Thirteen Phantasms E-Book

James P. Blaylock

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Short stories
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 529

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

James Blaylock is one of the finest writers in the fantasy field. Sixteen of his acclaimed short stories are collected here for the first time. Included is "Thirteen Phantasms," his brilliant World Fantasy Award-winning story of a man who returns to the Golden Age of science fiction through an ad in a pulp magazine. "Myron Chester and the Toads" recounts one man's encounter with aliens and the effect it has on him and his neighbors. And in the strange otherworldly California of "Paper Dragons" one man's obsession with the creation of a dragon slowly destroys him.

Leseprobe

ALSO BY JAMES P. BLAYLOCK

NOVELS

The Elfin Ship

The Disappearing Dwarf

The Digging Leviathan

Homunculus

Land Of Dreams

The Last Coin

The Stone Giant

The Paper Grail

Lord Kelvin’s Machine

The Magic Spectacles

Night Relics

All The Bells On Earth

Winter Tides

The Rainy Season

Knights Of The Cornerstone

Zeuglodon

The Aylesford Skull

COLLECTIONS

Thirteen Phantasms

In For A Penny

Metamorphosis

The Shadow on the Doorstep

NOVELLAS

The Ebb Tide

The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs

WITH TIM POWERS

On Pirates

The Devil in the Details

Copyright © James P. Blaylock 2000

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Dirk Berger.

Published as an e-book in North America by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc., in association with the Zeno Agency LTD., in 2013.

ISBN: 9781625670311

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Also by James P. Blaylock

Introduction: Five Hundred Dollars

Thirteen Phantasms

Red Planet

The Ape-Box Affair

Bugs

Nets of Silver and Gold

The Better Boy, with Tim Powers

The Pink of Fading Neon

The Old Curiosity Shop

Doughnuts

Two Views of a Cave Painting

The Idol’s Eye

Paper Dragons

We Traverse Afar, with Tim Powers

The Shadow on the Doorstep

Myron Chester and the Toads

Unidentified Objects

About the Author

Five Hundred Dollars

Back around 1960 my family started spending long weekends up in Morro Bay, just north of San Luis Obispo. At the time there was a small downtown and a long row of shops and seafood restaurants along the foggy waterfront, with a couple of fishing piers with boats docked. You could catch sculpin and cabezon and perch off the pier and buy saltwater taffy at the bait shop and doughnuts and coffee across the Embarcadero. There was an aquarium down the bay a quarter of a mile, with big rusting tanks floating with kelp and dripping water and with the mandatory octopus and moray eels and half a dozen varieties of coastal fish that always included a toothy sheepshead.

One Saturday evening I was wandering along the Embarcadero down near the aquarium. I must have been about twelve years old. I remember it was dusk and that it was rainy. There was an antique shop down there, long since disappeared, that sold oriental oddities, very crowded with merchandise, very dark and attractive to a susceptible twelve-year-old. I stepped in out of the evening and right off the bat saw a pair of carved wooden temple dogs the size of St. Bernards, crouching in the typical pose, with a half dozen temple puppies, I guess you’d call them, crawling on the parent dogs’ backs. I can still picture them absolutely in my mind: dim yellow and red paint, chipped and faded over the long years, the startlingly vivid expressions on the carved faces, the massive solidity and antiquity of the things. I can also remember that the pair of them cost an even five hundred dollars.

This was back in the days when you could buy a lot on the ocean for five thousand and a house for twenty-five, but even so, five hundred dollars was an easily imaginable sum, even to a twelve-year-old, and the world was suddenly full of exotic suggestion and possibility, as if a door had been opened. The dark shop full of antiques, the salt air and the rain and the lowering evening, it seems to me now, were emblematic of that moment when we plant the magic bean or put on the odd spectacles that we’ve bought from a dwarf in an alley or peer into the old mirror and see things moving behind us that aren’t there when we turn around and look.

Of course I couldn’t have foreseen it at the time, but this matter of five hundred dollars would become oddly significant over the years, and it plays in my mind now like an O. Henry story, the second chapter occurring some five years later when I had my first job at the old Collar and Leash Pet Store in Garden Grove. Half the store was devoted to aquaria, which I maintained, ordering fish and aquatic plants with a certain degree of latitude. I was devoted at the time to aquatic oddities—South American leaf fish and air-breathing African Ctenopoma and buffalo head cichlids and red-eyed puffers—fish whose shape, coloration, and languid movements mimicked dead leaves or was somehow otherworldly or bizarre. The perfect aquarium, to my mind, was a dimly-lit, still-life collection of plants and driftwood and hovering fishes reminiscent of a leafy pool in a jungle river. The public’s notion of an aquarium bore little resemblance to my own, and aside from routine maintenance, my particular favorite aquariums often went happily undisturbed for months or even years. (This difference between what the public wanted and what I wanted didn’t end with aquaria, by the way. Reviewers have suggested that my stories are sometimes “eccentric,” and I understand entirely what they mean. Stories like “The Shadow on the Doorstep” and “The Pink of Fading Neon” and “Paper Dragons” bear an atmospheric resemblance to the sort of aquaria I used to keep, and in fact strike me at this moment as being quite evidently aquarium-like, just as certain aquaria, with their wavering shadows and rising bubbles and rock caves and lurking fishes seem to suggest their own hidden mysteries.)

As for the five hundred dollars, its ghost reappeared to haunt me in the form of a bill of fare, loosely speaking, from a company called Gators of Miami, the Noah’s ark of animal importers, which at the time would ship virtually any animal in the world straight into Los Angeles in a wooden crate. The Collar and Leash didn’t deal in exotic pets, but the Gators catalogue was something I studied with the avidity of a connoisseur. I remember sitting among the aquaria one Friday evening, alone in the shop, browsing through the catalogue, when my eye fell upon a list of available African mammals, and I saw, with a shock of momentary elation, that for five hundred dollars I could buy a hippopotamus. All I needed beyond that was a borrowed stake-bed truck to haul the beast home from the air freight terminal.

