by Anthology
The peddler still wasn’t sure about fireworks. The Fourth was obviously some sort of barbaric ceremonial at which children were sacrificed, and fireworks were probably paraphernalia for the witch doctors. Anyhow, it didn’t matter.
“These toys are all I sell,” he insisted. “They’re highly educational. Designed and recommended by child training experts, to instruct while they amuse. Safe enough for children in the proper age groups.”
He squinted sharply at the amiable constable.
“But I’m not sure about offering them here,” he added uneasily. “In so small a place, it might not pay me to buy a license.”
“You don’t need one.” The constable chuckled disarmingly. “You see, we aren’t incorporated. Another point of our sort of town. Go ahead and sell your toys—just so they’re nothing that will hurt the children.”
He slowed the vehicle to call a genial greeting to a group of children playing ball on a vacant lot, and stopped in the village to let a boy and his dog cross the street ahead. The peddler thanked him, and got out hastily.
“Wait, Mr. Gray,” he protested. “You had breakfast?”
The peddler said he hadn’t.
“Then jump in again,” the jovial native urged. “Mamie has plenty on the table—she cooks it up while I do the chores out on the farm. Seeing you’re doing business in town, I want you to come out and eat with us.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but all I want is something to drink.”
“I guess you are dry, walking in this dust.” The native nodded sympathetically. “Come on out, and we’ll give you a drink.”
Tempted by that promise and afraid of offending the law, he got back in the machine. The constable drove on to a neat, white-painted hut at the edge of the village. Four noisy children ran out to welcome them, and a clean, plump-faced woman met them at the door.
“My wife,” the constable drawled jovially. “Mr. Gray. A sort of earlv-bird Santa Claus, he says, with toys for the kiddies. He’d like a drink.”
The peddler came into the kitchen section of the hut, which looked surprisingly clean. He reached with a trembling anxiety for the drink the woman brought him. It had the bright clear color of grain alcohol, and he almost strangled, in his bitter surprise, when he found that it was only cold water.
He thanked the woman as civilly as he could manage, and said he had to go. The children were clamoring to see his toys, however, and the constable urged him to stay for breakfast. He sat down reluctantly and sipped a cup of hot bitter liquid called coffee, which really seemed to help his headache.
Still afraid of the friendly constable, he made excuses not to show the toys until the children had to leave for school. The smallest girl began to sneeze and sniffle, as the mother herded them toward the door, and he inquired with some alarm what was wrong.
“Just a cold,” the woman said. “Nothing serious.”
That puzzled him for an instant because the weather seemed quite warm. Probably another error in translation, but nothing to alarm him. He was rising to follow the children outside, but the woman turned back to him.
“Don’t go yet, Mr. Gray.” She smiled kindly. “I’m afraid you aren’t well. You hardly touched your ham and eggs. Let me get you another cup of coffee.”
He sat down again unwillingly. Perhaps he wasn’t well, but he expected to feel worse until he had a drink of something better than cold water.
“Can’t we do something for him, Jud?” The woman had turned to her husband. “He doesn’t look able to be out on the road alone, without a soul to do for him. Can’t you think of something?”
“Well—” The constable set fire to the end of a small white tube, and inhaled the smoke with a reflective expression. “We still don’t have a janitor at the school. I’m a trustee, and I’ll say a word to the principal if you want the job.”
“And you could stay here with us,” the woman added eagerly. “There’s a nice clean bed in the attic. Your board won’t cost a cent, so long as you’re willing to do a few odd jobs around the place. Would you like that?”
He squinted at her uncertainly. To his own surprise, he wanted to stay. He wasn’t used to kindness, and it filled his eyes with tears. The infinite chasm of open space seemed suddenly even more dark and cold and dreadful than it was, and for an instant he hungered fiercely for the quiet peace of this forgotten world. Perhaps its still spell would hold him and heal all his restless discontent.
