“Okay, Pete,” Ally said, raising her eyebrow in that way she had. “Whatever you say."
Pete lurched out of the store, still breathing hard, and when he turned to look back, the door had already disappeared. It wasn't even ten yet. Time was running out, and even though Ally would soon leave his life forever, he couldn't let her think he was ignorant about their shared passion. The books might not be enough to convince her. Tomorrow, he'd show her something more.
* * * *
Pete went in as soon as the door appeared, at nearly 9:30. Ally didn't waste time with pleasantries. She slammed down his copy of the AFI Desk Reference and said, “What the hell is going on?"
Pete took the bag off his shoulder, opened it, and withdrew his slim silver laptop, along with a CD wallet full of DVDs. “Gone with the Wind,” he said, inserting a disc into the laptop, calling up the DVD controls, and fast forwarding to the first scene with Clark Gable.
Ally stared at the LCD screen, and Pete watched the reflected colors move against her face. Gable's voice, though tinny through the small speakers, was resonant as always.
Pete closed the laptop gently. “I do know movies,” he said. “Just not exactly the same ones you do."
“This, those books, you ... you're from another world. It's like ... like..."
“Something out of the Twilight Zone, I know. But actually, you're from another world. Every night, for an hour or so—less, lately—the door to Impossible Dreams appears on my street.
“What? I don't understand."
“Come on,” he said, and held out his hand. She took it, and he led her out the door. “Look,” he said, gesturing to the bakery next door, the gift shop on the other side, the bike repair place across the street.
Ally sagged back against the door, half-retreating inside the shop. “This isn't right. This isn't what's supposed to be here."
“Go on back in,” he said. “The store has been appearing later and vanishing sooner every night, and I'd hate for you to get stranded here."
“Why is this happening?” Ally said, still holding his hand.
“I don't know,” Pete said. “Maybe there's no reason. Maybe in a movie there would be, but..."
“Some movies reassure us that life makes sense,” Ally said. “And some movies remind us that life doesn't make any sense at all.” She exhaled roughly. “And some things don't have anything to do with movies."
“Bite your tongue,” Pete said. “Listen, keep the laptop. The battery should run for a couple of hours. There's a spare in the bag, all charged up, which should be good for a couple more hours. Watching movies really sucks up the power, I'm afraid. I don't know if you'll be able to find an adapter to charge the laptop in your world—the standards are different. But you can see a couple of movies at least. I gave you all my favorite DVDs, great stuff by Hayao Miyazaki, Beat Takeshi, Wes Anderson, some classics ... take your pick."
“Pete..."
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It's been so good talking to you these past few nights.” He tried to think of what he'd say if this was the last scene in a movie, his Casablanca farewell moment, and a dozen appropriate quotes sprang to mind. He dismissed all of them. “I'm going to miss you, Ally."
“Thank you, Pete,” she said, and went, reluctantly, back into Impossible Dreams. She looked at him from the other side of the glass, and he raised his hand to wave just as the door disappeared.
* * * *
Pete didn't let himself go back the next night, because he knew the temptation to go into the store would be too great, and it might only be open for ten minutes this time. But after pacing around his living room for hours, he finally went out after ten and walked to the place the store had been, thinking maybe she'd left a note, wishing for some closure, some final-reel gesture, a rose on the doorstep, something.
But there was nothing, no door, no note, no rose, and Pete sat on the sidewalk, wishing he'd thought to photograph Ally, wondering which movies she'd decided to watch, and what she'd thought of them.
“Hey, Mr. Nickels."
Pete looked up. Ally stood there, wearing a red coat, his laptop bag hanging from her shoulder. She sat down beside him. “I didn't think you'd show, and I did not relish the prospect of wandering in a strange city all night with only fifty dollars in nickels to keep me warm. Some of the street names are the same as where I'm from, but not enough of them for me to figure out where you lived."
“Ally! What are you doing here?"