The world, I’ll say again, was a different place back then. I was making about a dollar-fifty an hour at the time, and I no more had five hundred dollars in mad money at eighteen years old than at twelve. I went round and round with it in my mind, though, imagining the creature in the back garden, eating whatever hippos ate—canned spinach, perhaps, and alfalfa. I could dig it a pool.

All of this sounds slightly cockeyed, looking back, but it still seems wonderful to me that there was a fleeting moment in my life when a hippopotamus was five hundred dollars and a phone call away. And in the years that followed, hippos loomed large in the southern California mythos. There was an article in the newspaper some time later involving an enormous ghostly hippo that had appeared on a foggy residential street in Huntington Beach, disappearing moments later, and never apparently, seen or heard from thereafter, the mystery unsolved to this day. And then of course there was the sad death of Bubbles the hippo from the wild animal park, who traveled over the hills into Laguna Canyon and occupied a weedy pond for a week until it was accidentally killed by the men sent out to rescue it. Let it have the damned pond: that was my idea of it, and I still feel that way. Put a picket fence around it and let it be. When visitors came to town you could have said to them, “There’s a hippo back in the canyon.” For a moment they’d think they heard you wrong, but then, slowly and certainly, something would change in them. Unless their souls were dead they’d be filled with a puzzled type of I’ll-be-damned curiosity. Proust tells us that the purpose of the artist is to “draw back the veil that leaves us indifferent before the universe.” A wild hippo in Laguna Canyon would do the trick. The condominiums they’ve built in the years since are simply an eyesore.

I think it was in the summer of 1972 that I traveled up the coast with a friend of mine, camping here and there. It was on that trip that I saw the gluer Volkswagen bus with the tide pool ornamentation that put in an appearance in my book The Paper Grail. The early ‘70s were strange times in their own way, and during the days I spent on the coast road there were cult murders in the Big Sur vicinity, and severed human heads were found perched on guardrail posts along the highway. We camped on a beach near Monterey for a couple of days, one of which we spent wandering around Cannery Row I was looking for the ghosts of Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts, and although I didn’t entirely find them, I found something nearly as good. Cannery Row wasn’t yet the tourist attraction that it’s become in more recent years, and the old canneries stood abandoned and boarded up, paint peeling, windows broken, the whole place “reclaimed by the weather,” to borrow a phrase from Joan Didion.

There was a junk shop, though, operating at the time, still trading on the old romance. You could by used fishing nets and glass floats and pieces of interesting nautical debris. I remember that there were South Seas imports and imported rugs smelling of damp wool and a thousand and one junk objects that didn’t quite qualify as antiques but would have been exotically out of place, say, in a mere thrift store. In the back, on a wooden table, sat a wood-framed glass box, like an upended aquarium. Inside, “hermetically sealed,” was the upper half of a mummy. It was mostly brown skeleton and empty eye sockets, but it still had leathery shreds of flesh and sparse hair. A faded sign claimed that it was a “Mayan Princess” and it was draped with a bit of silk and wore a pillbox hat sewn up out of carnival-colored cloth, meant, I suppose, to give it the air of royalty. The price tag was five hundred dollars, exactly.

I don’t know how long I stood looking at it, but of course there was no chance of my buying it, as much as I might have liked to. This was a five dollar a day trip, and by the time we were into the last couple of days of it, we were reduced to eating canned baked beans flavored with broken-open Pismo clams that we’d dug up out of the sand at low tide. I’d like to tell you that if I’d had the five hundred I would have fished it out of my wallet and taken the mummy home, but I’m not at all certain I would have. In any event, I didn’t.

One last thing: a couple of years later I was up there again on the same mission—killing time on the coast—when I stopped into that same shop. It was half empty by then and was going out of business. The Mayan princess was still unsold, although the price had been reduced to two hundred and fifty dollars. They’d moved her into the window to attract passersby. Perhaps irrationally, to my mind the mummy had lost some of its luster now that it had been put on sale. It seemed to me to have become a cut-rate mummy, without the allure that it had once had, back when it was part of the larger, weather-decayed, misty and dilapidated picture that was Cannery Row in its dying years. If you go up there today (which I very much recommend, if only to get a glimpse of the chambered nautili in the aquarium) you can see how things turned out, but you’ll search in vain for the mummy.

All of that was nearly thirty years ago, and in the intervening decades I’ve never again been offered that kind of five hundred dollar opportunity. In a shop in San Pedro I found a whale’s eyeball floating in a jar of formaldehyde, but the shop keeper wouldn’t sell it at any price. And now that I can afford five hundred bucks for a hippopotamus, the cost of such a creature has gone up considerably, and the city of Orange, where I live, has a statute against “barnyard animals” which I’m pretty sure they’d stretch to cover hippos.

But there’s something about the three incidents that still haunts me—phantomwise, as Lewis Carroll put it—and I’ve come to suspect that I was never meant to own these things at all, at least not in any physical sense. It’s enough, perhaps, that they make up the stuff of my stories and my dreams, as if they’ve been paying me solid dividends all these years.

I’ve always been fond of quotations, of the wonderful things that the best writers can do with words. Some day I’m going to write my favorites out on slips of paper and put them into small jars, like the bug collection I assembled for tenth-grade biology, each one labeled and categorized. One of my favorites is from Aristotle, who said, “What I tell you three times is true.” That one’s vast, like a cathedral, full of shadow and light. It has the ring of temptation in it, of Peter’s denial of Christ, of the three-time loser, of going down for the third time, of the third time’s the charm, of three strikes and three cheers and three coins in the fountain. Like ghosts and flying saucers and materializing hippos, the statement is a true thing in some odd and inobvious way, even though there’s no evidence for it. You have to take it on faith.

Jim BlaylockOrange, CaliforniaMarch 7, 2000

Thirteen Phantasms

There was a small window in the attic, six panes facing the street, the wood frame unpainted and without moldings. Leafy wisteria vines grew over the glass outside, filtering the sunlight and tinting it green. The attic was dim despite the window, and the vines outside shook in the autumn wind, rustling against the clapboards of the old house and casting leafy shadows on the age-darkened beams and rafters. Landers set his portable telephone next to the crawl-space hatch and shined a flashlight across the underside of the shingles, illuminating dusty cobwebs and the skeleton frame of the roof. The air smelled of dust and wood, and the attic was lonesome with silence and moving shadows, a place sheltered from time and change.

