by Jack Finney
The chief of police.
That's right; the San Francisco chief of police — in 1885! That's his name, address and the kind of stamp they used then. I'm going to walk to the mailbox on the corner and hold this in the slot. You'll focus your little black box on the envelope, turn on the current as I let it go, and it will drop into the mailbox that stood here in 1885!
I shook my head admiringly; it was ingenious. And what does the letter say?
He grinned evilly. I'll tell you what it says! Every spare moment I've had since I last saw you, I've been reading old newspapers at the library. In December, 1884, there was a robbery, several thousand dollars missing; there isn't a word in the paper for months afterward that it was ever solved. He held up the envelope. Well, this letter suggests to the chief of police that they investigate a man they'll find working in Haring's restaurant, a man with an unusually long thin face. And that if they search his room they'll probably find several thousand dollars he can't account for. And that he will absolutely not have an alibi for the robbery in 1884! The sergeant smiled, if you could call it a smile. That's all that they'll need in order to send him to prison and mark the case closed; they didn't pamper criminals in those days!
My jaw was hanging open. But he isn't guilty! Not of that crime!
He's guilty of another just about like it! And he's got to be punished; I will not let him escape, not even to 1885!
And the other letters?
You can guess. There's one for each of the men you helped get away, addressed to the police of the proper time and place. And you're going to help me mail them all, one by one. If you don't, I'll ruin you, and that's a promise, professor. He opened his door, stepped out and walked to the corner without even glancing back.
I suppose there are those who will say I should have refused to use my little black box, no matter what the consequences to me. Well, maybe I should have, but I didn't. This sergeant meant what he said, and I knew it, and I wasn't going to have the only career I ever had or wanted be ruined. I did the best I could; I begged and pleaded. I got out of the car with my box; the sergeant stood waiting at the mailbox. Please don't make me do this, I said. Please! There's no need! You haven't told anyone else about this, have you?
Of course not. I'd be laughed off the force.
Then forget it! Why hound these poor people? They haven't done so much; they haven't really hurt anyone. Be humane! Forgiving! Your ideas are at complete odds with modern conceptions of criminal rehabilitation!
I stopped for breath, and he said, You through, professor? I hope so, because nothing will ever change my mind. Now, go ahead and use that damn box! Hopelessly I shrugged and began adjusting the dials.
I am sure that the most baffling case the San Francisco Bureau of Missing Persons ever had will never be solved. Only two people — Sergeant Ihren and I — know the answer, and we're not going to tell.
For a short time there was a clue someone might have stumbled onto, but I found it. It was in the rare-photographs section of the public library; they've got hundreds of old San Francisco pictures, and I went through them all and found this one. Then I stole it; one more crime added to the list I was guilty of hardly mattered.
Every once in a while I get it out and look at it; it shows a row of uniformed men lined up in formation before a San Francisco police station. In a way it reminds me of an old movie comedy, because each of them wears a tall helmet of felt with a broad, turn-down brim, and long uniform coats to the knees. Nearly every one of them wears a drooping moustache, and each holds a long night stick poised as though ready to bring it down on Chester Conklin's head. Keystone Cops they look like at first glance, but study those faces closely and you change your mind about that. Look especially close at the face of the man at the very end of the row, wearing sergeant's stripes. It looks positively ferocious, glaring out — or so it always seems — directly at me. It is the implacable face of Martin O. Ihren of the San Francisco police force, back where he really belongs, back where I sent him with my little black box, to the year 1893.
The Saturday Evening Post, October 13, 1962, 235(36):60, 62-65
No Time for the Billiard Ballet
Driving home, Ray said, Want to stop at the Hibiscus for a nightcap or something?
A drink? Just before bed? I don't think so, Unless you particularly want one for some reason.
No. We could make it coffee if you'd rather. They have a coffee shop.
She didn't answer immediately, and when he glanced at her the corners of her mouth were bunched in a repressed smile. Quickly she said, All right, let's stop if you like. Only I think I'll have tea; coffee keeps me awake.
What's funny?
Nothing.
Come on, Sophia.
