His money was now gone, but he was practically next door to Terra, as astronomical distances go. He was able to work his passage to Oum6, and from Oume to Legis II. There the Interstellar Travelers Aid Society arranged a berth for him and at last he arrived back on Earth.
GOODMAN has settled down in Seakirk, New Jersey, where a man is perfectly safe as long as he pays his taxes. He holds the post of Chief Robotic Technician for the Seakirk Construction Corporation and has married a small, dark, quiet girl, who obviously adores him, although he rarely lets her out of the house. He and old Captain Savage go frequently to Eddie’s Moonlight Bar, drink Tranai Specials, and talk of Tranai the Blessed, where The Way has been found and Man is no longer bound to The Wheel. On such occasions, Goodman complains of a touch of space malaria—because of it, he can never go back into space, can never return to Tranai.
There is always an admiring audience on these nights.
Goodman has recently organized, with Captain Savage’s help, the Seakirk League to Take the Vote from Women. They are its only members, but as Goodman puts it, when did that ever stop a crusader?
WARRIOR’S RETURN
Hibbs wasn’t the first man to come back from the wars with a chip on his shoulder . . . only his reached from here to Mars!
THE SILVER and blue cross-country bus reached the outskirts of town and slowed.
“Is there any special place you want to get off, sir?” the bus driver asked.
“This will do nicely,” Hibbs said.
With great gentleness, the driver braked his enormous vehicle to an imperceptible stop, as though he were transporting nitroglycerin instead of people. The gesture wasn’t lost on the passengers.
They recognized it as the driver’s mark of respect, his genuflection to the famous Mr. Hibbs.
“Is he getting off here?”
“Shh! He’ll hear you!”
“But why here?”
“This is where he lived before the war.”
“And why did he come by bus?”
As the bus came to its imperceptible stop four blocks from the center of town, Hibbs stood up and lifted his worn leather suitcase from the baggage rack. Every man in the bus noticed how tall and stooped and skinny he was, how homely, how tired-looking. They’d be able to tell their friends all about him. And the women made notes of Hibbs’ unbecoming steel-rimmed glasses and his cheap, unpressed suit, the coat of which they could estimate within a few dollars.
No one spoke as he gave his ticket stub to the driver.
“It’s been a great pleasure having you, Mr. Hibbs,” the driver said, operating the door lever. “Ah—Mr. Hibbs, could I ask you a question, sir?”
Hibbs smiled vaguely, pretending he didn’t hear. He started down the steps.
The driver said, “Would you mind telling me why you came by bus, sir, instead of the other way?”
Hibbs shook his head and walked down the steps.
“Mr. Hibbs,” the driver said, “could I have your autograph? My little boy—”
Hibbs hurried away from the bus.
“Freak!” the driver shouted. The bus roared away.
Hibbs wiped perspiration from his forehead and found that his hands were shaking. He began to walk toward town.
An old pickup truck came by. Lettered on its battered side was Tommy’s Auto Repairs. The driver slowed, stared at Hibbs and stamped on the gas pedal. The truck picked up speed, its ancient engine knocking furiously. The driver glanced back once, then hunched over the wheel.
Welcome home, Hibbs thought.
THE PICKUP truck screeched to a stop in front of Joe’s Bar. Tommy Burke climbed out, glanced up the block and hurried into the bar.
“Hey, guess who’s in town!” he yelled.
Joe’s Bar resembled a cavern. The dirty windows were forever shuttered and the light that filtered through had a cold, unreal, phosphorescent quality, as though there were no light outside at all. No matter what the time, it was always midnight in Joe’s Bar, midnight on the longest night in the year.
The three drinkers had a night look, too. Their leaning bodies fitted cunningly against the bar, as though shaped for that purpose. Their feet were intricately twined in the brass rail, in a manner no human feet should assume. They looked like fixtures, like simulated humans that Joe might have bought to keep him company.
“Well, guess who’s back in town,” Tommy Burke repeated.
The bartender put down his newspaper and said, “Burke, don’t come shouting in here like that.”
“Give me a beer,” Burke said, “and guess who’s in town.”
“Abraham Lincoln?” hazarded Jim Mathis.
“Alexander the Great?” asked Stan Dearborn.
“Julius Caesar?” said Eddie Fleet.
“Here’s your beer,” Joe the bartender said.
Burke took a deep gulp and wiped his mouth. “Frank Hibbs is back in town.”
“Huh?”
“You’re kidding!”
“Hibbs wouldn’t come back here!”
“He’s here,” Burke said.
“Where?”
“Walking down Main Street.”
“Walking?” The three men uncoiled their feet from the brass rail, rushed to the door and peered out. They came slowly back to the bar and ordered. “Another beer.”
“Make it two.”
“Better give me a shot. It is Frank Hibbs!”
At that, Willie Day came out of the men’s room. “You say Frank’s back?”
“I drove right by him,” Burke said.
“So why didn’t you stop and give him a lift?” Day asked.
