by Keith Laumer
creaked once. He put his ear to the door. He couldn't hearanything. He turned back to the window. There was no one in sight. Heput his cheek flat against it, looked along the car. He saw only dryfields.
He turned around and gave the door a good kick. If he damaged it, it wastoo bad; the railroad shouldn't have defective locks on the doors. Ifthey tried to make him pay for it, he'd tell them they were lucky hedidn't sue the railroad ...
* * *
He braced himself against the opposite wall, drew his foot back, andkicked hard at the lock. Something broke. He pulled the door open.
He was looking out the open door and through the window beyond. Therewas no platform, just the same dry fields he could see on the otherside. He came out and went along to his seat. The car was empty now.
He looked out the window. Why had the train stopped here? Maybe therewas some kind of trouble with the engine. It had been sitting here forten minutes or so now. Brett got up and went along to the door, steppeddown onto the iron step. Leaning out, he could see the train stretchingalong ahead, one car, two cars--
There was no engine.
Maybe he was turned around. He looked the other way. There were threecars. No engine there either. He must be on some kind of siding ...
Brett stepped back inside, and pushed through into the next car. It wasempty. He walked along the length of it, into the next car. It was emptytoo. He went back through the two cars and his own car and on, all theway to the end of the train. All the cars were empty. He stood on theplatform at the end of the last car, and looked back along the rails.They ran straight, through the dry fields, right to the horizon. Hestepped down to the ground, went along the cindery bed to the front ofthe train, stepping on the ends of the wooden ties. The coupling stoodopen. The tall, dusty coach stood silently on its iron wheels, waiting.Ahead the tracks went on--
And stopped.
He walked along the ties, following the iron rails, shiny on top, andbrown with rust on the sides. A hundred feet from the train they ended.The cinders went on another ten feet and petered out. Beyond, the fieldsclosed in. Brett looked up at the sun. It was lower now in the west, itslight getting yellow and late-afternoonish. He turned and looked back atthe train. The cars stood high and prim, empty, silent. He walked back,climbed in, got his bag down from the rack, pulled on his jacket. Hejumped down to the cinders, followed them to where they ended. Hehesitated a moment, then pushed between the knee-high stalks. Eastwardacross the field he could see what looked like a smudge on the farhorizon.
He walked until dark, then made himself a nest in the dead stalks, andwent to sleep.
* * *
He lay on his back, looking up at pink dawn clouds. Around him, drystalks rustled in a faint stir of air. He felt crumbly earth under hisfingers. He sat up, reached out and broke off a stalk. It crumbled intofragile chips. He wondered what it was. It wasn't any crop he'd everseen before.
He stood, looked around. The field went on and on, dead flat. A locustcame whirring toward him, plumped to earth at his feet. He picked it up.Long elbowed legs groped at his fingers aimlessly. He tossed the insectin the air. It fluttered away. To the east the smudge was clearer now;it seemed to be a grey wall, far away. A city? He picked up his bag andstarted on.
He was getting hungry. He hadn't eaten since the previous morning. Hewas thirsty too. The city couldn't be more than three hours' walk. Hetramped along, the dry plants crackling under his feet, little puffs ofdust rising from the dry ground. He thought about the rails, runningacross the empty fields, ending ...
He had heard the locomotive groaning up ahead as the train slowed. Andthere had been feet in the corridor. Where had they gone?
He thought of the train, Casperton, Aunt Haicey, Mr. Phillips. Theyseemed very far away, something remembered from long ago. Up above thesun was hot. That was real. The rest seemed unimportant. Ahead there wasa city. He would walk until he came to it. He tried to think of otherthings: television, crowds of people, money: the tattered paper and theworn silver--
Only the sun and the dusty plain and the dead plants were real now. Hecould see them, feel them. And the suitcase. It was heavy; he shiftedhands, kept going.
There was something white on the ground ahead, a small shiny surfaceprotruding from the earth. Brett dropped the suitcase, went down on oneknee, dug into the dry soil, pulled out a china teacup, the handlemissing. Caked dirt crumbled away under his thumb, leaving the surfaceclean. He looked at the bottom of the cup. It was unmarked. Why just oneteacup, he wondered, here in the middle of nowhere? He dropped it, tookup his suitcase, and went on.
