CHAPTER IV
End of the Game
BY MORNING Bobby was running a temperature, and Grandmother Keaton refused to risk his life in Santa Barbara. This made Bobby very sullen, but solved the problem the children had been wondering about for many hours. Also, a telephone call from Jane’s father said that he was arriving that day to pick up his daughter, and she had a little brother now. Jane, who had no illusions about the stork, was relieved, and hoped her mother wouldn’t be sick any more now.
A conclave was held in Bobby’s bedroom before breakfast.
“You know what to do, Bobby,” Beatrice said. “Promise you’ll do it?”
“Promise. Uh-huh.”
“You can do it today, Janie, before your father comes. And you’d better get a lot of meat and leave it for Bobby.”
“I can’t buy any meat without money,” Bobby said. Somewhat reluctantly Beatrice counted out what was left of Jane’s small hoard, and handed it over. Bobby stuffed the change under his pillow and pulled at the red flannel wound around his neck.
“It scratches,” he said. “I’m not sick, anyway.”
“It was those green pears you ate yesterday,” Emily said very meanly. “You thought nobody saw you, didn’t you?”
Charles came in; he had been downstairs. He was breathless.
“Hey, know what happened?” he said. “He hurt his foot. Now he can’t go to Santa Barbara. I bet he did it on purpose.”
“Gosh,” Jane said. “How?”
“He said he twisted it on the stairs. But I bet it’s a lie. He just doesn’t want to go.”
“Maybe he can’t go—that far,” Beatrice said, with a sudden flash of intuition, and they spoke no more of the subject. But Beatrice, Emily and Charles were all relieved that the Wrong Uncle was not to go to Santa Barbara with them, after all.
It took two taxis to carry the travelers and their luggage. Grandmother Keaton, the Wrong Uncle, and Jane stood on the front porch and waved. The automobiles clattered off, and Jane promptly got some money from Bobby-and went to the butcher store, returning heavy-laden.
The Wrong Uncle, leaning on a cane, hobbled into the sun-parlor and lay down. Grandmother Keaton made a repulsive but healthful drink for Bobby, and Jane decided not to do what she had to do until afternoon. Bobby read “The Jungle Book,” stumbling over the hard words, and, for the while, the truce held.
Jane was not to forget that day quickly. The smells were sharply distinct; the odor of baking bread from the kitchen, the sticky-sweet flower scents from outside, the slightly dusty, rich-brown aroma exhaled by the sun-warmed rugs and furniture. Grandmother Keaton went up to her bedroom to cold-cream her hands and face, and Jane lounged on the threshold, watching.
It was a charming room, in its comfortable, unimaginative way. The curtains were so stiffly starched that they billowed out in crisp whiteness, and the bureau was cluttered with fascinating objects—a pin-cushion shaped like a doll, a tiny red china shoe, with tinier gray china mice on it, a cameo brooch bearing a portrait of Grandmother Keaton as a girl.
And slowly, insistently, the pulse increased, felt even here, in this bedroom, where Jane felt it was a rather impossible intrusion.
Directly after lunch the bell rang, and it was Jane’s father, come to take her back to San Francisco. He was in a hurry to catch the train, and there was time only for a hurried conversation before the two were whisked off in the waiting taxi. But Jane had found time to run upstairs and say good-by to Bobby—and tell him where the meat was hidden.
“All right, Janie,” Bobby said. “Goodby.”
She knew she should not have left the job to Bobby. A nagging sense of responsibility haunted her all the way to the railroad station. She was only vaguely aware of adult voices saying the train would be very late, and of her father suggesting that the circus was in town . . .
It was a good circus. She almost forgot Bobby and the crisis that would be mounting so dangerously unless he met it as he had promised. Early evening was blue as they moved with the crowd out of the tent. And then through a rift Jane saw a small, familiar figure, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She knew.
Mr. Larkin saw Bobby in almost the same instant. He called sharply, and a moment later the two children were looking at one another, Bobby’s plump face sullen.
