Or the past.:
‘Hello!’ said Sam, up at the top of the telephone pole. ‘Sam, this is you.’
A voice he knew perfectly well sounded in the receiver. ‘Huh? Who’s that?’
‘This is you,’ said Sam. ‘You, Sam Yoder. Don’t you recognize your own voice? This is you, Sam Yoder, calling from the twelfth of July. Don’t hang up!’
He heard Rosie gasp, all the way down there in the banged-up telephone-truck. Sam had seen the self-evident at last, and now, on the twelfth of July, he was talking to himself on the telephone. Only instead of talking to himself in the week after next, he was now talking to himself in the week before last - he being back there ten days before, working on the very same telephone-line on this very same pole. And it was the same conversation, word for word.
When he came down the pole, rather expansively, Rosie clung to him weeping.
‘Oh, Sam!’ she sobbed. ‘It was you all the time! Only you!’ ‘Yeah,’ said Sam complacendy. ‘I figured it out last night. That me back there in the second of July, he’s cussing me out. And he’s going to tell you about it, and you’re going to get all wrought up. But I can make that dumb me back yonder do what has to be done. And you and me, Rosie, have got a lot of money coming to us. I’m going to carry on through so he’ll earn it for us. But I’m warning you, Rosie, he’ll be back at my house waiting for me to talk to him tonight, and I’ve got to be home to tell him to go over to your house. I’m goin’ to say ha ha, ha ha at him.’
‘A-all right,’ said Rosie, wide-eyed. sYou can.’
‘But,’ said Sam. ‘I remember that when I call me up tonight, back there ten days ago, I’m going to be right busy here and now tonight. I’m going to make me mad, because I don’t want to waste time talking to myself back yonder. Remember?’ Then Rosie turned red. ‘Now what would I be doing tonight that makes me not want to waste time talking to myself ten days ago?’ Sam asked mildly. ‘You got any ideas, Rosie?’
‘Sam Yoder!’ Rosie said. ‘I won’t! I wouldn’t! I never heard of such a thing!’
Sam looked at her and shook his head regretfully.
‘Too bad! If you won’t, I guess I’ve got to call me up in the week after next and find out what’s cooking.’
‘You - you shan’t!’ said Rosie fiercely. ‘You, Sam Yoder -I’ll get even with you! But you shan’t talk to that—’ Then she wailed. ‘Doggone you, Sam! Even if I do have to marry you so you’ll be wanting to talk to that dumb you ten days back, you’re not going to - you’re not—’
Sam grinned. He kissed her. He put her in the truck and they rode off to Batesville to get married. And they did.
But as you’re not supposed to believe all this, and if you ask Sam Yoder about it, he’s apt to say that it’s all a lie. He doesn’t want the question of privacy raised again. And there are other matters. For instance, Sam’s getting to be a pretty prominent citizen these days. He makes a lot of money, one way and another. Nobody around home will ever bet with him on who’s going to win a baseball game, anyhow.
THE DEVIL OF EASTLUPTON
Occult? Very definitely not. As far as records show, Leinster never wrote in this genre - although sometimes it seemed as if he was going to (as in ‘The Power’). No, the following is very definitely hard-line SF, very pleasantly laced with humor. Not that Mr. Tedder found the situation very funny .·..
To this day nobody pretends to understand the Devil of East Lupton, Vermont. There are even differences of opinion about the end to which that devil came. Mr. Tedder is sure he was the fiend in question, and that he ceased to be fiendish when he rid himself of the pot over his head.
Other authorities believe that heavy ordnance did the trick, and point to a quarter-mile crater for proof. It takes close reasoning to decide.
But if by the Devil of East Lupton you mean the Whatever-it-was that came out of Somewhere to Here, and caused all the catastrophes by his mere arrival - why - then the Devil was the Whatever-it-was in the leathery, hidelike covering on the morning Mr. Tedder ran away from the constable.
On that morning, Mr. Tedder ran like a deer - or as nearly like a deer as Mr. Tedder could hope to run. The resemblance was not close. Deer do not hesitate helplessly between possible avenues of escape. Deer do not plunge out of concealing thickets to scuttle through merely shoulder-high brush because a pathway shows. But Mr. Tedder did.
