"We're going to cover these blocks like a blanket." Dutton said. "If anyone else is grabbed it'll have to be underground." Mallen kissed his wife and joined him.
That afternoon there was a mass meeting in the school auditorium. Everyone from the affected blocks was there, and as many of the townspeople as could crowd in. The first thing they found out was that, in spite of the blockades, three more people were missing from the Vainsville project.
Captain Lesner spoke, and told them that he had called Albany for help. Special officers were on their way down, and the F.B.I. was coming in on it, too. He stated frankly that he didn't know what or who was doing it, or why. He couldn't even figure out why all the missing were from one part of the Vainsville project.
He had gotten word from Albany about the counterfeited food that seemed to be scattered all over the project. The examining chemists could detect no trace of any toxic agent. That seemed to explode a recent theory that the food had been used to drug people, making them walk out of their homes to whatever was taking them. However, he cautioned everyone not to eat it. You could never tell.
The companies whose labels had been impersonated had disclaimed any knowledge. They were prepared to bring suit against anyone infringing on their copyrights.
The mayor spoke, in a series of well-intentioned platitudes, counselling them to be of good heart; the civic authorities were taking the whole situation in hand.
Of course, the mayor didn't live in the Vainsville project.
The meeting broke up, and the men returned to the barricades. They started looking for firewood for the evening, but it was unnecessary. Help arrived from Albany, a cavalcade of men and equipment. The four square blocks were surrounded by armed guards. Portable searchlights were set up, and the area declared under an eight o'clock curfew.
Mr. Carter missed all the excitement. He had been fishing all day. At sunset he returned, empty-handed but happy. The guards let him through, and he walked into the house.
"A beautiful fishing day," he declared.
The Mallens spent a terrible night, fully clothed, dozing in snatches, looking at the searchlights playing against their windows and hearing the tramp of armed guards.
Eight o'clock Sunday morning - two more people missing. Gone from four blocks more closely guarded than a concentration camp.
At ten o'clock Mr. Carter, brushing aside the objections of the Mallens, shouldered his fishing kit and left. He hadn't missed a day since April thirtieth, and wasn't planning on missing one all season.
Sunday noon - another person gone, bringing the total up to sixteen.
Sunday, one o'clock - all the missing children were found!
A police car found them on a road near the outskirts of town, eight of them, including the Carmichael boy, walking dazedly toward their homes. They were rushed to a hospital.
There was no trace of the missing adults, though.
Word of mouth spread the news faster than the newspapers or radio could. The children were completely unharmed. Under examination by psychiatrists it was found that they didn't remember where they had been or how they had been taken there. All the psychiatrists could piece together was a sensation of flying, accompanied by a sickness to the stomach. The children were kept in the hospital for safety, under guard.
But between noon and evening, another child disappeared from Vainsville.
Just before sunset, Mr. Carter came home. In his knapsack were two big rainbow trout. He greeted the Mallens gaily and went to the garage to clean his fish.
Jim Mallen stepped into the backyard and started to the garage after him, frowning. He wanted to ask the old man about something he had said a day or two ago. He couldn't quite remember what it was, but it seemed important.
His next door neighbour, whose name he couldn't remember, greeted him.
"Mallen," he said. "I think I know."
"What?" Mallen asked.
"Have you examined the theories?" the neighbor asked.
"Of course." His neighbour was a skinny fellow in shirtsleeves and vest. His bald head glistened red in the sunset.
"Then listen. It can't be a kidnapper. No sense in their methods. Right?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And a maniac is out. How could be snatch fifteen, sixteen people? And return the children? Even a gang of maniacs couldn't do that, not with the number of cops we've got watching. Right?"
"Go on." Out of the corner of his eye Mallen saw his neighbour's fat wife come down the back steps. She walked over to them and listened.
"The same goes for a gang of criminals, or even Martians. Impossible to do it, and no reason even if they could. We've got to look for something illogical - and that leaves just one logical answer."
