by Jack Finney
Nothing, damn it! Larry looked up angrily. What's the matter with you guys?
Okay, okay, Jack said, backing out of the office. Just wondered, that's all; sorry I spoke.
Fifteen minutes later a collection was taken in the art department, for the price of a blue Homburg. That night when Larry picked up his hat and put in on, he had to face it: beyond all doubt, his head, incredibly, was expanding.
Now, I don't understand the kind of stubbornness that made him keep wearing, or at least carrying that hat. Maybe it's a virtue, the stick-to-itiveness you've got to have to finally land the big fat account you need to become a vice-president. Anyway, on Monday, with a firm smile on his face, Larry arrived at the office, carrying his hat, refusing to give in to the inexplicable fact that his head would no longer fit it.
By noon his stubbornness seemed justified. When he walked out to lunch, the Homburg jauntily and mysteriously fit him perfectly. Hank Beck happened to be waiting at the elevators, and he glanced up at Larry's head, Good, he said, nodding approvingly. He didn't say that during the morning he had replaced the hat on Larry's rack with the original size seven. All he added was: Swelling seems to be going down.
It kept on going down. That night when Vice-President Ekker put on the Homburg with his initials in the band it dropped to the top of his ears. He was actually pale as he walked out of the office, and the hand carrying the hat was trembling. And the watchful artists, whose investment it was, felt their money had gone for a worthy cause.
Next morning a considerable number of people seemed to have business near Larry's office. But when he walked in, the Homburg once more fit beautifully. For the man had courage. If his head was shrinking, there was nothing to stop him from stuffing tissue paper inside the sweatband of his hat. At noon he needed that courage, and more. His secretary opened his newly labeled door to find Larry standing as though frozen, his panic-stricken eyes scarcely visible under the brim of the hat resting on his nose. And when he snatched it off to feel for the tissue paper under the band, there was nothing to tell him that the paper had been transferred to a new seven-and-one-quarter hat for which, once more, the art department had scraped up the funds.
For the rest of that week Larry's head contracted and expanded like a berserk accordion. From morning till quitting time, one day, his head steadily, rapidly and alarmingly shrank. Next day it swelled like a fast-rising yeast. For one full glorious day it remained the same size. But within a thirty-minute period the following day it puffed up, then shrank, a full half inch. He no longer put on his hat in the office; he left carrying it in his hand. And once he was seen three blocks away, standing pale-faced in a doorway, trying it for size.
The joke ended on Friday. Larry came back from the washroom to find Hank Beck grinning, sitting on the edge of his desk and four blue Homburgs hanging on his hatrack. He realized instantly what had happened. Hank made a little speech telling Larry that everyone liked him and so on, but that his head had been swelling lately and they had thought they should call it to his attention. Then he urged Larry, gesturing at the hatrack, to pick the right size and stick to it.
Larry took it well enough. He had to. Managing a grin, he tried on all the hats, then chose one and assured Hank that that was his size from then on. They shook hands, smiling, laughing, enemies for life, and that was that.
I'd like to report that Larry was a humble man thereafter. But that isn't true. Lawrence D. Ekker is a big man in the business today, and he takes good care that you know it. I've often wondered since about this term, “swelled head.” Does a man's head actually swell with false pride? Because Hank Beck tells me — and swears it's true — that when Larry Ekker tried on the four hats hanging from his rack, he chose one a full eighth of an inch larger than his own, original hat. And the damn' thing fits him perfectly.
Collier's, July 14, 1951, 128(2):36
Quit Zoomin' Those Hands Through the Air
Hey, quit zoomin' your hands through the air, boy — I know you was a flier! You flew good in the war, course you did; I'd expect that from a grandson of mine. But don't get to thinking you know all about war, son, or flying machines either. The war we finished in '65 is still the toughest we've fought, and don't you forget it. It was a big war fought by big men, and your Pattons and Arnolds and Stilwells — they were good, boy, no denying it — but Grant, there was a general. Never told you about this before, because I was swore to secrecy by the general himself, but I think it's all right, now; I think the oath has expired. Now, quiet, boy! Put those hands in your pockets and listen!
