by Jack Finney
For a moment there was no sound in the room; Miss Gerraghty simply stared. Then in a small, frightened voice, she asked, Is Quayle sick? Johnny nodded. Mumps? Miss Gerraghty whispered.
Yeah, Johnny said, and turned happily to his typewriter.
The quality and interest of the Clarion's news picked up sharply in the weeks that followed. With invariable accuracy, the Clarion reported that Miss Miriam Zeebley was attending the Flower and Garden Show, the movies, the Women's Club annual bazaar, a traveling carnival, and the Spelling-Bee State Semifinals, all with Johnny Deutsch. In addition, the Clarion uncannily announced almost simultaneously with the events themselves that Mayor Schimmerhorn was stung by a swarm of bees, and that the City Council, refreshing themselves with cheese sandwiches after a meeting, was stricken to a man with food poisoning. It was predicted by the Clarion that the Girl Scouts would sell 42 per cent more cookies than last year in their annual drive, and this came precisely true. The Clarion reported that the Old Nakomis Country Club had elected a new vice-president, Johnny Deutsch, and that Police Chief Wendall E. Quayle, having recovered from the mumps, had promptly come down with hives. Circulation increased by leaps and bounds.
For however it happened and whatever the cause, it was undeniably true that what the Clarion printed as fact or prediction always came true — so long as Johnny kept his inventions to the reasonably possible. Once, in his zeal, he violated this principle, and had to rush an extra edition into print on the following day carrying a retraction of the Clarion's lead story that Mayor Schimmerhorn, a notorious teetotaler, had been arrested while drunk for peddling indecent post cards in the alley back of City Hall. But, the retraction added, His Honor, understanding how such an error could easily occur, had no intention of suing the Clarion; and the mayor explained to friends later that day, his voice faintly puzzled, that this was quite true.
A few days later, Thursday, a hot afternoon in August, Johnny leaned back in his chair, folded his hands complacently in back of his head, lifted his long lean legs up onto his typewriter, and looked across the little office at Miss Gerraghty. She was sitting, chin in hand, listening to a portable radio on her desk from which a voice was saying, … sacred trust to the American people! A burst of applause followed this statement, and Johnny nodded at the radio and said, You know, we have seldom carried national news. We've been more of a local paper.
Miss Gerraghty glanced up, nodded absently, then returned her attention to the radio, as the voice resumed solemnly, In the immortal words of Thomas Jefferson …
There is no reason, Johnny continued quietly, why we shouldn't, though. Once in a while. Miss Gerraghty didn't bother to answer. It might be fun, Johnny added, nodding at the radio. with the Democratic convention going on, to score a news beat on the rest of the world.
Miss Gerraghty looked at him, faintly puzzled; then her jaw dropped, and she hastily switched off the radio. No! She stared at him wide-eyed. Then, voice frightened and ominous, she said, No, Johnny, you're going too far. Stick to local —
He was shaking his head. There are several possible candidates for the Democratic nomination, he said, nodding at the radio, and it's time to do something about it. Dropping his feet to the floor, Johnny sat up and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. Think it's all right if we issue the paper a day early?
Nobody will notice the difference, Miss Gerraghty replied faintly, as Johnny poised his fingers over the typewriter.
We'll get the paper to the post office tonight then, he said, to be delivered in the morning mail. “Kefauver, Stevenson, or Harriman, he murmured, I just can't make up my mind. Then he suddenly typed, Stevenson Nominated! and said, Think I'll make it on the first ballot.
The next day, the radio blaring with the voice of the excited announcer above the background pandemonium of cheering delegates, Miss Gerraghty looked up at Johnny. Anybody could have predicted that.
But Johnny wasn't listening. Hands clasped behind his head, staring dreamily at the ceiling, he was murmuring, It's Ike for President, of course, but whom shall I give the second spot to?