She let her mouth relax in a laugh. You really don't know? Well, it's just that you've started the Sunday-night Stall; I've been wondering what it would be this week.
The what? He touched the brake, then curved onto the turnoff for the pink-neoned motel-bar-and-restaurant on the paralleling service road.
Well, last Sunday when we got home from the movies it was a sudden revival of interest in chess. Since it was 11:40 at night and we don't much like chess or really know how to play it and I had no idea of where the set was anyway, I suggested calling it a day and getting to sleep. Instead, you reread most of the Sunday paper. Out loud. To me. Including some classified ads. Ray stopped the car between the angled parking-space lines before the big windows of the coffee shop, shut off the motor, and turned to face Sophia, still listening. He was 28 years old, she was 24; both were blond, and their name was Rasmussen. The Sunday before, I think it was, you discovered a wonderful radio program; old records, old 78s. And it was good; I liked it. But it started at midnight. Tonight — well, we stayed at the Dabneys' till they were ready to throw us out.
Phil wasn't.
No, he's as bad as you are Sunday nights; June's told me. He'd have kept us there another hour. June was tired, though, so we left reasonably early, but now instead of going straight home we're stopping for coffee. She watched his face for a moment. You still don't know what I mean?
Opening his door, he smiled wryly. Yeah, I know all right: the Sunday-night Stall before the Monday-morning Blues. I didn't realize it was that bad, is all.
Inside, after they had sat down at the long plastic-topped counter and ordered, Sophia said, Do you really hate your job all that much, Ray? It was after 12, and there was only one other customer, a tan-uniformed California highway patrolman halfway down the counter.
No, I don't hate it. Though I guarantee you I don't love it.
Then why don't you find another job? You're young, your career's ahead of you; find something you really love to do. There must be something that —
His eyes were amused. You sound like my mother; just before I finished school. Always after me to tell her 'what I really wanted to do,' and I never knew what to say. He glanced up to thank with a smile the waitress who was setting their cups down. She assumed — it was an article of absolute faith with her — that for every boy there was not only a girl but a job he'd love. But it's not necessarily true. Not for me. The girl, yeah, the job, no.
Ray, I know people who —
Oh, I know 'em, too! I grew up with a kid who knew when he was 10 years old that he wanted to be a doctor. Now he is one, working 12 and 14 hours a day, and loves it. Another kid I knew was a natural-born artist. He didn't have to learn, he could always draw. He's a commercial artist now and it's all he ever wants to do. Well, I envy people like that; they're the lucky ones of the world. They have the call. They spend their lives doing what they want to do and that's the best thing there is. Next to good health and a chubby little wife. It's a million times better than just making money. But mostly the world is populated by people like me.
No, it isn't.
He smiled, picking up the sugar jar. You're deluded, kiddo. I fooled you easy.
They poured cream into their cups; unwrapped sugar, and dropped
in the cubes; stirred; tasted; set down their cups. Ray stared ahead for a moment or so, then shrugged and turned to Sophia. Oh, I'm not running myself down; I'm intelligent enough and I'm not lazy. I just don't have any special talent, that's all; none. The world's full of us, and all we can do is go out and hunt a job when the time comes, and it doesn't much matter what kind. I'm an assistant account executive in an advertising agency; for no special reason. I could just as well be something else. There are times when the job's tedious, plenty of them, but it has its interesting moments, too; as many as any other job I could hope to find. So I don't hate it, Soph; a job's necessary and this one's OK. I guess what I resent is the time it takes; most of my life.
What do you mean?
Figure it out. I get up at 6:30; still dark most of the year. And for more than the next 12 hours, till I get home just before seven, it's either work, preparing to leave for work, or going to and from it on a bus. If I get eight hours' sleep, that's over 20 of the 24 hours gone. And it happens five days out of seven. That's most of my life, kid. He smiled at her, shrugging again. I'm not complaining, though; it's no worse for me than anyone else. You just got me started is all. He shook his head, still smiling. The Sunday-night Stall; I didn't know it showed.
