The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein

by Robert A. Heinlein

  And harness racing. Martha and he had always loved harness racing. He picked out a likely looking nag of the famous Dan Patch line, bet and won, then moved on, as there was so much more to see. Other county fairs were just beyond, apples from Yakima, the cherry festival from Beaumont and Banning, Georgia’s peaches. Somewhere off beyond him a band was beating out, “Ioway, Ioway, that’s where the tall corn grows!”

  Directly in front of him was a pink cotton candy booth.

  Martha had loved the stuff. Whether at Madison Square Garden or at Imperial County’s fair grounds she had always headed first for the cotton candy booth. “The big size, honey?” he muttered to himself. He felt that if he were to look around he would see her nodding. “The large size, please,” he said to the vendor.

  The carnie was elderly, dressed in a frock coat and stiff shirt. He handled the pink gossamer with dignified grace. “Certainly, sir, there is no other size.” He twirled the paper cornucopia and presented it. Johnny handed him a half dollar. The man flexed and opened his fingers; the coin disappeared. That appeared to end the matter.

  “The candy is fifty cents?” Johnny asked diffidently.

  “Not at all, sir.” The old showman plucked the coin from Johnny’s lapel and handed it back. “On the house—I see you are with it. After all, what is money?”

  “Why, thank you, but, uh, I’m not really ‘with it,’ you know.”

  The old man shrugged. “If you wish to go incognito, who am I to dispute you? But your money is no good here.”

  “Uh, if you say so.”

  “You will see.”

  He felt something brush against his leg. It was a dog of the same breed, or lack of breed, as Bindlestiff had been. It looked amazingly like Bindlestiff. The dog looked up and waggled its whole body.

  “Why, hello, old fellow!” He patted it—then his eyes blurred; it even felt like Bindlestiff. “Are you lost, boy? Well, so am I. Maybe we had better stick together, eh? Are you hungry?”

  The dog licked his hand. He turned to the cotton candy man. “Where can I buy hot dogs?”

  “Just across the way, sir.”

  He thanked him, whistled to the dog, and hurried across. “A half dozen hot dogs, please.”

  “Coming up! Just mustard, or everything on?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I want them raw, they are for a dog.”

  “I getcha. Just a sec.”

  Presently he was handed six wienies, wrapped in paper. “How much are they?”

  “Compliments of the house.”

  “I beg pardon?”

  “Every dog has his day. This is his.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you.” He became aware of increased noise and excitement behind him and looked around to see the first of the floats of the Priests of Pallas, from Kansas City, coming down the street. His friend the dog saw it, too, and began to bark.

  “Quiet, old fellow.” He started to unwrap the meat. Someone whistled across the way; the dog darted between the floats and was gone. Johnny tried to follow, but was told to wait until the parade had passed. Between floats he caught glimpses of the dog, leaping up on a lady across the way. What with the dazzling lights of the floats and his own lack of glasses he could not see her clearly, but it was plain that the dog knew her; he was greeting her with the all-out enthusiasm only a dog can achieve.

  He held up the package and tried to shout to her; she waved back, but the band music and the noise of the crowd made it impossible to hear each other. He decided to enjoy the parade, then cross and find the pooch and its mistress as soon as the last float had passed.

  It seemed to him the finest Priests of Pallas parade he had ever seen. Come to think about it, there hadn’t been a Priests of Pallas parade in a good many years. Must have revived it just for this.

  That was like Kansas City—a grand town. He didn’t know of any he liked as well. Possibly Seattle. And New Orleans, of course.

  And Duluth—Duluth was swell. And so was Memphis. He would like to own a bus someday that ran from Memphis to Saint Jot, from Natchez to Mobile, wherever the wide winds blow.

  Mobile—there was a town.

  The parade was past now, with a swarm of small boys tagging after it. He hurried across.

  The lady was not there, neither she, nor the dog. He looked quite thoroughly. No dog. No lady with a dog.