“You gave me those books,” she said, “and they all talk about Citizen Kane by Orson Welles, how it transformed cinema.” She punched him gently in the shoulder. “But you didn't give me the DVD!"
“But ... everyone's seen Citizen Kane!"
“Not where I'm from. The print was destroyed. Hearst knew the movie was based on his life, and he made a deal with the studio, the guards looked the other way, and someone destroyed the film. Welles had to start over from nothing, and he made Jason and the Argonauts instead. But you've got Citizen Kane! How could I not come see it?"
“But Ally ... you might not be able to go back."
She laughed, then leaned her head on his shoulder. “I don't plan to go back. There's nothing for me there."
Pete felt a fist of panic clench in his chest. “This isn't a movie,” he said.
“No,” Ally said. “It's better than that. It's my life."
“I just don't know—"
Ally patted his leg. “Relax, Pete. I'm not asking you to take me in. Unlike Blanche Dubois—played by Jessica Tandy, not Vivian Leigh, where I'm from—I don't depend on the kindness of strangers. I ran away from home when I was fifteen, and never looked back. I've started from nothing before, with no friends or prospects or ID, and I can do it again."
“You're not starting from nothing,” Pete said, putting his arm around her. “Definitely not.” The lights weren't going to come up, the curtain wasn't coming down; this wasn't the end of a movie. For once, Pete liked his life better than the vivid continuous dream of the screen. “Come on. Let's go watch Citizen Kane."
They stood and walked together. “Just out of curiosity,” he said. “Which movies did you watch on the laptop?"
“Oh, none. I thought it would be more fun watching them with you."
Pete laughed. “Ally, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. “You sound like you're quoting something,” she said, “but I don't know what."
“We've got a lot of watching to do,” he said.
“We've got a lot of everything to do,” Ally replied.
Copyright 2006 Tim Pratt
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
SNAIL STONES
by Paul Melko
Paul lives in Ohio with his beautiful wife and three fairly wonderful children. The youngest was born last Septem-ber and has been a handful from the start. The elder two are already teaching him how to sass back. Paul enjoys gardening in the summer, and employs his daughter in the pursuit and capture of garden pests, including Japan-ese beetles, ladybugs, and, indeed, snails. None of the latter have been as large as the one in this story, but if one were, it might go a long way to explain the huge slime tracks and missing fencing. Paul's last story for us, “The Walls of the Universe,” appeared in our April/May 2006 issue.
“Who's that wagger?” Edeo asked. He was so distracted by the cloaked figure he missed the ball Haron had bounced off the wall of the abandoned building, and it rolled across the sewer grate, bumbling like a pachinko ball before disappearing into the foulness below.
“That's great, Edeo! That was our only ball."
But Edeo's attention was on the grey-coated man who couldn't have looked more conspicuous, head darting left and right, arms clutching a bundle of sackcloth.
Haron scooted on his belly by the grate, finger brushing slimy water, trying to find the ball.
“Who cares who he is?” Haron said. “Unless
he has some more balls."
Edeo, oblivious to Haron's effort to extract the ball, edged between the two warehouses to get a better look at the figure. He climbed a pile of rubble.
“It's Fruge, the jeweler,” he said. “My new dad bought my mom a ring from him. Then he hocked it for ringseed ale."
“It's Fruge, so what?” Haron said, certain that Edeo should be the one fishing for the ball. His fingers touched something furry. He pulled his hand out with a squeal.
Fruge, some hundred meters away, turned, searching the broken buildings for the sound. Edeo dropped down among the rubble pieces. “Shush, now. He'll see us, you breather."
“So? He ain't the muni."
Haron, angry that he had screamed like a little kid, stuck his hand back in, now searching for the rodent and the ball. Either would be fun to play with.
Fruge stared at the derelict buildings. He was clearly doing something nefarious, Edeo thought. He fumbled in his pocket with one hand while the other clutched the cloth to his chest.
“Holy Captain. He's got a gun."
Haron turned his head, hand still in the grate. “A gun?"
“He's coming this way."