“You’re welcome here,” the constable was urging. “And if you’ve got a business head, you can find more than odd jobs to do. You’ll never find a likelier spot than Chatsworth, if you want to settle down.”
“I don’t know.” He picked up his empty cup, absently.
“I’m really glad you want me, but I’m afraid it’s been too long——”
He stopped, flinching, when he saw the woman looking at his nose. Her eyes fell, as if out of pity, but in a moment she spoke.
“I . . . I do hope you’ll let us help you, Mr. Gray.” She hesitated again, her plump face flushed, and he began to hate her. “I’ve a brother in the city who’s a plastic surgeon,” she went on resolutely. “He has turned a lot of . . . well, misfits . . . into very successful people. He’s really very good, and not high at all. If you decide to stay, I think we can manage something.”
He set the empty cup down quickly, because his hands were shaking again. He was still alert enough to recognize the old trap, even in this charming guise. He didn’t want to be rehabilitated, and he meant to keep his nose.
“Well, Mr. Gray?” the constable was drawling. “Want to see the principal?”
“I’d like to.” He grinned wanly, to cover his shuddering panic. “If you’ll just show me where to find him. And you’ve both been very kind.”
“Don’t mention it,” the constable said. “I’m driving back to the farm, and I’ll take you by the school.”
But he didn’t talk to the principal. He had seen the trap, and he was still crafty enough to escape it. He started walking toward the building as the constable drove away, limping along as soberly as if he had already been rehabilitated, but he stopped outside, behind a hedge, to make his pitch.
He unlocked the battered case and set it up on the extended legs and lighted the three-dimensional displays. The children j gathered on the playground were already pausing in the games j to look at him, and when the psionic music began they flocked around him instantly.
His toys were the cheapest possible trinkets, mass-produced from common materials, but they were cleverly packaged and their ingenious designs reflected the advanced technology of the industrial planet where they were made. The small plastic boxes were gay with universal psionic labels, which reacted to attention with animated stereo-color scenes and changing labels which seemed to be printed in each looker’s own language.
“Come in closer, kiddies!”
He picked up the first little pile of round red boxes and began juggling them with a sudden dexterity in his twisted old fingers, so that they rose and fell in time to the racing psionic melody.
“Look, kiddies! A wonderful educational toy. Use it to demonstrate the great basic principles of meteorology and neutrionics. And surprise your friends.
“The Little Wonder Weather Wizard Blizzard Maker Set! It works by turning part of the heat energy of the air for several miles around into radiant neutrinos. The sudden chilling causes precipitation, and the outflow of cold air creates a brief but effective blizzard—the label tells you all about it.
“Step right up, kiddies! Buy ’em at a bargain price. Only twenty-five cents each, or three for half a dollar——”
“But we really shouldn’t, mister.” The boy who interrupted looked familiar, and he recognized the constable’s oldest son. “All most of us have is our lunch money, and we aren’t supposed to spend it.”
“Don’t you worry, kid,” he answered quickly. “Even if you go home hungry, you’ll have your money’s worth. You never saw any toys like these. Onl
y fifteen cents, to close ’em out. Come right up and buy ’em now, because I won’t be here tomorrow.”
He scooped up the coins from grubby little hands.
“But don’t start making storms just now,” he warned hastily. “We don’t want trouble with the teachers, do we, kiddies? Better keep ’em in your pockets until school is out. Sorry, sonny. That’s all the blizzard makers—but look at this!”
He picked up the next stack of small plastic boxes.
“The Junior Giant Degravitator Kit! A fascinating experiment in gravitational inversion. Learn the facts of basic science, and amaze your friends. The label shows you all about it.”
He began passing out the boxes. The bright psionic labels looked blank at first, but they came to shining life under the eyes of the children, responding to the thoughts of each. Most of them pictured the harmless degravitation of such small objects as marbles and tadpoles, but he glimpsed one showing how to connect the device to the foundations of the school building and another in which the astonished principal himself was falling upward toward open space.