The constable, behind him, shouted wrathfully. There was a thirty-day jail-sentence waiting for someone for vagrancy — which is to say, for not having any money. Mr. Tedder was elected.
He would not gain any money by staying in jail, but the
consta e who arrested him and the justice of the peace who se/1 en|”e h1! would receive fees for their activity. That was K ^ v,? t0Wnship was notoriously a bad place for tramps, ums, anket-stiffs and itinerant workmen in need of a job.
cant go much further,’ Mr. Tedder thought. His heart HMd^ ^10rrifc’ly. There was an agonizing stitch in his side. . was a hoarse, honking noise as it rushed in and out. ^Pair filled him as exhaustion neared. e Podded, sobbing for breath, up a little ten-foot rise. His e^s t0 blur with tears. Then he lurched down the other r u j ridge and saw that he was in the neglected, broken-lnL^ °rchard of an abandoned farm.
e house was partly collapsed and wholly ruined. A remaining shed leaned crazily. Vines climbed over a rail fence -ee parts rotten - and went on along a strand of barbed wire
nailed to tree-trunks.
e could run no further. He looked, despairing, for a hiding P ■ Wis haggard, ineffectual face turned desperately. He saw some ing dark and large. To his blurred eyes it looked like a C°Th C Tatl t0War^ ^ shrank back, stirring….
re was a thin, high screaming noise, like gas escaping rough a punctured tire, but a tire inflated to a monstrous pressure. There was a vast, foggy vaporousness. The dark s ape made convulsive movements, but Mr. Tedder was too °S
Ug! gasped Mr. Tedder. e SCream descended in pitch. A pungent, ammoniacal sme filled the air. Mr. Tedder ran into a wisp of fog which tore at his lungs. He choked and fell - which was fortunate, because the air was clearer near the ground. He lay kicking among dead leaves and dry grass-stems while a gray vapor spread and spread, and a very gentle breeze urged it sidewise among the unkempt trees of the orchard.
l noise died away in a long-continued moan which included gurgIingS> It still sounded like gas escaping from very
high pressure.
The gurglings were like spoutings of liquid within.
t Mr. Tedder was in no mood to analyze. He had been
breathless to begin with. He had been strangled on top of that. Now he writhed in the dry grass, ready to sob because the constable would presently lay hands on him and haul him to jail.
He heard the constable shout again, furiously. Then Mr. Tedder heard him cough. The constable bellowed, ‘Fire!’ and fled.
He ran into a tendril of wispy, creeping vapor which did look a lot like smoke. He fell down, strangling. Again the air was clearer among the tangled stalks of frost-killed grasses. The constable coughed and wheezed.
Presently he staggered away to report that a vagabond had set fire to the woods to hinder pursuit. But there was no fire. The chill vapor which looked like smoke very gradually dissipated. A cursory glance would send the firefighters home again.
Mr. Tedder lay sobbing and gasping on the ground, expecting at any instant to be seized. He panted in despair. But the constable did not reappear. He never returned. Mr. Tedder was alone, his escape good.
When he realized it, he sat up abruptly. His meek face expressed astonishment. He stared all about him. There was still a small space from which an ever-thinner gray vapor seeped away. There was a reek as of ammonia in the air - a highly improbable smell around an abandoned farmhouse.
Presently Mr. Tedder got to his feet. He brushed off the leaves and grass-stems which clung to his shabby garments. He was a few yards from a distinctly tumbledown
woodshed and almost under a gnarled apple-tree to which a few leaves still clung, and where he could observe a single, dried-up apple clinging tenaciously to its parent bough.
The sight of the apple gave him pause. He hunted busily. He found windfalls. Untended, the apples would be wormy and small and belated at best. But Mr. Tedder had learned not to be over-fastidious. He found a dozen or more scrubby objects which were partly eatable. He ate them.
It was then that he heard a bubbling noise, like something boiling in a pot. The sounds came from the place where the gray mist rose. He went to the spot, and wrinkled his nose. The smell of ammonia was stronger. It seemed to come from a collapsed object on the ground which was remotely like a deflated hide. A liquid came from a small rent in it and bubbled furiously to nothingness.
A student of physics would have said that it had an extraordinarily low boiling-point, like a liquefied gas. Mr. Tedder said nothing. He regarded the flaccid skin-like thing surprisedly. He had seen it a little while since, inflated and moving about.
