The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Science Fiction Stories

by Arthur C. Clarke

  The fourth man stays and questions me: what did the alien say, what did I say. I tell him, but then he starts asking the exact same questions all over again, like he didn’t believe me the first time, and that gets me mad. Also he has this snotty voice, and I see how his eyebrows move when I slip once and say, “He don’t.” I might not know what John’s muscles mean but I sure as hell can read those eyebrows. So I get miffed and pretty soon he leaves and the door bangs behind him.

  I finish the catsup and mustard bottles and Kathy finishes the coffee machine. The radio in the ceiling plays something instrumental, no words, real sad. Kathy and me start to wash down the booths with disinfectant, and because we’re doing the same work together and nobody comes in, I finally say to her, “It’s funny.”

  She says, “What’s funny?”

  “Charlie called that guy ‘him’ right off. ‘I don’t got to serve him,’ he said. And I thought of him as ‘it’ at first, leastways until I had a name to use. But Charlie’s the one who threw him out.”

  Kathy swipes at the back of her booth. “And Charlie’s right. That thing scared me half to death, coming in here like that. And where there’s food being served, too.” She snorts and sprays on more disinfectant.

  Well, she’s a flake. Always has been.

  “The National Enquirer,” Kathy goes on, “told how they have all this firepower up in the big ship that hasn’t landed yet. My husband says they could blow us all to smithereens, they’re so powerful. I don’t know why they even came here. We don’t want them. I don’t even know why they came, all that way.”

  “They want to make a difference,” I say, but Kathy barrels on ahead, not listening.

  “The Pentagon will hold them off, it doesn’t matter how much firepower they got up there or how much they insist on seeing about our defenses, the Pentagon won’t let them get any toeholds on earth. That’s what my husband says. Blue bastards.”

  I say, “Will you please shut up?”

  She gives me a dirty look and flounces off. I don’t care. None of it is anything to me. Only, standing there with the disinfectant in my hand, looking at the dark windows and listening to the music wordless and slow on the radio, I remember that touch on my arm. And I think, they didn’t come here with any firepower to blow us all to smithereens. I just don’t believe it. So why did they come? Why come all that way from another star to walk into Charlie’s diner and order a green salad with no dressing from an ordinary earth person?

  Charlie comes out with his keys to unlock the cash register and go over the tapes. I remember the old couple who stiffed me and I curse to myself. Only pie and coffee, but it still comes off my salary. The radio starts playing something else, not the sad song, but nothing snappy neither. It’s a love song, about some guy giving and giving and getting treated like dirt. I don’t like it much.

  “Charlie,” I say, “what did those government men say to you?”

  He looks up from his tapes and scowls. “What do you care?”

  “I just want to know.”

  “And maybe I don’t want you to know,” he says, and smiles nasty-like. Me asking has put him in a better mood, the creep. All of a sudden I remember what his wife said when she got the stitches: “The only way to get something from Charlie is to let him smack me around a little, and then ask him when I’m down. He’ll give me anything when I’m down. He gives me shit if he thinks I’m on top.”

  I think again about the blue guy. John.

  I do the rest of the clean-up without saying anything. Charlie swears at the night’s take—I know from my tips that it’s not much. Kathy teases her hair in front of the mirror behind doughnuts and pies, and I put down the breakfast menus. But all the time I’m thinking, and I don’t much like my thoughts.

  Charlie locks up and we all leave. Outside it’s stopped raining but it’s still misty and soft, real pretty but too cold. I pull my sweater around myself and in the parking lot, after Kathy’s gone, I say, “Charlie.”

  He stops walking toward his truck. “Yeah?”

  I lick my lips. They’re all of a sudden dry. It’s an experiment, like, what I’m going to say. It’s an experiment.

  “Charlie. What if those government men hadn’t come just then and the…the blue guy hadn’t been willing to leave? What would you have done?”

  “What do you care?”

  I shrug. “I don’t. Just curious. It’s your place.”

  “Damn straight it’s my place!” Through the mist I can see him scowl. “I’d of squashed him flat!”

  “And then what? After you squashed him flat, what if the men came then and made a stink?”

  “Too bad. It’d be too late by then, huh?” He laughs and I can see how he’s seeing it: the blue guy bleeding on the linoleum and Charlie standing over him, dusting his hands together.

  Charlie laughs again and goes off to his truck, whistling. He has a little bounce in his step. He’s still seeing it, almost like it really had happened. Over his shoulder he calls to me, “They’re built like wimps. Or girls. All bone, no muscle. Even you must of seen that,” and his voice is cheerful. It doesn’t have any more anger in it, or hatred, or anything but a kind of friendliness. I hear him whistle some more, until the truck engine starts up and he peels out of the parking lot, laying rubber like a kid.

  I unlock my Chevy. But before I get in, I look up at the sky. Which is really stupid because of course I can’t see anything, with all the mist and clouds. No stars.

  Maybe Kathy’s husband is right. Maybe they do want to blow us all to smithereens. I don’t think so, but what the hell difference does it ever make what I think? And all at once I’m furious at John, furious mad, as mad as I’ve ever been in my life.