A car rolled past out on the street, and Landers heard a train whistle in the distance. Somewhere across town, church bells tolled the hour, and there was the faint sound of freeway noise off to the east like the drone of a perpetual-motion engine. It was easy to imagine that the wisteria vines had tangled themselves around the window frame for some secretive purpose of their own, obscuring the glass with leaves, muffling the sounds of the world.

He reached down and switched the portable phone off, regretting that he’d brought it with him at all. It struck him suddenly as something incongruous, an artifact from an alien planet. For a passing moment he considered dropping it through the open hatch just to watch it slam to the floor of the kitchen hallway below.

Years ago old Mr. Cummings had set pine planks across the two-by-six ceiling joists to make a boardwalk beneath the roof beam, apparently with the idea of using the attic for storage, although it must have been a struggle to haul things up through the shoulder-width attic hatch. At the end of this boardwalk, against the north wall, lay four dust-covered cardboard cartons—full of “junk magazines,” or so Mrs. Cummings herself had told Landers this morning. The cartons were tied with twine, pulled tight and knotted, all the cartons the same. The word ASTOUNDING was written on the side with a felt marker in neat, draftsmanlike letters. Landers wryly wondered what sort of things Mr. Cummings might have considered astounding, and after a moment, he decided that the man had been fortunate to find enough of it in one lifetime to fill four good-sized boxes.

Landers himself had come up empty in that regard, at least lately. For years he’d had a picture in his mind of himself whistling a cheerful out-of-key tune, walking along a country road, his hands in his pockets and with no particular destination, sunlight streaming through the trees and the limitless afternoon stretching toward the horizon. Somehow that picture had lost its focus in the past year or so, and as with an old friend separated by time and distance, he had nearly given up on seeing it again.

It had occurred to him this morning that he hadn’t brewed real coffee for nearly a year now. The coffeepot sat under the counter instead of on top of it, and was something he hauled out for guests. There was a frozen brick of ground coffee in the freezer, but he never bothered with it anymore. Janet had been opposed to freezing coffee at all. Freezing it, she said, killed the aromatic oils. It was better to buy it a half pound at a time, so that it was always fresh. Lately, though, most of the magic had gone out of the morning coffee; it didn’t matter how fresh it was.

The Cummingses had owned the house since it was built in 1924, and Mrs. Cummings, ninety years old now, had held on for twenty years after her husband’s death, letting the place run down, and then had rented it to Landers and moved into the Palmyra Apartments beyond the Plaza. Occasionally he still got mail intended for her, and it was easier simply to take it to her than to give it back to the post office. This morning she had told him about the boxes in the attic: “Just leave them there,” she’d said. Then she had shown him her husband’s old slide rule, slipping it out of its leather case and working the slide. She wasn’t sure why she kept it, but she had kept a couple of old smoking pipes too, and a ring-shaped cut-crystal decanter with some whiskey still in it. Mrs. Cummings didn’t have any use for the pipes or the decanter any more than she had a use for the slide rule, but Landers, who had himself kept almost nothing to remind him of his own past, understood that there was something about these souvenirs, sitting alongside a couple of old photographs on a small table, that recalled better days, easier living.

* * * * *

The arched window of the house on Rexroth Street in Glendale looked out onto a sloping front lawn with an overgrown carob tree at the curb, shading a dusty Land Rover with what looked like prospecting tools strapped to the rear bumper. There was a Hudson Wasp in the driveway, parked behind an Austin Healey. Across the street a man in shirtsleeves rubbed paste polish onto the fender of a Studebaker, and a woman in a sundress dug in a flower bed with a trowel, setting out pansies. A little boy rode a sort of sled on wheels up and down the sidewalk, and the sound of the solid-rubber wheels humping over cracks sounded oddly loud in the still afternoon.

Russell Latzarel turned away from the window and took a cold bottle of beer from Roycroft Squires. In a few minutes the Newtonian Society would come to order, more or less, for the second time that day. Not that it made a lot of difference. For Latzarel’s money they could recess until midnight if they wanted to, and the world would spin along through space for better or worse. He and Squires were both bachelors, and so unlike married men they had until hell froze over to come to order.

“India Pale Ale,” Latzarel said approvingly, looking at the label on the, squat green bottle. He gulped down an inch of beer. “Elixir of the gods, eh?” He set the bottle on a coaster. Then he filled his pipe with Balkan Sobranie tobacco and tamped it down, settling into an armchair in front of the chessboard, where there was a game laid out, half played. “Who’s listed as guest of honor at West Coast Con? Edward tells me they’re going to get Clifford Simak and van Vogt both.”

“That’s not what it says here in the newsletter,” Squires told him, scrutinizing a printed pamphlet. “According to this it’s TBA.”

“To be announced,” Latzarel said, then lit his pipe and puffed hard on it for a moment, his lips making little popping sounds. “Same son of a bitch as they advertised last time.” He laughed out loud and then bent over to scan the titles of the chess books in the bookcase. He wasn’t sure whether Squires read the damned things or whether he kept them there to gain some sort of psychological advantage, which he generally didn’t need.

It was warm for November, and the casement windows along the west wall were wide open, the muslin curtains blowing inward on the breeze. Dust motes moved in the sunshine. The Newtonian Society had been meeting here every Saturday night since the war ended, and in that couple of years it had seldom broken up before two or three in the morning. Sometimes when there was a full house, all twelve of them would talk straight through until dawn and then go out after eggs and bacon, the thirty-nine-cent breakfast special down at Velma’s Copper Pot on Western, although it wasn’t often that the married men could get away with that kind of nonsense. Tonight they had scheduled a critical discussion of E. E. Smith’s Children of the Lens, but it turned out that none of them liked the story much except Hastings, whose opinion was unreliable anyway, and so the meeting had lost all its substance after the first hour, and members had drifted away, into the kitchen and the library and out to the printing shed in the backyard, leaving Latzarel and Squires alone in the living room. Later on tonight, if the weather held up, they would be driving out to the observatory in Griffith Park.