Mallen waited, and glanced at the woman. She was looking at him, arms folded across her aproned chest. In fact, she was glaring at him. Can she be angry at me, Mallen thought. What have I done?
"The only answer," his neighbour said slowly, "is that there is a hole somewhere around here. A hole in the space-time continuum."
"What!" blurted Mallen. "I don't quite follow that."
"A hole in time," the bald neighbour explained, "or a hole in space. Or in both. Don't ask me how it got there; it's there. What happens is, a person steps into that hole, and bingo! He's somewhere else. Or in some other time. Or both. This hole can't be seen, of course - it's fourth dimensional -but it's there. The way I see it, if you traced the movements of those people, you'd find every one of them passed through a certain spot - and vanished."
"Hmmm." Mallen thought it over. "That sounds interesting - but we know that lots of people vanished right out of their own homes."
"Yeah," the neighbour agreed. "Let me think - I know! The hole in space-time isn't fixed. It drifts, moves around. First it's in Carpenter's house, then it moves on, aimlessly -"
"Why doesn't it move out of these four blocks?" Mallen asked, wondering why the man's wife was still glaring at him, her lips tightly compressed.
"Well," the neighbour said, "it has to have some limitations."
"And why were the children returned?"
"Oh for heaven's sake, Mallen, you can't ask me to figure out every little thing, can you? It's a good working theory. We'll have to have more facts before we can work out the whole thing."
"Hello there!" Mr. Carter called, emerging from the garage. He held up two beautiful trout, neatly cleaned and washed.
"The trout is a gamey fighter, and makes magnificent eating as well. The most excellent of sports, and the most excellent of foods!" He walked unhurriedly into the house.
"I've got a better theory," the neighbour's wife said, unfolding her arms and placing her hands on her ample hips.
Both men turned to look at her.
"Who is the only person around here who isn't the least bit worried about what's going on? Who goes walking all over with a bag he says has fish in it? Who says he spends all his time fishing?"
"Oh, no," Mallen said. "Not Dad Carter. He has a whole philosophy about fishing -"
"I don't care about philosophy!" the woman shrieked. "He fools you, but he doesn't fool me! I only know he's the only man in this neighbourhood who isn't the least bit worried and he's around and gone every day and lynching would probably be too good for him!" With that she spun and went waddling into her house.
"Look, Mallen." the bald neighbour said. "I'm sorry. You know how women are. She's upset, even if Danny is safe in the hospital."
"Sure," Mallen said.
"She doesn't understand the space-time continuum," he went on earnestly. "But I'll explain it to her tonight. She'll apologize in the morning. You'll see."
The men shook hands and returned to their respective homes.
Darkness came swiftly, and searchlights went on all over town. Beams of light knifed down streets, into backyards, reflected from closed windows. The inhabitants of Vainsville settled down to wait for more disappearances.
Jim Mallen wished he could put his hands
on whatever was doing it. Just for a second - that was all he'd need. But to have to sit and wait. He felt so helpless. His wife's lips were pale and cracked, and her eyes were tired. But Mr. Carter was cheerful, as usual. He fried the trout over a gas burner, serving both of them.
"I found a beautiful quiet pool today," Mr. Carter announced. "It is near the mouth of Old Creek, up a little tributary. I fished there all day, leaning back against the grassy bank and watching the clouds. Fantastic things, clouds! I shall go there tomorrow, and fish in it one more day. Then I will move on. A wise fisherman does not fish out a stream. Moderation is the code of the fisherman. Take a little, leave a little. I have often thought -"
"Oh Dad, please!" Phyllis screamed, and burst into tears. Mr. Carter shook his head sadly, smiled an understanding smile and finished his trout. Then he went into the living room to work on a new fly.
Exhausted, the Mallens went to bed....
Mallen awoke and sat upright. He looked over and saw his wife, asleep beside him. The luminous dial of his watch read four fifty-eight. Almost morning, he thought.
