The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

You actually saw the dog tear the seat out of Quayle's pants?

  Yep. The boy grinned. Gee, it was —

  When?

  I dunno. He shrugged. Few minutes ago. He ran all the way back to the station house. It was sure funny. Everybody laughed like anyth—

  Grabbing the boy by both shoulders, his voice grown low and tense, Johnny said slowly, What kind of dog was it?

  I dunno, the boy answered without interest. One of them big white dogs with black spots all over. He turned toward the sink at the back of the room. Hey, Nate! he called. Johnny says for you to gimme some type.

  For a full quarter minute Miss Gerraghty just stared at Johnny. Then she blinked her eyes and announced firmly, Coincidence. An astonishing, yet mathematically predictable coinci—

  Johnny slowly shook his head. No, he said numbly, his eyes astonished. It was no coincidence, as any but the scientific mind would know. He turned slowly toward Miss Gerraghty, and in his eyes a glow of triumph was kindling. Miss Gerraghty, he said slowly, I don't know how it happened, but what I wrote and printed in the Clarion came true. Immediately, and in every detail, Suddenly he grinned, snatching up as fresh sheet of paper, rolled it into his typewriter, and said, And nothing in the world is going to stop me from trying it again!

  His eyes glittering, staring through the paper at a suddenly glorious and incredible future, Johnny typed Engagement Announced! The keys beat out a furious splatter of sound. Miss Miriam Zeebley to Wed Editor Deutsch! The type bars jammed, and Johnny frantically pried them apart, then continued. Town Clerk Zeebley, unexpectedly resigning her position, announced today-

  One week later, the Clarion printed, addressed, carried to the post office, and even then, Johnny knew, being delivered, he sat at his desk waiting. Then, as he had hoped, the phone rang; and as he had also hoped, it was Miss Zeebley, her voice lovely as a temple bell. For a full minute Johnny sat listening. Once he said, But Miss Zeebley, it was an acci— A few moments later he began, Typographical err— During the one time she paused for breath, Johnny managed to say feebly, It must have been some kind of — joke. A disgruntled employee. Presently, voice dulled and hopeless, he said, Yes, I'll publish a retraction, and hung up.

  For a while, lost in despair, Johnny sat with his head in his hands, staring down at the floor. Then, as some men turn to drink, others to drugs, women, or gambling, Johnny turned to his typewriter. Quayle Slain by Thug, he typed despondently. Early this morning, he continued, the decapitated body of Police Chief Wendall E. Quayle was discovered in an abandoned trunk. Minutes later, his head, shrunken to a fraction of its normal six-and-one-eighth-inch size —

  Presently he tossed the finished story onto Miss Gerraghty's desk. It came true once, he said sadly, about Quayle's pants. If I'd only printed this instead.

  It wouldn't have come true then, Miss Gerraghty said, glancing at the headline. Any more than Miriam Zeebley marrying you. There are some things that are just too ridiculous.

  Johnny stared at her for several seconds, his eyes narrowing. Yeah, he said then, interest and excitement beginning to well up in his voice, maybe that's it. He nodded thoughtfully. It's got to be possible, at least; maybe that's the key. You can't go too far, you can't go overboard. Suddenly he was elated. You've hit it, Miss Gerraghty! He reached for a fresh sheet of copy paper.

  As Miss Gerraghty stared at him in icy, unbelieving contempt, Johnny, choosing his words slowly and carefully, began to type. Among those attending the Old Nakomis Country Club Soirée tonight, he wrote, will be Miss Miriam Zeebley. It will surprise none who know our ever-popular town clerk to learn that, bearing no malice for an unfortunate error that appeared in these columns recently, she will attend escorted by Ye Ed, Johnny Deutsch.

  He pulled the sheet of paper from his machine, dated it in pencil for the following week's issue, scribbled Social Notes at the top, then read it through again. Possible, he murmured approvingly. Or at least barely within the borders of conceivability. His eyes happy again, Johnny glanced at Miss Gerraghty and grinned. Shoot the works, he said, and rolled another sheet into his typewriter.

  Psychotic, Miss Gerraghty murmured, nodding soberly. Like father, like son.

  How do you spell ‘bubonic plague’? Johnny asked, then hastily added, Never mind; I'd better, make it mumps.

