He lay on his back, looking at the blue sky. Presently a black silhouette loomed above him, blotting out the sky. Metal twinkled. The silhouette slowly took aim.
And Raeder gave up all hope forever.
"Wait, Thompson!" roared the amplified voice of Mike Terry. The revolver wavered.
"It is one second past five o'clock! The week is up! JIM RAEDER HAS WON!"
There was pandemonium of cheering from the studio audience.
The Thompson gang, gathered around the grave, looked sullen.
"He's won, friends, he's won!" Mike Terry cried. "Look, look on your screen! The police have arrived, they're taking the Thompsons away from their victim—the victim they could not kill. And all this is thanks to you, Good Samaritans of America. Look folks, tender hands are lifting Jim Raeder from the open grave that was his final refuge. Good Samaritan Janice Morrow is there. Could this be the beginning of a romance? Jim seems to have fainted, friends; they're giving him a stimulant. He's won two hundred thousand dollars! Now we'll have a few words from Jim Raeder!"
There was a short silence.
"That's odd," said Mike Terry. "Folks, I'm afraid we can't hear from Jim just now. The doctors are examining him. Just one moment …"
There was a silence. Mike Terry wiped his forehead and smiled.
"It's the strain, folks, the terrible strain. The doctor tells me … Well, folks, Jim Raeder is temporarily not himself. But it's only temporary! JBC is hiring the best psychiatrists and psychoanalysts in the country. We're going to do everything humanly possible for this gallant boy. And entirely at our own expense."
Mike Terry glanced at the studio clock. "Well, it's about time to sign off, folks. Watch for the announcement of our next great thrill show. And don't worry, I'm sure that very soon we'll have Jim Raeder back with us."
Mike Terry smiled, and winked at the audience. "He's bound to get well, friends. After all, we're all pulling for him!"
The End
© 1958 by Robert Sheckley. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, May 1958.
The Stare
John Wyndham
"A most objectionable habit," declared the Major emphatically.
"I always say," ventured Rodgers, "that the only way to deal with a man who stares persistently is to stare back at him."
The Major looked at him unkindly.
"You would. And if he 'always says' the same thing, I suppose you continue to glare at one another for hours on end."
White joined in the conversation.
"It's not," he said, "the plain, straight-in-the-face stare which troubles me as much as the oblique method—I mean the kind of stare which looks firmly on to your tie or shoes and stays there. All I can do when I meet it is to wriggle unhappily and wonder whether anything has come adrift."
"Men don't like being stared at, but women don't like not being stared at," said Rodgers with the air of one making a contribution to philosophy.
The Major groaned. "There can be few men with such a fund of generalizations, but this time I'm bound to admit that there's something in it."
"Undoubtedly most women prefer molestation to indifference," White agreed.
Berridge's lazy voice drifted into their talk.
"I know a number of women who don't care for being stared at, and one who can't stand it—in fact, she definitely hates it."
"Of course, there are exceptions," admitted the Major, "or we should be in the unthinkable position of having Rodgers always right. But you can hardly call this lady normal."
"Well, if you call hurt pride an abnormality—"
"Let's have the story," White suggested.
"It dates from an evening six or seven years ago. The place was New York, and her name is Mary," Berridge began in his quiet manner.
"She had been to the theatre and to supper with friends. Since her destination was not the same as theirs, she decided to go home alone on the subway—as they call the New York Underground.
"By day the subway is a mass of men and women all apparently ten minutes behind time, but late at night it echoes with a dreary desolation, and the trains seem to rattle and crash indecently through a world more than half dead."
"Mary, her mind still full of an indigestible play, could preserve an indifference to the mere sordidness of her surroundings, but she did notice that there were depressingly few travellers scattered around the car she boarded. At each stop there followed a further depopulation until, four of five stations later, she realized suddenly that she was alone save for three men who sat facing her. The middle member of this trio was staring in a fixed manner.
"Now, though Mary was well used to stares and chose to take them as compliments, yet, on this occasion, she was not flattered. The starer was a flashy production, striped hat-band to chrome yellow shoes. His lips hung slightly apart and gave to his whole countenance an unattractive vacancy. But his eyes were piercing. Pupil and iris had combined into a bright blackness to glare out at her from vivid whites.
