The Third Level

by Jack Finney

  The machine was snorting at the front end, kicking up at the hindquarters, high-spirited, and I had all I could do to keep her from shying, and I wished she'd had reins. Down below, cold and sparkly in the moonlight, I could see the James River, stretching east and west, and the lights of Richmond, but it was no time for sight-seeing. The machine was frisky, trembling in the flanks, and before I knew it she took the bit in her mouth and headed straight down, the wind screaming through her wires, the ripples on the water rushing up at us.

  But I'd handled runaways before, and I heaved back on the lever, forcing her head up, and she curved back into the air fast as a calvary mount at a barrier. But this time she didn't cough at the top of the curve. She snorted through her nostrils, wild with power, and I barely had time to yell, Hang on! to the major before she went clear over on her back and shot down toward the river again. The major yelled, but the applejack was bubbling inside me and I'd never had such a thrill, and I yelled, too, laughing and screaming. Then I pulled back hard, yelling, Whoa! but up and over we went again, the wings creaking like saddle leather on a galloping horse. At the top of the climb, I leaned hard to the left, and we shot off in a wide, beautiful curve, and I never had such fun in my life.

  Then she quieted down a little. She wasn't broken, I knew, but she could feel a real rider in the saddle, so she waited, figuring out what to try next. The major got his breath and used it for cursing. He didn't call me anything I'd ever heard before, and I'd been in the calvary since I joined the Army. It was a beautiful job and I admired it. Yessir, I said when his breath ran out again.

  He still had plenty to say, I think, but campfires were sliding under our wings, and he had to get out his map and go to work. We flew back and forth, parallel with the river, the major busy with his pencil and map. It was dull and monotonous for both me and the machine, and I kept wondering if the rebs could see or hear us. So I kept sneaking closer and closer to the ground, and pretty soon, directly ahead in a clearing, I saw a campfire with men around it. I don't rightly know if it was me or the machine had the idea, but I barely touched the lever and she dipped her nose and shot right down, aiming smack at the fire.

  They saw us then, all right, and heard us, too. They scattered, yelling and cursing, with me leaning over screaming at them and laughing like mad. I hauled back on the lever maybe five feet from the ground, and the fire singed our tail as we curved back up. But this time, at the top of the climb, the engine got the hiccups, and I had to turn and come down in a slow glide to ease the strain off the engine till she got her breath, and now the men below had muskets out, and they were mad. They fired kneeling, following up with their sights the way you lead ducks, the musket balls whistling past us.

  Come on! I yelled. I slapped the flying machine on her side, unslung my trumpet, and blew charge. Down we went, the engine neighing and whinnying like crazy, and the men tossed their muskets aside and dived in all directions, and we fanned the flames with our wings and went up like a bullet, the engine screaming in triumph. At the top of the curve I turned, and we shot off over the treetops, the wing tip pointing straight at the moon. Sorry, sir, I said, before the major could get his breath. She's wild — feeling her oats. But I think I've got her under control.

  Then get back to headquarters before you kill us, he said coldly. We'll discuss this later.

  Yessir, I said. I spotted the river off to one side and flew over it, and when the major got us oriented he navigated us back to the field.

  Wait here, he said when we landed, and he trotted down the path toward the general's tent. I was just as glad; I felt like a drink, and besides I loved that machine now and wanted to take care of her. I wiped her down with my muffler, and wished I could feed her something.

  Then I felt around inside the machine, and then I was cussing that sentry, beating the major's record, I think, because my whisky was gone, and I knew what that sentry had done: sneaked back to my machine and got it soon as he had me and the major in the general's tent, and now he was back at the guardhouse, probably, lapping it up and laughing at me.

  The major came down the path fast. Back to Washington, and hurry, he said. Got to get this where it belongs before daylight or the space-time continuum will be broken and no telling what might happen then.

  So we filled the tank and flew on back to Washington. I was tired and so was the flying machine, I guess, because now she just chugged along, heading for home and the stable.