Something brushed Haron's hand and he squeezed. “Hey, I got the ball!” He tried to pull his hand out, but his fist was too thick to fit between the bars of the grate. Something chittered in the darkness.
Haron watched Fruge advance on them. He was still a long way off, and he had no doubt that they could outrun the pudgy man in the ruins near the spaceport. He and Edeo were small and knew a lot of good hiding places they shouldn't have, given that their moms had forbidden them to come to the old abandoned firstfall zone.
Edeo was mesmerized by Fruge's gun. He'd never seen one; they were illegal. Why was Fruge carrying one? It was obvious after a moment; Fruge was a jeweler. He had to carry a gun for protection.
Haron, having banged his fist against the bars a dozen times, was convinced he couldn't bring the ball through the grate while holding it. He peered down into the sewer. Stupid ball. Edeo had picked the biggest one on the ball tree, of course.
“Who's there?” Fruge cried. “I have a gun.” He waved it. “Don't come near me."
“What's he squawking on about?” Haron asked.
“He's afraid,” Edeo replied. “We'd better go. He might mistake us for robbers."
“Not without my ball."
“We'll get another one."
“Not until tonight!” The ball tree was in Mr. Hebway's garden. Any balls that fell, he burned in his incinerator instead of giving them to the kids. No way he'd let them have one, even if they asked. They'd have to climb the fence and tree in the dark.
“Come on,” Edeo said. He scrambled down the rubble pile.
“No way!"
Haron reached in with his other hand, cupping the ball. He let go and then pushed it through the grate. “I got it."
Edeo peered around the rubble. Fruge was running at them.
“Come on!"
The sound of thunder erupted above, and radiant heat basked them in warmth. The cargo ship sprayed orange flame as it drove into the sky. The boys paused, watching the rocket climb. They'd come to watch it anyway, but then been distracted.
“Wow,” Edeo said, forgetting Fruge for the moment. It was off to Highpoint, where the bigger spline ships docked. Edeo couldn't imagine that the spline ships were hundreds of times bigger than the simple rockets that launched from the spaceport.
When the rocket had finally become just a blur of red, they remembered Fruge. But when they turned, he was gone, perhaps scared by the sound of the rocket.
“What's that?” Edeo asked. Where Fruge had been standing, something twinkled in the sunlight.
Haron and Edeo ran for it, Haron edging Edeo out by a hair. He scooped the glittering thing up, then dropped it as if it were a snake.
Edeo skidded to a stop, his hand frozen. The shape and size made it obvious, but he'd never seen one so big. The boys looked at each other. Then Edeo reached down to pick it up.
“Snail stone."
* * * *
Haron was at Edeo's door five minutes after dinner.
“You got it?” he whispered.
Edeo's mom was busy on the vid with her friends, all six faces on the screen showing a similar head covered with a checked cloth. His step-father was collapsed on the couch sipping a ringseed. That left just his older brother Gremon to arch a brow and say, “Got what?"
“Nothing,” Edeo and Haron said in unison.
“I bet,” Gremon said, standing up from the table to block Edeo's way out of the kitchen. Edeo had the snail stone in his back pocket, and he knew Gremon well enough to know he'd search him until he found the artifact in question.
He sighed, as if in resignation, then tipped Gremon's plate of food out of his hand. While Gremon juggled the plate, Edeo slid under the table. Edeo and Haron were almost to the stairwell firedoor when gravity finally won the battle and Gremon's plate clattered to the floor, breaking in pieces.
They shared a quick grin, though Edeo knew he'd pay later. It was worth it.
“You got it?” Haron asked again.
“Yeah,” Edeo said.
Instead of heading out into the courtyard, they kept going down, sliding between boxes in the space under the last flight of stairs. Haron switched on his flashlight as Edeo pulled out the snail stone.
It felt like a rock in Edeo's hand, cold and heavy, but it didn't look like a rock. It shimmered with orange light, cutting the flashlight's beam into prisms. Edeo turned his hand, and the prisms danced on the wall.