  The following Saturday Johnny picked up the phone. Miss Gerraghty laid down her proof sheets to listen.

  Miriam, Johnny said presently into the phone, his, voice brisk and confident, I want you to attend the Old Nakomis Country Club Soirée tonight; with me. He leaned back in his chair, feet up on his typewriter, listening. You have a date? Well, break it, he said firmly. A moment later he smiled and said, Fine. I'll call for you at eight. There was a pause; then Johnny said, Quayle, eh? What's the trouble? Then he nodded. Thanks; the story'll be in this issue. He replaced the phone, turned to Miss Gerraghty, and waited, humming softly.

  For a moment there was no sound in the room; Miss Gerraghty simply stared. Then in a small, frightened voice, she asked, Is Quayle sick? Johnny nodded. Mumps? Miss Gerraghty whispered.

  Yeah, Johnny said, and turned happily to his typewriter.

  The quality and interest of the Clarion's news picked up sharply in the weeks that followed. With invariable accuracy, the Clarion reported that Miss Miriam Zeebley was attending the Flower and Garden Show, the movies, the Women's Club annual bazaar, a traveling carnival, and the Spelling-Bee State Semifinals, all with Johnny Deutsch. In addition, the Clarion uncannily announced almost simultaneously with the events themselves that Mayor Schimmerhorn was stung by a swarm of bees, and that the City Council, refreshing themselves with cheese sandwiches after a meeting, was stricken to a man with food poisoning. It was predicted by the Clarion that the Girl Scouts would sell 42 per cent more cookies than last year in their annual drive, and this came precisely true. The Clarion reported that the Old Nakomis Country Club had elected a new vice-president, Johnny Deutsch, and that Police Chief Wendall E. Quayle, having recovered from the mumps, had promptly come down with hives. Circulation increased by leaps and bounds.

  For however it happened and whatever the cause, it was undeniably true that what the Clarion printed as fact or prediction always came true — so long as Johnny kept his inventions to the reasonably possible. Once, in his zeal, he violated this principle, and had to rush an extra edition into print on the following day carrying a retraction of the Clarion's lead story that Mayor Schimmerhorn, a notorious teetotaler, had been arrested while drunk for peddling indecent post cards in the alley back of City Hall. But, the retraction added, His Honor, understanding how such an error could easily occur, had no intention of suing the Clarion; and the mayor explained to friends later that day, his voice faintly puzzled, that this was quite true.

  A few days later, Thursday, a hot afternoon in August, Johnny leaned back in his chair, folded his hands complacently in back of his head, lifted his long lean legs up onto his typewriter, and looked across the little office at Miss Gerraghty. She was sitting, chin in hand, listening to a portable radio on her desk from which a voice was saying, … sacred trust to the American people! A burst of applause followed this statement, and Johnny nodded at the radio and said, You know, we have seldom carried national news. We've been more of a local paper.

  Miss Gerraghty glanced up, nodded absently, then returned her attention to the radio, as the voice resumed solemnly, In the immortal words of Thomas Jefferson …

  There is no reason, Johnny continued quietly, why we shouldn't, though. Once in a while. Miss Gerraghty didn't bother to answer. It might be fun, Johnny added, nodding at the radio. with the Democratic convention going on, to score a news beat on the rest of the world.

  Miss Gerraghty looked at him, faintly puzzled; then her jaw dropped, and she hastily switched off the radio. No! She stared at him wide-eyed. Then, voice frightened and ominous, she said, No, Johnny, you're going too far. Stick to local —

  He was shaking his head. There are several possible candidates f
or the Democratic nomination, he said, nodding at the radio, and it's time to do something about it. Dropping his feet to the floor, Johnny sat up and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. Think it's all right if we issue the paper a day early?

  Nobody will notice the difference, Miss Gerraghty replied faintly, as Johnny poised his fingers over the typewriter.

  We'll get the paper to the post office tonight then, he said, to be delivered in the morning mail. “Kefauver, Stevenson, or Harriman, he murmured, I just can't make up my mind. Then he suddenly typed, Stevenson Nominated! and said, Think I'll make it on the first ballot.

  The next day, the radio blaring with the voice of the excited announcer above the background pandemonium of cheering delegates, Miss Gerraghty looked up at Johnny. Anybody could have predicted that.