“Does your grandmother know you’re here, Bobby?” Mr. Larkin said.
“Well, I guess not,” Bobby said.
“You ought to be paddled, young man. Come along, both of you. I’ll have to phone her right away. She’ll be worried to death.”
IN THE drug store, while he telephoned, M. Jane looked at her cousin. She was suffering the first pangs of maturity’s burden, the knowledge of responsibility misused. “Bobby,” she said. “Did you?”
“You leave me alone,” Bobby said with a scowl. There was silence.
Mr. Larkin came back. “Nobody answered. I’ve called a taxi. There’ll be just time to get Bobby back before our train leaves.”
In the taxi also there was mostly silence. As for what might be happening at the house, Jane did not think of that at all. The mind has its own automatic protections. And in any case, it was too late now . . .
When the taxi drew up the house was blazing with orange squares of windows in the dusk. There were men on the porch, and light glinted on a police officer’s shield.
“You kids wait here,” Mr. Larkin said uneasily. “Don’t get out of the car.”
The taxi driver shrugged and pulled out a folded newspaper as Mr. Larkin hurried toward the porch. In the back seat Jane spoke to Bobby, her voice very soft.
“You didn’t,” she whispered. It was not even an accusation.
“I don’t care,” Bobby whispered back. “I was tired of that game. I wanted to play something else.” He giggled. “I won, anyhow,” he declared.
“How? What happened?”
“The police came, like I knew they would. He never thought of that. So I won.”
“But how?”
“Well, it was sort of like ‘The Jungle Book.’ Shooting tigers, remember? They tied a kid to a stake and, when the tiger comes—bang! Only the kids were all gone to Santa Barbara, and you’d gone too. So I used Granny. I didn’t think she’d mind. She plays games with us a lot. And anyhow, she was the only one left.”
“But Bobby, a kid doesn’t mean a kid like us. It means a baby goat. And anyhow—”
“Oh!” Bobby whispered. “Oh—well, anyhow, I thought Granny would be all right. She’s too fat to run fast.” He grinned scornfully. “He’s dumb,” he said. “He should have known the hunters always come when you tie a kid out for the tiger. He doesn’t know anything. When I told him I’d locked Granny in her room and nobody else was around, I thought he might guess.” Bobby looked crafty. “I was smart. I told him through the window. I thought he might think about me being a kid. But he didn’t. He went right upstairs—fast. He even forgot to limp. I guess he was pretty hungry by then.” Bobby glanced toward the swarming porch. “Prob’ly the police have got him now,” he added carelessly. “It was easy as pie. I won.”
Jane’s mind had not followed these fancies.
“Is she dead?” she asked, very softly.
Bobby looked at her. The word had a different meaning for him. It had no meaning, beyond a phase in a game. And, to his knowledge, the tiger had never harmed the tethered kid.
Mr. Larkin was coming back to the taxi now, walking very slowly and not very straight.
Jane could not see his face . . .
* * * * *
It was hushed up, of course, as much as possible. The children, who knew so much more than those who were shielding them, were futilely protected from the knowledge of what had happened. As futilely as they, in their turn, had tried to protect their elders. Except for the two oldest girls, they didn’t particularly care. The game was over. Granny had had to go away on a long, long journey, and she would never be back.
They understood what that meant well eno
ugh.
The Wrong Uncle, on the other hand, had had to go away too, they were told, to a big hospital where he would be taken care of all his life.
This puzzled them all a little, for it fell somewhat outside the limits of their experience. Death they understood very imperfectly, but this other thing was completely mystifying. They didn’t greatly care, once their interest faded, though Bobby for some time listened to readings of “The Jungle Book” with unusual attention, wondering if this time they would take the tiger away instead of killing him on the spot. They never did, of course. Evidently in real life tigers were different . . .
