looked from one to the other of us.
'What's the matter with you guys?' he asked.
I kept on looking at him, wishing that he'd go away, but knowing that
he wouldn't.
'Brad,' said Joe, 'we've got to tell him.'
'All right,' I said. 'You go ahead and tell him.'
Higgy didn't move. He stood beside the door while Joe told him how it
was. Higgy got wall-eyed and seemed to turn into a statue. He never moved a
muscle; he didn't interrupt.
For a long moment there was silence, then Higgy said to me, 'What do
you think? Could they do a thing like that to us?'
I nodded. 'They could. They might. If the barrier moves again. If
something else should happen.'
'Well, then,' said Higgy, springing into action, 'what are we standing
here for? We must start to dig.'
'Dig?'
'Sure. A bomb shelter. We've got all sorts of manpower. There's no one
in the village who's doing anything. We could put everyone to work. There's
road equipment in the shed down by the railroad station and there must be a
dozen or more trucks scattered here and there. I'll appoint a committee and
we'll. . . Say, what's the matter with you fellows?'
'Higgy,' said Joe, almost gently, 'you just don't understand. This
isn't fallout - this would be a hit with the village as ground zero. You
can't build a shelter that would do any good. Not in a hundred years, you
couldn't.'
'We could try,' said Higgy, stubbornly.
'You can't dig deep enough,' I said, 'or build strong enough to
withstand the blast. And even if you could, there'd be the oxygen . . .'
'But we got to do something,' Higgy shouted. 'We can't simply sit and
take it. Why, we'd all be killed!'
'Chum,' I told him, 'that's too damned bad.'
'Now, see here. . .' said Higgy.
'Cut it out!' yelled Joe. 'Cut it out, both of you. Maybe you don't
care for one another, but we have to work together. And there is a way. We
do have a shelter.'
I stared at him for a moment, then I saw what he was getting at.
'No!' I shouted. 'No, we can't do that. Not yet. Don't you see? That
would be throwing away any chance we have for negotiation. We can't let them
know.'
'Ten to one,' said Joe, 'they already know.'
'I don't get it at all,' Higgy pleaded. 'What shelter have we got?
'The other world,' said Joe. 'The parallel world, the one that Brad was
in. We could go back there if we had to. They would take care of us, they
would let us stay. They'd grow food for us and there'd be stewards to keep
us healthy and...'
'You forget one thing,' I said. 'We don't know how to go. There's just
that one place in the garden and now it's all changed. The flowers are gone
and there's nothing there but the money bushes.'
'The steward and Smith could show us,' said Joe. 'They would know the
way.'
'They aren't here,' said Higgy. 'They went home. There was no one at
the clinic and they said they had to go, but they'd be back again if we
needed them. I drove them down to Brad's place and they didn't have no
trouble finding the door or whatever you call it. They just walked a ways
across the garden and then they disappeared.'
'You could find it, then?' asked Joe.
'I could come pretty close.'
'We can find it if we have to, then,' said Joe. 'We can form lines, arm
in arm, and march across the garden.'
'I don't know,' I said. 'It may not be always open.'
'Open?'
'If it stayed open all the time,' I said, 'we'd have lost a lot of
people in the last ten years. Kids played down there and other people used
it for a short cut. I went across it to go over to Doc Fabian's, and there
were a lot of people who walked back and forth across it. Some of them would
have hit that door if it had been open.'
'Well, anyhow,' said Higgy, 'we can call them up. We can pick up one of
those phones...'
'Not,' I said, 'until we absolutely have to. We'd probably be cutting
ourselves off forever from the human race.'
'It would be better,' Higgy said, 'than dying.'
'Let's not rush into anything,' I pleaded with them. 'Let's give our
own people time to try to work it out. It's possible that nothing will
happen. We can't go begging for sanctuary until we know we need it. There's
still a chance that the two races may be able to negotiate. I know it
doesn't look too good now, but if it's possible, humanity has to have a
chance to negotiate.'
'Brad,' said Joe, 'I don't think there'll be any negotiations. I don't
think the aliens ever meant there should be any.'
'And,' said Higgy, 'this never would have happened if it hadn't been
for your father.'
I choked down my anger and I said, 'It would have happened somewhere.
If not in Millville, then it would have happened some place else. If not
right now, then a little later.'
'But that's the point,' said Higgy, nastily. 'It wouldn't have happened
here; it would have happened somewhere else.'
I had no answer for him. There was an answer, certainly, but not the
kind of answer that Higgy would accept.
'And let me tell you something else,' said Higgy. 'Just a friendly
warning. You better watch your step. Hiram's out to get you. The beating you
gave him didn't help the situation any. And there are a lot of hotheads who
feel as Hiram does about it. They blame you and your family for what has
happened here.'
'Higgy,' protested Joe, 'no one has any right...'
'I know they don't,' said Higgy, 'but that's the way it is. I'll try to
uphold law and order, but I can't guarantee it now.'
He turned and spoke directly to me. 'You better hope,' he said, 'that
this thing gets straightened out and soon. And if it doesn't, you better
find a big, deep hole to hide in.'
'Why, you ...' I said. I jumped to my feet and I would have slugged
him, but Joe came fast around the desk and grabbed hold of me and pushed me
back.
'Cut it out!' he said, exasperated. 'We got trouble enough without you
two tangling.'
'If the bombing rumour does get out,' said Higgy, viciously, 'I
wouldn't give a nickel for your life. You're too mixed up in it. Folks will
begin to wonder...'