  He wandered off, his eyes alert for marvels, but his thoughts on the dog. It really had been a great deal like Bindlestiff…and he wanted to know the lady it belonged to—anyone who could love that sort of a dog must be a pretty good sort herself. Perhaps he could buy her ice cream, or persuade her to go to the midway with him. Martha would approve he was sure. Martha would know he wasn’t up to anything.

  Anyhow, no one ever took a little fat man seriously.

  But there was too much going on to worry about it. He found himself at St. Paul’s Winter Carnival, marvelously constructed in summer weather through the combined efforts of York and American. For fifty years it had been held in January, yet there it was, rubbing shoulders with the Pendleton Round-Up, the Fresno Raisin Festival, and Colonial Week in Annapolis. He got in at the tail end of the ice show, but in time for one of his favorite acts, the Old Smoothies, out of retirement for the occasion and gliding as perfectly as ever to the strains of Shine On, Harvest Moon.

  His eyes blurred again and it was not his lack of glasses.

  Coming out he passed a large sign: SADIE HAWKINS DAY—STARTING POINT FOR BACHELORS. He was tempted to take part; perhaps the lady with the dog might be among the spinsters. But he was a little tired by now; just ahead there was an outdoor carnival of the pony-ride-and-ferris-wheel sort; a moment later he was on the marry-go-round and was climbing gratefully into one of those swan gondolas so favored by parents. He found a young man already seated there, reading a book.

  “Oh, excuse me,” said Johnny. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” the young man answered and put his book down. “Perhaps you are the man I’m looking for.”

  “You are looking for someone?”

  “Yes. You see, I’m a detective. I’ve always wanted to be one and now I am.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Quite. Everyone rides the merry-go-round eventually, so it saves trouble to wait here. Of course, I hang around Hollywood and Vine, or Times Square, or Canal Street, but here I can sit and read.”

  “How can you read while watching for someone?”

  “Ah, I know what is in the book—” He held it up; it was The Hunting of the Snark. “—so that leaves my eyes free for watching.”

  Johnny began to like this young man. “Are there boojums about?”

  “No, for we haven’t softly and silently vanished away. But would we notice it if we did? I must think it over. Are you a detective, too?”

  “No, I—uh—I travel in elephants.”

  “A fine profession. But not much for you here. We have giraffes—” He raised his voice above the music of the calliope and let his eyes rove around the carrousel. “—camels, two zebras, plenty of horses, but no elephants. Be sure to see the Big Parade; there will be elephants.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it!”

  “You mustn’t. It will be the most amazing parade in all time, so long that it will never pass a given point and every mile choked with wonders more stupendous than the last. You’re sure you’re not the man I’m looking for?”

  “I don’t think so. But see here—how would you go about finding a lady with a dog in this crowd?”

  “Well, if she comes here, I’ll let you know. Better go down on Canal Street. Yes, I think if I were a lady with a dog I’d be down on Canal Street. Women love to mask; it means they can unmask.”

  Johnny stood up. “How do I get to Canal Street?”

  “Straight through Central City past the opera house, then turn right at the Rose Bowl. Be careful then, for you pass through the Nebraska section with Ak-Sar-Ben in full sway. Anything could happen. After that, Calaveras County—Mind the frogs!—
then Canal Street.

  “Thank you so much.” He followed the directions, keeping an eye out for a lady with a dog. Nevertheless he stared with wonder at the things he saw as he threaded through the gay crowds. He did see a dog, but it was a seeing-eye dog—and that was a great wonder, too, for the live clear eyes of the dog’s master could and did see everything that was going on around him, yet the man and the dog traveled together with the man letting the dog direct their way, as if no other way of travel were conceivable, or desired, by either one.

  He found himself in Canal Street presently and the illusion was so complete that it was hard to believe that he had not been transported to New Orleans. Carnival was at height; it was Fat Tuesday here; the crowds were masked. He got a mask from a street vendor and went on.

  The hunt seemed hopeless. The street was choked by merrymakers watching the parade of the Krewe of Venus. It was hard to breathe, much harder to move and search. He eased into Bourbon Street—the entire French Quarter had been reproduced—when he saw the dog.

  He was sure it was the dog. It was wearing a clown suit and a little peaked hat, but it looked like his dog. He corrected himself; it looked like Bindlestiff.

