The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein

by Robert A. Heinlein

  She knew his powers of invention were fertile enough to do such a job; she protested no more. A few blocks later Randall saw a patrolman standing on the sidewalk, warming himself in the sun, and watching some boys playing sand-lot football. He pulled up to the curb beside him. “Run down the window, Cyn.”

  She complied, then gave a sharp intake of breath and swallowed a scream. He did not scream, but he wanted to.

  Outside the open window was no sunlight, no cops, no kids—nothing. Nothing but a gray and formless mist, pulsing slowly as if with inchoate life. They could see nothing of the city through it, not because it was too dense but because it was—empty. No sound came out of it; no movement showed in it.

  It merged with the frame of the window and began to drift inside. Randall shouted, “Roll up the window!” She tried to obey, but her hands were nerveless; he reached across her and cranked it up himself, jamming it hard into its seat.

  The sunny scene was restored; through the glass they saw the patrolman, the boisterous game, the sidewalk, and the city beyond. Cynthia put a hand on his arm. “Drive on, Teddy!”

  “Wait a minute,” he said tensely, and turned to the window beside him. Very cautiously he rolled it down—just a crack, less than an inch.

  It was enough. The formless gray flux was out there, too; through the glass the city traffic and sunny street were plain, through the opening—nothing.

  “Drive on, Teddy—please!”

  She need not have urged him; he was already gunning the car ahead with a jerk.

  THEIR HOUSE IS NOT EXACTLY on the Gulf, but the water can be seen from the hilltop near it. The village where they do their shopping has only eight hundred people in it, but it seems to be enough for them. They do not care much for company, anyway, except their own. They get a lot of that. When he goes out to the vegetable patch, or to the fields, she goes along, taking with her such woman’s work as she can carry and do in her lap. If they go to town, they go together, hand in hand—always.

  He wears a beard, but it is not so much a peculiarity as a necessity, for there is not a mirror in the entire house. They do have one peculiarity which would mark them as odd in any community, if anyone knew about it, but it is of such a nature that no one else would know.

  When they go to bed at night, before he turns out the light, he handcuffs one of his wrists to one of hers.

  OUR FAIR CITY

  Pete Perkins turned into the All-Nite parking lot and called out, “Hi, Pappy!”

  The old parking lot attendant looked up and answered, “Be with you in a moment, Pete.” He was tearing a Sunday comic sheet in narrow strips. A little whirlwind waltzed near him, picking up pieces of old newspaper and bits of dirt and flinging them in the faces of passing pedestrians. The old man held out to it a long streamer of the brightly colored funny-paper. “Here, Kitten,” he coaxed. “Come, Kitten—”

  The whirlwind hesitated, then drew itself up until it was quite tall, jumped two parked cars, and landed sur le point near him.

  It seemed to sniff at the offering.

  “Take it, Kitten,” the old man called softly and let the gay streamer slip from his fingers. The whirlwind whipped it up and wound it around its middle. He tore off another and yet another; the whirlwind wound them in a corkscrew through the loose mass of dirty paper and trash that constituted its visible body. Renewed by cold gusts that poured down the canyon of tall buildings, it swirled faster and ever taller, while it lifted the colored paper ribbons in a fantastic upswept hairdo. The old man turned, smiling. “Kitten does like new clothes.”

  “Take it easy, Pappy, or you’ll have me believing in it.”

  “Eh? You don’t have to believe in Kitten—you can see her.”

  “Yeah, sure—but you act as if she—I mean ‘it’—could understand what you say.”

  “You still don’t think so?” His voice was gently tolerant.

  “Now, Pappy!”

  “Hmmm…lend me your hat.” Pappy reached up and took it. “Here, Kitten,” he called. “Come back, Kitten!” The whirlwind was playing around over their heads, several stories high. It dipped down.

  “Hey! Where you going with that chapeau?” demanded Perkins.

  “Just a moment—Here, Kitten!” The whirlwind sat down suddenly, spilling its load. The old man handed it the hat. The whirlwind snatched it and started it up a fast, long spiral.

  “Hey!” yelped Perkins. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s not funny—that hat cost me six bucks only three years ago.”