There was a shuffling on the front walk, and Latzarel looked out in time to see the postman shut the mailbox and turn away, heading up the sidewalk. Squires went out through the front door and emptied the box, then came back in sorting letters. He took a puzzled second look at an envelope. “You’re a stamp man,” he said to Latzarel, handing it to him. “What do you make of that?”

* * * * *

Landers found that he could stand upright on the catwalk, although the roof sloped at such an angle that if he moved a couple of feet to either side, he had to duck to clear the roof rafters. He walked toward the boxes, but turned after a few steps to shine the light behind him, picking out his footprints in the otherwise-undisturbed dust. Beneath that dust, if a person could only brush away the successive years, lay Mr. Cummings’s own footprints, coming and going along the wooden boards.

There was something almost wrong about opening the boxes at all, whatever they contained, like prying open a man’s coffin. And somehow the neatly tied string suggested that their packing hadn’t been temporary, that old Mr. Cummings had put them away forever, perhaps when he knew he was at the end of things.

Astounding…? Well, Landers would be the judge of that.

Taking out his pocket knife, he started to cut the string on one of the top boxes, then decided against it and untied it instead, afterward pulling back the flaps. Inside were neatly stacked magazines, dozens of issues of a magazine called Astounding Science-Fiction, apparently organized according to date. He picked one up off the top, December of 1947 and opened it carefully. It was well-preserved, the pulp paper yellowed around the outside of the pages, but not brittle. The cover painting depicted a robot with a head like an egg, holding a bent stick in his hand and looking mournfully at a wolf with a rabbit beside it, the world behind them apparently in flames. There were book ads at the back of the magazine, including one from something called the Squires Press: an edition of Clark Ashton Smith’s Thirteen Phantasms, printed with hand-set type in three volumes on Winnebago Eggshell paper and limited to a hundred copies. “Remit one dollar in seven days,” the ad said, “and one dollar monthly until six dollars is paid.”

A dollar a month! This struck him as fantastic—stranger in its way, and even more wonderful, than the egg-headed robot on the front cover of the magazine. He sat down beside the boxes and leaned back against the wall so that the pages caught the sunlight through the window. He wished that he had brought along something to eat and drink instead of the worthless telephone. Settling in, he browsed through the contents page before starting in on the editorial, and then from there to the first of the several stories.

* * * * *

When the sunlight failed, Landers ran an extension cord into the attic and hooked up an old lamp in the rafters over the catwalk. Then he brought up a folding chair and a little smoking table to set a plate on. He would have liked something more comfortable, but there was no fitting an overstuffed chair up through the hatch. Near midnight he finished a story called “Rain Check” by Lewis Padgett, which featured a character named Tubby (apparently there had been a time when the world was happy with men named Tubby) and another character who drank highballs.

He laid the book down and sat for a moment, listening to the rustling of leaves against the side of the house.

Highballs. What did people drink nowadays?—beer with all the color and flavor filtered out of it. Maybe that made a sad and frightening kind of sense. He looked at the back cover of the magazine, where perhaps coincidentally, there was an ad for Calvert whiskey: “Just be sure your highball is made with Calvert,” the ad counseled. He wondered if there was any such thing anymore, whether anywhere within a twenty-mile radius someone was mixing up a highball out of Calvert whiskey. Hell, a hundred miles.

Rod’s Liquor Store down on the Plaza was open late, and he was suddenly possessed with the idea of mixing himself a highball. He took the magazine with him when he climbed down out of the attic, and before he left the house, he filled out the order blank for the Thirteen Phantasms and slipped it into an envelope along with a dollar bill. It seemed right to him, like the highball, or like old Mrs. Cummings keeping the slide rule.

He wrote out Squires’s Glendale address, put one of the new interim G stamps on the envelope, and slid it into the mail slot for the postman to pick up tomorrow morning.

* * * * *

The canceled stamp depicted an American flag with the words “Old Glory” over the top. “A G stamp?” Latzarel said out loud. “What is that, exactly?”

Squires shook his head. “Something new?”

“Very damned new, I’d say. Look here.” He pointed at the flag on the stamp. “I can’t quite…” He looked over the top of his glasses, squinting hard. “I count too many stars on this flag. Take a look.”

He handed the envelope back to Squires, who peered at the stamp, then dug a magnifying glass out of the drawer of the little desk in front of the window. He peered at the stamp through the glass. “Fifty,” he said. “It must be a fake.”

“Post office canceled it, too.” Latzarel frowned and shook his head. “What kind of sense does that make? Counterfeiting stamps and getting the flag obviously wrong? A man wouldn’t give himself away like that, unless he was playing some kind of game.”

“Here’s something else,” Squires said. “Look at the edge. There’s no perforations. This is apparently cut out of a solid sheet.” He slit the envelope open and unfolded the letter inside. It was an order for the Smith collection, from an address in the city of Orange.

There was a dollar bill included with the order.

* * * * *

Landers flipped through the first volume of the Thirteen Phantasms, which had arrived postage-due from Glendale. There were four stories in each volume. Somehow he had expected thirteen altogether, and the first thing that came into his mind was that there was a phantasm missing. He nearly laughed out loud. But then he was sobered by the obvious impossibility of the arrival of any phantasms at all. They had come enclosed in a cardboard carton that was wrapped in brown paper and sealed with tape. He looked closely at the tape, half surprised that it wasn’t yellowed with age, that the package hadn’t been in transit through the ether for half a century

He sipped from his highball and reread a note that had come with the books, written out by a man named Russell Latzarel, president of a group calling itself the Newtonian Society—apparently Squires’s crowd. In the note, Latzarel wondered if Landers was perpetrating a hoax.

A hoax… The note was dated 1947. “Who are you really?” it asked. “What is the meaning of the G stamp?” For a time he stared out of the window, watching the vines shift against the glass, listening to the wind under the eaves. The house settled, creaking in its joints. He looked at Latzarel’s message again. “The dollar bill was a work of art,” it read. On the back there was a hand-drawn map and an invitation to the next meeting of the Newtonians. He folded the map and tucked it into his coat pocket. Then he finished his highball and laughed out loud. Maybe it was the whiskey that made this seem monumentally funny. A hoax! He’d show them a hoax.