Seven days later, the radio on Miss Gerraghty's desk blared that Richard Nixon had been given the Republican nomination for vice-president; in precisely the way Johnny's lead story in the Clarion had described. Miss Gerraghty wrung her hands, and moaned. Johnny, she said pitifully, why? She snatched a copy of the Clarion from her desk, and shook it violently in his face. Nixon to Run with Ike! the headline cried. Why does it work? Miss Gerraghty begged.
Why, I thought you knew. Johnny looked at her, genuinely surprised. I thought you'd guessed; don't you ever read science fiction? It's the meteor, Miss Gerraghty.
The meteor?
The one my father found, Johnny said patiently. It seems to be lead, but actually it was an unknown metal from another world. And somehow, when you turn it into type, the news it prints comes true. Within reason.
But where did you get —
My birth announcement, he said impatiently. It was cast from the meteor, as you yourself told me. It was saved all these years, till I melted it with the Linotype lead. Johnny shrugged, smiling happily. And since we remelt our type after each issue, it's always still there, hard at work, issue after issue of the Clarion.
Her voice dulled, finally accepting this, Miss Gerraghty said, But how? Johnny, how does it wor—
Miss Gerraghty, Johnny said sternly, if you had ever read science fiction, you'd know that the dullest part is always the explanation. It bores the reader and clutters up the story. Especially when the author flunked high-school physics and simply doesn't know how it works. We'll just skip that, he said firmly, and get on to more important things. We've got lots to do now.
But in the weeks following the conventions, to Miss Gerraghty's great relief, Johnny's mind turned from the national scene. For while it was delightfully true that Miss Miriam Zeebley and Editor Deutsch continued to do everything mentioned in the Clarion's Social Notes, there was a limit to what could be mentioned. Johnny Deutsch was healthy, normal and reasonably full of animal vigor; and while he enjoyed escorting Miriam to the town's social functions, there were times — twenty-four hours a day, in fact — when he longed for more than he could describe in type. He would have liked, for example, to kiss Miss Zeebley, long and lingeringly, full on the lips.
He considered printing this as a news item and burying it among the legal notices at the back of the Clarion, but he couldn't quite work up the nerve to do it. He also considered simply kissing Miriam on his own some night; but he couldn't work up the nerve to try this, either. There were times now when, shaving before a date with Miriam, he managed to convince himself for a full minute or more that he was actually a rather rugged, good-looking man. There were even times when he felt that Miriam agreed. But these times never coincided with opportunities to kiss her. At those moments he always knew, with depressing certainty, that he was a gibbering clod. Once again he was a frustrated man, and it seemed to Johnny as the summer went on that his activities with Miriam were forever doomed to those that could be described in a family newspaper.
And so it was, one fine fall morning, that when Miss Gerraghty said, Did you vote today? Johnny only looked at her blankly.
Vote? he said.
Today, Miss Gerraghty said patiently, is Election Day; your first opportunity to help elect a President.
He glanced at the wall calendar. Miss Gerraghty was right. Thanks, he said, and his face cleared. Thanks for reminding me — once again his voice was brisk and assured — or I might have been too late.
Too late for what?
To make sure, Johnny said, reaching for a sheet of copy paper, that the right man is elected.
Slowly Miss Gerraghty rose from her desk, walked around it, and stood facing Johnny. No, she said quietly.
What do you mean? He looked up.
I won't let you, Johnny. That's one thing neither you nor anyone else is going to interfere with.
He sat back in his chair, smi
ling up at her. Don't you want to see the right man elected?
Certainly, she said, but who is he? That's something no less than seventy million Americans are competent to decide. Her voice rose shrilly. You hear me, Johnny? You let this alone!
For a moment he sat staring up at her, and Miss Gerraghty realized how much he still resembled the boy he had been only a few years ago. Don't be silly, Miss Gerraghty, he said, and turned to his typewriter. Not many people would pass up this chance.