  But Johnny wasn't listening. Hands clasped behind his head, staring dreamily at the ceiling, he was murmuring, It's Ike for President, of course, but whom shall I give the second spot to?

  Seven days later, the radio on Miss Gerraghty's desk blared that Richard Nixon had been given the Republican nomination for vice-president; in precisely the way Johnny's lead story in the Clarion had described. Miss Gerraghty wrung her hands, and moaned. Johnny, she said pitifully, why? She snatched a copy of the Clarion from her desk, and shook it violently in his face. Nixon to Run with Ike! the headline cried. Why does it work? Miss Gerraghty begged.

  Why, I thought you knew. Johnny looked at her, genuinely surprised. I thought you'd guessed; don't you ever read science fiction? It's the meteor, Miss Gerraghty.

  The meteor?

  The one my father found, Johnny said patiently. It seems to be lead, but actually it was an unknown metal from another world. And somehow, when you turn it into type, the news it prints comes true. Within reason.

  But where did you get —

  My birth announcement, he said impatiently. It was cast from the meteor, as you yourself told me. It was saved all these years, till I melted it with the Linotype lead. Johnny shrugged, smiling happily. And since we remelt our type after each issue, it's always still there, hard at work, issue after issue of the Clarion.

  Her voice dulled, finally accepting this, Miss Gerraghty said, But how? Johnny, how does it wor—

  Miss Gerraghty, Johnny said sternly, if you had ever read science fiction, you'd know that the dullest part is always the explanation. It bores the reader and clutters up the story. Especially when the author flunked high-school physics and simply doesn't know how it works. We'll just skip that, he said firmly, and get on to more important things. We've got lots to do now.

  But in the weeks following the conventions, to Miss Gerraghty's great relief, Johnny's mind turned from the national scene. For while it was delightfully true that Miss Miriam Zeebley and Editor Deutsch continued to do everything mentioned in the Clarion's Social Notes, there was a limit to what could be mentioned. Johnny Deutsch was healthy, normal and reasonably full of animal vigor; and while he enjoyed escorting Miriam to the town's social functions, there were times — twenty-four hours a day, in fact — when he longed for more than he could describe in type. He would have liked, for example, to kiss Miss Zeebley, long and lingeringly, full on the lips.

  He considered printing this as a news item and burying it among the legal notices at the back of the Clarion, but he couldn't quite work up the nerve to do it. He also considered simply kissing Miriam on his own some night; but he couldn't work up the nerve to try this, either. There were times now when, shaving before a date with Miriam, he managed to convince himself for a full minute or more that he was actually a rather rugged, good-looking man. There were even times when he felt that Miriam agreed. But these times never coincided with opportunities to kiss her. At those moments he always knew, with depressing certainty, that he was a gibbering clod. Once again he was a frustrated man, and it seemed to Johnny as the summer went on that his activities with Miriam were forever doomed to those that could be described in a family newspaper.

  And so it was, one fine fall morning, that when Miss Gerraghty said, Did you vote today? Johnny only looked at her blankly.

  Vote? he said.

  Today, Miss Gerraghty said patiently, is Election Day; your first opportunity to help elect a President.

  He glanced at the wall calendar. Miss Gerraghty was right. Thanks, he said, and his face cleared. Thanks for reminding me — once again his voice was brisk and assured — or I might have been too late.

  Too late for what?

  To make sure, Johnny said, reaching for a sheet of copy paper, that the right man is elected.

  Slowly Miss Gerraghty rose from her desk, walked around it, and stood facing Johnny. No, she said quietly.

  What do you mean? He looked up.

  I won't let you, Johnny. That's one thing neither you nor anyone else is going to interfere with.

  He sat back in his chair, smiling up at her. Don't you want to see the right man elected?

  Certainly, she said, but who is he? That's something no less than seventy million Americans are competent to decide. Her voice rose shrilly. You hear me, Johnny? You let this alone!

  For a moment he sat staring up at her, and Miss Gerraghty realized how much he still resembled the boy he had been only a few years ago. Don't be silly, Miss Gerraghty, he said, and turned to his typewriter. Not many people would pass up this chance.