Almost at once he found something that would do. It was a plastic lapel pin the size of a fifty-cent piece, a hologram of an eyeball. It was only an eighth of an inch thick, but when he turned it in the light it seemed deep as a well. It was a good clear hologram too, the eyeball hovering in the void, utterly three-dimensional. The pin on the back had been glued on sloppily and at a screwball angle, and excess glue had run down the back of the plastic and dried. It was a technological marvel of the late twentieth century, and it was an absolute, and evident, piece of junk. He addressed an envelope, dropped the hologram inside, and slid it into the mail slot.

* * * * *

The trip out to Glendale took over an hour because of a traffic jam at the 605 junction and bumper-to-bumper cars on the Golden State. There was nothing apparently wrong—no accident, no freeway construction, just a million toiling automobiles stretching all the way to heaven-knew-where, to the moon. He had forgotten Latzarel’ s map, and he fought off a feeling of superstitious dread as the cars in front of him inched along. At Los Feliz he pulled off the freeway, cutting down the offramp at the last possible moment. There was a hamburger joint called Tommy’s Little Oasis on Los Feliz, just east of San Fernando Road, that he and Janet used to hit when they were on their way north. That had been a few years back; he had nearly forgotten, but the freeway sign at Los Feliz had jogged his memory. It was a tiny Airstream trailer in the parking lot of a motel shaded by big elm trees. You went there if you wanted a hamburger. That was it. There was no menu except a sign on the wall, and even the sign was nearly pointless, since the only question was did you want cheese or not. Landers wanted cheese.

He slowed down as he passed San Fernando, looking for the motel, for the big overarching elms, recalling a rainy Saturday afternoon when they’d eaten their burgers in the car because it was raining too hard to sit under the steel umbrella at the picnic table out front. Now there was no picnic table, no Airstream trailer, no motel—nothing but a run-down industrial park. Somehow the industrial park had sprung up and fallen into disrepair in—what?—less than twenty years!

He U-turned and headed the opposite direction up San Fernando, turning right on Western. It was better not to think about it, about the pace of things, about the cheeseburgers of days gone by.

Farther up Western, the houses along the street were run-down, probably rentals. There was trash in the street, broken bottles, newspapers soaked in gutter water. Suddenly he was a foreigner. He had wandered into a part of the country that was alien to him. And, unless his instincts had betrayed him, it was clearly alien to Squires Press and the Newtonian Society and men named Tubby. At one time the mix of Spanish-style and Tudor houses had been elegant. Now they needed paint and the lawns were up in weeds, and there was graffiti on fences and garage walls. Windows and doors were barred. He drove slowly, calculating addresses and thinking about turning around, getting back onto the freeway and heading south again, just fleeing home, ordering something else out of the magazines—personally autographed books by long-dead authors, “jar-proof” watches that could take a licking and go on ticking. He pictured the quiet shelter of his attic—his magazines, the makings of another highball. If ever a man needed a highball…

And just then he came upon the sign for Rexroth Street, so suddenly that he nearly drove right through the intersection. He braked abruptly, swinging around toward the west, and a car behind him honked its horn hard. He heard the driver shout something as the car flew past.

Landers started searching out addresses. The general tenor of the neighborhood hadn’t improved at all, and he considered locking his doors. But then the idea struck him as superfluous, since he was about to park the car and get out anyway. He spotted the address on the curb, the paint faded and nearly unreadable. The house had a turreted entry hall in front, with an arched window in the wall that faced the street. A couple of the window-panes were broken and filled with aluminum foil, and what looked like an old bed sheet was strung across as a curtain. Weeds grew up through the cracked concrete of the front walk, and there was black iron debris, apparently car parts, scattered on the lawn.

He drifted to the curb, reaching for the ignition key, but then saw, crouched next to a motorcycle up at the top of the driveway, an immense man, tattooed and bearded and dressed in black jeans and a greasy T-shirt, holding a wrench and looking down the driveway at him. Landers instantly stepped on the gas, angling away from the curb and gunning toward the corner.

He knew what he needed to know. He could go home now. Whoever this man was, living in what must have been Squires’s old house, he didn’t have anything to do with the Thirteen Phantasms. He wasn’t a Newtonian. There was no conceivable chance that Squires himself was somewhere inside, working the crank of his mechanical printing press, stamping out fantastic stories on Winnebago Eggshell paper. Squires was gone; that was the truth of it. The Newtonians were gone. The world they’d inhabited, with its twenty-five-cent pulp magazines and egg-headed robots and Martian canals, its highballs and hand-set type and slide rules, was gone too. Probably it was all at the bottom of the tar pits, turning into puzzling fossils.

* * * * *

Out beyond the front window, Rexroth Street was dark and empty of anything but the wind. To the south, the Hollywood Hills were a black wall of shadow, as if there were nothing there at all, just a vacancy. The sky above the dark line of the hills was so closely scattered with bright stars in the wind-scoured night that Latzarel might have been dreaming, and the broad wash of the Milky Way spanned the heavens like a lamp-lit road. From up the hall, he could hear Cummings talking on the telephone. Cummings would be talking to his wife about now, asking permission to stay out late. Squires had phoned Rhineholdt at the observatory, and they were due up on the hill in an hour, with just time enough to stop for a late-night burger at the Copper Kettle on the way.

Latzarel took the three-dimensional picture of the eyeball out of his coat pocket and turned it under the lamp in the window, marveling again at the eyeball that hung impossibly in the miniature void, in its little nonexistent cube of frozen space. There was a sudden glow in the Western sky now—a meteor shower, hundreds of shooting stars, flaming up for a moment before vanishing beyond the darkness of the hills. Latzarel shouted for Squires and the others, and when they all ran into the room the stars were still falling, and the southern sky was like a veil of fireflies.

* * * * *

The totality of Landers’s savings account hadn’t been worth much at the coin shop. Gold standard bills weren’t cheap. Probably he’d have been better off simply buying gold, but somehow the idea wasn’t appealing. He wanted folding money in his wallet, just like any other pedestrian—something he could pay for lunch with, a burger and a Coke or a BLT and a slice of apple pie.