For a long time afterward, in nightmares, Jane’s perverse imagination dwelt upon and relived the things she would not let it remember when she was awake. She would see Granny’s bedroom as she had seen it last, the starched curtains billowing, the sunshine, the red china shoe, the doll-pincushion. Granny, rubbing cold cream into her wrinkled hands and looking up more and more nervously from time to time as the long, avid waves of hunger pulsed through the house from the thing in its dreadful hollow place down below.
It must have been very hungry. The Wrong Uncle, pretending to a wrenched ankle downstairs, must have shifted and turned upon the couch, that hollow man, empty and blind of everything but the need for sustenance, the one red food he could not live without. The empty automaton in the sunporch and the ravenous being in its warp below pulsing with one hunger, ravening for one food . . .
It had been very wise of Bobby to speak through the window when he delivered his baited message.
UPSTAIRS in the locked room, Granny must have discovered presently that she could not get out. Her fat, mottled fingers, slippery from cold-creaming, must have tugged vainly at the knob.
Jane dreamed of the sound of those footsteps many times. The tread she had never heard was louder and more real to her than any which had ever sounded in her ears. She knew very surely how they must have come bounding up the stairs, thump, thump, thump, two steps at a time, so that Granny would look up in alarm, knowing it could not be the Uncle with his wrenched ankle. She would have jumped up then, her heart knocking, thinking wildly of burglars.
It can’t have lasted long. The steps would have taken scarcely the length of a heartbeat to come down the hall. And by now the house would be shaking and pulsing with one triumphant roar of hunger almost appeased. The thumping steps would beat in rhythm to it, the long quick strides coming with dreadful purposefulness down the hall. And then the key clicking in the lock. And then—
Usually then Jane awoke . . .
A little boy isn’t responsible. Jane told herself that many times, then and later. She didn’t see Bobby again very often, and when she did he had forgotten a great deal; new experiences had crowded out the old. He got a puppy for Christmas, and he started to school. When he heard that the Wrong Uncle had died in the asylum he had had to think hard to remember who they meant, for to the younger children the Wrong Uncle had never been a member of the family, only a part in a game they had played and won.
Gradually the nameless distress which had once pervaded the household faded and ceased. It was strongest, most desperate, in the days just after Granny’s death, but everyone attributed that to shock. When it died away they were sure.
By sheer accident Bobby’s cold, limited logic had been correct. Ruggedo would not have been playing fair if he had brought still another Wrong Uncle into the game, and Bobby had trusted him to observe the rules. He did observe them, for they were a law he could not break.
Ruggedo and the Wrong Uncle were parts of a whole, indissolubly bound into their cycle. Not until the cycle had been successfully completed could the Wrong Uncle extension be retracted or the cord broken. So, in the end, Ruggedo was helpless.
In the asylum, the Wrong Uncle slowly starved. He would not touch what they offered. He knew what he wanted, but they would not give him that. The head and the body died together, and the house that had been Grandmother Keaton’s was peaceful once more.
If Bobby ever remembered, no one knew it. He had acted with perfect logic, limited only by his experience. If you do something sufficiently bad, the policeman will come and get you. And he was tired of the game. Only his competitive instinct kept him from simply quitting it and playing something else.
As it was, he wanted to win—and he had won.
No adult would have done what Bobby did—but a child is of a different species. By adult standards, a child is not wholly sane. Because of the way his mind worked, then—because of what he did, and what he wanted—
Call him demon.
THE LITTLE THINGS
Dave Terming, a born-rebel, felt that he did not really belong in this Futureworld which was tired of rebellion!
THE first thing he did when he felt free from pursuit was to head for a newsstand. He wanted to know the date. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the Chateau D’If, because after the first year or so there wasn’t much point in keeping track.
There simply wasn’t any way of escaping. Edmond Dantes had got out of the original D’If, but such a trick wouldn’t work twice. When the—guests—died in this particular guest house there was a quick cremation in the basement somewhere.
That was one of the distressing sparse scraps of information he had managed to pick up during his period of imprisonment. Not once, in that long time, had he left the windowless single room with its nearly luxurious furnishings and completely luxurious Siamese cat, Shan, who had kept him from utter loneliness.