“Wait a moment, sonny!” he whispered hurriedly. “Let’s not degravitate anything until after school is out. Sorry, laddie. That’s all the Junior Giants, but here’s something else that’s just as educational, and really better fun.”
He held up a Great Detective Annihilator Pistol-Pencil.
“It looks like an ordinary writing instrument, but the eraser really erases! It converts solid matter into invisible neutrinos.
All you do is point it and press the clip. You can blow holes in walls, and make objects disappear, and fool your friends.
All for one thin dime!”
The school bell began to ring as he handed out the annihilators and gathered up the dimes.
“Just one more item, kiddies, before you go to class.” He turned up the psionic amplifier, and raised his rusty voice. “Something I know you’re all going to want. An exciting experiment, with real atomic energy, that you can try at home!”
He poured bright little spheres out of a carton into the palm of his hand.
“Look at ’em, kiddies! Planet Blaster Fusion Bomb Capsules, Super-Dooper Size. All you do is drop one capsule in a bucket of water and wait for it to dissolve. The reaction fuses the hydrogen atoms in the water into helium—the free instruction leaflet tells you how the same reaction makes the stars shine.
“Buy ’em now, before you go to class. Add realism to your j playground battles, and flabbergast your friends. Make your own fusion bombs. Only five cents each. Three for a dime, if I you buy ’em now——”
“Say, mister.” The constable’s son had bought three capsules, but now he stood peering at them uneasily. “If these little pills make real atom bombs, aren’t they dangerous, even more than fireworks?”
“I wouldn’t know about fireworks.” The peddler scowled impatiently. “But these toys are safe enough, if you’ve had your psionic preconditioning. I hope you all know enough not to set off fusion bombs indoors!”
He laughed at the bewildered boy, and lifted his rasping voice.
“Your last chance, kiddies! I won’t be here when you set out of school, but right now these genuine fusion bomb capsules are going two for a nickel. One for two cents, sonny, if that’s all you’ve got.”
He swept in the last sweaty coppers.
“And that’s all, kiddies.” He turned out the shimmering displays and stopped the psionic music and folded up the stand. The children filed into the schoolhouse, and he hurried back across the village.
The tavern on the hill was open when he came back to it, and the scent of alcohol brought back all his thirst, so intense that his whole body shuddered. He was spreading out his money on the bar, when a blare of native music startled him.
The raw notes sawed at his nerves, too loud and queerly meaningless. He turned to scowl at the bulky machine from which they came, wondering what made them seem so flat and dead. After a moment of puzzled annoyance, he realized that the music was sound alone, with no psionic overtones.
Were these people ignorant of psionics? It seemed impossible that even the Covenants of Non-Contact could exclude all knowledge of such a basic science, yet now when he thought of it he couldn’t recall seeing any psionic device at all. The bartender ought to know.
“Well, mister, what will you have?”
“Tell me,” he whispered huskily, “do your schools here teach psionics?”
The man’s startled expression should have been answer enough, but he wasn’t looking at it. He had seen his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The hard, narrow bloodless face. The shrinking chin. The shifty, hollowed, bloodshot eyes. And the huge crooked nose.
“Huh?” The bartender was staring. “What did you say?”
But his voice was gone. If these people didn’t know psionics, anything he said would give him away. The flier would be discovered, and he could never leave. He would be rehabilitated. White and weak with panic, he pushed the heap of coins across the bar.
“Whisky!” he gasped. “All this will buy.”
The bartender took an endless time to count the coins, but they bought six bottles. He crammed them into the empty case, and hurried out of the bar. And he came at last, footsore and dusty, back across the bridge and up the hills where he had left the flier.
His breath sobbed out when he stumbled through the trees and saw the empty spot beyond the rock. Dismay shook him. He thought the flier was gone, until he turned and recognized its inflated camouflage. Trembling with a sick weakness, he found the psionic key and tried to deflate the membrane.