Now, the night I'm talking about, the night I met the general, I didn't know we'd see him at all. Didn't know anything except we were riding along Pennsylvania Avenue, me and the major, him not saying where we were going or why, just jogging along, one hand on the reins, a big black box strapped to the major's saddle in front, and that little pointy beard of his stabbing up and down with every step.
It was late, after ten, and everyone was asleep. But the moon was up, bright and full through the trees, and it was nice — the horses' shadows gliding along sharp and clear beside us, and not a sound in the street but their hoofs, hollow on the packed dirt. We'd been riding two days, I'd been nipping some liberated applejack — only we didn't say liberated then; we called it foraging — and I was asleep in the saddle, my trumpet jiggling in the small of my back. Then the major nudged me, and I woke up and saw the White House ahead. Yessir, I said.
He looked at me, the moon shining yellow on his epaulets, and said, real quiet, Tonight, boy, we may win the war. You and I. He smiled, mysterious, and patted the black box. You know who I am, boy?
Yessir.
No, you don't. I'm a professor. Up at Harvard College. Or was, anyway. Glad to be in the army now, though. Pack of fools up there, most of them; can't see past the ends of their noses. Well, tonight, boy, we may win the war.
Yessir, I said. Most officers higher than captain were a little queer in the head, I'd noticed, majors especially. That's how it was then, anyway, and I don't reckon it's changed any, even in the Air Force.
We stopped near the White House at the edge of the lawn and sat looking at it — a great big old house, silvery white in the moonlight, the light over the front door shining out through the porch columns onto the driveway. There was a light in an east window on the ground floor, and I kept hoping I'd see the President, but I didn't. The major opened his box. Know what this is, boy?
Nosir.
It's my own invention, based on my own theories, nobody else's. They think I'm a crackpot up at the School, but I think it'll work. Win the war, boy. He moved a little lever inside the box. Don't want to send us too far ahead, son, or technical progress will be beyond us. Say eighty-five years or so from now, approximately; think that ought to be about right?
Yessir.
All right. The major jammed his thumb down on a little button in the box; it made a humming sound that kept rising higher and higher till my ears began to hurt; then he lifted his hand. Well, he said, smiling and nodding, the little pointy beard going up and down, it is now some eighty-odd years later. He nodded at the White House. Glad to see it's still standing.
I looked up at the White House again. It was just the same, the light still shining out between the big white columns, but I didn't say anything.
The major twitched his reins and turned. Well, boy, we've got work ahead; come on. And he set off at a trot along Pennsylvania Avenue with me beside him.
Pretty soon we turned south, and the major twisted around in his saddle and said, Now, the question is, what do they have in the future? He held up his finger like a teacher in school, and I believed the part about him being a professor. We don't know, the major went on, but we know where to find it. In a museum. We're going to the Smithsonian Institution, if it's still standing. For us it should be a veritable storehouse of the future.
It had been standing last week, I knew, and after a while, off across the grass to the east, there it was, a ston
e building with towers like a castle, looking just the same as always, the windows now blank and white in the moonlight. Still standing, sir, I said.
Good, said the major. Reconnaissance approach, now, and we went on to a cross street and turned into it. Up ahead were several buildings I'd never noticed before, and we went up to them and swung down off our horses. Walk between these buildings, the major said, leading his horse. Quiet, now; we're reconnoitering.
We crept on, quiet as could be, in the shadows between the two buildings. The one to the right looked just like the Smithsonian to me, and I knew it must be a part of it; another building I'd never seen before. The major was all excited now, and kept whispering. Some new kind of weapon that will destroy the whole Rebel Army is what we're looking for. Let me know if you see any such thing, boy.
Yessir, I said, and I almost bumped into something out there in the open in front of the building at the left. It was big and made entirely out of heavy metal, and instead of wheels it rested on two movable belts made of metal; big flat plates linked together.