“You sleep with it under your bed and your willy gets longer,” Haron said.
“Does not!” Edeo replied, though truth be told, he wasn't sure. People said the snail stones did all sorts of things, that they powered rockets, caused cold fusion, cured colds. Why else did the government decide they owned them all?
“How much you think it's worth?"
“We can't ask Fruge, that's for sure,” Edeo said.
“Lotta jewelers,” Haron said.
Footsteps on the stair, and Haron snapped off the flashlight. The steps stopped, as if the soft click had been enough to alert the stepper.
With extra-fraternal senses, Edeo knew it was Gremon. He held his breath, willed Haron to do the same. Haron sensed his friend's fear and remained silent, waiting.
Finally, the steps continued and the courtyard door swung open and closed.
They waited. It wasn't above Gremon to fool them from their hiding places with a fake door opening. Then a chatting couple came in, and that was enough for the two. They slipped up the steps and, with an eye for Gremon, headed for the Guild district.
Most of the shops were closed, the gemologists and dealers off to their homes. Fruge's shop was closed tight. None of the shops displayed any snail stones in their barred windows.
“Tomorrow?” Edeo asked. He was thinking he'd slip the stone under his mattress for safe-keeping.
“Nah,” Haron said. “Here."
The place was a pawn shop. A few rings lined the front display windows. A neon sign flickered, revealed that the shop was open twenty-two hours.
They pushed through the revolving door into the cluttered shop. Junk lined the walls; space suits hung next to stringless violins. Two rows of trikes sat covered in dust, one of them a Keebler Three-X.
“We'll be able to buy two of those with this,” Haron whispered.
“You think?"
“I ain't buying anymore trikes!"
A head had popped up through a glass partition at the back of the store.
“We don't got no trikes,” Haron said.
“Well, you don't look like you can buy one, either of you. What you want?"
Edeo nudged Haron forward in front of him. They stepped to within two meters of the pawnbroker. He was old enough to be second generation. Wispy white hair medusaed around his head.
“Snail stones,” Haron said. “How much one of those go fo
r?"
The man's eyes narrowed. “You trying to trick old Kort? You working with the munis, seeing if I'm on the up and up?” His voice rose as if he were addressing someone beyond the room, listening in. “I don't traffic in restricted items, no sir."
Haron was annoyed. “Yeah, but how much would it be worth if you did?"
The pawnbroker peered down at Haron. His eyes had a devious look to them, as if he'd just made a decision to do a bad thing for his own good. “What you find in your granddame's attic? Something that should have been turned in years ago? Something forgotten?"
Edeo backed away, hand deep in his pocket, cupping the snail stone.
“We didn't find nothing!” Haron said, standing fast.
The booth the pawnbroker sat in flew up to the ceiling with a whoosh, leaving the old man standing in front of Haron. He reached out with a fist and took hold of Haron's shirt, dragging him forward with one hand while the other dug into Haron's pants pocket.
“What you got there, pinter? What'd you find?"
Edeo ran, abandoning Haron for the gem's safety. But when he slammed into the revolving door, it held fast.
“Maybe you've got the stone,” the man cried.
“We don't have nothing,” Edeo screamed. “It was all Gremon's idea. He sent us in to ask!"
The old man's strength seemed to flag, and Haron's feet touched the ground. He pulled away and huddled with Edeo in the pie-shaped slot of the revolving door.
“A trick? You playing a trick on old Kort?"
The old man spat at them, then kicked a lever with his feet. The reluctant door whipped them around and spat them onto the street. They ran, then, ducking between two women window shopping in the dusk.
Edeo ran only as far as the first turn, then he sagged against a solar shield booth, rusted and left over from before the atmosphere was thick enough. The thing was covered in graffiti, but the seats were relatively clean, so they sat there under the lead shielding and took deep breaths.
“They're on the munis’ restricted lists,” Haron finally said.
Asimov's SF, July 2006 Page 13