  We landed near the trees again, and climbed out, stiff and tired. And after creaking and sighing a little, the flying machine just sat there on the ground, dead tired, too. There were a couple of musket-ball holes in her wings and some soot on her tail, but otherwise she looked just the same.

  Look alive, boy! the major said. You go hunt for the horses, and I'll get the machine back, and he got behind the flying machine and began pushing it along over the grass.

  I found the horses grazing not far off, brought them back, and tethered them to the trees. When the major returned we started back, just as dawn was breaking.

  Well, I never did get my promotion. Or my wings either. It got hot, and pretty soon I fell asleep.

  After a while I heard the major call, Boy! Boy! and I woke up saying, Yessir! but he didn't mean me. A paper boy was running over with a newspaper, and when the major paid for it, I drew alongside and we both looked at it, sitting there in our saddles near the outskirts of Washington. BATTLE AT COLD HARBOR, it said, and underneath were a lot of smaller headlines one after the other. Disaster for Union Forces! Surprise Attack at Daybreak Fails! Repulsed in Eight Minutes! Knowledge of Rebel Positions Faulty! Confederate Losses Small, Ours Large, Grant Offers No Explanation; Inquiry Urged! There was a news story, too, but we didn't read it. The major flung the paper to the gutter and touched his spurs to his horse, and I followed.

  By noon the next day we were back in our lines, but we didn't look for the general. We didn't feel any need to, because we felt sure he was looking for us. He never found us, though; possibly because I grew a beard, and the major shaved his off. And we never had told him our names. Well, Grant finally took Richmond — he was a great general — but he had to take it by siege.

  I only saw him one more time, and that was years later when he wasn't a general any more. It was a New Year's Day, and I was in Washington and saw a long line of people waiting to get into the White House, and knew it must be the public reception the Presidents used to hold every New Year's. So I stood in line, and an hour later I reached the President. Remember me, General? I said.

  He stared at me, narrowing his eyes; then his face got red and his eyes flashed. But he took a deep breath, remembering I was a voter, forced a smile, and nodded at a door behind him. Wait in there, he said.

  Soon afterward the reception ended, and the general sat facing me, behind his big desk, biting the end off a short cigar. Well, he said, without any preliminaries, what went wrong?

  So I told him; I'd figured it out long since, of course. I told him how the flying machine went crazy, looping till we could hardly see straight, so that we flew north again and mapped our own lines.

  I found that out, said the general, immediately after ordering the attack. Then I told him about the sentry who'd sold me the whisky, and how I thought he'd stolen it back again, when he hadn't.

  The general nodded. Poured that whisky into the machine, didn't you? Mistook it for a jug of gasoline.

  Yessir, I said.

  He nodded again. Naturally the flying machine went crazy. That was my own private brand of whisky, the same whisky Lincoln spoke of so highly. That damned sentry of mine was stealing it all through the war. He leaned back in his chair, puffing his cigar. Well, he said, I guess it's just as well you didn't succeed; Lee thought so, too. We discussed it at Appomattox before the formal surrender, just the two of us chatting in the farmhouse. Never have told anyone what we talked about there, and everybody's been wondering and guessing ever since. Well, we talked about air power, son, and Lee was op
posed to it, and so was I. Wars are meant for the ground, boy, and if they ever take to the air they'll start dropping bombshells, mark my words, and if they ever do that, there'll be hell to pay. So Lee and I decided to keep our mouths shut about air power, and we have — you won't find a word about it in my memoirs or his. Anyway, son, as Billy Sherman said, war is hell, and there's no sense starting people thinking up ways to make it worse. So I want you to keep quiet about Cold Harbor. Don't say a word if you live to be a hundred.

  Yessir, I said, and I never have. But I'm way past a hundred now, son, and if the general wanted me to keep quiet after that he'd have said so. Now, take those hands out of the air, boy! Wait'll the world's first pilot gets through talking!