The Dabneys visited the Rasmussens the following Sunday. Phil Dabney was Ray's oldest friend; they'd grown up together in San Francisco. Now they each lived here on the Peninsula, in the commuting area south of the city, and because their wives liked each other, the Rasmussens and the Dabneys were each the couple the other saw most often. Tonight it was rainy and chilly outside, typical end-of-the-winter Bay Area weather. But here inside they sat or lay on the floor before a fire in the tiny black-metal fireplace which hung suspended by its own stovepipe from a corner of the living-room ceiling.
The room was silent. The two men lay sprawled on their stomachs facing each other across a very large tablet of white paper, a layout pad from Ray's office. Each of the men, Ray in corduroy pants and a collar-frayed white shirt, Phil in dark pants and a red-plaid wool shirt, was drawing a careful series of dime-sized circles on the pad. The circles, their edges overlapping, formed two curved lines moving out toward each other from each side of the sheet. Beside the pad lay air open box of colored pencils, and each time one of the men finished a circle he would color it in; Ray's were red, Phil's green. Scattered on the carpet around them lay other sheets, each with a diagram of colored discs.
Phil laid down his pencil, and ran the spread fingers of his hand through his straight black hair. He was a big nervous-mannered man and this compulsive gesture was so familiar to his wife and friends that they no longer saw it. Glancing at June, his wife, he smiled.
She nodded at the pad. I'm still not sure how that's supposed to work. She lay on the floor on her side, watching them, wearing black slacks and turtleneck sweater, head propped on her elbow, her blue eyes calm and intelligent. Her long hair, black as her clothes, was piled on her head; she was a fair-skinned, unusually tall girl with a handsome figure; she seemed half again as big as Sophia sitting cross-legged beside her in blouse, wool skirt and coral sweater.
Ray looked up from the pad to answer her; he enjoyed looking at June, which made him feel a little guilty toward Sophia and Phil. It's the Billiard Ballet. The Pool Table Polka. And it'll revolutionize the experimental film.
I know. So you've both said.
Fourteen times, Sophia added. With more to come.
But will it work?
Sure it will, Phil said. We'll use the pool table in Al Kahler's family room; we'll give him a credit line in the finished film. And Ray's going to borrow a 16-millimeter movie camera with a stop action; an artist at his office has one.
That's the part I don't —
We mount the camera above the pool table, and focus straight down on it, Ray said, looking up at June again. We arrange the pool balls in a pattern, and then snap just one frame at a time, using color film. Between each frame we take, we move the pool balls slightly, according to these diagrams. It's the way you make an animated film; and when we finish our film, and run it off, the balls will seem to move. They'll come rolling up onto the table from the pockets first. Then they'll roll all over the table, bouncing off the side cushions, circling one another, forming all sorts of intricate moving patterns.
It'll be absolutely spectacular, Phil said, and again he ran his fingers quickly through his hair. It really will; they'll roll around like magic. We'll dub in music, finally, and the balls will seem to roll into and out of patterns in rhythm.
I like it, June said. It sounds wonderful.
So do I, said Sophia, and I'd love to see it. But won't it take an awfully long time?
Phil looked up to nod ruefully. Yeah. Just rearranging the balls between each frame will take several minutes. And you need 16 frames for every second of finished film. The whole thing will take days.
Well, why do you want to do it, exactly?
The two men looked at each other for a moment, then turned back to the women. For fun, Phil said. For nothing else but the sheer pleasure of doing it. It'll be one of the few things done in the 20th Century for absolutely no other reason.
June nodded, and rolled to a sitting position. Yeah, she said, and turned to Sophia. Five will get you 10 that we never hear of it again after tonight. Remember the game they were going to invent? Like Monopoly, only better? And the mail-order business they were going to start in our garage?
Sure, Sunday projects, every one. In full, glorious bloom Sunday night, withered and forgotten Monday morning. Sophia nodded at the colored diagrams on the floor. June, don't you realize? It's just this week's version of the Sunday-night Stall.
