by Jack Finney
Well after midnight, at the front door, they said good night to Dotty. She stood in the hall, holding her sleeping, blanket-wrapped child, while Al and Debbie, in pajamas and robes, stood smiling just inside the half-opened door.
Mel says thanks a million, Dotty was saying in a hurried whisper. First time we've been out in a month. We'd never have had the nerve to ask; but it was wonderful of you to volunteer.
Oh, we didn't mind, Debbie said. Suddenly she blushed, glancing at Al. We didn't mind at all.
For a moment he looked at her, then he spoke hurriedly, looking at Dotty. No, he said, shaking his head, we didn't mind a bit. He smiled at Dotty. Good night, he said.
Dotty waved good-by with a flick of her hand, turning toward the elevator, and Al closed the door.
He looked at Debbie. Should be a very shrewd article, that kid of ours, he said.
Collier's, April 29, 1950, 125(17):22-23, 79-80, 82
Week-end Genius
Standing in the lobby of a small neighborhood movie waiting for his wife, Timberlake Ryan lighted a cigarette, dropped the match into a sand-filled urn, and began to read the Coming Attractions posters. After a moment he glanced at the row of glass doors leading from the theater. There was no sign of his wife, and he strolled across the deserted lobby, casually turning his coat collar up, and leaned idly against the wall beside one of the posters. He was a tall man, his face lean and tanned, his hair black under the brim of his hat.
Presently, through the glass doors, he saw Eve walking briskly toward the lobby, and he put his cigarette in his mouth and pulled his hat low on his forehead. Then he straightened, widening his eyes as though in terror, and turned his head sharply, staring at Eve, his back and the palms of both hands pressed tight against the wall.
Eve pushed the heavy glass doors open; she was small and slim, and it was an effort to move them. She stepped out into the light, blinking her eyes and frowning a little, her smooth white forehead momentarily creased in a tiny vertical wrinkle, her hair soft and blond in the light. Her eye was caught by a middle-aged couple walking in from the ticket booth, and she watched them, puzzled; the man was nudging his wife, speaking softly from the side of his mouth. Then they both turned, grinning, to look at Tim standing beside a poster bearing the title WANTED! in huge blood-red letters, and above this word, the illustration of a man standing at a wall in identical sinister pose.
Eve followed their gaze and stared at Tim for an instant, then she blushed and, lips compressed, walked rapidly out through the lobby, her eyes straight ahead.
As she passed, Tim fell in behind her, hands in his coat pockets, forefingers stiffened. It's curtains for you, baby, he snarled, and the middle-aged couple turned to stare after them.
Outside, in the, early summer evening, under the lights of the marquee, Eve looked at Tim, shaking her head. Honestly, she said, you're like a child. What's the matter with you?
Nobody rats on Timberlake Ry—
Now, stop that. And put your collar down. She turned, taking his arm. Honestly, she repeated. They began to walk away from the theater.
Where we going? Tim turned down his collar, smiling happily.
Eve nodded at the store on the corner they were approaching. In there; in the drugstore. I want to get tooth paste; I keep forgetting. She looked at him. Now, take that cigarette out of your mouth.
Inside the drugstore, a customer and the clerk, both men, stood at the counter, the clerk wrapping a package, and Tim and Eve waited their turn. Eve looked speculatively up at the shelves, her upper lip between her teeth, a forefinger on her chin, and Tim glanced idly around the store. His eyes dropped to a candy display before him and he reached out and took a round silver-wrapped mint from the rack. From the corner of his eye he saw Eve's head turn to watch, and he stared absently ahead, unwrapped the candy, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
Then he made a little face, quickly rewrapped the candy and put it back on the rack, turning as though to wander away.
Tim! Her voice was a startled whisper, and she reached out, grabbing his arm.
What? He looked at her, brows raising innocently.
Now, stop that! Tim, what's the matter with you?
Stop what?
Her voice was ominous. She whispered, Now, Tim, cut it out; you hear me? You just buy that.
