Then I saw him. He had dropped the shovel and was tugging something out of the hole. I let him get it out before I called…
“Kenny…”
He froze, then came up very slowly to a crouch, ready to flee. He turned out the flashlight.
“Kenny, don’t run away from me again. Stay there. I’m not angry.”
No answer.
“Kenny!”
He called back then, with a quaver in his voice. “Stay where you are, Dad—and let me finish. Then I’ll go with you. If you come any closer, I’ll run.” He flashed the light toward me, saw that I was a good twenty yards away. “Stay there now…”
“Then will you come back to the house?”
“I won’t run, if you stay right there.”
“Okay,” I agreed, “but don’t take long. Cleo’s frantic.”
He set the light on a rock, kept it aimed at me, and worked by its aura. The light blinded me, and I could only guess what he might be doing. He pried something open, and then there was the sound of writing on tin. Then he hammered something closed, replaced it in the hole, and began shoveling dirt over it. Five minutes later, he was finished.
The light went out.
“Kenny…?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t want to lie… I had to.”
I heard him slipping quickly away through the brush—back toward the pasture. I hurried to the fork and climbed up out of the knee-deep water, pausing to strike a match.
Something gleamed in the grass; I picked it up. Cleo’s kitchen clock, always a few minutes slow. What had he wanted with the clock?
By the time I tore through the brush and found the path, there was no sound to, indicate which way he had gone. I walked gloomily back toward the house, half-heartedly calling to Kenny… then… a flash of light in the trees!
BRRUUMMKP!
A sharp report, like a close crash of thunder! It came from the direction of the meadow, or the house. I trotted ahead, ignoring the sharp whipping of the brush.
“Kenny Westmore?… Kenny…”
A strange voice, a foreign voice—calling to Kenny up ahead in the distance. The police, I thought.
Then I came to the stone fence… and froze, staring at the think or perhaps at the nothing—in the meadow.
It was black. It was bigger than a double garage, and round. I stared at it, and realized that it was not an object but an opening.
And someone else was calling to Kenny. A rich, pleasant voice—somehow it reminded me of Doctor Jules, but it had a strong accent, perhaps Austrian or German.
“Come on along here, liddle boy. Ve fix you op.”
Then I saw Kenny, crawling on toward it through the grass.
“Kenny, don’t!”
He got to his feet and stumbled on into the distorted space. It seemed to squeeze him into a grotesque house-of-mirrors shape; then it spun him inward. Gone.
I was still running toward the black thing when it began to shrink.
“Come along, liddle fellow, come mit oss. Ve fix.”
And then the black thing belched away into nothingness with an explosive blast that knocked me spinning. I must have been out cold for awhile. The sheriff woke me.
Kenny was gone. We never saw him again. Cleo confirmed what I had seen on the meadow, but without a body, Kenny remains listed as missing.
Missing from this century.
I went back to the fork in the creek and dug up the breadbox he had buried. It contained his stamp collection and a packet of famous autographs. There was a letter from Kenny, too, addressed to the future, and it was his will.
“Whoever finds this, please sell these things and use the money to pay for a time machine, so you can come and get me, because I’m going to die if you don’t…”
I paused to remember… I don’t think the bank’d wait a hundred years.
But Dad, don’t you see? What difference does time make, if you’re working on a time machine?
There was more to the note, but the gist of it was that Kenny had made an act of faith, faith in tomorrow. He had buried it, and then he had gone back to dig it up and change the rendezvous time from four months away to the night of his disappearance. He knew that he wouldn’t have lived that long.
I put it all back in the box, and sealed the box with solder and set it in concrete at the foot of a sixfoot hole. With this manuscript.
(To a reader, yet unborn, who finds this account in a dusty and ancient magazine stack: dig. Dig at a point 987 feet southeasterly on a heading of 149° from the northwest corner of the Hayes and Higgins Tract, as recorded in Map Book 6, p. 78, Cleve County records. But not unless the world is ready to buy a time machine and come for Kenny, who financed it; come, if you can cure him. He had faith in you.)
Kenny is gone, and today there is a feeling of death in my house. But after a century of tomorrows? He invested in them, and he called out to them, pleading with the voice of a child. And tomorrow answered:
“Come, liddle boy. Ve fix.”
1954
ANYBODY ELSE LIKE ME?
Quiet misery in a darkened room. The clock spoke nine times with a cold brass voice. She stood motionless, leaning against the drapes by the window, alone. The night was black, the house empty and silent.
“Come, Lisa!” she told herself. “You’re not dying!”
She was thirty-four, still lovely, with a slender white body and a short, rich thatch of warm red hair. She had a good dependable husband, three children, and security. She had friends, hobbies, social activities. She painted mediocre pictures for her own amusement, played the piano rather well, and wrote fair poetry for the University’s literary quarterly. She was well-read, well-rounded, well-informed. She loved and was loved.
Then why this quiet misery?
Wanting something, expecting nothing, she stared out into the darkness of the stone-walled garden. The night was too quiet. A distant street lamp played in the branches of the elm, and the elm threw its shadow across another wing of the house. She watched the shadow’s wandering for a time. A lone car purred past in the street and was gone. A horn sounded raucously in the distance.