He glued the last of the foam-rubber blocks onto the inside top of the wooden crate on his living-room floor, then stood back and looked at the pile of stuff that was ready to go into the box. He’d had a thousand choices, an impossible number of choices. Everywhere he had turned in the house there was something else, some fabulous relic of the late twentieth century: throwaway wristwatches and dimmer switches, cassette tapes and portable telephones, pictorial histories and horse-race results, wallet-size calculators and pop-top cans, Ziploc baggies and Velcro fasteners, power screw guns and bubble paper, a laptop computer, software, a Styrofoam cup.

And then it had occurred to him that there was something about the tiniest articles that appealed to him even more than the obvious marvels. Just three trifling little wonders shifted backward in time, barely discernible in his coat pocket, might imply huge, baffling changes in the world: a single green-tinted contact lens, perhaps, and the battery out of a watch, and a hologram bird clipped out of a credit card. He wandered from room to room again, looking around. A felt-tipped pen? A nylon zipper? Something more subtle…

But of course if it were too subtle, it would be useless, wouldn’t it? What was he really planning to do with these things? Try to convince a nearsighted man to shove the contact lens into his eye? Would the Newtonians pry the battery apart? To what end? What was inside? Probably black paste of some kind or a lump of dull metal—hardly worth the bother. And the hologram bird—it was like something out of a box of Cracker Jacks. Besides, the Newtonians had already gotten the eyeball, hadn’t they? He couldn’t do better than the eyeball.

Abruptly he abandoned his search, changing his thinking entirely. Hurrying into the study he pulled books out of the case, selecting and rejecting titles, waiting for something to appeal to him, something… He couldn’t quite define it. He might as well take nearly any of them, or simply rip out a random copyright page. The daily papers? Better to take along a sack of rotten fruit.

He went out of the study and into the kitchen hallway where he climbed the attic ladder. Untying the last of the boxes, he sorted through the Astounding, settling on March of 1956—ten years in the future, more or less, for the Newtonians. Unlike the rest of the issues, this one was beat up, as if it had been read to pieces, or carried around in someone’s coat pocket. He scanned the contents page, noting happily that there was a Heinlein novel serialized in the volume, and he dug through the box again to find April of the same year in order to have all of the story—something called Double Star. The torn cover of the April issue showed an ermine-robed king of some kind inspecting a toy locomotive, his forehead furrowed with thought and wonder.

Satisfied at last, Landers hurried back down the ladder and into the living room again. To hell with the trash on the floor, the bubble paper and the screw gun. He would leave all the Buck Rogers litter right here in a pile. Packing that kind of thing into the box was like loading up the Trojan Horse, wasn’t it? It was a betrayal. And for what? Show-off value? Wealth? Fame? It was all beside the point; he saw that clearly now. It was very nearly the antithesis of the point.

He slid the Astoundings into a niche inside the box along with the Thirteen Phantasms, an army-surplus flashlight, a wooden-handled screwdriver, and his sandwiches and bottled water. Then he picked up the portable telephone and made two calls, one to his next-door neighbor and one to Federal Express. His neighbor would unlock the door for the post office, who would haul the crate away on a handcart and truck it to Glendale.

The thought clobbered him suddenly. By what route? he wondered. Along what arcane boulevards would he travel?

He imagined the crate being opened by the man he had seen working on the motorcycle in the neglected driveway. What would Landers do? Threaten the man with the screwdriver? Offer him the antique money? Scramble out of the crate and simply walk away down the street without a backward glance, forever changing the man’s understanding of human behavior?

He stopped his mind from running and climbed into the crate, pulling the lid on after him. Carefully and deliberately, he started to set the screws—his last task before lunch. It was silent in the box, and he sat listening for one last moment in the darkness, the attic sitting empty above him, still sheltered by its vines and wooden shingles. He imagined the world revolving, out beyond the walls of the old house, imagined the noise and movement, and he thought briefly of Mrs. Cummings across town, arranging and rearranging a leather-encased slide rule and a couple of old smoking pipes and photographs.

* * * * *

The Saturday meeting of the Newtonian society had come to order right on time. Phillip Mays, the lepidopterist, was home from the Amazon with a collection of insects that included an immense dragonfly commonly thought to have died out in the Carboniferous period. Squires’s living-room floor was covered with display boxes and jars, and the room smelled of camphor and pipe smoke. There was the patter of soft rain through the open casements, but the weather was warm and easy despite the rain, and in the dim distance, out over the hills, there was the low rumble of thunder.

The doorbell rang, and Squires, expecting another Newtonian, opened the heavy front door in the turreted entry hall. A large wooden crate sat on the porch, sheltered by the awning, and a post-office truck motored away north toward Kenneth Road, disappearing beyond a mist of rain. Latzarel looked over Squires’s shoulder at the heavy crate, trying to figure out what was wrong with it, what was odd about it. Something…

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “The top’s screwed on from the inside.”

“I’ll get a pry bar,” Hastings said from behind him.

Latzarel heard a sound then, and he put his ear to the side of the box. There was the click of a screwdriver on metal, the squeak of the screw turning. “Don’t bother with the pry bar,” Latzarel said, winking at Squires, and he lit a match and held it to his pipe, cupping his hand over the bowl to keep the raindrops from putting it out.

Red Planet

I’m going on a bus. By God! On a bus. Out of Dubuque on the midnight line and Greyhounding through the midwest firefly night. Sleeping in the recliner at sixty miles an hour across moon-brightened plains. Stop off in Memphis. Lunch in New Orleans. Breakfast here, dinner there. By God, around the country on a bus. Around the world on that sucker!

Monty, grinning ear to ear, bag in hand, strides into the mouth of a red brick depot. He removes a crumpled hat, looks left, looks right, and smacks suitcase first into the tail end of an old grey lady in a red suit, pink hat, and lace veil, knocking baggage askew and the old lady onto dimpled knees, gasping and shaking.

“I really am sorry ma’am, I…”

“Beast!” she screams. “Beast!”

