A man came with a blazing board ripped from a fence. They poured gasoline over newspapers heaped in a ring around the base of the tree. The bottom branches began to burn, feebly at first, then more brightly.
"Get more gas!"
A man in a white uniform came lugging a tank of gasoline. He threw the tankful of gas onto the tree. Flames blazed up, rising rapidly. The branches charred and crackled, burning furiously.
Far above them the buggie began to stir. It climbed uncertainly to a higher branch, pulling itself up. The flames licked closer. The buggie increased its pace. It undulated, dragging itself onto the next branch above. Higher and higher it climbed.
"Look at it go."
"It won't get away. It's almost at the top."
More gasoline was brought. The flames leaped higher. A crowd had collected around the fence. The police kept them back.
"There it goes." The light moved to keep the buggie visible.
"It's at the top."
The buggie had reached the top of the tree. It rested, holding onto the branch, swaying back and forth. Flames leaped from branch to branch, closer and closer to it. The buggie felt hesitantly around, blindly, seeking support. It reached, feeling with its wisps. A spurt of fire touched it.
The buggie crackled, smoke rising from it.
"It's burning!" An excited murmur swept through the crowd. "It's finished."
The buggie was on fire. It moved clumsily, trying to get away. Suddenly it dropped, falling to the branch below. For a second it hung on the branch, crackling and smoking. Then the branch gave way with a rending crackle.
The buggie fell to the ground, among the newspapers and gasoline.
The crowd roared. They seethed toward the tree, flowing and milling forward.
"Step on it!"
"Get it!"
"Step on the damn thing!"
Boots stamped again and again, feet rising and falling, grinding the buggie into the ground. A man fell, pulling himself away, his glasses hanging from one ear. Knots of struggling people fought with each other, pressing inward, trying to reach the tree. A flaming branch fell. Some of the crowd retreated.
"I got it!"
"Get back!"
More branches fell, crashing down. The crowd broke up, streaming back, laughing and pushing.
Jimmy felt the cop's hand on his arm, big fingers digging in. "That's the end, boy. It's all over."
"They get it?"
"They sure did. What's your name?"
"My name?" Jimmy started to tell the cop his name but just then some scuffling broke out between two men and the cop hurried over.
Jimmy stood for a moment, watching. The night was cold. A frigid wind blew around him, chilling him through his clothing. He thought suddenly of dinner and his father stretched out on the couch, reading the newspaper. His mother in the kitchen fixing dinner. The warmth, the friendly yellow homey warmth.
He turned and made his way through the people to the edge of the street. Behind him the charred stalk of the tree rose black and smoking into the night. A few glowing remains were being stamped out around its base. The buggie was gone, it was over, there was nothing more to see. Jimmy hurried home as if the buggie were chasing him.
"What do you say to that?" Ted Barnes demanded, sitting with his legs crossed, his chair back from the table. The cafeteria was full of noise and the smell of food. People pushed their trays along on the racks in front of them, gathering dishes from the dispensers.
"Your kid really did that?" Bob Walters said, across from him, with open curiosity.
"You sure you're not stringing us along?" Frank Hendricks said, lowering his newspaper for a moment.
"It's the truth. The one they got over at the Pomeroy Estate - I'm talking about that one. It was a real son-of-a-gun."
"That's right," Jack Green admitted. "The paper says some kid spotted it first and brought the police."
"That was my kid," Ted said, his chest swelling. "What do you guys think about that?"
"Was he scared?" Bob Walters wanted to know.
"Hell no!" Ted Barnes replied strongly.
"I'll bet he was." Frank Hendricks was from Missouri.
"He sure wasn't. He got the cops and brought them to the place - last night. We were sitting around the dinner table, wondering where the hell he was. I was getting a little worried." Ted Barnes was still the proud parent.
Jack Green got to his feet, looking at his watch. "Time to get back to the office."
Frank and Bob got up also. "See you later, Ted."
Green thumped Ted on the back. "Some kid you got, Barnes - chip off the old block."