What was wrong? A thousand times since childhood she had felt this uneasy stirring, this crawling of the mind that called out for some unfound expression. It had been particularly strong in recent weeks.
She tried to analyze. What was different about recent weeks? Events: Frank’s job had sent him on the road for a month; the children were at Mother’s; the city council had recommended a bond issue; she had fired her maid; a drunk had strangled his wife; the University had opened its new psycho-physics lab; her art class had adjourned for the summer.
Nothing there. No clue to the unreasoning, goalless urge that called like a voice crying in mental wilderness: “Come, share, satisfy, express it to the fullest!”
Express what? Satisfy what? How?
A baby, deserted at birth and dying of starvation, would fell terrible hunger. But if it had never tasted milk, it could not know the meaning of the hunger nor how to case it.
“I need to relate this thing to something else, to something in my own experience or in the experience of others.” She had tried to satisfy the urge with the goals of other hungers: her children, her husband’s lovemaking, food, drink, art, friendship. But the craving was something else, crying for its pound of unknown flesh, and there was no fulfillment.
“How am I different from others?” she asked herself. But she was different only in the normal ways that every human being is different from the exact Average. Her intelligence was high, short of genius, but superior. To a limited extent, she felt the call of creativity. Physically, she was delicately beautiful. The only peculiarities that she knew about seemed ridiculously irrelevant: a dark birth-mark on her thigh, a soft fontanel in the top of her long narrow head, like the soft spot in an infant’s cranium. Silly little differences!
One big difference: the quiet misery of the unfed hunger.
A scattering of big ra
indrops suddenly whispered on the walk and in the grass and through the foliage of the elm. A few drops splattered on the screen, spraying her face and arms with faint points of coolness. It had been oppressively hot. Now there was a chill breath in the night.
Reluctantly she closed the window. The oppression of the warm and empty house increased. She walked to the door opening into the walled garden.
Ready for a lonely bed, she was wearing a negligee over nothing. Vaguely, idly, her hand fumbled at the waist-knot, loosened it. The robe parted, and the fine spray of rain was delightfully cool on her skin.
The garden was dark, the shadows inky, the nearest neighbor a block away. The wall screened it from prying eyes. She brushed her hands over her shoulders; the sleeves slipped down her arms. Peeled clean, feeling like a freed animal, she pressed open the screen and stepped out under the eaves to stand on the warm stone walk.
The rain was rattling in the hedge and roaring softly all about her, splashing coldness about her slender calves. She hugged herself and stepped into it. The drench of icy fingers stroked her with pleasant lashes; she laughed and ran along the walk toward the elm. The drops stung her breasts, rivered her face, and coursed coldly down her sides and legs.
She exulted in the rain, tried to dance and laughed at herself. She ran. Then, tired, she threw herself down on the crisp wet lawn, stretching her arms and legs and rolling slowly on the grass. Eyes closed, drenched and languorous, she laughed softly and played imagining games with the rain.
The drops were steel-jacketed wasps, zipping down out of the blackness, but she melted them with her mind, made them soft and cool and caressing. The drops took impersonal liberties with her body, and she rolled demurely to lie face down in the rainsoft grass.
“I am still a pale beast,” she thought happily, “still kin of my grandmother the ape who danced in the tree and chattered when it rained. How utterly barren life would be, if I were not a pale beast!”
She dug her fingers into the sodden turf, bared her teeth, pressed her forehead against the ground, and growled a little animal growl. It amused her, and she laughed again. Crouching, she came up on her hands and knees, hunching low, teeth still bared. Like a cat, she hissed—and pounced upon a sleeping bird, caught it and shook it to death.
Again she lay laughing in the grass.
“If Frank were to see me like this,” she thought, “he would put me to bed with a couple of sleeping pills, and call that smug Dr. Mensley to have a look at my mind. And Dr. Mensley would check my ambivalences and my repressions and my narcissistic, voyeuristic, masochistic impulses. He would tighten my screws and readjust me to reality, fit me into a comfortable groove, and take the pale beast out of me to make me a talking doll.”
He had done it several times before. Thinking of Dr. Mensley, Lisa searched her vocabulary for the most savage word she could remember. She growled it aloud and felt better.
The rain was slowly subsiding. A siren was wailing in the distance. The police. She giggled and imagined a headline in tomorrow’s paper: PROMINENT SOCIALITE JAILED FOR INDECENT EXPOSURE. And the story would go on: “Mrs. Lisa Waverly was taken into custody by the police after neighbors reported that she was running around stark naked in her back yard. Said Mrs. Heinehoffer who called the law: ‘It was just terrible. Looked to me like she was having fits.’ Mr. Heinehoffer, when asked for comment, simply closed his eyes and smiled ecstatically.”
Lisa sighed wearily. The siren had gone away. The rain had stopped, except for drippings out of the elm. She was tired, emotionally spent, yet strangely melancholy. She sat up slowly in the grass and hugged her shins.
The feeling came over her gradually.
“Someone has been watching me!”