  Why does he have to come here, with his bird calls and his politeness? Why can’t they all go someplace else besides here? There must be lots of other places they can go, out of all them bright stars up there behind the clouds. They don’t need to come here, here where I need this job and so that means I need Charlie. He’s a bully, but I want to look at him and see nothing else but a bully. Nothing else but that. That’s all I want to see in Charlie, in the government men—just small-time bullies, nothing special, not a mirror of anything, not a future of anything. Just Charlie. That’s all. I won’t see nothing else.

  I won’t.

  “I make so little difference,” he says.

  Yeah. Sure.

  THE HANGING STRANGER, by Philip K. Dick

  Five o’clock. Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his car out, and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. His back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and wheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done okay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved, and he liked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!

  It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him; he’d arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain and bench and single lamppost.

  From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle, swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the square.

  Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn’t a dummy. And if it was a disp
lay, it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.

  It was a body. A human body.

  * * * *

  “Look at it!” Loyce snapped. “Come on out here!”

  Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe coat with dignity. “This is a big deal, Ed. I can’t just leave the guy standing there.”

  “See it?” Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. “There it is. How the hell long has it been there?” His voice rose excitedly. “What’s wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!”

  Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. “Take it easy, old man. There must be a good reason, or it wouldn’t be there.”

  “A reason! What kind of a reason?”

  Fergusson shrugged. “Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?”

  Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. “What’s up, boys?”

  “There’s a body hanging from the lamppost,” Loyce said. “I’m going to call the cops.”

  “They must know about it,” Potter said. “Or otherwise it wouldn’t be there.”

  “I got to get back in.” Fergusson headed back into the store. “Business before pleasure.”

  Loyce began to get hysterical. “You see it? You see it hanging there? A man’s body! A dead man!”

  “Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.”

  “You mean it’s been there all afternoon?”

  “Sure. What’s the matter?” Potter glanced at his watch. “Have to run. See you later, Ed.”

  Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the sidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously at the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any attention.

  “I’m going nuts,” Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him. He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.

  The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.

  “For Heaven’s sake,” Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with revulsion—and fear.

  Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?

  And—why didn’t anybody notice?

  He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. “Watch it!” the man grated, “Oh, it’s you, Ed.”

  Ed nodded dazedly. “Hello, Jenkins.”

  “What’s the matter?” The stationery clerk caught Ed’s arm. “You look sick.”

  “The body. There in the park.”

  “Sure, Ed.” Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND SERVICE. “Take it easy.”

  Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. “Something wrong?”

  “Ed’s not feeling well.”

  Loyce yanked himself free. “How can you stand here? Don’t you see it? For God’s sake—”

  “What’s he talking about?” Margaret asked nervously.

  “The body!” Ed shouted. “The body hanging there!”

  More people collected. “Is he sick? It’s Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?”

  “The body!” Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at him. He tore loose. “Let me go! The police! Get the police!”

  “Ed—”

  “Better get a doctor!”

  “He must be sick.”

  “Or drunk.”

  Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell. Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man, showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically. His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.

  “Do something!” he screamed. “Don’t stand there! Do something! Something’s wrong! Something’s happened! Things are going on!”

  The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving efficiently toward Loyce.

  * * * *

  “Name?” the cop with the notebook murmured.

  “Loyce.” He mopped his forehead wearily. “Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me. Back there—”

  “Address?” the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.

  “1368 Hurst Road.”

  “That’s here in Pikeville?”

  “That’s right.” Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. “Listen to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—”

  “Where were you today?” the cop behind the wheel demanded.

  “Where?” Loyce echoed.

  “You weren’t in your shop, were you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, I was home. Down in the basement.”

  “In the basement?”

  “Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame. Why? What has that to do with—”

  “Was anybody else down there with you?”

  “No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school.” Loyce looked from one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope. “You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn’t get in on it? Like everybody else?”

  After a pause the cop with the notebook said: “That’s right. You missed the explanation.”

  “Then it’s official? The body—it’s supposed to be hanging there?”

  “It’s supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.”

  Ed Loyce grinned weakly. “Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking over.” He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands shaking. “I’m glad to know it’s on the level.”

  “It’s on the level.” The police car was getting near the Hall of Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights had not yet come on.

  “I feel better,” Loyce said. “I was pretty excited there, for a minute. I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there’s no need to take me in, is there?”

  The two cops said nothing.

  “I should be back at my store. The boys haven’t had dinner. I’m all right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—”

  “This won’t take long,” the cop behind the wheel interrupted. “A short process. Only a few minutes.”

  “I hope it’s short,” Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a stoplight. “I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting excited like that and—”

  Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people, burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts, people running.

  They weren’t cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop in Pikeville. A man couldn’t own a store, operate a business in a small town for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.

  They weren’t cops—and there hadn’t been any explanation. Potter, Fergusson, Jenkins, none of the
m knew why it was there. They didn’t know—and they didn’t care. That was the strange part.

  Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past the startled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through the back door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concrete steps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side, gasping and panting.

  There was no sound behind him. He had got away.

  He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.

  And to his right—the police station.

  He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to keep moving, get farther away from them.

  Them?

  Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.

  And—something else.

  Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser than the surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lost into the sky.

  He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made him struggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound. A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.