Ted grinned. "He wasn't a bit afraid." He watched them go out of the cafeteria onto the busy noonday street. After a moment he gulped down the rest of his coffee and wiped his chin, standing slowly up. "Not a damn bit afraid - not one damn bit."
He paid for his lunch and pushed his way outside onto the street, his chest still swelled up. He grinned at people passing by as he walked back to the office, all aglow with reflected glory.
"Not a bit afraid," he murmured, full of pride, a deep glowing pnde. "Not one damn bit!"
The Commuter
The little fellow was tired. He pushed his way slowly through the throng of people, across the lobby of the station, to the ticket window. He waited his turn impatiently, fatigue showing in his drooping shoulders, his sagging brown coat.
"Next," Ed Jacobson, the ticket seller, rasped.
The little fellow tossed a five dollar bill on the counter. "Give me a new commute book. Used up the old one." He peered past Jacobson at the wall clock. "Lord, is it really that late?"
Jacobson accepted the five dollars. "OK, mister. One commute book. Where to?"
"Macon Heights," the little fellow stated.
"Macon Heights." Jacobson consulted his board. "Macon Heights. There isn't any such place."
The little man's face hardened in suspicion. "You trying to be funny?"
"Mister, there isn't any Macon Heights. I can't sell you a ticket unless there is such a place."
"What do you mean? I live there!"
"I don't care. I've been selling tickets for six years and there is no such place."
The little man's eyes popped with astonishment. "But I have a home there. I go there every night. I -"
"Here." Jacobson pushed him the chart board. "You find it."
The little man pulled the board over to one side. He studied it frantically, his finger trembling as he went down the list of towns.
"Find it?" Jacobson demanded, resting his arms on the counter. "It's not there, is it?"
The little man shook his head, dazed. "I don't understand. It doesn't make sense. Something must be wrong. There certainly must be -"
Suddenly he vanished. The board fell to the cement floor. The little fellow was gone - winked out of existence.
"Holy Caesar's Ghost," Jacobson gasped. His mouth opened and closed. There was only the board lying on the cement floor.
The little man had ceased to exist.
"What then?" Bob Paine asked.
"I went around and picked up the board."
"He was really gone?"
"He was gone, all right." Jacobson mopped his forehead. "I wish you had been around. Like a light he went out. Completely. No sound. No motion."
Paine lit a cigarette, leaning back in his chair. "Had you ever seen him before?"
"No."
"What time of day was it?"
"Just about now. About five." Jacobson moved toward the ticket window. "Here comes a bunch of people."
"Macon Heights." Paine turned the pages of the State city guide. "No listing in any of the books. If he reappears I want to talk to him. Get him inside the office."
"Sure. I don't want to have nothing to do with him. It isn't natural." Jacobson turned to the window. "Yes, lady."
"Two round trip tickets to Lewisburg."
Paine stubbed his cigarette out and lit another. "I keep feeling I've h
eard the name before." He got up and wandered over to the wall map. "But it isn't listed."
"There is no listing because there is no such place," Jacobson said. "You think I could stand here daily, selling one ticket after another, and not know?" He turned back to his window. "Yes, sir."
"I'd like a commute book to Macon Heights," the little fellow said, glancing nervously at the clock on the wall. "And hurry it up."
Jacobson closed his eyes. He hung on tight. When he opened his eyes again the little fellow was still there. Small wrinkled face. Thinning hair. Glasses. Tired, slumped coat.
Jacobson turned and moved across the office to Paine. "He's back." Jacobson swallowed, his face pale. "It's him again."
Paine's eyes flickered. "Bring him right in."
Jacobson nodded and returned to the window. "Mister," he said, "could you please come inside?" He indicated the door. "The Vice-President would like to see you for a moment."
The little man's face darkened. "What's up? The train's about to take off." Grumbling under his breath, he pushed the door open and entered the office. "This sort of thing has never happened before. It's certainly getting hard to purchase a commute book. If I miss the train I'm going to hold your company -"
"Sit down," Paine said, indicating the chair across from the desk. "You're the gentleman who wants a commute book to Macon Heights?"