There must have been something inside it to move it.
Mr. Tedder could see, of course, where it had a tiny tear. It had moved or been moved back against a single strand of barbed wire, hidden among vine-stems. It had punctured, and there it was. But Mr. Tedder could never have imagined a creature which required an extremely cold gas like ammonia and hydrogen, mixed, at extremely high pressure, in order to live. He could not have conceived of such a creature wearing a flexible garment to contain that high-pressure, low-tempera-ture gas for it to breathe. Assuredly he would never envision anything, beast or devil, which at released pressure and the temperature of a Vermont autumn day would melt to liquid and boil away to nothing.
‘It don’t make sense,’ he muttered, scratching his unkempt head.
So Mr. Tedder, who could not think comprehendingly, did not think at all. He saw something on the ground - no, two tilings. They were metal, and they smouldered and smoked like the flat thing, because they were cold. They were unbelievably cold. One looked like an aluminum pot. But pots do not have chilly linked-metal straps in the place of handles, nor hemispherical knobs, a good inch and a half in diameter, on one rim. The other object looked like a gun. Not a real gun, of course. But vaguely, approximately, like a gun just the same.
He picked up the pot. It was all of an inch and a half thick. It was very light for such a thickness. Mr. Tedder cheered suddenly. It was undoubtedly aluminum. There is a market for scrap aluminum. East Lupton was out of bounds, of course, but there might be a junk-dealer in South Lupton. This ought to be worth fifty cents, and he might get a quarter for it.
‘Two bits is still two bits,’ he thought.
He touched the other thing gingerly. It was still bitterly cold, but the frost melted under the warmth of his finger. It would weigh fifteen pounds or so. Another twenty-five cents____
Mr. Tedder marched on happily. Then he came upon broken branches, freshly crushed down from trees. He saw another gray mist before him. He approached it cautiously. He saw where something had crashed down through the trees and knocked off the top of a six-inch maple. He pushed on inquisitively. …
The thing had ploughed into soft earth and almost buried itself. A foot-thick tree was splintered and had crashed to cover the object that had broken it. Mr. Tedder saw whiteness through the toppled branches. It seemed to be a sphere not much over ten feet in diameter, and it was completely covered with frost. A chilly mist oozed away from it. Mr. Tedder stared at it with the metal pot in one hand and the gun - if it was a gun - in the other.
There was silence save for the faintly sibilant whispering of the trees overhead. There was the lurid coloring of Vermont in the fall. A bird called somewhere, a long distance away. Then Mr. Tedder heard a motor running. It sounded very queer.
‘Thud-thud-thud-thud-CHUNK! Thud-thud-thud-tkud-CHUNK!’ It was running in the frost-covered sphere under the fallen tree.
‘I’ll be darned!’ he said aloud.
It occurred vaguely to Mr. Tedder that this and the deflated object back yonder were somehow connected. He picked his way cautiously around the smashed branches and shattered trees. Well away, he felt cheerful because he had escaped the law and picked up salable junk. The two objects were pretty heavy, too. The pot would fit on his head, though, and would be easier to carry so. He put it over his battered soft hat and drew the chain-link strap under his chin. Then he examined the thing like a gun. There was a knob on one side, an inch and a half in diameter. He tugged at it.
There was a sharp buzzing sound. Something that looked like flame came out of the end. It spread out in a precisely shaped, mathematically perfect cone, and blotted out brushwood, trees - everything.
Mr. Tedder jerked the knob back, startled, on the first sounding of the noise. The flame-like appearance lasted less than half a second. But where the flame had played upon foliage and brush there wasn’t anything left. Nothing at all but a little fine ash, sifting down towards earth. And the grass and top-soil were eaten away as if a virulent acid had been spilled over them.
Mr. Tedder stood frozen for the tenth part of a heartbeat. Then in one motion he threw away the gun and fled. The pot flopped down over his eyes, blinding him. He hit his head a terrific blow against a low-hanging limb. Instandy, it seemed to him, the chain-link strap tightened. He went almost mad with terror. But when he got the pot back so he could see, he fled with the heavy thing bobbing and bumping on his head.