What? That candy? He looked at her, bewildered. But why? Why buy it? I don't like it.
But — She studied his face helplessly. Tim, you can't just leave it like that; you've got to buy it!
But why? he insisted. Why should I buy something I don't —
Her voice a furious whisper, Eve said, Tim, you buy that; understand?
Well — He shrugged resignedly, smiled blandly at the clerk and the customer who were watching him now, and reached into his trouser pocket. He brought out a dime, laid it on the counter, picked up the candy, and unwrapped it. Then he looked at Eve in apparent astonishment, holding the mint up, a large bite missing from its rim. Look, he said, his voice amazed, somebody took a bite out of this! For a moment he stared at the candy, then he shrugged philosophically and turned, wandering toward the front of the store munching the candy.
The cash register clashed, the customer turned from the counter, glancing curiously at Eve, and the clerk spoke to her. Yes, ma'am?
I — She stared at the clerk, giggled hysterically, her face reddening, then she turned and walked hurriedly toward the door. Tim stood watching her approach, and he looked back at the clerk, his face puzzled, and he shrugged in a gesture of uncomprehending helplessness; then he followed Eve.
Outside on the sidewalk he caught up with her. What about that tooth paste?
I'll murder you, she said, walking along rapidly, staring straight ahead. Tim, I swear I'll kill — She began to giggle.
He grinned. That clerk thinks you're crazy, he said.
Eve stopped, turning to face him. I'll simply never be able to go in there again. Tim, what in the world is the matter with you? You've been acting like a maniac all week end.
He smiled and took her arm and they resumed their walk, toward home. I don't know. I guess I have, at that. Sheer animal spirits, I suppose. The temporary exuberance of temporary freedom. You've seen a city dog who's locked up indoors most of the time? Let him out for ten minutes and he almost turns cart wheels. Well, that's me. The first really nice weather we've had and I'm locked up in an office day after day when the air is balmy and the sun is shining. Then, once a week, they let me out, briefly, and —
Oh, that. Eve nodded her head.
What do you mean, that?
I mean I might have known it was time for that routine. She smiled, her voice now a parody of his. Man wasn't made to sell his life a little at a time for rent and groceries. We have only a short while in this world.
The street lights came on as they turned, crossing the street, into the block they lived in. Well, it's true, Tim said. You get up and it's morning, one of the few precious days you've got to be alive in, and what do you do with it? You sell it; you realize that? For money. A piece of your own life.
I know. Eve smiled. I should know; you point it out to me about once a month.
I do?
Yep. And always as though it were a new idea I'd never heard before. Usually on a Sunday night, too, with Monday morning staring you in the face. She spoke kindly. What's the matter; tough day tomorrow?
Tim smiled. Yeah. Lot of stuff came in Friday that I couldn't finish and it'll all be waiting plus the usual Monday-morning stuff, and — oh, hell; you get tired of working. Fifty weeks out of every year, then they toss you a two-week vacation —
I know.
They turned into the lobby of the apartment building and walked toward the automatic elevator. Tim pushed the button and they stood waiting. If a man had any brains, he said, he could get out of the trap. Some people do it; some people get rich. I don't know how, though.
He was silent for a moment, staring at the closed door of the elevator
. You wouldn't even have to be rich, he said then. Just get hold of enough to buy your own life back, that's all I want. The elevator arrived and Tim pushed the door open. Couple hundred thousand would do it; you could live off the interest.
Suits me, Eve said, stepping into the elevator. Bermuda, Florida, Paris.
Well, just some simple little idea is all it takes. Tim pressed the button for their floor and the elevator began to rise. It happens. You read about it all the time. So what's wrong with me?
I don't know. Your mother always tells me you were a very bright child.
He grinned. Certainly. My first word was antidisestablishmentarianism. I really showed a great deal of promise. Kept the family supplied with free breakfast food and tooth paste, clipping coupons from all the magazines.
Eve smiled reminiscently. Did you do that, too?
Yeah. The elevator stopped and Tim pushed the door open, holding it for Eve. I got more mail than anyone in the block.
