The World-Thinker and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  I wait…It is four o’clock. The moon is setting.

  I wait…It is four-thirty.

  Then five.

  No milkman.

  I am cold and stiff. My joints ache. I cross the room and light a fire in the wood stove. I see Homer looking at the door. I run to the window. The milk is in its usual place.

  There is something very wrong here. I look up the valley, down the valley. The sky is wide and dreary. The trees stand on top of the hills like people looking out to sea. I can’t believe that anyone is playing a joke on me…Today I’ll go looking for the Maple Valley Dairy.

  I haven’t found it. I’ve driven the valley one end to the other. No one’s heard of it.

  I stopped the Sunbury Dairy delivery truck. He never heard of it.

  The telephone book doesn’t list it.

  No one knows them at the post office…Or the police station…Or the feed store.

  It would almost seem that there is no Maple Valley Dairy. Except for the milk that they leave on my porch three times a week.

  I can’t think of anything to do—except ignore them…It’s interesting if it weren’t so frightening…I won’t move; I won’t return to the city…

  Tonight it’s snowing. The flakes drift past the window, the fire roars up the flue. I’ve made myself a wonderful hot buttered rum. Homer and Moses sit purring. It’s very cozy—except I keep looking at the window, wondering what’s watching me.

  Tomorrow there’ll be more milk. They can’t be doing this for nothing! Could it be that—no…For a moment I felt a throb. Poole. He’s cruel enough, and he’s subtle enough, but I don’t see how he could have done it.

  I’m lying awake. It’s early morning. I don’t think the milk has come; I’ve heard nothing.

  It’s stopped snowing; there’s a wonderful hush outside.

  A faint thud. The milk. I’m out of bed, but I’m terribly frightened. I force myself to the window. I’ve no idea what I’ll see.

  The milk is there; the bottle shining, white…Nothing else. I turn away. Back to bed. Homer and Moses look bored.

  I swing back in sudden excitement; my flashlight, where is it? There’ll be tracks.

  I open the door. The snow is an even blanket everywhere—shimmering, glimmering, pale and clear. No tracks…Not a mark!

  If I have any sense I’ll leave Maple Valley, I’ll never come back…

  Around the neck of the bottle hangs a printed form.

  I reach out into the cold.

  Dear Customer:

  Does our service satisfy you?

  Have you any complaints?

  Can we leave you any other commodities?

  Just let us know; we will deliver and you will be billed.

  I write on the card:

  My cats don’t like your milk and I don’t like you. The only thing I want you to leave is your footprints. No more milk! I won’t pay for it!

  Isabel Durbrow

  I can’t get my car started; the battery’s dead. It’s snowing again. I’ll wait till it stops, then hike up to Gable’s for a push.

  It’s still snowing. Tomorrow the milk. I’ve asked for his footprints. Tomorrow morning.

  I haven’t slept. I’m still awake, listening. There are noises off in the woods, and windmill creaks and groans, a dismal sound.

  Three o’clock. Homer and Moses jump down to the floor—two soft thuds. They pad back and forth, then jump back up on the bed. They’re restless tonight. Homer is telling Moses, “I don’t like this at all. We never saw stuff like this going on in the city.”

  Moses agrees without reservation.

  I lie quiet, huddled under the blankets, listening. The snow crunches a little. Homer and Moses turn to look.

  A thud. I am out of bed; I run to the door.

  The milk.

  I run out in my slippers.

  The footprints.

  There are two of them in the snow just under the milk bottle. Two footprints, the mark of two feet. Bare feet!

  I yell. “You cowards! You miserable sneaks! I’m not afraid of you!”

  I am though. It’s easy to yell when you know that no one will answer…But I’m not sure…Suppose they do?

  There is a note on the bottle. It reads:

  “You ordered milk; you’ll be billed. You ordered footprints; you’ll be billed. On the first of the month all accounts are due and payable.”

  I sit in the chair by the fire.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m terribly scared. I don’t dare to look at the window for fear of seeing a face. I don’t dare to wander up into the woods.