  And that, Miss Gerraghty said — and now she was speaking more to herself than to Johnny — ” may be what is wrong with the world today. She walked back to her desk and for the rest of the morning sat thinking. She considered, first, burning down the office, but she knew she would be stopped. Then she considered rushing out to buttonhole people on the street and tell them the secret only the staff shared about the Clarion; but she knew she would not be believed. For a wild moment she considered murder, but knew immediately that she could never harm a hair of Johnny Deutsch's head.

  At noon, when Johnny and Nate left for lunch, Miss Gerraghty stayed behind. The moment the door closed she stood up and walked to the files. For the next hour and a half, her fingers working frantically, her face soon perspiring and dust-streaked, she hunted desperately through the files.

  What are you doing? Johnny asked, as he opened the office door on his return from lunch. Miss Gerraghty turned, her old body moving with a terrible weariness, her face like granite. From the top of the old wood filing cabinets, she picked up a stack of newspapers, and nodded at them somberly.

  I have been going through the back files, she answered. For a moment, her eyes like embers, she stared across the room at Johnny. Has it occurred to you, she burst out bitterly, that you weren't the first to use that meteor for type? She dropped the stack of papers on Johnny's desk; their edges, he saw, were yellowed and crumbling with age. Your father used it first, remember! Her bony forefinger, trembling violently, touched a faded column of type. Read it! Like you, he wasn't afraid to deal with subjects he knew nothing about!

  Johnny leaned forward to study the old story; after a moment he glanced at her, puzzled. It's nothing, he said. Just a column of speculation on financial affairs. Harmless stuff.

  Harmless! Stocks will go down, the old idiot wrote, just as though he knew what he was talking about! And of course it came true. Oh, it came true, all right! Look at that date! Her shaking finger touched the date line. October 28, 1929, and the next day the stock market crashed and the worst depression in mankind's history began.

  She snatched the old paper from the stack, revealing the next. Presently, she said with acid quietness, our genius turned to politics, just as his son wants to do. But he jumped into world politics, with an asinine editorial on Pacific developments. Her bony forefinger pointed out the date line. September 17, 1931, and of course his story came true, in a way he never realized. Japan invaded Manchuria the very next day! Two years later — she revealed the next paper — he wrote an empty-headed article on German politics, and Hitler became Chancellor of the Third Reich! In the very same year �
� she pointed to another yellowing page — he very nearly got Roosevelt assassinated, and — her finger stabbed at still another story signed by Johnny's father — read this and you'll see that he was directly responsible for the Dionne quintuplets!

  For a full fifteen seconds there was no sound in the little office but the chattering of Johnny's teeth. Then, barely able to speak, he whispered pitifully, What about — World War Two?

  In a tone almost of kindness, Miss Gerraghty said, No. I've checked the files carefully, and he wasn't responsible. But he did plenty! Any number of floods, fires, earthquakes and minor holocausts I haven't even bothered to mention! And he never realized it, never saw the connection, and I didn't either, till now. In time, I guess, the meteor metal thinned out. New lead was added to the Linotype from time to time, of course, and by the late 'thirties, as far as I can tell from the files, there wasn't enough meteor metal left to do any harm. Until you melted some of that original type again — your birth announcement, cast in full-strength meteor metal! Johnny — her voice deepened with implacable authority — you've got to clean out the lead box on the Linotype machine and throw out every scrap of old lead in the place. Right now!

  His voice a humble whisper, Johnny said, Yes. Of course. Right away. Just as soon as I run one last story —

  No!

  about my elopement! he said frantically. I finally figured out what to do about Miriam and the story is all ready to set up!

  For a full minute Miss Gerraghty considered. Then finally, reluctantly, she said, All right; though I'm very fond of Miriam. And I think it's criminal to risk another generation of Deutschs. This one last story — and that's all!

  Okay, Johnny said humbly. Then, physically and emotionally exhausted, Miss Gerraghty went home for the day, while Johnny allowed the presidential election of 1956 to proceed normally.

  But he did write still one more story, which he personally set up in meteor type. Then he dropped every other scrap of type metal in the office into the deepest part of Yancy Creek. This final story, a little square of type locked in the office safe, has not yet been printed. It announces the birth of Johnny's daughter, giving precise details of her weight and length and stating that she resembles her mother exactly. Since obviously the prediction had come true in his own case, Johnny added, It is predicted that she will make her mark on the world. Then he dated the story exactly nine months later than the elopement announcement.