BURKE scratched his head. “I didn’t think of it. You don’t give Frank Hibbs a lift just like that. What was I supposed to do, stop and say, ‘Hop in, Frank,’ like he was just anybody? He didn’t have to walk if he didn’t want to.”
“You was scared,” the bartender said, winking at the three drinkers.
“I was not!”
“Sure you was—a big, strong boy like you.”
“Well, I ain’t scared of you,” Burke said sullenly, folding his muscular, grease-stained arms across his chest. “You big, flabby meatball.”
“No offense,” the bartender said, winking again at the drinkers. “So our home-town hero has returned.”
“Think he’ll show us his medals?” Mathis asked.
“Frank was never no showoff,” Willie Day said, looking like a fighting rooster with his red-rimmed eyes and bristling gray hair.
“No, not much,” Mathis snorted. “Him and his great big brain.”
“You can’t blame him for being smart,” Day argued.
“I reckon we’d of won the war without him.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Day said. “Just what you got against him?”
“I hate freaks,” Mathis said. “I’d like to boot his tail out of town for him.”
“Why don’t you try?” asked Day. “You’re about twice his size, Jim. Go ahead and you try.”
“You can’t fight a guy like that,” Mathis grumbled. “In a fair fight, I could beat him. And I can lick you any old time.”
“Say, Tommy,” the bartender broke in, “what was Hibbs wearing?”
“Business suit,” Burke said, puzzled.
“Did he have on a hat?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I kinda thought he might be wearing a Buck Rogers space helmet,” Joe answered.
Everyone except Willie Day roared with laughter.
“I don’t like it,” Stan Dearborn said. “Whenever Hibbs is here, someone gets hurt. I think we should ask him politely to leave town. We could get up a deputation—”
“You’re forgetting something,” Eddie Fleet interrupted, with a subtle smile.
“What’s that?”
“Frank Hibbs can make us rich. You know that, don’t you?” He waited until the drinkers had nodded. Then he said, “Tommy, go out and buy a New York Times. I’ll show you what I mean.”
He walked into the cigar store. Mrs. Taylor was behind the counter, reading a mystery magazine. She blinked at him through her bifocals and cried. “My goodness! Frank Hibbs!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hibbs said. “Could I have two packs of Luckies?”
Mrs. Taylor just stared at him. “Are you back for good, Frank?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess I’m going to stay.”
“Oh, Frank, we’ve been so proud of you, most of us. We read all about you in the newspapers. Imagine a boy from our little town becoming famous!”
“Well, it’s all over,” Hibbs said. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I don’t blame you. It must have been a frightful experience. But I always said you were an unusual boy. Do you remember how I always spoke up for you after your poor parents died?” Hibbs smiled faintly. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Taylor. How is Danny?”
“Danny is dead. My poor boy was killed in that big battle they had around Port Arthur. He was just an ordinary soldier.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“He was on an actual battlefield,” Mrs. Taylor said, “carrying an actual weapon. No generals tried to protect Danny.”
“Could I have the Luckies?” Hibbs asked.
Mrs. Taylor took out two packs and held them absent-mindedly in her hand. “Well, I guess everyone did what they could. I always spoke up for you, Frank, you know that. I never let anyone call you a freak in my presence. Why, the main reason they didn’t commit you that time was because of my say-so. And you’ve certainly showed them.”
“I’m very tired, Mrs. Taylor,” Hibbs said. “I’d love to talk some other time, but right now—”
“Frank,” Mrs. Taylor cut in, “I hate to ask you this on your first day home, but—”
Hibbs held out his hand for the cigarettes. Reluctantly Mrs. Taylor gave them to him and accepted half a dollar.
“Please listen to me, Frank. I’m only asking because you and Danny were such friends and I always stuck up for you. They raised the taxes again on that little tiny country place of mine and it’s all Joe Walsh’s fault. If you spoke to him, Frank—you wouldn’t even have to threaten, just one firm word out of you—” Hibbs hurried out of the store. Mrs. Taylor followed a few steps.
“Well, perhaps after you’ve rested,” she added urgently. “I know you won’t forget your old friends. Frank, why didn’t you wear your uniform? Your newspaper pictures were so handsome with the uniform. Why didn’t you wear it?”
“That uniform was a joke,” Hibbs said bitterly. “I was no soldier.”
He walked across the street to Mrs. Ganz’s boarding house.
WITHIN the dim and cavernous recesses of Joe’s Bar, the drinkers had gathered around a two-day-old copy of the New York Times, spread out full on the bar. They had opened it to the financial section.
“Do you really think he can do it?” Dearborn asked.
“Of course he can,” Eddie Fleet said.
“But will he?”
“Why not?” Fleet wanted to know. “We’re his friends, aren’t we? Look, we buy him a couple drinks, we talk about high school days, then we ask. him to have a look at these stock market things. He looks, right? Hibbs was always crazy about numbers. And we’re his friends, right?”
“Fine friends,” Willie Day said.
“And then we ask him which stocks are going up. It’s as simple as that. All he has to do is say, ‘Minnesota Mining’ or ‘Dakota Uranium.’ A couple of words!”