And that, Miss Gerraghty said — and now she was speaking more to herself than to Johnny — ” may be what is wrong with the world today. She walked back to her desk and for the rest of the morning sat thinking. She considered, first, burning down the office, but she knew she would be stopped. Then she considered rushing out to buttonhole people on the street and tell them the secret only the staff shared about the Clarion; but she knew she would not be believed. For a wild moment she considered murder, but knew immediately that she could never harm a hair of Johnny Deutsch's head.
At noon, when Johnny and Nate left for lunch, Miss Gerraghty stayed behind. The moment the door closed she stood up and walked to the files. For the next hour and a half, her fingers working frantically, her face soon perspiring and dust-streaked, she hunted desperately through the files.
What are you doing? Johnny asked, as he opened the office door on his return from lunch. Miss Gerraghty turned, her old body moving with a terrible weariness, her face like granite. From the top of the old wood filing cabinets, she picked up a stack of newspapers, and nodded at them somberly.
I have been going through the back files, she answered. For a moment, her eyes like embers, she stared across the room at Johnny. Has it occurred to you, she burst out bitterly, that you weren't the first to use that meteor for type? She dropped the stack of papers on Johnny's desk; their edges, he saw, were yellowed and crumbling with age. Your father used it first, remember! Her bony forefinger, trembling violently, touched a faded column of type. Read it! Like you, he wasn't afraid to deal with subjects he knew nothing about!
Johnny leaned forward to study the old story; after a moment he glanced at her, puzzled. It's nothing, he said. Just a column of speculation on financial affairs. Harmless stuff.
Harmless! Stocks will go down, the old idiot wrote, just as though he knew what he was talking about! And of course it came true. Oh, it came true, all right! Look at that date! Her shaking finger touched the date line. October 28, 1929, and the next day the stock market crashed and the worst depression in mankind's history began.
She snatched the old paper from the stack, revealing the next. Presently, she said with acid quietness, our genius turned to politics, just as his son wants to do. But he jumped into world politics, with an asinine editorial on Pacific developments. Her bony forefinger pointed out the date line. September 17, 1931, and of course his story came true, in a way he never realized. Japan invaded Manchuria the very next day! Two years later — she revealed the next paper — he wrote an empty-headed article on German politics, and Hitler became Chancellor of the Third Reich! In the very same year — she pointed to another yellowing page — he very nearly got Roosevelt assassinated, and — her finger stabbed at still another story signed by Johnny's father — read this and you'll see that he was directly responsible for the Dionne quintuplets!
For a full fifteen seconds there was no sound in the little office but the chattering of Johnny's teeth. Then, barely able to speak, he whispered pitifully, What about — World War Two?
In a tone almost of kindness, Miss Gerraghty said, No. I've checked the files carefully, and he wasn't responsible. But he did plenty! Any number of floods, fires, earthquakes and minor holocausts I haven't even bothered to mention! And he never realized it, never saw the connection, and I didn't either, till now. In time, I guess, the meteor metal thinned out. New lead was added to the Linotype from time to time, of course, and by the late 'thirties, as far as I can tell from the files, there wasn't enough meteor metal left to do any harm. Until you melted some of that original type again — your birth announcement, cast in full-strength meteor metal! Johnny — her voice deepened with implacable authority — you've got to clean out the lead box on the Linotype machine and throw out every scrap of old lead in the place. Right now!
His voice a humble whisper, Johnny said, Yes. Of course. Right away. Just as soon as I run one last story —
No!
about my elopement! he said frantically. I finally figured out what to do about Miriam and the story is all ready to set up!
For a full minute Miss Gerraghty considered. Then finally, reluctantly, she said, All right; though I'm very fond of Miriam. And I think it's criminal to risk another generation of Deutschs. This one last story — and that's all!
Okay, Johnny said humbly. Then, physically and emotionally exhausted, Miss Gerraghty went home for the day, while Johnny allowed the presidential election of 1956 to proceed normally.