He got out of bed, slipped on a bathrobe and padded softly downstairs. The searchlights were flashing against the living-room window, and he could see a guard outside.
That was a reassuring sight, he thought, and went into the kitchen. Moving quietly, he poured a glass of milk. There was fresh cake on top of the refrigerator, and he cut himself a slice.
Kidnappers, he thought. Maniacs. Men from Mars. Holes in space. Or any combination thereof. No, that was wrong. He wished he could remember what he wanted to ask Mr. Carter. It was important.
He rinsed out the glass, put the cake back on the refrigerator and walked to the living room. Suddenly he was thrown violently to one side.
Something had hold of him! He flailed out, but there was nothing to hit. Something was gripping him like an iron hand, dragging him off his feet. He threw himself to one side, scrambling for a footing. His feet left the floor and he hung for a moment, kicking and squirming. The grip around his ribs was so tight he couldn't breathe, couldn't make a sound. Inexorably, he was being lifted.
Hole in space, he thought, and tried to scream. His wildly flailed arms caught a corner of the couch and he seized it. The couch was lifted with him. He yanked, and the grip relaxed for a moment, letting him drop to the floor.
He scrambled across the floor towards the door. The grip caught him again, but he was near a radiator. He wrapped both arms around it, trying to resist the pull. He yanked again, and managed to get one leg around, then the other.
The radiator creaked horribly as the pull increased. Mallen felt as though his waist would part, but he held on, every muscle stretched to the breaking point. Suddenly the grip relaxed completely.
He collapsed to the floor.
When he came to it was broad daylight. Phyllis was splashing water in his face, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He blinked, and wondered for a moment where he was.
"Am I still here?" he asked.
"Are you all right?" Phyllis demanded. "What happened? Oh, darling! Let's get out of this place -"
"Where's your father?" Mallen asked groggily, getting to his feet.
"Fishing. Now please, sit down. I'm going to call a doctor."
"No. Wait." Mallen went into the kitchen. On the refrigerator was the cake box. It read: Johnson's Cake Shop. Vainsville, New YorK. A capital K on New York. Really a very small error.
And Mr. Carter? Was the answer there? Mallen raced upstairs and dressed. He crumpled the cake box and thrust it into his pocket, and hurried out the door.
"Don't touch anything until I get back!" he shouted at Phyllis. She watched him get into the car and race down the street. Trying hard to keep from crying, she walked into the kitchen.
Mallen was at Old Creek in fifteen minutes. He parked the car and started walking up the stream.
"Mr. Carter!" he shouted as he went. "Mr. Carter!"
He walked and shouted for half an hour, into deeper and deeper woods. The trees overhung the stream now, and he had to wade to make any speed at all. He increased his pace, splashing, slipping on stones, trying to run.
"Mr. Carter!"
"Hello!" He heard the old man's voice. He followed the sound, up a branch of the stream.
There was Mr. Carter, sitting on the steep bank of a little pool, holding his long bamboo pole. Mallen scrambled up beside him.
"Take it easy, son," Mr. Carter said. "Glad you took my advice about fishing."
"No," Mallen panted. "I want you to tell me something."
"Gladly," the old man said. "What would you like to know?"
"A fisherman wouldn't fish out a pool completely, would he?"
"I wouldn't. But some might."
"And bait. Any good fisherman would use artificial bait?"
"I pride myself on my flies," Mr. Carter said. "I try to approximate the real thing. Here, for example, is a beautiful replica of a hornet." He plucked a yellow hook from his hat. "And here is a lovely mosquito."
Suddenly his line stirred. Easily, surely, the old man brought it in. He caught the gasping trout in his hand and showed him to Mallen.
"A little fellow - I won't keep him." He removed the hook gently, easing it out of the gasping gill, and placed the fish back in water.
"When you throw him back - do you think he knows? Does he tell the others?"
"Oh, no," Mr. Carter said. "The experience doesn't teach him anything. I've had the same young fish bite my line two or three times. They have to grow up a bit before they know."