Presently his own panting slowed him down. He remembered the knob on the rim of the pot. He stopped and fumbled with it. It came off in his hand with a crystalline fracture to show where it had broken in his first collision. He couldn’t get the pot off.
He worked for a long time, sweating in something ciose to hysterical panic. He was terrified of the thing he had thrown away, and by transference, of the pot on his head. He desired passionately to be rid of it. He felt a sort of poignant desperation. But he would have to get somebody to cut the strap in order to be freed.
He came to the edge of the thicket beyond East Lupton. He looked out upon rolling country, undulating to the mountain’s foot. There was a cluster of houses in the distance. Still terrified, and with the pot bumping on his head, Mr. Tedder struck out for the village.
He saw a tiny bundle of fur in his way. It was a dead rabbit. He passed on. He saw, very far ahead, a white dog running from a farmhouse to intercept him. But Mr. Tedder was not afraid of dogs. He was afraid of thepot onhis head. Presently he saw the dog no more than ten feet away. It lay sprawled out, motionless. It looked dead. Then he saw the throb-throb of a heartbeat. It was asleep, or unconscious. He hastened on.
He came to the highway and ran toward a wagon for help. And there was a horse lying down between the shafts. The man in the wagon, too, had sagged limply. Both were alive, but both were unconscious.
‘Something screwy here,’ he thought.
Mr. Tedder had his own terror, but this was an emergency even more immediate than his own. He tried to help the man. He did get him down to the road, and laid him solicitously on the dead-grass bank by the side of the road. He loosened his clothing and went on toward the village at a run to summon help. Afterward he would get the pot off his head.
But the village was unconscious, too, when he got there. Male and female, man, woman, child, and beast, the inhabitants of South Lupton lay in crumpled heaps.
He saw a small boy unconscious over a toy wagon. A woman had collapsed into a laundry-basket beside a clothes-line. A little farther on, a mule lay with its legs spraddled absurdly. Then he saw two men flung headlong as if they had been running when weakness overtook them. It began to look as if alarm had come to the village.
People had thronged out of their houses to fall in heaps on the sidewalk, at their doors - everywhere. He saw a car that had run into a gas-pump, and just beyond another car which had run off the road and stalled on a hillside. Dogs, cats, chickens -the very pigeons and crows lay motionless on the ground.
Mr. Tedder felt a horrible panic, and the pot on his head bumped him, but he tried desperately to rise to the emergency this situation constituted. He tried to rouse the unconscious people lying in the street. He loosened clothing, he sprinkled water, he chafed hands - to no avail. His meek, normally apprehensive features went consciously stem and resolute.
Presently he tried to summon help by telephone, but there was a local exchange and the operator lay unconscious in her chair. In the end, and in desperation, Mr. Tedder commandeered a bicycle on which to seek aid.
The essential rightness of his character was shown by the fact that he rifled no purses. He looted nothing. The Bank of South Lupton lay open to him, and it did not occur to him to fill his pockets. He got on a bicycle and rode off like mad, the absurd pot bobbing on his head as he pedaled.
He came to a car that had smashed into a ditch and turned over. Flames licked at its gasoline-tank. Mr. Tedder leaped off the bicycle and dragged out an unconscious man and a little girl. He hauled them to safety and tried to put out the fire. He failed.
He pedaled on madly in quest of a doctor, when attempts to rouse these two people failed as had all the rest. He was in a new panic now, somehow. He remembered, though vaguely, talk of a broadcast of years before concerning the landing of Martians upon the earth. Mr. Tedder was not quite sure whether Martians had landed or not, but somehow it suddenly frightened him to remember the frost covered globe which had smashed trees in landing.
‘You’d think I was Orson Welles or somebody,’ he gulped.
He reached the town of West Lupton. The names of towns in Vermont are not good evidence of Yankee ingenuity. The town itself was a tiny place of five hundred people. As he pedaled into it, it looked like the scene of a massacre. Its inhabitants lay unconscious everywhere. There were not even flies in the air.
Mr. Tedder did not give up for two full hours, during which he pedaled desperately in quest of some other conscious human being. By now his fear had come to be for himself, and it grew until it made him almost unaware of the ill-fitting, bumping pot upon his head. But at long last his teeth chattered.
Murray Leinster Page 13