"Is there something strange about that? What's the matter with all of you? Why can't you sell me a commute book like you always do?"
"Like - like we always do?"
The little man held himself in check with great effort. "Last December my wife and I moved out to Macon Heights. I've been riding your train ten times a week, twice a day, for six months. Every month I buy a new commute book."
Paine leaned toward him. "Exactly which one of our trains do you take, Mr -"
"Critchet. Ernest Critchet. The B train. Don't you know your own schedules?"
"The B train?" Paine consulted a B train chart, running his pencil along it. No Macon Heights was listed. "How long is the trip? How long does it take?"
"Exactly forty-nine minutes." Critchet looked up at the wall clock. "If I ever get on it."
Paine calculated mentally. Forty-nine minutes. About thirty miles from the city. He got up and crossed to the big wall map. "What's wrong?" Critchet asked with marked suspicion. Paine drew a thirty-mile circle on the map. The circle crossed a number of towns, but none of them was Macon Heights. And on the B line there was nothing at all.
"What sort of place is Macon Heights?" Paine asked. "How many people, would you say?"
"I don't know. Five thousand, maybe. I spend most of my time in the city. I'm a bookkeeper over at Bradshaw Insurance."
"Is Macon Heights a fairly new place?"
"It's modern enough. We have a little two-bedroom house, a couple years old." Critchet stirred restlessly. "How about a commute book?"
"I'm afraid," Paine said slowly, "I can't sell you a commute book."
"What? Why not?"
"We don't have any service to Macon Heights."
Critchet leaped up. "What do you mean?"
"There's no such place. Look at the map yourself."
Critchet gaped, his face working. Then he turned angrily to the wall map, glaring at it intently.
"This is a curious situation, Mr Critchet," Paine murmured. "It isn't on the map, and the State city directory doesn't list it. We have no schedule that includes it. There are no commute books made up for it. We don't -"
He broke off. Critchet had vanished. One moment he was there, studying the wall map. The next moment he was gone. Vanished. Puffed out.
"Jacobson!" Paine barked. "He's gone!"
Jacobson's eyes grew large. Sweat stood out on his forehead. "So he is," he murmured.
Paine was deep in thought, gazing at the empty spot Ernest Critchet had occupied. "Something's going on," he muttered. "Something damn strange." Abruptly he grabbed his overcoat and headed for the door.
"Don't leave me alone!" Jacobson begged.
"If you need me I'll be at Laura's apartment. The number's some place in my desk."
"This is no time for games with girls."
Paine pushed open the door to the lobby. "I doubt," he said grimly, "if this is a game."
Paine climbed the stairs to Laura Nichols's apartment two at a time. He leaned on the buzzer until the door opened.
"Bob!" Laura blinked in surprise. To what do I owe this -"
Paine pushed past her, inside the apartment. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"No, but -"
"Big doings. I'm going to need some help. Can I count on you?"
"On me?" Laura closed the door after him. Her attractively furnished apartment lay in half shadow. At the end of the deep green couch a single table lamp burned. The heavy drapes were pulled. The phonograph was on low in the corner.
"Maybe I'm going crazy." Paine threw himself down on the luxuriant green couch. "That's what I want to find out."
"How can I help?" Laura came languidly over, her arms folded, a cigarette between her lips. She shook her long hair back out of her eyes. "Just what did you have in mind?"
Paine grinned at the girl appreciatively. "You'll be surprised. I want you to go downtown tomorrow morning bright and early and -"
"Tomorrow morning! I have a job, remember? And the office starts a whole new string of reports this week."
"The hell with that. Take the morning off. Go downtown to the main library. If you can't get the information there, go over to the county courthouse and start looking through the back tax records. Keep looking until you find it."
"It? Find what?"