"I thought so." Mallen looked at the old man. Mr. Carter was unaware of the world around him, untouched by the terror that had struck Vainsville.
Fishermen live in a world of their own, thought Mallen.
"But you should have been here an hour ago." Mr. Carter said. "I hooked a beauty. A magnificent fellow, two pounds if he was an ounce. What a battle for an old warhorse like me! And he got away. But there'll come another - hey, where are you going?"
"Back!" Mallen shouted. splashing into the stream. He knew now what he had been looking for in Mr. Carter. A parallel. And now it was clear.
Harmless Mr. Carter, pulling up his trout, just like that other, greater fisherman, pulling up his
"Back to warn the other fish!" Mallen shouted over his shoulder, stumbling along the stream bed. If only Phyllis hadn't touched any food! He pulled the cake box out of his pocket and threw it from him as hard as he could. The hateful lure!
While the fishermen, each in his respective sphere, smiled and dropped their lines into the water again.
THE CROWD
by Ray Bradbury
When his remarkable career was in its earliest period, Ray Bradbury produced some of his most unusual ideas about people and the world we live in. His skill has smoothed and grown since then, but we do not believe that his ideas of that first flowering phase have been surpassed. Take this story, from his first published collection. We challenge you to produce another that so touches the heart of a rather hideous experience that must be common to all at one time or another.
MR. SPALLNER put his hands over his face.
There was the feeling of movement in space, the beautifully tortured scream, the impact and tumbling of the car with wall, through wall, over and down like a toy, and him hurled out of it. Then - silence.
The crowd came running. Faintly, where he lay, he heard them running. He could tell their ages and their sizes by the sound of their numerous feet over the summer grass and on the lined sidewalk, and over the asphalt street, and picking through the cluttered bricks to where his car hung half into the night sky, still spinning its wheels with a senseless centrifuge.
Where the crowd came from he didn't know. He struggled to remain aware and then the crowd faces hemmed in upon him, hung over him like the large glowing leaves of down-bent trees. They were a ring of shifting, compressing, changing faces over him, looking down, looking down, reading the time of his life or death by his face,
making his face into a moon-dial, where the moon cast a shadow from his nose out upon his cheek to tell the time of breathing or not breathing any more ever.
How swiftly a crowd comes, he thought, like the iris of an eye compressing in out of nowhere.
A siren. A police voice. Movement. Blood trickled from his lips and he was being moved into an ambulance. Someone said, "Is he dead?" And someone else said, "No, he's not dead." And a third person said, "He won't die, he's not going to die." And he saw the faces of the crowd beyond him in the night, and he knew by their expressions that he wouldn't die. And that was strange. He saw a man's face, thin, bright, pale; the man swallowed and bit his lips, very sick. There was a small woman, too, with red hair and too much red on her cheeks and lips. And a little boy with a freckled face. Others' faces. An old man with a wrinkled upper lip, an old woman, with a mole upon her chin. They had all come from - where? Houses, cars, alleys, from the immediate and the accident-shocked world. Out of alleys and out of hotels and out of street-cars and seemingly out of nothing they came.
The crowd looked at him and he looked back at them and did not like them at all. There was a vast wrongness to them. He couldn't put his finger on it. They were far worse than this machine-made thing that happened to him now.
The ambulance doors slammed. Through the windows he saw the crowd looking in, looking in. That crowd that always came so fast, so strangely fast, to form a circle, to peer down, to probe, to gawk, to question, to point, to disturb, to spoil the privacy of a man's agony by their frank curiosity.
The ambulance drove off. He sank back and their faces still stared into his face, even with his eyes shut.
The car wheels spun in his mind for days. One wheel, four wheels, spinning, spinning, and whirring, around and around.
He knew it was wrong. Something wrong with the wheels and the whole accident and the running of feet and the curiosity. The crowd faces mixed and spun into the wild rotation of the wheels.
Terror in the Modern Vein Page 7