  And it accepted one of the frankfurters gratefully. “Where is she, old fellow?” The dog woofed once, then darted away into the crowd. He tried to follow, but could not; he required more clearance. But he was not downhearted; he had found the dog once, he would find him again. Besides, it had been at a masked ball that he had first met Martha, she a graceful Pierrette, he a fat Pierrot. They had watched the dawn come up after the ball and before the sun had set again they had agreed to marry.

  He watched the crowd for Pierrettes, sure somehow that the dog’s mistress would costume so.

  Everything about this fair made him think even more about Martha, if that were possible. How she had traveled his territory with him, how it had been their habit to start out, anywhere, whenever a vacation came along. Chuck the Duncan Hines guide and some bags in the car and be off. Martha…sitting beside him with the open highway a broad ribbon before them…singing their road song America the Beautiful and keeping him on key: “—thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears—”

  Once she had said to him, while they were bowling along through—where was it? The Black Hills? The Ozarks? The Poconos? No matter. She had said, “Johnny, you’ll never be President and I’ll never be First Lady, but I’ll bet we know more about the United States than any President ever has. Those busy, useful people never have time to see it, not really.”

  “It’s a wonderful country, darling.”

  “It is, it is indeed. I could spend all eternity just traveling around in it—traveling in elephants, Johnny, with you.”

  He had reached over and patted her knee; he remembered how it felt.

  The revellers in the mock French Quarter were thinning out; they had drifted away while he daydreamed. He stopped a red devil. “Where is everyone going?”

  “To the parade, of course.”

  “The Big Parade?”

  “Yes, it’s forming now.” The red devil moved on, he followed.

  His own sleeve was plucked. “Did you find her?” It was Mrs. Evans, slightly disguised by a black domino and clinging to the arm of a tall elderly Uncle Sam.

  “Eh? Why, hello, Mrs. Evans! What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be silly. Did you find her?”

  “How did you know I was looking for anyone?”

  “Of course you were. Well, keep looking. We must go now.” They trailed after the mob.

  The Big Parade was already passing by the time he reached its route. It did not matter, there was endlessly more to come. The Holly, Colorado, Boosters were passing; they were followed by the prize Shriner drill team. Then came the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan and his Queen of Love and Beauty, up from their cave in the bottom of the Mississippi…the Anniversary Day Parade from Brooklyn, with the school children carrying little American flags…the Rose Parade from Pasadena, miles of flower-covered floats…the Indian Powwow from Flagstaff, twenty-two nations represented and no buck in the march wearing less than a thousand dollars worth of hand-wrought jewelry. After the indigenous Americans rode Buffalo Bill, goatee jutting out and hat in hand, locks flowing in the breeze. Then was the delegation from Hawaii with King Kamehameha himself playing Alii, Lord of Carnival, with royal abandon, while his subjects in dew-fresh leis pranced behind him, giving aloha to all.

  There was no end. Square dancers from Ojai and from upstate New York, dames and gentlemen from Annapolis, the Cuero, Texas, Turkey Trot, all the Krewes and marching clubs of old New Orleans, double flambeaux blazing, nobles throwing favors to the crowd—the King of Zulus and his smooth brown court, singing; “Everybody who was anybody doubted it—”

  And the Mummers came, “taking a suit up the street” to Oh Dem Golden Slippers. Here was something older than the country celebrating it, the shuffling jig of the masquers, a step that was young when mankind was young and first celebrating the birth of spring. First the fancy clubs, whose captains wore capes worth a king’s ransom—or a mortgage on a row house—with fifty pages to bear them. Then the Liberty Clowns and the other comics and lastly the ghostly, sweet string bands whose strains bring tears.

  Johnny thought back to ’44 when he had first seen them march, old men and young boys, because the proper “shooters” were away to war. And of something that should not be on Broad Street in Philadelphia on the first day of January, men riding in the parade because, merciful Heaven forgive us, they could not walk.