“Pardon me ma’am, you see…”

My God. Old lady’s setting in to pound me now with that there little bag on a string. Probably filled with rocks or dimes or something. Best set things to right. Make another effort to beg her pardon.

Monty, hat in hand, opens his mouth, when a third voice pipes in. “Leave the lady be, young man.”

Yes sir, will do sir, count on me sir. Lady can be and I’ll leave. Got to catch a bus. So sorry. Monty, backing off toward the ticket window, leaving the grey lady in a huff, she talking ever so plaintively to three old cohorts, all seemingly off on a tour of the Black Hills. To the rugged Dakotas to get a glimpse of those cold stone faces. Monty pondering slowly that northwest passage.

Ah! I can see our man now. Rock-jawed and ripping down poop-out hill. Big stick in hand and a truckload of freedom on call. Fine subject for a granite hillside. Perhaps there lies the destination, in the great northwest. The home of the grizzly bear and the Indian.

Monty, firmly astride his charger, strolls on up to the window with his country gait, his free hand trapped in his pocket and his grin once again spreading forth. “Beg your pardon, ma’am, but I’m in need of a bus ticket.”

* * * * *

“Yes, sir. Will you be traveling far?”

“You’re dadburn right!” says Monty with a well-stifled whoop.

The clerk glances up from the window and spies Monty’s chin, covered slightly with fuzz, Monty’s face toward the heavens. Monty examines an old round clock with its black Roman numerals and rust frame. He glances back down at the clerk with a grin suddenly sheepish.

“I was just lookin’ at that there clock yonder on the wall.” Monty a bit disjointed and groping in rear pockets for his wallet.

“Son, just where do you want to go?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know. I’ve got plenty of money here. Which direction does this here bus go to?”

“Well now, this here bus goes just about all over the place. There and back again.”

Monty, casting crumpled bills beneath the cage, grins again. “I’m going as far as this here money will allow, ma’am. As far as I can. And I don’t need to come back, neither.”

The ticket lady, glancing up with a yellow eye, reaches forth a ticket, punched and pale, to the destitute Monty, a secretive grin there detectable to his trained eye.

Monty shuffles off past long soiled couches in a nearly empty station. The Black Hills Special meanwhile tools west in a crescendo of power, leaving a relieved Monty waving goodbye through a window, grey with the dust of the ages, at the disappearing heads of the aged. The taillights shrink round the distant corner while inside the station sit five waiting travelers. They clutch small suitcases and their heads nod, bounce, and nod again.

A short moment passes before the white lights of an incoming bus herald its arrival. Monty joins the five through the exit and climbs aboard, stowing suitcase overhead and sinking low into the plush seat.

We’re off now. Like a breath of fresh wind. Leaving old Dubuque behind to wither. A warm night, quiet outside, as this massive bus pulls away from a yellow curb.

Monty reaches into a shirt pocket for the stub, nearly falls forward as the bus lurches to a halt, and the old lady, purse full of dimes, huffs and puffs on board. Off again, Monty and the six now. The grey lady shuffles down the aisle, and sits across from a short gentleman with an overly large head, and dressed in a tweed suit. Smiling sideways, she puffs: “I nearly missed the bus, being in the lavatory and all. I wonder, did they take two after all?”

The dwarf inclines his head, peering at her out of a solitary eye which revolves about a central axis like the eye of a parrot. The bus sails onward, out into the empty plains where lightning bugs bob amid corn stalks like capering stars in the dark. The lady awaits some sort of reply, dabbing at dimpled cheeks with a hanky and nodding slowly, with a smile, toward the gentleman’s eye.

“I say, I don’t remember seeing you about the grounds. Have you just recently moved to the home?”

The dwarf, who has a wrinkled face and two pointed ears, turns toward the window, declining to comment, and pulls a silver cloth hat with a stiff brim down low over his eyes. Monty, sitting five seats back, sees the old lady, used so roughly but a short while before, talking and smiling and nodding to an apparently empty seat; our midget slumped low, head midway up the back and feet midway to a gum-strewn floor.

I’m damned. Here she sits talking to that there empty seat, or so it would seem. But no, now that I’m pressed, there was that short fellow with the tweeds and the hat. That grizzled looking guy with the hat. Yes sir. But what’s she doing here? Intends to floor me with the dimes still. Take me in the back while I’m dozing and leave me senseless beneath the seat.

Monty reaches into his pocket and plucks forth a half dozen small objects: a horse chestnut, a red and black bean, a tiny purple spaceman waving an ominous-looking ray-gun, two polished stones, and a red agate marble—wonderfully mottled with dark swirls and checked with moon-shaped craters.

Nothing in the world so beautiful as a marble. These chips just make it shine. Hold it to the light and a whole frozen world sparkles inside. Always there waiting, no matter what. You never want to lose your shooter. Keep it in there. In your pocket where you can pull it out and look inside like some tiny enchanted crystal ball. If you tilt it and turn it just right you’ll see something there. Something you can’t see out here in this odd bus, flying like the purple spaceman’s ship for who knows where. Those two guys in the seat up front. Twins. Bald spot on the tops of their heads, like some grey-suited monks. Striped coats, high-water pants. May well be Tweedledee and Tweedledum, sitting so still there in those big seats. And off to the left; a desperately strange couple with a greenish tinge to their skin. Don’t even want to think about that. Best duck down a bit, avoid being sighted by the old dime lady. Too late.

“Howdy, ma’am. Can’t tell you how sorry I am for smacking you like that back in the station.”

“Hmph,” she replies, but seems to be yielding.

The dwarf, round silver hat low over the left eye, comes peeking over the back of his seat at Monty who nods civilly and tries not to stare at the pointy ears. On impulse the grey lady stands, smiles at the peeping dwarf, and stumbles toward the rear, seating herself across from Monty.

“Accidents will happen, son.”

“Yes, ma’am. Don’t I know.”

“Son?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Where are we going? Is this bus going toward the Black Hills?”

“It may well be, ma’am.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, ma’am.”

The dwarf, head showing above the back of the recliner, fingers gripping the soft velvety fabric, pursing his lips and wrinkling his cheeks, shakes his head in a slow negative. He disappears.