  A Dash of Spring

  A magazine illustration would never fit this story. For one thing, the girl (her name is Louise Huppfelt) isn't good-looking enough. As for the guy (Ralph Shultz is the name), he's too short, and he wears glasses.

  No, Louise Huppfelt and Ralph Shultz are real-life people, and — no use denying it — life in the stories is just a little bit different. A lot different, in fact — a lot better, and if real life would only get wise to itself, it would imitate slavishly some of the wonderful people who live in the stories. Oh, they have problems, yes, wouldn't you like to trade your problems for theirs? Take the high cost of housing, for example. They have no worries about that. Most of those wonderful people live in big rambling homes, country estates, or beautifully decorated apartments. They're happy, and it must be contagious because even the people in the ads are happy. All it takes is a can of floor wax. Or give them a new kind of razor blade and they grin with ecstasy. And go crazy with delight over a box of corn flakes. While you, dear reader, a victim of real life, what do you do on a rainy Monday morning? You just sit there, like Ralph Shultz or Louise Huppfelt, chewing away on those very same corn flakes with a miserable look on your face.

  There's no doubt about it, as Ralph and Louise would be the first to agree, it's time we changed, changed real life to life as it should be, life as it's lived in the stories. Maybe that's the solution to world peace. Maybe it isn't, of course, but at least it's as good as a lot of others you read.

  Anyway, take a recent issue of a certain very fine magazine. Ralph and Louise both read it, and you probably did, too. On page thirty you saw UNDER THE SKIN. Can a beautiful, wealthy girl find happiness?

  On the next page was an article: HAS HOLLYWOOD GONE HOLLYWOOD? A debate by a panel of famous stars.

  And on page thirty-four — here's the one you read first — RECIPE FOR LOVE. A dash of spring, a boy and a girl … and just a pinch of loneliness.

  Now, millions of people read that story, including Ralph Shultz who lives in a boarding, house on East Twenty-sixth Street. After supper one night, in his shirt sleeves and wearing a pair of battered old slippers, Ralph sat down in his ancient easy chair, picked up his magazine, leafed through it, looking at the illustrations first, then turned back to RECIPE FOR LOVE and began to read.

  There were other empty seats on the bus, he read, quite a number, in fact. But the other half of this vacant seat was occupied by a girl. Not just a girl, but a girl whose deep red hair picked up and held some of the choicer tints of the late-afternoon sun.

  Yippee, said Ralph mournfully.

  A girl whose eyes, whose soft, brown eyes, were queen-size and touched with flecks of gold.

  Ralph whistled through his teeth.

  A girl, the tall young man decided, who was very much worth sitting next to. And so, because he was young and because it was spring the young man sat down … next to the girl with the beautiful queen-size eyes.

  Yeah, said Ralph, I ride the bus every night and just show me a girl like that. And if I did see her, so what? My hair isn't wavy, I barely hit five ten and a half, and I wear glasses besides. Rimless glasses. Wonder if horn-rimmed glasses would look more distinguished, maybe?

  Now, hundreds, maybe thousands of other people were reading that story at just about the same time Ralph was. People Ralph had never heard of — Louise Huppfelt, for instance. She was alone, as she often was., in her little two-room apartment on Fortieth Street, not kissing anybody, not wearing a beautiful sea-green gown. She was wearing a rather ratty old bathrobe, in fact, and she'd just washed out her stockings, and settled down for a spot of reading.

  RECIPE FOR LOVE, she saw, and she sighed and said, Brother, that's just what I need.

  There were other empty seats on the bus, quite a number, in fact. But the other half of this vacant seat —

  Don't tell me, said Louise.

  — was occupied by a girl.

  Surprise, surprise.

  A girl whose deep-red hair —

  Don't they ever have plain, brown hair like mine?

  — whose deep-red hair picked up and held some of the choicer tints of the late-afternoon sun.

  All my hair ever picks up are some of the choicer tints of New York soot.

  Her soft, brown eyes, were queen-size and touched with flecks of gold.

  Oh, brother! said Louise. And what does he look like — our hero? Tell me quick! I just can't wait!