“All he has to do is point,” the bartender said. “He don’t have to speak at all if he don’t want to.”
“He’ll never do it,” Day insisted.
“Two minutes of his valuable time, that’s all it’ll take,” Fleet said. “How in hell can he say no?” Jim Mathis shook his head. “But are you really sure he’ll know? Even those electric brain things they got in Washington and Harvard can’t do that.”
“They can, too,” Tommy Burke argued.
“If they can,” Mathis asked, “how come those professors ain’t rich? Answer me that one!”
“Look,” the bartender said, “Frank can outthink those machines. He did it during the war, the early part, before they found out what else he could do.”
“He won’t do it,” Willie Day told them. “Look, a million people must have asked him for favors by now. Everybody knows what he can do.”
“But this is his home town,” Fleet said. “This is different. He wants to live here. He wants us to say what a wonderful job he did. That’s what he wants. That’s why he came back.”
Day shook his head emphatically. “Frank came back because he doesn’t have any other place to go. I guess he’s about the most famous man in the country now. People won’t leave him alone. I think he hoped he could find a little peace and quiet here.”
“In that case, he didn’t think very good with that great big brain of his,” Mathis said.
“Come on,” Fleet said, folding the Times. “Let’s hunt him up.
It’s worth a try.”
Stan Dearborn said, “Hey, let’s take along a fifth. Maybe we can soften him up with a drink or two.”
“Good idea.”
“A fifth of the best, Joe.”
“Who’s going to pay for it?” the bartender demanded.
“We’ll chip in. We’re all in this, aren’t we?”
“I guess so,” the bartender admitted. He slipped a bottle into a brown paper bag. “Coming, Willie?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you guys are crazy. You go up to Frank like that, there’s going to be trouble. Someone’s going to get hurt.”
“You’re just chicken, Willie,” Burke said.
MARIE GANZ had seen Hibbs enter town and had just had time to change into a freshly pressed cotton dress, brush her hair and touch up her lipstick. She opened the front door of the boarding house for him.
“Well, Frank!”
“Hello, Marie,” Hibbs said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Marie replied. “I guess I’ve grown up a little since you were here last.”
“Yes, you have. You were a pretty little girl then . . .”
“And now?”
“You’re a pretty woman.” Hibbs coughed nervously. “Is your mother here?”
“She’s in the hospital,” Marie said. “Her stomach again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“But she kept your room all through the war, just like you asked. And I cleaned and dusted it every day. It’s just the way you left it.”
“That’s fine,” Hibbs said. “I think I’ll go up now.”
But he hesitated. Marie was half blocking the doorway. He would have to brush past her to enter the boarding house.
“The sheets are clean and fresh,” Marie said. “And I made sure nothing was ever moved.”
“Thank you,” Hibbs said.
“I know how you feel about your personal things. I wouldn’t of let anyone touch them.”
“Well, thanks.”
“You look tired, Frank. You ought to have some fun, now that you’re back. Go out dancing and things.”
“Would you like to go dancing with me?” Hibbs asked.
“Sure. I’d love to, Frank.”
“You wouldn’t feel—strange, being seen out with me?”
“Of course not, silly!”
THERE WAS an awkward silence. Then Marie asked, “What are you going to do now, Frankie?”
�
�Nothing much,” Hibbs said. “A little painting . . .”
“Painting? You?”
“Most definitely me.”
“But, Frank, you could make millions!”
“I’m just going to do a little painting.”
“I guess you can afford to,” Marie said. “They must of paid you well in the war. I’ll bet you got more than those generals. You should of, after all you did!”
Hibbs smiled vaguely, brushed past her and slowly started up the stairs.
Marie said, “Frank—”
“Yes, Marie?”
“I hate to bother you at a time like this. I hate to ask anything of you—”
“Later, perhaps,” Hibbs said moving up the stairs. Hurriedly, this time.
“Frank, it’s Mother’s stomach. I don’t think the hospital is doing her any good. And it costs so much! It’s unbelievable how much it costs.”
“The doctors know what they’re doing,” Hibbs said.
“Wouldn’t you cure her, Frank?”
Hibbs turned on the stairs. “I can’t do anything like that.”
“I know you can,” Marie said. “You cured Mother’s tumor that time. I know she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but I am her daughter.”
“I’m through! I’m through with all that. I’m just an ordinary human being now. I’m going to be a painter—”
“Oh, Frank,” Marie begged, “you could just flick your fingers and it’d be done.”
“Don’t you understand? I can’t arbitrate. I can’t pick and choose. If I give to one, I must give to all. And I can’t give to all. I did what everybody asked me once, but now I’m sick of being different. I’m my own man now and I want to be like everyone else!”
“You won’t do it? A little thing like that?”
“I can’t!”
“I shouldn’t think it would disturb you so much.” Marie said. “After what you did.”
Hibbs had turned pale. He stared at Marie.
“Oh, you can kill, kill, kill, if someone important asks you to. But you won’t cure one little sickness. Well, I wouldn’t be seen out with a freak like you.” Marie was shouting now.
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