  “Don’t worry,” the old man soothed. “Kitten will bring it back.”

  “She will, huh? More likely she’ll dump it in the river.”

  “Oh, no! Kitten never drops anything she doesn’t want to drop. Watch.” The old man looked up to where the hat was dancing near the penthouse of the hotel across the street. “Kitten! Oh, Kitten! Bring it back.”

  The whirlwind hesitated, the hat fell a couple of stories. It swooped, caught it, and juggled it reluctantly. “Bring it here, Kitten.”

  The hat commenced a downward spiral, finishing in a long curving swoop. It hit Perkins full in the face. “She was trying to put it on your head,” the attendant explained. “Usually she’s more accurate.”

  “She is, eh?” Perkins picked up his hat and stood looking at the whirlwind, mouth open.

  “Convinced?” asked the old man.

  “‘Convinced?’ Oh, sho’ sho’.” He looked back at his hat, then again at the whirlwind. “Pappy, this calls for a drink.”

  They went inside the lot’s little shelter shack; Pappy found glasses; Perkins produced a pint, nearly full, and poured two generous slugs. He tossed his down, poured another, and sat down. “The first was in honor of Kitten,” he announced. “This one is to fortify me for the Mayor’s banquet.”

  Pappy cluck-clucked sympathetically. “You have to cover that?”

  “Have to write a column about something, Pappy. ‘Last night Hizzoner the Mayor, surrounded by a glittering galaxy of highbinders, grifters, sycophants, and ballot thieves, was the recipient of a testimonial dinner celebrating—’ Got to write something, Pappy; the cash customers expect it. Why don’t I brace up like a man and go on relief?”

  “Today’s column was good, Pete,” the old man comforted him. He picked up a copy of the Daily Forum; Perkins took it from him and ran his eye down his own column.

  “OUR FAIR CITY, by Peter Perkins,” he read, and below that “What, No Horsecars? It is the tradition of our civic paradise that what was good enough for the founding fathers is good enough for us. We stumble over the very chuckhole in which Great-uncle Tozier broke his leg in ’09. It is good to know that the bath water, running out, is not gone forever, but will return through the kitchen faucet, thicker and disguised with chlorine, but the same. (Memo—Hizzoner uses bottled spring water. Must look into this.)

  “But I must report a dismaying change. Someone has done away with the horsecars!

  “You may not believe this. Our public conveyances run so seldom and slowly that you may not have noticed it; nevertheless I swear that I saw one wobbling down Grand Avenue with no horses of any sort. It seemed to be propelled by some new-fangled electrical device.

  “Even in the atomic age some changes are too much. I urge all citizens—” Perkins gave a snort of disgust. “It’s tackling a pillbox with a beanshooter, Pappy. This town is corrupt; it’ll stay corrupt. Why should I beat out my brains on such piffle? Hand me the bottle.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, Pete. The tyrant fears the laugh more than the assassin’s bullet.”

  “Where’d you pick that up? Okay, so I’m not funny. I’ve tried laughing them out of office and it hasn’t worked. My efforts are as pointless as the activities of your friend the whirling dervish.”

  The windows rattled under a gusty impact. “Don’t talk that way about Kitten,” the old man cautioned. “She’s sensitive.”

  “I apologize.” He stood up and bowed toward the door. “Kitten, I apolo
gize. Your activities are more useful than mine.” He turned to his host. “Let’s go out and talk to her, Pappy. I’d rather do that than go to the Mayor’s banquet, if I had my druthers.”

  They went outside, Perkins bearing with him the remains of the colored comic sheet. He began tearing off streamers. “Here, Kitty! Here, Kitty! Soup’s on!”

  The whirlwind bent down and accepted the strips as fast as he tore them. “She’s still got the ones you gave her.”

  “Certainly,” agreed Pappy. “Kitten is a pack rat. When she likes something she’ll keep it indefinitely.”

  “Doesn’t she ever get tired? There must be some calm days.”

  “It’s never really calm here. It’s the arrangement of the buildings and the way Third Street leads up from the river. But I think she hides her pet playthings on tops of buildings.”