  Down on Twenty-sixth Street, Ralph Shultz, his feet up on the bed now, slouched down in the easy chair and read Continued on page 78.

  Ralph turned the pages and read: The young man glanced at the girl — who gave not a sign that she was even slightly aware of his existence.

  That's more like it, said Ralph.

  If anything, she paid even closer attention to her crossword puzzle. The young man watched her pencil poised over the paper, hesitating at 22: horizontal, seven letters. Twisting his head, he read the definition, Favorite: a minion. The young man leaned close, Darling —

  What? said the girl her brows arched in surprise and indignation. What did you say?

  The young man smiled. I said, Darling, he replied. That's the word you're looking for. Favorite: a minion; the word is darling.

  The girl frowned momentarily. Oh, she said then, and smiled. The word in the puzzle, you mean. Her white teeth flashed and her red lips curved with laughter. For a moment, she said,I thought you —

  The young man interrupted. Maybe I did, he said softly. Maybe I really meant it when I said darling.

  Oh, murder, said Ralph. Oh, death. If — I ever tried anything like that, they'd have to thaw me out for two straight days with a blowtorch. I can see it now; she smiled, her red lips curving with laughter as she said, 'Scram, buddy, you look like a hop-head to me.' Tell me more, quick! Then what did she say?

  Fourteen blocks north of Ralph's room, at just about this same time …

  The girl looked up now, at the young man. Boy, what a story this is, said Louise without enthusiasm. Now, what? Is our hero handsome?

  She looked at his friendly grin, and the laughter in his dark blue eyes.

  Oh, ecstasy!

  He pushed back his hat, now, in a sudden, boyish gesture.

  And she saw that his toupee was slightly twisted? Nope!

  She saw the gleam, like glints on blue steel, in the tight-knit curls of his dark, shining hair.

  Oh, tell me, said Louise with a heart-rending sigh, what bus is that? The Washington Square bus? The Twenty-third Street crosstown? I know it isn't the bus I ride every night, because I've never seen you there, lover. And what if I did? I do crossword puzzles on the bus, all right, but my eyes aren't queen-size.

  And so Louise Huppfelt, in her two-room apartment on Fortieth Street, and Ralph Shultz, in his one-room on Twenty-sixth Street, both continued, more or less happily, reading RECIPE FOR LOVE.

  Look, said the young man, if you don't have dinner with me, I'll haunt you till you'll just have to give in — in self-defense. So, he said softly, make it sooner, will you? Please? Continued on page 91.

  There's an ad for, soup on page ninety-one; maybe you saw it. Says: BE HAPPY! EAT SOUP FOR ENERGY — THREE TIMES A DAY! Wonder if it would work? And the people in the ad certainly look happy — Mother, Father, both
children, and Grandmother all eating soup and smiling. They look happy, all right. Full of energy, too. Especially Grandmother. Wonder what happened to Grandfather? Probably didn't eat enough soup. Well, anyway — (Recipe for Love. Continued.)

  Well, said the girl, maybe I should have dinner with you. And the young man smiled. But then again, she said, maybe I shouldn't. And the young man's smile collapsed. But, she added — and his smile came back — I will. Why don't you pick me up at my apartment around seven?

  Louise's reaction upon reading this point in the story was unfortunate. Oh, why, she wailed, doesn't life live up to these wonderful stories!

  Now, what do you say we skip a little? Turn to the end of the story and see how it all worked out? The young man arrived at the girl's apartment okay, and …

  He stood there in the doorway, and for a moment he stopped breathing. A sea-green gown swept from her bare shoulders, followed every luscious curve all the way to her ankles. Her hair was alive with a light of its own, and the cream of her skin, the red of her lips, made a picture impossibly beautiful. For a moment he actually closed his eyes, and then the miracle spoke.

  Why, she said, you're dripping wet! It must be pouring out!

  Ah — yes, the young man answered, it is. Maybe I'd better go hunt up a cab while you wait here.