"Mary hummed a tuneless little tune and tried to find something interesting to look at, but her eyes were drawn back to the man opposite. She assumed a forbidding expression of indignation, which failed to have any effect. Her distaste began to give way to neutral discomfort—she felt somehow as though she were being mentally undressed. His eyes cut into her, and through her. Without a quiver they out-stared her."
"The man's two companions seemed unaware of his rudeness. They sat beside him, each with an arm firmly linked in his, only turning to exchange an occasional word behind his unmoving head. Mary's decision to alight at the next station was postponed by the entry of a man and a woman, bringing her a new supply of courage. They sat down beside her, and the train continued; so did the stare.
"A minute or two later she became aware that the newcomer was addressing her.
"'Perhaps,' he suggested, 'you would like to look at the evening paper?'
"'Thank you,' she replied gratefully. It was a kind thought; a screen from the stare. Not until she raised it did she notice scrawled pencil marks across the columns. The writing was jerky by reason of the trains' motion, but with difficulty she managed to read:
"'I think you had better get out with us at the next stop.'
"She looked questioningly at her neighbour, and he gave a slight nod.
"There was apologetic explanation in his tone as they stood on the platform and watched the train recede.
"'I'm sorry if I alarmed you,' he said, 'but my reason was the man opposite to us. Did you notice him?'
"'Notice him? Why, the creature had been staring at me in a loathsome, horrible way ever since I got in.'
"The man looked at her and shook his head.
"'No, I'm afraid you are wrong there. You see, I'm a doctor, and I assure you that the man was not staring at you—as a matter of fact, he was stone dead.'"
Berridge paused for a moment, then he added:
"Such a wound in one's pride is hard to heal—Mary still feels a little foolish when anyone stares at her."
The End
© 1932, 1960 by John Wyndham. Reprinted by permission of the Estate and its agent.
Twilla
Tom Reamy
Twilla Gilbreath blew into Miss Mahan's life like a pink butterfly wing that same day in early December the blue norther dropped the temperature forty degrees in two hours. Mr. Choate, the principal, ushered Twilla and her parents into Miss Mahan's ninth-grade home room shortly after the tardy bell rang. She had just checked the roll: all seventeen ninth graders were present except for Sammy Stocker, who was in the Liberal hospital having his appendix removed. She was telling the class how nice it would be if they sent a get-well card, when the door opened.
"Goooood morning, Miss Mahan," Mr. Choate smiled cheerfully. He always smiled cheerfully first thing in the morning, but soured as the day wore on. You could practically tell time by Mr. Choate's mouth. "We have a new ninth grader for you this morning, Miss Mahan. This is Mr. and Mr
s. Gilbreath and their daughter, Twilla."
Several things happened at once. Miss Mahan shook hands with the parents; she threw a severe glance at the class when she heard a snigger—but it was only Alice May Turner, who would probably giggle if she were being devoured by a bear; and she had to forcibly keep her eyebrows from rising when she got a good look at Twilla. Good Lord, she thought, and felt her smile falter.
Miss Mahan had never in her life, even when it was fashionable for a child to look like that, seen anyone so perfectly … pink and … doll-like. She wasn't sure why she got such an impression of pinkness, because the child was dressed in yellow, and had golden hair (that's the color they mean when they say golden hair, she thought with wonder) done in, of all things, drop curls, with a big yellow bow in back. Twilla looked up at her with a sweet, radiant, sunny smile and clear periwinkle-blue eyes.
Miss Mahan detested her on sight.
She thought she saw, when Alice May giggled, the smile freeze and the lovely eyes dart toward the class, but she wasn't sure. It all happened in an instant, and then Mr. Choate continued his Cheerful Charlie routine.
"Mr. Gilbreath has bought the old Peacock place."
"Really?" she said, tearing her eyes from Twilla. "I didn't know it was for sale."
Mr. Gilbreath chuckled. "Not the entire farm, of course. I'm no farmer. Only the house and grounds. Such a charming old place. The owner lives in Wichita and had no use for them."