She stiffened slowly, but remained in place, letting her eyes probe about her in the shadows. If only the drippings would stop so she could listen! She peered along the hedge, and along the shadows by the garden wall, toward the dark windows of the house, up toward the low-hanging mist faintly illuminated from below by street lights. She saw nothing, heard nothing. There was no movement in the night. Yet the feeling lingered, even though she scoffed.
“If anyone is here,” she thought, “I’ll call them gently, and if anyone appears, I’ll scream so loud that Mrs. Heinehoffer will hear me.”
“Hey!” she said in a low voice, but loud enough to penetrate any of the nearby shadows.
There was no answer. She folded her arms behind her head and spoke again, quietly, sensually.
“Come and get me.”
No black monster slithered from behind the hedge to devour her. No panther sprang from the elm. No succubus congealed out of wet darkness. She giggled.
“Come have a bite.”
No bull-ape came to crush her in ravenous jaws.
She had only imagined the eyes upon her. She stretched lazily and picked herself up, pausing to brush off the leaves of grass pasted to her wet skin. It was over, the strange worship in the rain, and she was weary. She walked slowly toward the house.
Then she heard it—a faint crackling sound, intermittent, distant. She stood poised in the black shadow of the house, listening. The crackle of paper… then a small pop… then crisp fragments dropped in the street. It was repeated at short intervals.
Taking nervous, shallow breaths, she tiptoed quietly toward the stone wall of the garden. It was six feet high, but there was a concrete bench under the trellis. The sound was coming from over the wall. She stood crouching on the bench; then, hiding her face behind the vines, she lifted her head to peer.
The street lamp was half a block away, but she could see dimly. A man was standing across the street in the shadows, apparently waiting for a bus. He was eating peanuts out of a paper bag, tossing the shells in the street. That explained the crackling sound.
She glared at him balefully from behind the trellis. “I’ll claw your eyes out,” she thought, “if you came and peeped over my wall.”
“Hi!” the man said.
Lisa stiffened and remained motionless. It was impossible that he could see her. She was in shadow, against a dark background. Had he heard her foolish babbling a moment ago?
More likely, he had only cleared his throat.
“Hi!” he said again.
Her face was hidden in the dripping vines, and she could not move without rustling. She froze in place, staring. She could see little of him. Dark raincoat, dark hat, slender shadow. Was he looking toward her? She was desperately frightened.
Suddenly the man chucked the paper bag in the gutter, stepped off the curb, and came sauntering across the street toward the wall. He removed his hat, and crisp blond hair glinted in the distant streetlight. He stopped three yards away, smiling uncertainly at the vines.
Lisa stood trembling and frozen, staring at him in horror. Strange sensations, utterly alien, passed over her in waves. There was no describing them, no understanding them.
“I—I found you,” he stammered sheepishly. “Do you know what it is?”
“I know you,” she thought. “You have a small scar on the back of your neck, and a mole between your toes. Your eyes are blue, and you have an impacted wisdom tooth, and your feet are hurting you because you walked all the way out here from the University, and I’m almost old enough to be your mother. But I can’t know you, because I’ve never seen you before!”
“Strange, isn’t it?” he said uncertainly. He was holding his hat in his hand and cocking his head politely.
“What?” she whispered.
He shuffled his feet and stared at them. “It must be some sort of palpable biophysical energy form, analytically definable—if we had enough data. Lord knows, I’m no mystic. If it exists, it’s got to be mathematically definable. But why us?”
Horrified curiosity made her step aside and lean her arms on the wall to stare down at him. He looked up bashfully, and his eyes widened slightly.
“Oh!”
“Oh what?” she demanded, putting on a terrible frown.
&
nbsp; “You’re beautiful!”
“What do you want?” she asked icily. “Go away!”
“I—” He paused and closed his mouth slowly. He stared at her with narrowed eyes, and touched one hand to his temple as if concentrating.
For an instant, she was no longer herself. She was looking up at her own shadowy face from down in the street, looking through the eyes of a stranger who was not a stranger. She was feeling the fatigue in the weary ankles, and the nasal ache of a slight head cold, and the strange sadness in a curious heart—a sadness too akin to her own.
She rocked dizzily. It was like being in two places at once, like wearing someone else’s body for a moment.
The feeling passed. “It didn’t happen!” she told herself.
“No use denying it,” he said quietly. “I tried to make it go away, too, but apparently we’ve got something unique. It would be interesting to study. Do you suppose we’re related?”
“Who are you?” she choked, only half-hearing his question.
“You know my name,” he said, “if you’ll just take the trouble to think about it. Yours is Lisa—Lisa O’Brien, or Lisa Waverly—I’m never sure which. Sometimes it comes to me one way, sometimes the other.”
She swallowed hard. Her maiden name had been O’Brien.
“I don’t know you,” she snapped.
His name was trying to form in her mind. She refused to allow it. The young man sighed.
“I’m Kenneth Grearly, if you really don’t know.” He stepped back a pace and lifted his hat toward his head. “I—I guess I better go. I see this disturbs you. I had hoped we could talk about it, but—well, good night, Mrs. Waverly.”
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