It had been a wrench to leave Shan, but her devotion was given to things, not people, and it had been no imprisonment for her. The miracle that had enabled him to escape was not one that could be extended indefinitely. He took the chance when it came, and got out while the after-rumblings of the explosion were still sounding from below.
He didn’t know what it was but the science of the big boys who ran the place was slightly super.
He got out in a sack that was piled with a dozen others on an elevator platform, and after that, for a while, he depended on his senses of touch and hearing for orientation. He didn’t learn much. But he had an idea that the sacks were dealt with by automatic machinery.
The helicopter had automatic controls, anyway—as he discovered after getting out of the sack. He had a bad moment or two mastering the enormously simplified gadgets. Copters had been mighty complicated in 1945, and he was inclined to make too difficult a job of it.
The panel exploded into lights and yelps before he grounded. So that must have been the tip-off. They’d be after him now, the big boys who’d kept him in D’If for years. Oh, very comfortably. He was in perfect physical condition. Special lamps and treatments took care of him physically and mentally. A televisor gave him education and entertainment. There were books.
But he never saw or read anything released later than June, 1945. Maybe that was why worry hadn’t eaten into his brain and nerves. He didn’t feel quite so much left out of things. He knew, of course, that the world was moving on, but he didn’t see it move. That helped.
The copter grounded in a ploughed field. It was night, but there was a full moon. Silhouettes against a dim glow told him that there was a city not too far away. The airship shot up and went away. It had no lights, and was swiftly lost as it kept going up, apparently heading for the stratosphere.
He took several deep breaths. Then he felt nonexistent eyes on him; the skin of his back contracted—and he knew that he was fugitive.
It was different, but it wasn’t so different. The basics were still there. There were people, and the styles in clothing hadn’t changed too much. He wore a duplicate of the same suit he’d had on in 1945, that June day when they’d come for him, the big boys. The big boys who’d sat outside and waited, their faces hidden, while their strong-arm men—appropriated—Terming.
‘I am Dave Terming,’ he thought, and there was a little shock of novelty. He had got out of the habit of thinking of himself in any personal sense. In fact, the calm, co
nfident realization of personal identity had gradually vanished during the term of his imprisonment. Like a baby, he had become almost unconscious of ego. There had been no need for its assertion.
‘I am Dave Tenning, but there is another Dave Tenning.’
That was where reality left off and the terror began. It had never seemed quite real till now, the knowledge that an alter ego was walking in the outside world. Because there hadn’t been any outside world, really, after a while—it moved away from him in time, and the people in it, even those he had known intimately, were less real than the sensuous detachment of Siamese Shan.
HIS clothes were all right. Nobody stared at him. He hadn’t any money, of course, and that was a handicap, but not an insurmountable one. The boys at the Star would stake him. But he must be careful not to encounter the pseudo Dave Tenning, until he was ready. Maybe he’d need a gun. These doppelgangers could be killed. They always died when their originals did.
That was why the originals were kept alive, and in good physical and mental shape. There was some vital bond, something psychic, a dynamo of life-force in the Original that kept the Carbon Copy going by induction. He’d theorized in that direction, anyhow, and it checked pretty well.
But he felt funny, because this wasn’t his world any more. He kept thinking that the c men and women who passed him would stop and glance and then there’d be an outcry—just what he didn’t know, except that he didn’t belong here. In 1945 he’d belonged, all right.
He knew why they’d snatched him, too. A gossip columnist has potentialities of power. They wanted men—doppelgangers—in key places. They had a lot of them, undoubtedly. 1945 had been a crucial year. It was one of the few times when Pandora’s box had been opened, when too much was available to a wide-eyed civilization.
Germany was on her knees, Japan going down, and the post-war world had been a bogey. Not because there was so much to do, but because there were so very many ways of doing it. It wasn’t Pandora’s box—it was a grab-bag.
Collected Fiction Page 528