"I would think the house is pretty run down," Miss Mahan said, glancing at Twilla still radiating at the world. "No one's lived in it since Wash and Grace Elizabeth died ten years ago."
"It is a little," Mrs. Gilbreath said pleasantly.
"But structurally sound," interjected Mr. Gilbreath pleasantly.
"We'll enjoy fixing it up," Mrs. Gilbreath continued pleasantly.
"Miss Mahan teaches English to the four upper grades," said Mr. Choate, bringing them back to the subject, "as well as speech and drama. Miss Mahan has been with the Hawley school system for thirty-one years."
The Gilbreaths smiled pleasantly.
"My … ah … Twilla seems very young to be in the ninth grade." That get-up made her look about eleven, Miss Mahan thought.
The Gilbreaths beamed at their daughter. "Twilla is only thirteen," Mrs. Gilbreath crooned, pride swelling her like yeast. "She's such an intelligent child. She was able to skip the second grade."
"I see. From where have you moved?"
"Boston," replied Mr. Gilbreath.
"Boston. I hope … ah … Twilla doesn't find it difficult to adjust to a small town school. I'm sure Hawley, Kansas, is quite unlike Boston."
Mr. Gilbreath touched Twilla lovingly on the shoulder. "I'm sure she'll have no trouble."
"Well," Mr. Choate rubbed his palms together. "Twilla is in good hands. Shall I show you around the rest of the school?"
"Of course," smiled Mrs. Gilbreath.
They departed with fond murmurings and good-byes, leaving Twilla like a buttercup stranded in a cabbage patch. Miss Mahan mentally shook her head. She hadn't seen a family like that since Dick and Jane and Spot and Puff were sent the way of McGuffey's Reader. Mr. and Mrs. Gilbreath were in their middle thirties, good looking without being glamorous, their clothes nice though as oddly wrong as Twilla's. They seemed cut with some outdated Ideal Family template. Surely, there must be an older brother, a dog, and a cat somewhere.
"Well … ah, Twilla," Miss Mahan said, trying to reinforce the normal routine, "if you will take a seat; that one there, behind Alice May Turner. Alice May, will you wave a flag or something so Twilla will know which one?" Alice May giggled. "Thank you, dear." Twilla moved gracefully toward the empty desk. Miss Mahan felt as if she should say something to the child. "I hope you will … ah … enjoy going to school in Hawley, dear."
Twilla sat primly and glowed at her. "I'm sure I shall, Miss Mahan," she said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was like the tinkle of fairy bells—just as Miss Mahan was afraid it would be.
"Good," she said and went back to the subject of a get-well card for Sammy Stocker. She had done this so often—there had been a great many sick children in thirty-one years—it had become almost a ritual needing only a small portion of her attention. The rest she devoted to the covert observation of Twilla Gilbreath.
Twilla sat at her desk, displaying excellent posture, with her hands folded neatly before her, seemingly paying attention to the Great Greeting Card Debate but actually giving the rest of the class careful scrutiny. Miss Mahan marveled at the surreptitious calculation in the girl's face. She realizes she's something of a green monkey, Miss Mahan thought, and I'll bet my pension she doesn't let the situation stand.
And the class surveyed Twilla, in their superior position of established territorial rights, with open curiosity—and with the posture of so many sacks of corn meal. Some of them looked at her, Miss Mahan was afraid, with rude amusement—especially the girls, and especially Wanda O'Dell, who had bloomed suddenly last summer like a plump rose. Oh, yes, Wanda was going to be a problem. Just like her five older sisters. Thank goodness, she sighed, Wanda was the last of them.
Children, Miss Mahan sighed again, but fondly.
Children?
They were children when she started teaching and certainly were when she was fifteen, but, now, she wasn't sure. Fifteen is such an awkward, indefinite age. Take Ronnie Dwyer: he looks like a prepubescent thirteen at most. And Carter Redwine, actually a couple of months younger than Ronnie, could pass for seventeen easily and was anything but prepubescent. Poor Carter, a child in a man's body. To make matters worse, he was the best-looking boy in town; and to make matters even worse yet, he was well aware of it.