Inside the apartment they put their hats in the hall closet, then went into the living room. Tim lay down on the couch, loosening his tie. Eve sat in the big upholstered chair and began to hunt through a stack of magazines on the table beside her. Not a bad movie, she said.
Not bad. Tim clasped his hands behind his head. You know, I was thinking. You've seen a panoramic camera?
Nope.
Well, you've seen those pictures of class reunions and annual picnics and stuff like that. Big pictures about a yard long? A row of people three or four deep?
Yes. They took one of our graduating class, about a hundred of us. They did have a funny camera, I remember — it moved.
Tim nodded. That's right; it's a special camera. It doesn't expose the whole film all at once. It sort of sweeps along over the group exposing a long narrow strip of film a little at a time.
So?
So you make a little round track, maybe a yard across. Then you set somebody down and the track fits around his shoulders; it rests on a little stand. Then the camera moves around the track at eye level, slowly exposing that long strip of film. You make a portrait, see?
Sounds fine. Eve glanced around the room. Did you see, that magazine I was reading just before we —
Wait a second. Tim looked at her, annoyed. You haven't the faintest idea how this works yet.
I'm sorry. I thought you were finished.
No. Now, what you have so far, when you develop the film, is a big long strip that shows not just the face, but the sides and the back of the head, too. All around, but sort of rolled out flat. Tim smiled triumphantly. Then what you do is fasten the two ends of the picture together; you'd fix it so it joined at the back of the head. And you'd have a portrait of the entire head all the way around! You see what I mean?
Sort of.
Well, it would be like a tube — Tim twirled a forefinger in the air. You'd get a sort of three-dimensional effect. You wouldn't have just a flat view of the face or profile the way you have now. You'd see every part of the head all the way around, depending on where you stood. Set it up on the mantel and you'd have a new kind of portrait. He frowned momentarily, then shrugged. Course, it'd be open at the top, but you could fix that. Have some kind of ornamental covering, like the top of a Roman pillar maybe. And another one for the base. He looked at Eve. I don't know if you could patent it, but — how's it sound?
Eve smiled. Tim, it sounds ghastly; that marble cap on top. Why don't you make it a mortarboard cap, with a tassel?
I'll tell you! He sat up eagerly. You'd use color film! End up with a big long color transparency — set it up with some kind of little light inside so it'd shine through, and it'd look actually real. You'd make it life-size, full, natural color, and —
That really scares me. The idea of a bunch of those things sitting around the living room all lighted up. Why, it would look like a head-hunter's den!
Tim lay back on the couch. I don't believe Madame Curie made that kind of response when her husband suggested there might be radium in all that pitchblende in the back yard.
I'll bet she did, if the truth were known. Okay — Eve smiled at him — we're rich. You don't have to go to work tomorrow.
Well, there must be some way to live without giving up nine tenths of your life to do it. I feel like a fool, sometimes. You read about these guys Bernard Baruch and Andrew Mellon, making several hundred thousand dollars before they're twenty-one years old. Seems to take them about two weeks. All I've ever been able to think of is to examine the stamps very carefully every time I buy any at the post office.
What for? Eve found her magazine behind the cushion of her chair.
You look for errors. One time a guy bought a sheet of twenty-four-cent air-mail stamps. He always looked at them, like I do, and on these stamps the airplane in the center was printed upside down; a mistake in printing. Well, today stamp collectors pay six and eight thousand dollars apiece for those stamps, and there were a hundred in the sheet; over half a million dollars' worth.
I bought stamps this week; they're in the desk. Why don't you go look at them? She bent her head over the magazine, studying a page, then she held it up for him to see. Did you see this cartoon? I don't get it.
He did not look over. I charge five cents to explain magazine cartoons; ten cents for covers. He sighed. Okay; I suppose it is silly, the idea of me ever making much money.