The key didn’t work.
He tried again, but still the distended fabric remained hard as actual rock. He ran frantically around it, trying the key against a dozen different spots. None of them responded. He was locked out.
He couldn’t understand it, and he had to have a drink. He had been trying to wait until he was safe aboard, with his new destination dialed on the automatic pilot, but suddenly he felt too tired and cold and hopeless to make any effort without the warming aid of alcohol. He couldn’t even think.
He stooped to open the sales case, where he had put the whisky, but the psionic key failed again. It fell out of his fingers, when he realized what was wrong. Psionic and neutrionic devices seldom got out of order, but they could be disabled. The flier must have been discovered by somebody from the quarantine station.
Sick with panic, he tried to get away. He dropped the case and ran blindly off into the unfamiliar wilderness. His staggering flight must have led him in a circle, however, for at last he came reeling back to a hill and a rock that looked the same. His head was light with illness by that time, his twitching limbs hot with fever.
He was clawing feebly at the stiffened membrane, hopelessly trying to tear it away with his bleeding fingers, when he heard firm footsteps behind him and turned to see the stolid, sunburned figure of Constable Jud Hankins.
“Well, constable.” He leaned giddily back against the camouflage, grinning with a sick relief that this was not a quarantine inspector, His translator failed to work at first, but it spoke for him as he fumbled to adjust the instrument under his clothing.
“I give up,” he muttered dully. “I’ll go back with you.” A chill began to shake him, and his raw throat felt too painful for speech. “I’m ready to settle down—if they’ll only leave my nose alone.”
There was something else he ought to say, but his ears were roaring and his bones ached and he could hardly stand. He felt too sick for a moment to remember anything, but at last it came back to him.
“The toys—” he sobbed. “They’re dangerous!”
“Not any longer,” the tall man told him curtly. “We slapped psionic and neutrionic inhibitors on this whole area, to prevent accidents, before I borrowed the identity of Constable Hankins to pick them up.”
“You—” He stared blankly. “You are——”
“A quarantine inspector, from Sol Station.” The
officer flashed a psionic badge. “You were detected before you landed. We delayed the arrest to be certain you had no confederates.”
He felt too ill to be astonished.
“You’ve got me,” he mumbled faintly. “Go ahead and give me full rehabilitation.”
“Too late for that.” The stem man straightened impatiently. “You’re all alike, you quarantine breakers. You always forget that cultural impacts strike both ways. You never understand that the Covenants exist partly for your own protection.”
He shook his throbbing head.
“I know you were not processed through our clinic at the station,” the inspector rapped. “I see you didn’t even bring a medical kit. I’d bet you landed here, among a people so primitive that malignant micro-organisms are allowed to breed among them, with no protection for yourself whatever.”
“Clinic?” The one word was all he really caught, but he stiffened defensively. “You can do what else you like,” he whispered doggedly. “But I mean to keep my nose.”
“You’ve bigger troubles now.” The inspector studied him regretfully. “I suppose our ancestors were naturally immune, the way these people are, but I’d be dead in half a day if I hadn’t been immunized against a thousand viruses and germs. You’ve already picked them up.”
He stood wheezing for his breath, squinting painfully against the light.
“The people I met were well enough,” he protested stupidly. “One child had something called a cold, but the woman said it wasn’t dangerous.”
“Not to her,” the inspector said. “No more than atomic fusion bombs are to you.”
Uncomprehending, the peddler swayed and fell.
The Peddler’s Nose by jack Williamson. Copyright, 1950, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for Astounding Science-Fiction; reprinted by permission of Street & Smith, Inc., and the author.
ALGIS BUDRYS
Science fiction is often provocative, sometimes informative, frequently horrifying. Young Algis Budrys, in a writing career still measured in months, has demonstrated all of those qualities in a score of fine stories and one novel. But more than those, science fiction can also be fun . . . as in——