Of course; I should have known — she glanced at her watch; it was a quarter of 12. Today is Stretchable Sunday, the only day in the week with at least 25 hours. Working on their diagram again, the men ignored her. Look at them; this week the Billiard Ballet, next week Lord knows what. Did I ever tell you that one Sunday last summer Phil wanted to start washing the car at 12:15 at night? There was a full moon, he pointed out, and it was warm outside. We'd never washed the car by moonlight, he said; an argument that, believe me, is hard to answer.
Someday they'll finally figure out how to hold off Monday forever and it'll be Sunday for the rest of our lives.
We sure married a pair of comical ladies, Phil. Not much on looks, but they're sure a laff-riot, to quote the movie ads. How come you're not chuckling away?
Phil smiled slightly. Maybe because it's true. We'll never finish this or even start it. And we both know it. It'd take several weeks' full time, and maybe longer. He smiled again, in the manner of one about to repeat an old joke — Working for a living takes too damn much time. And you know something? He pushed himself up from the floor, and sat facing the others, arms around his knees, one hand clasping the other wrist. I finally figured out why. It's three-and-a-half days till payday for me right now, and as is usual at that time we're broke. We've got about a buck and a half between us; I'll carry my lunch till Thursday. Well, I used to laugh whenever that happened. I'd say, 'Where does the money go?' then shrug and forget it. But lately I've been thinking about where it goes. You know what the real-estate man said when we bought our house? He said it cost 'eighteen-five,' and that's how I thought about it for quite a while. Then it occurred to me that another way to say it — very slowly — is $18,500. It sounds different that way, but I think it's the right way to say it because it's going to take me exactly 24 years to pay it, and that isn't all. When we finally own the house — in 1987, and we want you over to dinner to celebrate — I'll have paid out another $12,000 in interest on the mortgage, seven or eight thousand more in county taxes, and several thousand on top of that in repairs and upkeep. At least $40,000 all told. Well, Raymond, my boy, it takes years and years of getting up in the morning and going to work to save up that much. You spend years of your life just to buy a roof over your head.
He held up a hand against interruption, though n
one of the others had tried to speak. And you've got to have a car, don't you? It never enters your head that you don't. But I'm warning you; don't ever sit down and figure out what it really costs. Three thousand bucks just to buy one, every few years. Well, that's over four months' work for me, after taxes. And it's only the beginning. Add insurance each year, license, gas, tires, repairs, parking fees, meter fees, tolls — and, man, it's fantastic what a chunk of your life goes into earning what it takes just to drive a car around; you could make half-a-dozen Billiard Ballets in that time! Another full quarter of everything I earn — one fourth of my working life — goes for nothing but taxes; Federal income tax, state tax, sales tax, liquor tax, cigarette tax, tax tax! June and I have a decent house, decent clothes, food, car and some luxuries besides, and that's fine; it's great. But sometimes I wonder: Do you really have to spend over half your waking hours at a job or getting to and from it — for just the necessities of life and something over? Could there possibly be another quicker way to get them if I could only think of it? And wouldn't it be great to find one? So that every once in a while, all through your life, you'd have enough of it left over to go to work on a Billiard Ballet just for the sheer fun of it?
Through several seconds they sat silent and motionless, then Phil smiled embarrassedly, looking sheepish, and ran a hand through his hair. Ray said, Right! So it's Up, Rebels, and we'll free Ireland! Let's work all night on the Pool Table Polka, and to hell with the jobs in the morning. But even as he spoke he was getting to his feet, then he stood stretching his back and shoulders. The evening was over and not long afterward the Dabneys went home.
On Friday of the next week the sky cleared, the sun came out strong and warm, and as happens several times during a California winter, it was briefly summer again. Saturday was warmer still, and immediately after breakfast Ray told Sophia that he'd like to take the car; that he'd be gone all day and, smiling as he said it, she was to ask no questions. But it was nearly eight o'clock before he was home again, with Sophia beginning to worry. Then he came in through the kitchen door, from the garage, and he was smiling, and she saw that his eyes were excited. Before she could speak he held up a hand. A big favor; hold the questions till tomorrow. We're going on a picnic with the Dabneys, and it's a surprise till we get there.