Looks like a tank, said the major, though I don't know what they keep in it. Keep moving, boy; this thing is obviously no use on a battlefield.
We walked on just a step, and there on the pavement in front of us was a tremendous cannon, three times bigger than any I'd ever seen before in my life. It had an immense long barrel, wheels high as my chest, and it was painted kind of funny, in wavy stripes and splotches, so that you could hardly see it at first in the moonlight that got down between the buildings. Look at that thing! the major said softly. It would pulverize Lee in an hour, but I don't know how we'd carry it. No, he said, shaking his head, this isn't it. I wonder what they've got inside, though. He stepped up to the doors and peered in through the glass, shading his eyes with his hand. Then he gasped and turned to me.
I went up beside him and looked through the glass. It was a long, big building, the moonlight slanting in through the windows all along one side; and all over the floor, and even hanging from the ceiling, were the weirdest-looking things I ever saw. They were each big as a wagon, some bigger, and they had wheels, but only two wheels, near the front; and I was trying to figure that out when the major got his voice back.
Aircraft, by God! he said. They've got aircraft! Win the wart
Air what, sir?
Aircraft. Flying machines. They fly through the air. Don't you see the wings, boy?
Each of the machines I could see inside had two things sticking out at each side like oversize ironing boards, but they looked stiff to me, and I didn't see how they could flap like wings. I didn't know what else the major could be talking about, though. Yessir, I said.
But the major was shaking his head again. Much too advanced, he said. We could never master them. What we need is an earlier type, and I don't see any in here. Come on, boy; don't straggle.
We walked on, leading the horses, toward the front of the other building. At the doors we peeked in, and there on the floor, with tools and empty crates lying around as though they'd just unpacked it, was another of the things, a flying machine. Only this was far smaller, and was nothing but a framework of wood like a big box kite, with little canvas wings, as the major called them. It didn't have wheels, either, just a couple of runners like a sled. Lying propped against a wall, as though they were just ready to put it up, was a sign. The moonlight didn't quite reach it, and I couldn't read all the words, but I could make out a few. World's first, it said in one place, and farther down it said, Kitty Hawk.
The major just stood there for maybe a minute, staring like a man in a trance. Then he murmured to himself. Very like sketches of da Vinci's model; only apparently this one worked. He grinned suddenly, all excited. This is it, boy, he said. This is why we came.
I knew what he had in mind, and I didn't like it. You'll never break in there, sir, I said. Those doors look mighty solid, and I'll bet this place is guarded like the mint.
The major just smiled, mysterious again. Of course it is, son; it's the treasure house of a nation. No one could possibly get in with any hope of removing anything, let alone this aircraft — under ordinary circumstances. But don't worry about that, boy; just leave it to me. Right now we need fuel. Turning on his heel, he walked back to his horse, took the reins, and led him off; and I followed with mine.
Off some distance, under some trees, near a big open space like a park, the major set the lever inside his black box, and pressed the button. Back in 1864, now, he said then, and sniffed. Air smells fresher. Now, I want you to take your horse, go to garrison headquarters, and bring back all the petrol you can carry. They've got some for cleaning uniforms. Tell them I'll take full responsibility. Understand?
Yessir.
Then off with you. When you come back, this is where I want you to meet me. The major turned and began walking away with his horse.
At headquarters the guard woke a private, who woke a corporal, who woke a sergeant, who woke a lieutenant, who woke a captain, who swore a little and then woke up the private again and told him to give me what I wanted. The private went away, murmuring softly to himself, and came back pretty soon with six five-gallon jugs; and I tied them to my saddle, signed six sets of receipts in triplicate, and led my horse back through the moonlit streets of Washington, taking a nip of applejack now and then.
I went by the White House again, on purpose; and this time someone was standing silhouetted against the lighted east window — a big man, tall and thin, his, shoulders bowed, his head down on his chest — and I couldn't help but get the impression of a weary strength and purpose and a tremendous dignity. I felt sure it was him, but I can't rightly claim I saw the President, because I've always been one to stick to the facts and never stretch the truth even a little bit.