  The newspaperman peered into the swirling trash. “I’ll bet she’s got newspapers from months back. Say, Pappy, I see a column in this, one about our trash collection service and how we don’t clean our streets. I’ll dig up some papers a couple of years old and claim that they have been blowing around town since publication.”

  “Why fake it?” answered Pappy, “Let’s see what Kitten has.” He whistled softly. “Come, baby—let Pappy see your playthings.” The whirlwind bulged out; its contents moved less rapidly. The attendant plucked a piece of old newspaper from it in passing. “Here’s one three months old.”

  “We’ll have to do better than that.”

  “I’ll try again.” He reached out and snatched another. “Last June.”

  “That’s better.”

  A car honked for service and the old man hurried away. When he returned Perkins was still watching the hovering column. “Any luck?” asked Pappy.

  “She won’t let me have them. Snatches them away.”

  “Naughty Kitten,” the old man said. “Pete is a friend of ours. You be nice to him.” The whirlwind fidgeted uncertainly.

  “It’s all right,” said Perkins. “She didn’t know. But look, Pappy—see that piece up there? A front page.”

  “You want it?”

  “Yes. Look closely—the headline reads ‘DEWEY’ something. You don’t suppose she’s been hoarding it since the ’48 campaign?”

  “Could be. Kitten has been around here as long as I can remember. And she does hoard things. Wait a second.” He called out softly. Shortly the paper was in his hands. “Now we’ll see.”

  Perkins peered at it. “I’ll be a short-term Senator! Can you top that, Pappy?”

  The headline read: DEWEY CAPTURES MANILA: the date was “1898”.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER THEY WERE still considering it over the last of Perkins’ bottle. The newspaperman stared at the yellowed, filthy sheet. “Don’t tell me this has been blowing around town for the last half century.”

  “Why not?”

  “‘Why not?’ Well, I’ll concede that the streets haven’t been cleaned in that time, but this paper wouldn’t last. Sun and rain and so forth.”

  “Kitten is very careful of her toys. She probably put it under cover during bad weather.”

  “For the love of Mike, Pappy, you don’t really believe—But you do. Frankly, I don’t care where she got it; the official theory is going to be that this particular piece of paper has been kicking around our dirty streets, unnoticed and uncollected, for the past fifty years. Boy, am I going to have fun!” He rolled the fragment carefully and started to put it in his pocket.

  “Say, don’t do that!” his host protested.

  “Why not? I’m going to take it down and get a pic of it.”

  “You mustn’t! It belongs to Kitten—I just borrowed it.”

  “Huh? Are you nuts?”

  “She’ll be upset if she doesn’t get it back. Please, Pete—she’ll let you look at it any time you want to.”

  The old man was so earnest that Perkins was stopped. “Suppose we never see it again? My story hangs on it.”

  “It’s no good to you—she has to keep it, to make your story stand up. Don’t worry—I’ll tell her that she mustn’t lose it under any circumstances.”

  “Well—okay.” They stepped outside and Pappy talked earnestly to Kitten, then gave her the 1898 fragment. She promptly tucked it into the top of her column. Perkins said good-bye to Pappy, and started to leave the lot. He paused and turned around, looking a little befuddled. “Say, Pappy—”

  “Yes, Pete?”

  “You don’t really think that whirlwind is alive, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  “‘Why not?’ Why not, the man says?”

  “Well,” said Pappy reasonably, “how do you know you are alive?”

  “But…why, because I—well, now if you put it—” He stopped. “I don’t know. You got me, pal.”

  Pappy smiled. “You see?”

  “Uh, I guess so. G’night, Pappy. G’night, Kitten.” He tipped his hat to the whirlwind. The column bowed.

  THE MANAGING EDITOR SENT FOR Perkins.

  “Look, Pete,” he said, chucking a sheaf of grey copy paper at him, “whimsy is all right, but I’d like to see some copy that wasn’t dashed off in a gin mill.”

  Perkins looked over the pages shoved at him. “OUR FAIR CITY by Peter Perkins. Whistle Up The Wind. Walking our streets always is a piquant, even adventurous, experience. We pick our way through the assorted trash, bits of old garbage, cigarette butts, and other less appetizing items that stud our sidewalks while our faces are assaulted by more buoyant souvenirs, the confetti of last Hallowe’en, shreds of dead leaves, and other items too weather-beaten to be identified. However, I had always assumed that a constant turnover in the riches of our streets caused them to renew themselves at least every seven years—” The column then told of the whirlwind that contained the fifty-year-old newspaper and challenged any other city in the country to match it.