* * *
After that he watched the ground more closely. He found a shoe; it wasbadly weathered, but the sole was good. It was a high-topped work shoe,size 10-1/2-C. Who had dropped it here? He thought of other lone shoeshe had seen, lying at the roadside or in alleys. How did they getthere...?
Half an hour later he detoured around the rusted front fender of anold-fashioned car. He looked around for the rest of the car but sawnothing. The wall was closer now; perhaps five miles more.
A scrap of white paper fluttered across the field in a stir of air. Hesaw another, more, blowing along in the fitful gusts. He ran a fewsteps, caught one, smoothed it out.
BUY NOW--PAY LATER!
He picked up another.
PREPARE TO MEET GOD
A third said:
WIN WITH WILLKIE
* * * * *
The wall loomed above him, smooth and grey. Dust was caked on his skinand clothes, and as he walked he brushed at himself absently. Thesuitcase dragged at his arm, thumped against his shin. He was veryhungry and thirsty. He sniffed the air, instinctively searching for theodors of food. He had been following the wall for a long time, searchingfor an opening. It curved away from him, rising vertically from thelevel earth. Its surface was porous, unadorned, too smooth to climb. Itwas, Brett estimated, twenty feet high. If there were anything to make aladder from--
Ahead he saw a wide gate, flanked by grey columns. He came up to it, putthe suitcase down, and wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief.Through the opening in the wall a paved street was visible, and thefacades of buildings. Those on the street before him were low, not morethan one or two stories, but behind them taller towers reared up. Therewere no people in sight; no sounds stirred the hot noon-time air. Brettpicked up his bag and passed through the gate.
For the next hour he walked empty pavements, listening to the echoes ofhis footsteps against brownstone fronts, empty shop windows, curtainedglass doors, and here and there a vacant lot, weed-grown and desolate.He paused at cross streets, looked down long vacant ways. Now and then adistant sound came to him: the lonely honk of a horn, a faintly tollingbell, a clatter of hooves.
He came to a narrow alley that cut like a dark canyon between blankwalls. He stood at its mouth, listening to a distant murmur, like acrowd at a funeral. He turned down the narrow way.
It went straight for a few yards, then twisted. As he followed itsturnings the crowd noise gradually grew louder. He could make outindividual voices now, an occasional word above the hubbub. He startedto hurry, eager to find someone to talk to.
Abruptly the voices--hundreds of voices, he thought--rose in a roar, along-drawn Yaaayyyyy...! Brett thought of a stadium crowd as the hometeam trotted onto the field. He could hear a band now, a shrilling ofbrass, the clatter and thump of percussion instruments. Now he could seethe mouth of the alley ahead, a sunny street hung with bunting, thebacks of people, and over their heads the rhythmic bobbing of a passingprocession, tall shakos and guidons in almost-even rows. Two tall poleswith a streamer between them swung into view. He caught a glimpse oftall red letters:
... For Our Side!
* * *
He moved closer, edged up behind the grey-backed crowd. A phalanx ofyellow-tuniced men approached, walking stiffly, fez tassels swinging. Asmall boy darted out int
o the street, loped along at their side. Themusic screeched and wheezed. Brett tapped the man before him.
"What's it all about...?"
He couldn't hear his own voice. The man ignored him. Brett moved alongbehind the crowd, looking for a vantage point or a thinning in theranks. There seemed to be fewer people ahead. He came to the end of thecrowd, moved on a few yards, stood at the curb. The yellow-jackets hadpassed now, and a group of round-thighed girls in satin blouses andblack boots and white fur caps glided into view, silent, expressionless.As they reached a point fifty feet from Brett, they broke abruptly intoa strutting prance, knees high, hips flirting, tossing shining batonshigh, catching them, twirling them, and up again ...
Brett craned his neck, looking for TV cameras. The crowd lining theopposite side of the street stood in solid ranks, drably clad, eyesfollowing the procession, mouths working. A fat man in a rumpled suitand a panama hat squeezed to the front, stood picking his teeth.Somehow, he seemed out of place among the others. Behind the spectators,the store fronts looked normal, dowdy brick
