The Best from Fantasy and Science Fiction Sixth Series

by Edited by Anthony Boucher

  He looked at her with tepidly lustful appraisal. “Yup. Looie—Looie! Customer.” He looked at her again, and she thought his leer faded, not from lack of interest but from lack of energy. “What’ll it be?”

  “Lila?”

  “I could go for a steak, kind of rare; French fries and coffee.”

  “Just coffee for me,” said Hesione.

  “Just coffee?” asked the counterman with lazy insolence.

  “Two coffees, a rare steak and french fried potatoes.”

  “No steak. Got hamburger, though.”

  The counterman’s double—except that he wore greasy coveralls and a cap—slouched in. “Ya want gas and oil?”

  “Please. Fill it with ethyl and check the oil. Have you a phone here?”

  “Booth’s outside.”

  “Can you let me have five dollars’ worth of quarters, please?”

  She shivered in the phone booth, so tidily steel, glass, and mass-produced in the midst of the casual filling station. While she was confessing to the long-distance operator she didn’t know the number of the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, Looie appeared with the oil stick held, delicately between finger tips to show it was down a quart. She nodded quickly, nervously, apprehensive lest she be involved in explaining what brand and gravity of oil she wanted just as her connection went through.

  “Hello? Yes. This is Mrs. Drummond. Hesione Hadstone. My daughter, Peggy Mallest—can you tell me how she is? Yes, I’ll wait, of course.” To Looie, still standing there, she said, “Thirty weight. Any good Pennsylvania.”

  Hospital routine wormed its way through the operator’s demands for more quarters. Finally Hesione was told—reluctantly, she thought—that Peggy was sleeping normally; if Mrs. Drummond wanted more specific information it might be advisable to call Dr. Pletzel about eleven in the morning. “But-” she began, and then, faced by the hopelessness of it all, listened resignedly to the click of the broken connection and the operator’s cheerfully aloof inquiry.

  She started for the counter and her coffee, then thinking of the steamy, sweetish grease rising in the humid room, her stomach turned. A radio came to life with too much volume . . . “definite grounding of all planes unless…” then a kindly hand turned it low again. She stared at a billboard advertising cigarettes, its colors faded and beaten by the spring rains and winds. Neither the sign nor its message had any interest for her, yet its heroic images and lifelessness were a soothing contrast to the humanity of the. lunchroom. She sighed, taking a step forward. Loose gravel crunched under her shoes. She stumbled, regaining her balance swiftly and knew, even before she felt the strange texture through the thin soles, that she was no longer in the vicinity of Zanesville, Ohio.

  ~ * ~

  Incongruously, her first thought was that now Lila would have to pay for her breakfast and the gas and oil. It was only after she suffered sympathetically the uneasiness turning to anxiety and then horror that Lila would feel and her frantic searching and calling, that she felt the force of the shock. I’ve done it, I’ve stepped through the time-space fracture or whatever it is. I’m lost.

  Paul . . .? Peggy . . . ? She must get back. She must. Right away. (Many had; she was sure some of them had been gone only seconds.) If she stood very still and considered. (There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.) Just one step—one single step—was all she had taken. Surely it was retraceable. It had to be. Surely . . . Slowly, very carefully, moving the heel delicately, into the precise spot it had occupied only the moment before. Perhaps? Oh, please . . .

  The step breathlessly taken, she was still ... It hadn’t worked. Unreasonably, it hadn’t worked. What would? Something—something must. How did you get back. Because she had to. She had to. Run? Run, run. Run anywhere—anywhere. Run in a straight line (a straight line on a crumpled envelope), and somewhere, somehow, she would break out, back into reality.

  It had been night when she left the phone booth; now it was gray-skyed day. Not only the place but the time—as though to make it finally impossible to get back. But it wasn’t impossible. Others had gotten back. Accidentally of course; well, the accident would have to happen to her too. Running couldn’t help; probably nothing she did deliberately could help.