  “’Smatter with it?” demanded Perkins.

  “Beating the drum about the filth in the streets is fine, Pete, but give it a factual approach.”

  Perkins leaned over the desk. “Boss, this is factual.”

  “Huh? Don’t be silly, Pete.”

  “Silly, he says. Look—” Perkins gave him a circumstantial account of Kitten and the 1898 newspaper.

  “Pete, you must have been drinking.”

  “Only Java and tomato juice. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “How about yesterday? I’ll bet the whirlwind came right up to the bar with you.”

  “I was cold, stone—” Perkins stopped himself and stood on his dignity. “That’s my story. Print it, or fire me.”

  “Don’t be like that, Pete. I don’t want your job; I just want a column with some meat. Dig up some facts on man-hours and costs for street cleaning, compared with other cities.”

  “Who’d read that junk? Come down the street with me. I’ll show you the facts. Wait a moment—I’ll pick up a photographer.”

  A few minutes later Perkins was introducing the managing editor and Clarence V. Weems to Pappy. Clarence unlimbered his camera. “Take a pic of him?”

  “Not yet, Clarence. Pappy, can you get Kitten to give us back the museum piece?”

  “Why, sure.” The old man looked up and whistled. “Oh, Kitten! Come to Pappy.” Above their heads a tiny gust took shape, picked up bits of paper and stray leaves, and settled on the lot. Perkins peered into it.

  “She hasn’t got it,” he said in aggrieved tones.

  “She’ll get it.” Pappy stepped forward until the whirlwind enfolded him. They could see his lips move, but the words did not reach them.

  “Now?” said Clarence.

  “Not yet.” The whirlwind bounded up and leapt over an adjoining building. The managing editor opened his mouth, closed it again.

  Kitten was soon back. She had dropped everything else and had just one piece of paper—the paper. “Now!” said Perkins. “Can you get a shot of that paper, Clarence—while it’s in the air?”

  “Natch,�
� said Clarence, and raised his Speed Graphic. “Back a little, and hold it,” he ordered, speaking to the whirlwind.

  Kitten hesitated and seemed about to skitter away. “Bring it around slow and easy, Kitten,” Pappy supplemented, “and turn it over—no, no! Not that way—the other edge up.” The paper flattened out and sailed slowly past them, the headline showing.

  “Did you get it?” Perkins demanded.

  “Natch,” said Clarence. “Is that all?” he asked the editor.

  “Natc—I mean, ‘that’s all’.”

  “Okay,” said Clarence, picked up his case, and left.

  The editor sighed. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let’s have a drink.”

  Four drinks later Perkins and his boss were still arguing. Pappy had left. “Be reasonable, Boss,” Pete was saying, “you can’t print an item about a live whirlwind. They’d laugh you out of town.”

  Managing Editor Gaines straightened himself.

  “It’s the policy of the Forum to print all the news, and print it straight. This is news—we print it.” He relaxed. “Hey! Waiter! More of the same—and not so much soda.”

  “But it’s scientifically impossible.”

  “You saw it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Gaines stopped him. “We’ll ask the Smithsonian Institution to investigate it.”

  “They’ll laugh at you,” Perkins insisted. “Ever hear of mass hypnotism?”

  “Huh? No, that’s no explanation—Clarence saw it, too.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “Obvious—to be hypnotized you have to have a mind. Ipso facto.”

  “You mean Ipse dixit.”

  “Quit hiccuping. Perkins, you shouldn’t drink in the daytime. Now start over and say it slowly.”

  “How do you know Clarence doesn’t have a mind?”

  “Prove it.”

  “Well, he’s alive—he must have some sort of a mind, then.”

  “That’s just what I was saying, The whirlwind is alive; therefore it has a mind. Perkins, if those longbeards from the Smithsonian are going to persist in their unscientific attitude, I for one will not stand for it. The Forum will not stand for it. You will not stand for it.”