  He looked and saw that there were indeed automobiles in the line of march—wounded of the last war, and one G.A.R., hat square, hands folded over the head of his cane. Johnny held his breath and waited. When each automobile approached the judges’ stand, it stopped short of it, and everyone got out. Somehow, with each other’s help, they hobbled or crawled past the judging line, under their own power—and each club’s pride was kept intact.

  There followed another wonder—they did not get back into the automobiles, but marched on up Broad Street.

  Then it was Hollywood Boulevard, disguised as Santa Claus Lane, in a production more stupendous than movieland had ever attempted before. There were baby stars galore and presents and favors and candy for all the children and all the grown up children, too. When, at last, Santa Claus’s own float arrived, it was almost too large to be seen, a veritable iceberg, almost the North Pole itself, with John Barrymore and Mickey Mouse riding one on each side of Saint Nicholas.

  On the tail end of the great, icy float was a pathetic little figure. Johnny squinted and recognized Mr. Emmett Kelly, dean of all clowns, in his role as Weary Willie. Willie was not merry—oh, no, he was shivering. Johnny did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Mr. Kelly had always affected him that way.

  And the elephants came.

  Big elephants, little elephants, middle-sized elephants, from pint-sized Wrinkles to might Jumbo…and with them the bull men, Chester Conklin, P. T. Barnum, Wallie Beery, Mowgli. “This,” Johnny said to himself, “must be Mulberry Street.”

  There was commotion on the other side of the column; one of the men was shooing something away. Then Johnny saw what it was—the dog. He whistled; the animal seemed confused, then it spotted him, scampered up, and jumped into Johnny’s arms. “You stay with me,” Johnny told him. “You might have gotten stepped on.”

  The dog licked his face. He had lost his clown suit, but the little peaked cap hung down under his neck. “What have you been up to?” asked Johnny. “And where is you mistress?”

  The last of the elephants were approaching, three abreast, pulling a great carriage. A bugle sounded up front and the procession stopped. “Why are they stopping?” Johnny asked a neighbor.

  “Wait a moment. You’ll see.”

  The Grand Marshal of the march came trotting back down the line. He rode a black stallion and was himself brave in villain’s boots, white pegged breeches, cutaway, and top hat. He glance
d all around.

  He stopped immediately in front of Johnny. Johnny held the dog more closely to him. The Grand Marshal dismounted and bowed. Johnny looked around to see who was behind him. The Marshal removed his tall silk hat and caught Johnny’s eye. “You, sir, are the Man Who Travels in Elephants?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Uh? Yes.”

  “Greetings, Rex! Serene Majesty, your Queen and your court await you.” The man turned slightly, as if to lead the way.

  Johnny gulped and gathered Bindlestiff under one arm. The Marshal led him to the elephant-drawn carriage. The dog slipped out of his arms and bounded up into the carriage and into the lap of the lady. She patted it and looked proudly, happily, down at Johnny Watts. “Hello, Johnny! Welcome home, darling!”

  “Martha!” he sobbed—and Rex stumbled and climbed into his carriage to embrace his queen.

  The sweet voice of a bugle sounded up ahead, the parade started up again, wending its endless way—

  “—ALL YOU ZOMBIES—”

  2217 Time Zone V (EST) 7 Nov 1970 NYC—“Pop’s Place”: I was polishing a brandy snifter when the Unmarried Mother came in. I noted the time—10.17 P.M. zone five or eastern time November 7th, 1970. Temporal agents always notice time & date; we must.

  The Unmarried Mother was a man twenty-five years old, no taller than I am, immature features and a touchy temper. I didn’t like his looks—I never had—but he was a lad I was here to recruit, he was my boy. I gave him my best barkeep’s smile.

  Maybe I’m too critical. He wasn’t swish; his nickname came from what he always said when some nosy type asked him his line: “I’m an unmarried mother.” If he felt less than murderous he would add: “—at four cents a word. I write confession stories.”

  If he felt nasty, he would wait for somebody to make something of it. He had a lethal style of in-fighting, like a female cop—one reason I wanted him. Not the only one.

  He had a load on and his face showed that he despised people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of Old Underwear and left the bottle. He drank, poured another.