  The rows of identical buildings looked faintly familiar. Not as some particular place, but representative . . . Barracks? What was that factory over there, with those chimneys? (Although it didn’t look like a factory she had ever seen, but a factory whose picture she had looked at. Why should she look at the picture of a factory?) And the high, barbed-wire fences?

  “What are you doing here? Don’t you know it is forbidden?”

  She faced him in panic, his tight features blurring in her staring eyes. His black uniform—black? Who wore black uniforms?—jaunty, yet somehow wilted. His pale eyes searched her face, lipless mouth pressed hard upon itself. Most frightening of all to Hesione was the realization that though she knew no more than a few words of his language, yet she understood everything he was saying perfectly, even when he used colloquialisms. It gave her the powerless sense of being hypnotized.

  “Answer please, miss. No one has business here.”

  She shook her head numbly. The man came close, eyes still probing. She felt the warmth of his breath in loathsome intimacy. He grasped her wrist and turned back her sleeve to the elbow, scrutinizing the skin of her forearm. Satisfied, he let it fall.

  “Your pardon, gracious lady, but these brutes are always up to tricks. Of course I can see you are of good blood but— Well, we hope to be on our guard; they are like apes. Excuse me. Zimmer; Underofficer Zimmer, at your service. You are perhaps of the theatrical company from Dresden? The Merry Widow company?”

  Hesione made a hoarse, croaking noise in her throat. She understood every voice he was saying, every reference he made as soon as it was spoken. (She knew about the Merry Widow company from Dresden the moment he mentioned it; even hazily visualized the tenor and basso; their names were just barely beyond her recall.) But if she spoke, it would be in English, to betray herself. She nodded; pointed to her throat.

  “Oho. A touch of laryngitis perhaps. O thousand pities. But you should be in your quarters, resting, for tonight’s performance. Why did you get leave then, and how did you get here? No, no—don’t try to answer and perhaps strain your throat. Forgive me. Allow me the great honor of escorting you back. What an interesting costume you are wearing. Perhaps it is a new French style? It is interesting, don’t you think, how the French have sloughed off so much of their decadence since our Leader’s victory? Perhaps you have played for the troops on the Western Front, or the occupation forces? Those lucky fellows, not to be stuck in a hole like this, herding the subhuman brutes. None visible at the moment, thank God; we’ve just shipped out today’s batch— destination unknown.”

  Underofficer Zimmer laughed and paused in his garrulity to offer his arm, but not with such complete assurance that she was unable to pretend not to see it. I must break away, she told herself in frozen despair. Every moment I’m with him makes discovery more certain. And then what? Where can I run in this awful place?

  “You see that building over there? That’s where we dispose of the trash. A thousand a day, but this is only a beginning, you understand; we get more efficient with practice. And our great scientific advances. Eventually the whole problem which has baffled the realm for centuries will be solved through the application of science and the genius of our Leader. You must be proud, gracious miss, to be contributing to this great work of purification by entertaining the Leader’s troops. However I can see you are; I know something of race and racial traits; there is a Valkyrie touch in your walk and look. Do not think me impertinent, please. We are superior creatures because we speak out the truth boldly and without shame.”

  Save me, Hesione begged of no one. Save me.

  “Yes, without shame; our ordeal as a folk has cleansed us of hypocrisy. Naturally there are still some immature individuals who have not yet learne
d the logic of destiny. This is probably why our work is not publicized. A mistake in my opinion; I would rub their noses in reality, like a puppy one teaches to understand. Not that I’m criticizing my superiors. Just anticipating. I hope I’m not boring you, gracious miss? But how could one of good racial stock be bored by anything having to do with race-healthiness? Even to think it would be unbecoming.”

  Hesione willed herself to scream, to end it all. She opened her mouth, but only a faint hiss came forth.