I never said it was silly, Tim. If anyone could do it, I'm sure you could. She smiled. I'd certainly like it. I'd love a mink coat. And you'd make a wonderful millionaire, you really would: you look marvelous in evening clothes. I can just see you leaning on a big white mantel, very suave and debonair, lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter. We'd have a huge living room.
Yeah; and a big estate in East Photostat, Long Island. And I'd add one more initial to my name: T.L.E. Ryan. Why is it two initials look normal, and three of them look like eight?
I don't know. Tim, why don't you carry a lighter?
Well — he folded his hands on his chest — you figure out a way for me to get rich, and I'll carry a lighter in every pocket.
Eve turned a page in her magazine. Why don't you invent something? Besides that camera, I mean.
The field's really too crowded. Tim turned and lay on his side, his knees drawn up. That's the trouble with the world anyway; everybody inventing things. And what happens? Each invention makes life more unbearable: telephones, printing presses, bombs. I'm going into a new field. He waited, looking across the room at Eve.
What's that?
A broad new horizon just recently discovered. You don't hear much about it yet, but you will. It's potentially the salvation of mankind; almost our only hope, in fact.
Well, what is it?
The bright and shining field of uninventing.
What? She looked up, frowning.
Uninventing. Tim put his hands, palms together, under his cheek. It's still pretty hush-hush, but even now the plagues of modern man are being studied and attacked one by one all over the world. Toiling away in their laboratories, men of great hindsight are successfully uninventing our worser curses. Surely you've heard their names?
Such as?
In the stentorian tone of a radio announcer, Tim said, Lleb, uninventor of the telephone!
Who?
Lleb — L-l-e-b.
Never heard of him.
You will. Then, of course, there's Esrom, Samuel B. Esrom, now at work uninventing the telegraph. And Grebnetug, who has almost uninvented the printing press. While even now a boy named Ttaw — T-t-a-w — is studying his mother's teakettle for a clue to the problem of getting rid of the steam engine. A young Italian named Inocram, naturally, is making great strides backward, uninventing the radio; think of the royalties on that. In France, Eve Eiruc is busy getting that radium back into the pitchblende. As for the atomic bomb, a bushy-haired mathematical genius named Nietsnie —
All right, all right. I get the idea.
But do you understand the significance of it? Do you realize
what it means?
What?
The good old days — are almost here!
Fine. Eve resumed her reading.
Tim turned and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes, he said, You know, there are a hundred and fifty million people in the United States, maybe more. Now, if only one million of them, less than one per cent, would each send me a penny — just a penny, anyone can spare a penny — I'd have a hundred thousand dollars. You realize that?
M'mm. Eve continued to read.
Now, suppose I mailed out a letter, bales of them, mimeographed or printed and just told people that all I wanted was a penny. Send me a penny, no more, and —
Without looking up, Eve said, And for each penny you got it would cost you only three cents to mail out the letter.
Tim was silent for a moment. That's true, he said then. Well — he shrugged — maybe they'd send a dollar. Some of them, anyway; that's not so much. Say I mailed out a million letters and got only a ten per cent response; that's a hundred thousand dollars. Now, to mail out a million letters at a cost of, say five cents each, counting paper and printing costs, would amount to — he frowned — fifty thousand dollars. Well, that would still leave fifty thousand profit. He looked over at Eve; she had slipped her shoes off and was curled up in the chair with her magazine. What do you think? How's that for an idea?
H'mmm? She looked up. Oh. Well, if you can get people to send you a dollar so you won't have to work, you obviously deserve to be a millionaire. She frowned. Tim, why don't you read something? There are some new magazines here on the table. She swung her legs over an arm of the chair.
Tim looked at her. Listen, it might just work. If you got the right appeal. If you worded it right. People don't mind wasting a dollar if they get a little kick out of it. I'd send a dollar to help some guy get rich; it's just crazy enough to appeal to me. Eve didn't answer, and for several minutes Tim stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Then he got up and left the room.
A moment later Eve heard the sound of the lid being removed from the portable typewriter in the bedroom; then, presently, the sound of slow typing. She listened. then shook her head and resumed her reading.