Paine lit a cigarette thoughtfully. "Mention of a place called Macon Heights. I know I've heard the name before. Years ago. Got the picture? Go through the old atlases. Old newspapers in the reading room. Old magazines. Reports. City proposals. Propositions before the State legislature."
Laura sat down slowly on the arm of the couch. "Are you kidding?"
"No."
"How far back?"
"Maybe ten years - if necessary."
"Good Lord! I might have to -"
"Stay there until you find it." Paine got up abruptly. "I'll see you later."
"You're leaving. You're not taking me out to dinner?"
"Sorry." Paine moved toward the door. "I'll be busy. Real busy."
"Doing what?"
"Visiting Macon Heights."
Outside the train endless fields stretched off, broken by an occasional farm building. Bleak telephone poles jutted up toward the evening sky.
Paine glanced at his wristwatch. Not far, now. The train passed through a small town. A couple of gas stations, roadside stands, television store. It stopped at the station, brakes grinding. Lewisburg. A few commuters got off, men in overcoats with evening papers. The doors slammed and the train started up.
Paine settled back against his seat, deep in thought. Critchet had vanished while looking at the wall map. He had vanished the first time when Jacobson showed him the chart board... When he had been shown there was no such place as Macon Heights. Was there some sort of clue there? The whole thing was unreal, dreamlike.
Paine peered out. He was almost there - if there were such a place. Outside the train the brown fields stretched off endlessly. Hills and level fields. Telephone poles. Cars racing along the State highway, tiny black specks hurrying through the twilight.
But no sign of Macon Heights.
The train roared on its way. Paine consulted his watch. Fifty-one minutes had passed. And he had seen nothing. Nothing but fields.
He walked up the car and sat down beside the conductor, a white-haired old gentleman. "Ever hear of a place called Macon Heights?" Paine asked.
"No, sir."
Paine showed his identification. "You're sure you never heard of any place by that name?"
"Positive, Mr Paine."
"How long have you been on this run?"
"Eleven years, Mr P
aine."
Paine rode on until the next stop, Jacksonville. He got off and transferred to a B train heading back to the city. The sun had set. The sky was almost black. Dimly, he could make out the scenery out there beyond the window.
He tensed, holding his breath. One minute to go. Forty seconds. Was there anything? Level fields. Bleak telephone poles. A barren, wasted landscape between towns,
Between? The train rushed on, hurtling through the gloom. Paine gazed out fixedly. Was there something out there? Something beside the fields?
Above the fields a long mass of translucent smoke lay stretched out. A homogeneous mass, extended for almost a mile. What was it? Smoke from the engine? But the engine was diesel. From a truck along the highway? A brush fire? None of the fields looked burned.
Suddenly the train began to slow. Paine was instantly alert. The train was stopping, coming to a halt. The brakes screeched, the cars lurched from side to side. Then silence.
Across the aisle a tall man in a light coat got to his feet, put his hat on, and moved rapidly toward the door. He leaped down from the train, onto the ground. Paine watched him, fascinated. The man walked rapidly away from the train across the dark fields. He moved with purpose, heading toward the bank of gray haze.
The man rose. He was walking a foot off the ground. He turned to the right. He rose again, now - three feet off the ground. For a moment he walked parallel to the ground, still heading away from the train. Then he vanished into the bank of haze. He was gone.
Paine hurried up the aisle. But already the train had begun gathering speed. The ground moved past outside. Paine located the conductor, leaning against the wall of the car, a pudding-faced youth.
"Listen," Paine grated. "What was that stop!"
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"That stop! Where the hell were we?"
"We always stop there." Slowly, the conductor reached into his coat and brought out a handful of schedules. He sorted through them and passed one to Paine. "The B always stops at Macon Heights. Didn't you know that?"
"No!"
"It's on the schedule." The youth raised his pulp magazine again. "Always stops there. Always has. Always will."
Paine tore the schedule open. It was true. Macon Heights was listed between Jacksonville and Lewisburg. Exactly thirty miles from the city.
Collected Stories 2 - Second Variety and Other Classic Stories Page 17