And, she noticed, so was Twilla. Forget it, Little Pink Princess. Carter already has more than he can handle, Miss Mahan chuckled to herself. Can't you see those dark circles under his eyes? They didn't get there from studying. And then she blushed inwardly.
Oh, the poor children. They think they have so many secrets. If they only knew. Between the tattletales and the teachers' gossip, she doubted if the whole student body had three secrets among them.
Miss Mahan admonished herself for having such untidy thoughts. She didn't use to think about things like that, but then, fifteen-year-olds didn't lead such overtly sexual lives back then. She remembered reading somewhere that only thirty-five per cent of the children in America were still virgins at fifteen. But those sounded like Big City statistics, not applicable to Hawley.
Then she sighed. It was all beyond her. The bell rang just as the get-well card situation was settled. The children rose reluctantly to go to their first class: algebra with Mr. Whittaker. She noticed that Twilla had cozied up to Alice May, though she still kept her eye on Carter Redwine. Carter was not unaware and, with deliberate, lordly indifference, sauntered from the room with his hand on Wanda O'Dell's shoulder. Miss Mahan thought the glint she observed in Twilla's eyes might lead to an interesting turn of events.
Children.
She cleared her mind of random speculation and geared it to Macbeth as the senior class filed in with everything on their minds but Shakespeare. Raynelle Franklin, Mr. Choate's secretary, lurked nervously among them, looking like a chicken who suddenly finds herself with a pack of coyotes. She edged her middle-aged body to Miss Mahan's desk, accepted the absentee report, and scuttled out. Miss Mahan looked forward to Raynelle's performance every morning.
During lunch period, Miss Mahan walked to the dime store for a get-well card which the ninth-grade class would sign that afternoon when they returned for English. She glanced at the sky and unconsciously pulled her gray tweed coat tighter about her. The sky had turned a cobalt blue in the north. It wouldn't be long now. Though the temperature must be down to thirty-five already, it seemed colder. She guessed her blood was getting thin; she knew her flesh was. Old age, she thought, old age. Thin blood, thin flesh, and brittle bones. She sometimes felt as if she were turning into a bird.
She almo
st bumped into Twilla's parents emerging from the dry goods store, their arms loaded with packages. Their pleasant smiles turned on. Click, click. They chatted trivialities for a moment, adding new dimensions to Twilla's already flawless character. Miss Mahan had certainly seen her share of blindly doting parents, but this was unbelievable. She had seen the cold calculation with which Twilla had studied the class, and that was hardly the attribute of an angel. Something didn't jibe somewhere. She speculated on the contents of the packages, but thought she knew. Then she couldn't resist; she asked if Twilla were an only child. She was. Well, there went that.
She looked at the clock on the high tower of the white rococo courthouse, and, subtracting fourteen minutes, decided she'd better hurry if she wanted to eat lunch and have a rest before her one o'clock class.
The teachers' lounge was a reasonably comfortable room where students were forbidden to enter on pain of death—though it seemed to be a continuing game on their part to try. Miss Mahan hung her coat on a hanger and shivered. "Has anyone heard a weather forecast?" she asked the room in general.
Mrs. Latham (home economics) looked up from her needlepoint and shook her head vaguely. Poor old dear, thought Miss Mahan. Due to retire this year, I think. Seems like she's been here since Creation. She taught me when I was in school. Leo Whittaker (math) was reading a copy of Playboy. Probably took it from one of the children. "Supposed to be below twenty by five," he said, then grinned and held up the magazine. "Ronnie Dwyer."
Miss Mahan raised her eyebrows. Loretta McBride (history/civics) tsked, shook her head, and went back to her book. Miss Mahan retrieved her carton of orange juice from the small refrigerator and drank it with her fried egg sandwich. She put part of the sandwich back in the Baggie. She hardly had any appetite at all anymore. Guess what they say is true: the older you get …
She began to crochet on her interminable afghan. The little squares were swiftly becoming a pain in the neck, and she regretted ever starting it. She looked at Mrs. Latham and her needlepoint. She sighed; I guess it's expected of us old ladies. Anyway, it gave her something to hide behind when she didn't feel like joining the conversation. But today she felt like talking, though it didn't seem as if anyone else did.
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 3 Page 34