  I know I should leave. But I hate to let anyone or anything drive me away. Someone must be playing a joke on me…But they’re not…I wonder how they expect me to pay; in what coin?…What is the value of a footprint? Of six quarts of goblin milk the cats won’t drink? Today is the 30th of November.

  Tomorrow is the first.

  At ten o’clock the mailman drives past. I run down and beg him to help me start my car. It takes only a minute; the motor catches at once.

  I drive into Sunbury and put in a long distance call, to Howard Mansfield. He’s a young engineer I knew before I was married. I tell him everything in a rush. He is interested but he takes the practical viewpoint. He says he’ll come tomorrow and check the situation. I think he’s more interested in checking me. I don’t mind; he’ll behave himself if I tell him to. I do want someone here the next time the milk comes…Which should be the morning of the day after tomorrow.

  It’s clear and cool. I’ve recharged the battery; I’ve bought groceries; I drive home. The fire in the stove has gone down; I build it up and make a fire in the fireplace.

  I fry two lamb chops and make a salad. I feed Homer and Moses and eat my dinner.

  Now it’s very quiet. The cold makes small creaking noises outside; about ten o’clock the wind starts to come up. I’m tired, but I’m too nervous to go to sleep. These are the last hours of November 30th, they’re running out…

  I hear a soft sound outside, a tap at the door. The knob turns, but the door is bolted. For some reason I look at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Not yet the first. Howard has arrived?

  I slowly go to the door. I wish I had a gun.

  “Who’s there?” My voice sounds strange.

  “It’s me.” I recognize the voice.

  “Go away.”

  “Open up. Or I’ll bust in.”

  “Go away.” I’m suddenly very frightened. It’s so dark and far away; how could he have found me? Mrs. Lipscomb? Or through Howard?

  “I’m coming in, Isabel. Open up, or I’ll tear a hole in the wall!”

  “I’ll shoot you…”

  He laughs. “You wouldn’t shoot me…I’m your husband.”

  The door creaks as he puts his shoulder to it. The screws pull out of old wood; the bolt snaps loose, the door bursts open.

  He poses for a moment, half-smiling. He has very black hair, a sharp thin nose, pale skin. His cheeks are red with the cold. He has the look of a decadent young Roman senator, and I know he’s capable of anything queer and cruel.

  “Hello, honey. I’ve come to take you back.”

  I know I’m in for a long hard pull. Telling him to get out, to go away, is a waste of breath.

  “Shut the door.” I go back to the fire. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that I’m frightened.

  He comes slowly across the room. Homer and Moses crouch on the bed hoping he won’t notice them.

  “You’re pretty well hid out.”

  “I’m not hiding.” And I wonder if after all he’s behind the Maple Valley Dairy. It must be.

  “Have you come to collect for the milk, Poole?” I try to speak softly, as if I’ve known all the time.

  He looks at me half-smiling. I see he’s puzzled. He pretends that he understands. “Yeah. I’ve been missing my cream.”

  I sit looking at him, trying to convey my contempt. He wants me to fear him. He knows I don’t love him. F
ear or love—one suits him as well as the other. Indifference he won’t take.

  His mouth starts to droop. It looks as if he’s thinking wistful thoughts, but I know he is becoming angry.

  I don’t want him angry. I say, “It’s almost my bed-time, Poole.”

  He nods. “That’s a good idea.”

  I say nothing.

  He swings a chair around, straddles it with his arms along the back, his chin on his arms. The firelight glows on his face.

  “You’re pretty cool, Isabel.”

  “I’ve no reason to be otherwise.”

  “You’re my wife.”

  “No.”

  He jumps up, grabs my wrists, looks down into my eyes. He’s playing with me. We both know what he’s planning; he advances to it by easy stages.

  “Poole,” I say in a cool voice, “you make me sick.”

  He slaps my face. Not hard. Just enough to indicate that he’s the master. I stare at him; I don’t intend to lose control. He can kill me; I won’t show fear, nothing but contempt.

  He reads my mind, he takes it as a challenge; his lips droop softly. He drops my arms, sits down, grins at me. Whatever he felt when he came here, now it’s hate. Because I see through his poses, past his good looks, his black, white and rose beauty.