The major was waiting under the trees, and my jaw nearly dropped off, because the flying machine was sitting beside him. Sir, I said how did you —
The major interrupted, smiling and stroking his little beard: Very simple. I merely stood at the front door — he patted the black box at the saddle near his shoulder —and moved back in time to a moment when even the Smithsonian didn't exist. Then I stepped a few paces ahead with the box under my arm, adjusted the lever again, moved forward to the proper moment, and there I was, standing beside the flying machine. I took myself and the machine out by the same method, and my mount pulled it here on its skids.
Yessir, I said. I figured I could keep up this foolishness as long as he could, though I did wonder how he had got the flying machine out.
The major pointed ahead. I've been exploring the ground, and it's pretty rocky and rough. He turned to the black box, adjusted the dial, and pressed the button. Now, it's a park, he said, sometime in the nineteen forties.
Yessir, I said.
The major nodded at a little spout in the flying machine. Fill her up, he said, and I untied one of the jugs, uncorked it, and began to pour. The tank sounded dry when the petrol hit it, and a cloud of dust puffed up from the spout. It didn't hold very much, only a few quarts, and the major began untying the other jugs. Lash these down in the machine, he said, and while I was doing that, the major began pacing up and down, muttering to himself. To start the engine, I should imagine you simply turn the propellers. But the machine will need help in getting into the air. He kept walking up and down, pulling his beard; then he nodded his head. Yes, he said, that should do it, I think. He stopped and looked at me. Nerves in good shape, boy? Hands steady and reliable?
Yessir.
All right, son, this thing should be easy to fly — mostly a matter of balance, I imagine. He pointed to a sort of saddle at the front of the machine. I believe you simply lie on your stomach with your hips in this saddle; it connects with the rudder and wings by cables. By merely moving from side to side, you control the machine's balance and direction. The major pointed to a lever. Work this with your hand, he said, to go up or down. That's all there is to it, so far as I can see, and if I'm wrong in any details, you can correct them
in the air with a little experimenting. Think you can fly it, boy?
Yessir.
Good, he said, and grabbed one of the propellers at the back and, began turning it. I worked on the other propeller, but nothing happened; they just creaked, stiff and rusty-like. But we kept turning, yanking harder and harder, and pretty soon the little engine coughed.
Now, heave, boy! the major said, and we laid into it hard, and every time, now, the engine would cough a little. Finally, we yanked so hard, both together, our feet nearly came off the ground, and the motor coughed and kept on coughing and like to choked to death. Then it sort of cleared its throat and started to stutter but didn't stop, and then it was running smooth, the propellers just whirling, flashing and shining in the moonlight till you could hardly see them, and the flying machine shaking like a wet dog, with little clouds of dust pouring up out of every part of it.
Excellent, said the major, and he sneezed from the dust. Then he began unfastening the horses' bridles, strapping them together again to make a single long rein. He posed the horses in front of the machine and said, Get in, boy. We've got a busy night ahead. I lay down in the saddle, and he climbed up on the top wing and lay down on his stomach. You take the lever, and I'll take the rein. Ready, boy?
Yessir.
Gee up! said the major, snapping the rein hard, and the horses started off, heads down, hoofs digging in.
The flying machine sort of bumped along over the grass on its skids, but it soon smoothed out and began sliding along, level as a sled on packed snow, and the horses' heads came up and they began to trot, the motor just chugging away.
Sound forward! said the major, and I unslung my trumpet and blew forward; the horses buckled into it, and we were skimming along, must have been fifteen, maybe twenty miles an hour or even faster.
Now, charge! yelled the major, and I blew charge, and the hoofs began drumming the turf, the horses whinnying and snorting, the engine chugging faster and faster, the propellers whining in back of us, and all of a sudden the grass was a good five feet below, and the reins were hanging straight down. Then — for a second it scared me — we were passing the horses. We were right over their backs; then they began slipping away under the machine, and the major dropped the reins and yelled, Pull back the lever! I yanked back hard, and we shot up into the air like a rocket.