But he did write still one more story, which he personally set up in meteor type. Then he dropped every other scrap of type metal in the office into the deepest part of Yancy Creek. This final story, a little square of type locked in the office safe, has not yet been printed. It announces the birth of Johnny's daughter, giving precise details of her weight and length and stating that she resembles her mother exactly. Since obviously the prediction had come true in his own case, Johnny added, It is predicted that she will make her mark on the world. Then he dated the story exactly nine months later than the elopement announcement.
Whether this final story will come true or not — whether the meteor metal from an unknown world will continue to have its mysterious effect — it is impossible to say. But it still seems to be working okay so far; at least, Miriam Deutsch is expecting.
Quit Zoomin' Those Hands Through the Air
Hey, quit zoomin' your hands through the air, boy — I know you was a flier! You flew good in the war, course you did; I'd expect that from a grandson of mine. But don't get to thinking you know all about war, son, or flying machines either. The war we finished in '65 is still the toughest we've fought, and don't you forget it. It was a big war fought by big men, and your Pattons and Arnolds and Stilwells — they were good, boy, no denying it — but Grant, there was a general. Never told you about this before, because I was swore to secrecy by the general himself, but I think it's all right, now; I think the oath has expired. Now, quiet, boy! Put those hands in your pockets and listen!
Now, the night I'm talking about, the night I met the general, I didn't know we'd see him at all. Didn't know anything except we were riding along Pennsylvania Avenue, me and the major, him not saying where we were going or why, just jogging along, one hand on the reins, a big black box strapped to the major's saddle in front, and that little pointy beard of his stabbing up and down with every step.
It was late, after ten, and everyone was asleep. But the moon was up, bright and full through the trees, and it was nice — the horses' shadows gliding along sharp and clear beside us, and not a sound in the street but their hoofs, hollow on the packed dirt. We'd been riding two days, I'd been nipping some liberated applejack — only we didn't say liberated then; we called it foraging — and I was asleep in the saddle, my trumpet jiggling in the small of my back. Then the major nudged me, and I woke up and saw the White House ahead. Yessir, I said.
He looked at me, the moon shining yellow on his epaulets, and said, real quiet, Tonight, boy, we may win the war. You and I. He smiled, mysterious, and patted the black box. You know who I am, boy?
Yessir.
No, you don't. I'm a professor. Up at Harvard College. Or was, anyway. Glad to be in the army now, though. Pack of fools up there, most of them; can't see past the ends of their noses. Well, tonight, boy, we may win the war.
Yessir, I said. Most officers higher than captain were a little queer in the head, I'd noticed, majors especially. That's how it was then, anyway, and I don't reckon it's changed any, even in the Air Force.
&nbs
p; We stopped near the White House at the edge of the lawn and sat looking at it — a great big old house, silvery white in the moonlight, the light over the front door shining out through the porch columns onto the driveway. There was a light in an east window on the ground floor, and I kept hoping I'd see the President, but I didn't. The major opened his box. Know what this is, boy?
Nosir.
It's my own invention, based on my own theories, nobody else's. They think I'm a crackpot up at the School, but I think it'll work. Win the war, boy. He moved a little lever inside the box. Don't want to send us too far ahead, son, or technical progress will be beyond us. Say eighty-five years or so from now, approximately; think that ought to be about right?
Yessir.
All right. The major jammed his thumb down on a little button in the box; it made a humming sound that kept rising higher and higher till my ears began to hurt; then he lifted his hand. Well, he said, smiling and nodding, the little pointy beard going up and down, it is now some eighty-odd years later. He nodded at the White House. Glad to see it's still standing.
I looked up at the White House again. It was just the same, the light still shining out between the big white columns, but I didn't say anything.
The major twitched his reins and turned. Well, boy, we've got work ahead; come on. And he set off at a trot along Pennsylvania Avenue with me beside him.
Pretty soon we turned south, and the major twisted around in his saddle and said, Now, the question is, what do they have in the future? He held up his finger like a teacher in school, and I believed the part about him being a professor. We don't know, the major went on, but we know where to find it. In a museum. We're going to the Smithsonian Institution, if it's still standing. For us it should be a veritable storehouse of the future.