  “The way I see it,” says Poole, “you’re up here playing around with two or three other men.”

  I blush; I can’t help it. “Think what you like.”

  “Maybe it’s just one man.”

  “If he finds you here—he’ll give you a beating.”

  He looks at me interestedly; then laughs, stretches his magnificent arms, writhes his shoulder muscles. He is proud of his physique.

  “It’s a good bluff, Isabel. But knowing you, your virginal mind…”

  The clock strikes twelve. Someone taps at the door. Poole jerks around, looks at the door, then at me.

  I jump to my feet. I look at the door.

  “Who’s that?”

  “I—really don’t—know.” I’m not sure. But it’s twelve o’clock; it’s December first. Who else could it be? “It’s—it’s the milkman.” I start for the door—slowly. Of course I don’t intend to open it.

  “Milkman, eh? At midnight?” He jumps up, catches my arm. “Come to collect the milk bill, I suppose.”

  “That’s quite right.” My voice sounds weird and dry.

  “Maybe he’d like to collect from me.”

  “I’ll take care of him, Poole.” I try to pull away, knowing that whatever I seem to want he won’t allow. “Let me go.”

  “I’ll pay your milk bill…After all, dear,” he says silkily, “I’m your husband.”

  He shoves me across the room, goes to the door. I bury my face in my arms.

  The door swings wide. “So you’re the milkman,” he says. His voice trails away. I hear a sudden gasp. I don’t look.

  Poole is paying the milk bill.

  The door creaks slowly shut. A quick shuffle of steps on the porch, a crunching of snow.

  After a while I get up, prop a chair under the door knob, build up the fire. I sit looking at the flames. I don’t go near the window.

  The cold yellow dawn-sun is shining through the window. The room is cold. I build a roaring fire, put on the coffee, look around the cabin. I’ve put in lots of work, but I don’t have much to pack. Howard is coming today. He can help me.

  The sun shines bright through the window. At last—I open the door, step out on the porch. The sun is dazzling on the snow. I wonder where Poole is. There’s a shuffle of prints around the door, but away from the porch the snow is pure and clean. His convertible sits in the road.

  A milk bill is stuck in a bottle and it’s marked, “Paid in full.”

  I go inside the house, where I drink coffee, pet Homer and Moses, and try to stop my hands from shaking.

  A Practical Man’s Guide

  Ralph Banks, editor of Popular Crafts Monthly, was a short stocky man with a round pink face, a crisp crew-cut, an intensely energetic manner. He wore gabardine suits and bow-ties; he lived in Westchester with a wife, three children, an Irish Setter, a pair of Siamese cats. He was respected by his underlings, liked not quite to the same extent.

  The essence of Ralph Banks was practicality—an unerring discrimination between sound and sham, feasible and foolish. The faculty was essential to his job; in its absence he could not have functioned a day. Across his desk flowed a tide of articles, ideas, sketches, photographs, working models, each of which he must evaluate at a glance. Looking at blueprints for houses, garages, barbeque pits, orchidariums, off-shore cruisers, sailplanes and catamarans, he saw the completed project, functional or not, as the case might be—a feat which he similarly performed with technical drawings for gasoline turbines, hydraulic rams, amateur telescopes, magnetic clutches, monorail systems and one-man submarines. Given a formula for weed-killer, anti-freeze compound, invisible ink, fine-grain developer, synthetic cattle-fodder, stoneware glaze or rubber-base paint, he could predict its efficacy. At his fingertips were specifications and performance data for Stutz Bearcat, Mercer, S.G.V., Doble and Stanley Steamer; also Bugatti, Jaguar, Porsche, Nash–Healey and Pegaso; not to mention Ford, Chevrolet, Cadillac, Packard, Chrysler Imperial. He could build lawn furniture, hammer copper, polish agate, weave Harris tweed, repair watches, photograph amoebae, lithograph, dye batik, etch glass, detect forgeries with infra-red light, and seriously disable a heavier opponent. True, Banks farmed out much of his work to experts and department editors, but responsibility was his. Blunders evoked quiet ridicule from the competitors and sardonic letters from the readers; Banks made few blunders. Twelve years he had ridden the tiger, and in the process had developed a head for his job which amounted to second-sight; by now he was able to relax, enjoy his work, and indulge himself in his hobby, which was the collecting of freakish inventions.