Now what in the devil did that mean? Must go slowly with these people. Feel them out, so to speak. No more incidents, I’ on vacation here. Permanent vacation. Time to redeem myself with this here lady. Fine person really, I suppose. No use getting off, as usual, on the wrong foot.

“Excuse me, ma’am. I’ll just go forward and ask the driver. I’m sure he’ll know.”

“Well, yes. Perhaps you should. I’d be frightfully upset if I were on the wrong bus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Monty, off up the aisle to speak to the driver. Bus drivers are unusually well informed. Especially about destinations. Barbers, bus drivers, and cowboys; they’ll always know, one way or the other.

The bus, jerking along the dark highway, across the rolling hills of the midwest like some trackless roller-coaster that may well go on forever. Never circle back around to that dust-settled station; that town of sage barbers and hooting cowboys and nothing at all but the smell of dry wind blowing along stale streets. A steep dipping hill leaves Monty weightless in the aisle, plummeting through deep space. He staggers forward, lunges for the back of a seat to steady himself and sprawls sideways, like a crab washed from its hold by the tides, into Tweedledee whose leg is thrust into the aisle.

“I say! Here now. What in the world are you doing, boy?”

“Excuse me sir. Going up to talk to the driver there. It’s about where this bus is going. I’m not sure, and the lady back there might be on the wrong bus.”

“You might be on the wrong bus you mean,” says the green man, smirking at poor tripped-up Monty. Tweedledee and Tweedledum burst into simultaneous laughter. The dwarf tugs on the bill of his hat and turns to stare out of the window.

Oh, jeez. Got to watch that. Can’t go stumbling around upsetting things like that. Always comes to no good. Must talk to the driver there, staring out through his tinted window with those yellow eyes glowing in the light of the dashboard.

“Excuse me sir, but where does this here bus go?”

“Most everywhere, boy. All over the place mostly, I suppose. Here and there.”

“Yes, sir, but that lady back there is afraid she’s on the wrong bus. Do we go anywhere near the Black Hills?”

“More or less,” says the driver, sipping dark coffee from a stained paper cup. “More or less.”

“Thank you.” Monty, baffled, turns to see the grey lady, seated once more by the dwarf, pointing toward Monty and whispering terrible things. Monty tiptoes carefully past Tweedledee whose eyes have blinked shut. Asleep perhaps. A grey leg darts out into the aisle as Monty stumbles past. Raucous laughter from the man with the green skin.

Best sit down here near this lady and the dwarf. Try to make conversation. What is this thing I’m kicking about beneath the seat? A shoe, by God. An old, beaten, cast-off shoe. Like at the lake when you walk along the shore in the early morning. You find a shoe, just one, caked with sand, tongue protruding and laces gone. Who leaves those shoes there? Why don’t they leave two? What do they do with the other one? Do they go home in one shoe? There’s something I don’t know about. Must be something. No use in trying to reason it out. Take this Greyhound bus to Mars. Grass couldn’t be any less green.

Just get on and sail down the road that stretches like a dark ribbon through the waving wheat hair of the midwest. The road that narrows and narrows off into the distance to be swallowed up by the gentle curve of the horizon. From one world into the next. Like old Dad; stepping aboard that dark shadow bus one day and riding into lunacy. Dropped off at the place there, outside of town. Outside of any town I know. Stepped aboard in daylight and off again in darkness. Maybe. Maybe somewhere else. Maybe somewhere that he wouldn’t want to come back from. How do I know?

“Pardon me?”

“What? Oh, yes. The driver says we might go to the Black Hills at that. It didn’t seem certain though.”

“What do you mean, young man. Are you having me on again? A poor old lady like me?”

Monty slouching low in the seat, trying to assure her otherwise. Perhaps best just to keep a tight lip. Don’t give them anything to hold on to. Nothing to poke and jab at. There’s Tweedledee and the green man, staring back. Must try to smile. Nod politely as they glance at each other and smirk. My but they’re clever, those two. Like the rest of them back home. If they can’t throw rocks they throw other things at you with their eyes.

“Excuse me sir,” says Monty to the dwarf, always apologizing.

“Yes sir. It’s a fine night out, isn’t it?”

“Mmmm.”

Monty snaps open his leather bag and pulls out a book, rather dog-eared and homey looking. Forget this dwarf. Plunge into the pages of this book like I plunge into the night on this bus. Forever crossing into some new land. You just have to get underway, that’s all. Ride with the elves in search of the man in the moon. With the white hunter through savage Africa. Follow the trail of a grey old wizard through magic lands, far from the reaches of the cold dust wind of the plains. Take this star schooner of a bus through twirling space, bound for Mars. Just climb aboard, cut the moorings, and cast off.

The dwarf there, speaking to the grey lady in undertones. Setting her straight perhaps. He knows where we’re headed and always has, by God. Anyone with pointed ears and that glittering silver hat knows something. He rides busses a lot, that one does. I bet he even knows about those lonely shoes I stumble across, now and again.

“Pardon me sir, but where are we going?”

“Eh?”

“I say, where are we bound?”

The dwarf winks. He nods toward the darkened window and points a long thin finger toward the jeweled heavens that hang so low overhead.

The bus whizzes along silently, dipping down and flying over hills that lie on the plains like grim whales on the bottom of the sea. Monty, looking out from inside a tiny flying fish, sailing amidst the black leviathan. By God! On a bus. You can go anywhere on this sucker. The bus, over a dip in the road, nosing skyward, ascending, angling straight up toward where the dwarf’s finger had pointed, only a moment before. Straight up through the speckled dark as the moon and the stars seem to grow and brighten with a beckoning shimmer.

“That’d be mighty fine. Mighty fine,” says Monty to no one in particular, settling back into the folds of the plush recliner, book lying open on his lap. Through the dim window the bright dots of the stars hover thick in the night sky. So thick and big that you couldn’t shoot a bullet up there without hitting one of them; let alone a bus. The great circle of the red planet swings into view, misty and crisscrossed with inexplicable lines like the intricate translucent swirlings of the agate marble in Monty’s pocket. The fiery eye of a winking enchantress. “By God!” breathes Monty. “Mighty fine.”