Joe grabbed hold of Higgy and shoved him against the wall. 'Shut your
mouth,' he said, 'or I'll shut it for you.' He balled up a fist and showed
it to Higgy and Higgy shut his mouth.
'And now,' I said to Joe, 'since you've restored law and order and
everything is peaceable and smooth, you won't be needing me. I'll run
along.'
'Brad,' said Joe, between his teeth, 'just a minute, there...'
But I went out and slammed the door behind me.
Outside, the dusk had deepened and the street was empty. Light still
burned in the village hall, but the few loungers at the door were gone.
Maybe, I told myself, I should have stayed. If for no other reason than
to help Joe keep Higgy from making some fool move.
But there had, it seemed to me, been no point in staying. Even if I had
something to offer (which I didn't), it would have been suspect. For by now,
apparently, I was fairly well discredited. More than likely Hiram and Tom
Preston had been busy all afternoon lining people up in the Hate Bradshaw
Carter movement.
I turned off Main Street and headed back toward home. All along the
Street lay a sense of peacefulness. Shadows flickered on the lawns
quartering the intersections as a light summer breeze set the street lamps,
hung on their arms, to swaying. Windows were open against the heat and to
catch the breeze and soft lights shone within the houses, while from the
open windows came snatches of muttering from the TV or radio. Peaceful, and
yet I knew that beneath that quiet exterior lay the fear and hate and terror
that could turn the village into a howling bedlam at a single word or an
unexpected action.
There was resentment here, a smouldering resentment that one little
group of people should be penned like cattle while all the others in the
world were free. And a feeling of rebellion against the cosmic unfairness
that we, of all the people in the world, should have been picked for
penning. Perhaps, as well, a strange unquiet at being stared at by the world
and talked of by the world, as if we were something monstrous and unkempt.
And perhaps the shameful fear that the world might think we had brought all
this on ourselves through some moral or mental relapse.
Thrown into this sort of situation, it was only natural that the people
of the village should be avid to grasp at any sort of interpretation that
might clear their names and set them right, not only with themselves, but
with the aliens and the world; that they should be willing to believe
anything at all (the worst or best), to embrace all rumours, to wallow in
outlandish speculation, to attempt to paint the entire picture in
contrasting black and white (even when they knew that all of it was grey),
because in this direction of blackness and of whiteness lay the desired
simplicity that served an easier understanding and a comfortable acceptance.
They could not be blamed, I told myself. They were not equipped to take
a thing like this in stride. For years they had lived unspectacularly in a
tiny backwash off the mainstream of the world. The small events of village
life were their great events, the landmarks of their living that time the
crazy Johnson kid had rammed his beat-up jalopy into the tree on Elm Street,
the day the fire department had been called to rescue Grandma Jones' cat,
marooned on the roof of the Presbyterian parsonage (and to this day no one
could figure out how the cat had got there), the afternoon Pappy Andrews had
fallen asleep while fishing on the river bank, and had tumbled down into the
stream, to be hauled out, now thoroughly awakened, but with water in his
lungs, spewing and gasping, by Len Streeter (and the speculation as to why
Len Streeter should have been walking along the river bank). Of such things
had their lives been made, the thin grist of excitement.
But now they faced a bigger thing, something they could not comprehend,
a happening and a situation that was, for the moment, too big for the world
to comprehend. And because they could not reduce this situation to the
simple formula of aimless wonder that could be accorded a cat that had
somehow attained the parsonage roof, they were uneasy and upset and their
tempers were on edge, ready to flare into an antagonistic attitude, and very
probably into violence - if they could find something or someone against
which such a violence could be aimed. And now I knew that Tom Preston and
Hiram Martin had provided them with a target for their violence - if and
when the violence came.
I saw now that I was almost home. I was in front of the house of Daniel
Willoughby, a big brick house, upstanding and foursquare, the kind of house
you'd know, without even thinking of it, that a man like Daniel Willoughby
would own. Across the street, on the corner, was the old Perkins house.
New people had moved into the place a week or so ago. It was one of the
few houses in the village that was put up for rent, and people moved in and
out of it every year or so. No one ever went out of their way to get
acquainted with these renters; it wasn't worth one's while. And just down
the street was Doc Fabian's place.
A few minutes more, I thought, and I would be home, back in the house
with the hole punched in the roof, back with the echoing emptiness and the
lonely question, with the hatred and suspicion of the town performing
sentry-go just outside the gate.
Across the street a screen door slammed and feet tramped across the
porch boards.
A voice yelled: 'Wally, they're going to bomb us! It was on
television!'
A shadow hunched up out of the darkness of the earth - a man who had
been lying on the grass or sitting in a low-slung lawn chair, invisible
until the cry had jerked hint upright.
He gurgled as he tried to form some word, but it came out wrong.
'There was a bulletin!' the other one shouted from the porch. 'Just
now. On television.'
The man out in the yard was up and running, heading for the house.
And I was running, too. Heading for home, as fast as I could go, my
legs moving of their own accord, unprompted by the brain.
I'd expected I'd have a little time, but there'd been no time. The
rumour had broken sooner than I had anticipated.
For the bulletin, of course, had been no more than rumour, I was sure
of that - that a bombing might take place; that, as a last resort, a bomb
might be dropped on Millville. But I also knew that so far as this village
was concerned, it would make no difference. The people in the village would
not differentiate between fact and rumour.
This was the trigger that would turn this village into a hate-filled