  Every morning his secretary sifted the mail, and when Ralph Banks arrived he would find the material arranged by categories. A special large basket was labelled SCREWBALL ALLEY—and here Editor Banks found the rarest gems of his collection.

  The morning of Tuesday, October 27, was like any other. Ralph Banks came to his office, hung up his hat and coat, seated himself, hitched up his chair, loosened his belt, put a winter-green Lifesaver into his mouth. He consulted his appointments: at 10, Seth R. Framus, a highly-placed consultant to the AEC who had agreed to write an article on atomic power-plants. Framus had obtained a special clearance and proposed to hint at some new and rather startling developments—something in the nature of a planned leak. The article would enhance Popular Crafts’ prestige, and put a handsome feather in Editor Banks’ cap.

  Banks pressed the intercom key.

  “Lorraine.”

  “Yes, Mr. Banks.”

  “Seth R. Framus is calling this morning at ten. I’ll see him as soon as he gets here.”

  “Very well.”

  Banks turned to his mail. First he checked SCREWBALL ALLEY. Nothing very much this morning. A perpetual-motion device, but he was tired of these. Replete…This was better. A timepiece for blind invalids, to be strapped against the temple. Needle pricks notified of the passing quarter-hours, while a small hammer tapped strokes of the hour against the skull…Next was a plan to irrigate Death Valley by installing cloud-condensing equipment along the ridge of the Panamint Mountains…Next—a manuscript on pebbled beige paper, entitled “Behind the Masque: A Practical Man’s Guide”.

  Ralph Banks raised his eyebrows, glanced at the note clipped to the title-page.

  Dear Sir:

  I have learned in the course of a long life that exaggerated modesty brings few rewards. Hence I will put on no face of humility—I will not “pull my punches” as the expression goes. The following document is a tremendous contribution to human knowledge. In fact it knocks the props from under the entire basis of our existence, the foundation of our moral order. The implications—indeed the bald facts—will come as a shock supreme in its devasta
tion to all but a few. You will observe, and I need hardly emphasize, that this is a field not to be pursued lightly! I have therefore prefaced description of techniques with a brief account of my own findings in order to warn any who seek to satisfy a dilettante’s curiosity. You will wonder why I have chosen your periodical as an outlet for my work. I will be frank. Yours is a practical magazine; you are a practical man—and I submit the following as a practical guide. I may add, that certain other journals, edited by men less able than yourself, have returned my work with polite but obtuse notes.

  Yours sincerely,

  Angus McIlwaine,

  c/o Archives, Smithsonian Institution,

  Washington D.C.

  An interesting letter, thought Banks. The work of a crack-pot—but it gave off an interesting flavor…He glanced at the manuscript, thumbed through the pages. McIlwaine’s typography made a pretty show. The margins allowed two inches of pebbled beige space at either side. Passages in red interspersed the black paragraphs, and some of these were underlined in purple ink. Small green stars appeared in the left-hand margin from time to time, indicating further emphasis. The effect was colorful and dramatic.

  He turned pages, reading sentences, paragraphs.

  I have had serious misgivings [read Banks] but I cannot countenance cowardice or retreat. It is no argument to say that Masquerayne is unrelieved evil. Masquerayne is knowledge and men must never shrink from knowledge. And who knows, it may lead to ultimate good. Fire has done more good than harm for mankind; so have explosives, and so ultimately, we may hope, will atomic energy. Therefore, as Einstein steeled himself against his qualms to write the equation E = mc2, so I will record my findings.

  Banks grinned. A bona fide crack-pot, straight from the nut-hatch. He frowned. “c/o Archives, Smithsonian Institution”. An incongruity…He read on, skimming down the paragraphs, assimilating a line here, a sentence there.

  —a process of looking in, in, still further in; straining, forcing; then at the limits turning, as if in one’s tracks, and looking out…