  “No, no, dear lady, do not strain your throat, I beg. Do try a warm aspirin gargle and keep your neck well covered. The health of all folk-colleagues is a most precious asset of the realm and must be guarded zealously. Hrrmph. Well, let us talk of lighter things—did you notice the flower beds by the main gate? Charming. Scientifically designed to produce lovely blooms from frost to frost. Beauty is science and science beauty. Speaking of science again, take note of those piles over there. You know these brutes have actually been wearing clothes of excellent quality while racially pure folk have been swindled by them into buying shoddy materials. See how neatly they are arranged according to size. And the shoes—men’s here, women’s there, and that fine large assortment of children’s shoes; every size down to the smallest infant’s—”

  This time the scream came out, loud and shrill and uncontrollable. Hesione ran blindly, screaming, screaming. Faintly she heard Underofficer Zimmer’s surprised expostulations; she had the feeling that someone—not Zimmer; no, Zimmer was left far behind—was calling on her to halt. Halt! Passage was forbidden. Then the sound of a shot, and shouting, angry words.

  She ran through a gate miraculously open, turned a corner without quite realizing how or why, raced between window-less buildings. She knew her flight to be pointless; no escape from this place could be possible. The only atonement for even having seen it, breathed its air, been touched by its miasma, was to die in it. Let them catch, question, torture and kill her as quickly as possible.

  Yet she ran on.

  Jake Cooperman had told her once that some celebrants added to the Passover service a prayer or lamentation of remembrance for the six million martyrs. It had seemed to her at the time that this was an unfortunate thing, this keeping of bitter memories alive, an unforgiving thing. Now, running still, gasping, she wondered exactly how one went about forgiving the neat pile of children’s shoes. . . .

  A man in a steel helmet, grinning, suddenly stood before her, the rifle in his hands pointing, deadly. She screamed once more, effortlessly, uglily. She turned, tripped, fell. Fell, still screaming.

  Fortunately for the easing of her hysteria, the darkness into which she fell, as soon as she got used to it, was only comparative; there was a moon and stars. The air was cold, bitingly cold, sawing at her lungs. Scattered trees loomed before her; the ground was rough. Not far off the shoulder of a mountain blotted out the stars. Wherever she was, she was sure it was nowhere near in either time or place to the horror she had just left. Shuddering, she tried not to remember it…

  She had no idea of direction. The Big Dipper was to her right; she decided to walk west, the way she was headed, which seemed to be downhill as well. Without evidence, she was nevertheless sure she was back in the world she had stepped out of a few hours—or was it only a few minutes? earlier. Though certainly this hilly country was not the flat Ohio where she had phoned-

  Peggy! Perhaps days had passed and she . . . Oh, God, what had she done to be punished like this? She was immediately ashamed of the false drama, but her panic was real enough. Part of her mind told her she had escaped from the unspeakable, a miracle had rescued her; but she knew this to be an illusion. She had gotten away, but the place still existed; she was still trapped and would always be tied to it.

  I should be thankful, she told herself; I should be grateful. (Lord, I believe; help Thou my—) If only I’d been brought back to some less lonely, less forbidding spot. I don’t ask for the car and Lila; just somewhere where there are people and houses and telephones and warmth. “Help!” she cried aloud, but the sound was weak and unconvincing, embarrassed.

  A tangle of thorns snagged her clothes and scratched her hands. A dog barked sharply somewhere to her right; questioningly, then in an angry paroxysm of short yaps. She had a vision of a snarling beast knocking her down and tearing at her throat. “If I were only the crying type,” she whispered. “If I were only the crying type.”

  Numb with fear and cold she walked fatalistically toward the sound of the barking. “Help me, I’m lost,” she called tentatively, and then monotonously, because it was easier to keep on than to stop, and somehow soothing to indulge in the rhythmic repetition, “Help me, I’m lost; help me, I’m lost.”

  The barking became frantic as a dull spot of yellow light flickered ahead. “Who’s there? I said, who’s there?”

  “Help me, I’m lost.”

  “Down, Billy; down! They anyone with you, missus?” The dog’s noise choked to a surge of welling growls.

  “No. No one. Can you please help me to get to a telephone?”

  “Telephone? One at Wilson’s store—You a foreigner?”

  “No, of course n—Oh, you mean, do I come from around here? No, I don’t. I . . .” She felt helpless to explain herself to his suspicious caution. Undoubtedly he had never heard of the amnesiacs; to ask reasonably, “Where am I?” would more likely bring hostility than answer. “Please, I’m cold. Could I come in and get warm?” she asked meekly.

  The Mackenzie kitchen, to which she was at length reluctantly admitted, was heavy with the rancid smell of stale pork fat. Its plastered walls, originally yellow or perhaps pale brown, were dark with a greasy sheen. On one was a picture of President Coolidge. Hesione had a sinking moment of fear that she had returned to the 1920s, but the calendar close by the taciturn Vermonter reassured her; it was the current year. It was also with the compliments of Fisher’s Hay, Feed & Grain, Hazard, Ky.

  She had no idea of the distance from Zanesville, Ohio to Hazard, Kentucky, or for that matter whether the Mackenzies were a mile or fifty from Hazard, but it certainly must be greater than the short space she had walked and run since she had left the phone booth. Had she covered ground while unconscious? Or was there some simple explanation for the discrepancy? Science fiction’s number-three fan had talked of the earth’s revolution and the passage of time, but did this work out quite right? He probably had a pat answer. Compared to the Mackenzies, Mr. Peterberry would have appeared comforting and homey.

  The Mackenzies had no TV or radio—no electricity—and didn’t read newspapers. (“The Word’s sufficient for us,” said Mr. Mackenzie, looking uncompromisingly over white-stub-bled cheeks, while Mrs. Mackenzie nodded stringy gray hair until her large belly wobbled. “Sin enough in the world, without reading about it.”)

  “How far is it to the telephone?” she asked. “I’d gladly pay you to take me there.” She touched the soft leather of her shoulder bag, reassured. Suppose she had dropped it somewhere?

  “Who do you want to telephone?”

  Hesione’s first resentment was swept away in panic. If I start explaining, I’m done for, she thought. Maybe the Mackenzies don’t hang witches, but they certainly won’t do anything to aid one. “My daughter is very ill and I must reach her. Please help me.”

  Mr. Mackenzie grunted. “All help is from the Lord,” he said at length. “Anyway, it’ll be light soon.”

  “All right,” said Hesione, defeated. “I’ll walk. How far is it?”

  “Maybe two miles across ground; good five by road.”

  Two miles in the unmarked night, stumbling for lost paths, bayed at by dogs—it was impossible. Well, five miles on a strange road . . . I’m being punished, she thought; the Mackenzies and that non-union preacher; my sins pursue me. What have I done? I did not allow Maurice to seduce me; I came to my marriage bed undeflowered. I’ve never had an affair. I’m not taking credit for it; I was never really—not really, even in the case of Nick—tempted. I don’t believe
I’m a frigid woman; I’ve never felt reluctant when Paul (but nowadays we’re so little together), in fact I’ve often been quite glad; it seems so right when you’re as fond of someone as I am of Paul. I just don’t have those uncontrollable appetites. Or at least I’m not uncontrolled by them. Lady Cicely.

  Yet I do feel I’m being punished, and not unjustly. Freud set himself out to exorcise guilt feelings, but perhaps guilt feelings serve some necessary purpose. Oh God, I’m guilty of whatever You like, but please get me to a phone so I can call Peggy and Lila and Paul.

  “Well, missus, I suppose it’d be only Christian charity to haul you to Wilson’s if you’re of a mind to pay for the gas. About five dollars’d be right, I guess.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Mackenzie. Thank you.”

  He tramped out of the kitchen, heavy-footed with righteousness. Mrs. Mackenzie asked, “How many children you got?”

  “One.” The answer that was no answer. (Why don’t you get rid of it? Maurice had demanded over and over. Ruin your figure. What do you think you’ll look like by the time you’re seven months along? And she might have, if it hadn’t been for those two girls in the newspaper stories; septicemia; I was afraid to die. Oh, Peggy) Maurice hadn’t wanted children at all; by the time she married Paul they would have drastically interfered with her life. Had she wanted them? Hesione Hadstone will now answer the sixty-four dollar question while balancing on a slack wire two hundred feet above the heads of the audience without a safety net below.