Universe 4 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  “Ho,” everybody said. “It will hardly hurt at all.”

  That was terrifying. Woody knew who he was now. He was the one at the bottom—and that was a secure position. If he left the path and joined this many, who would he be? He would be lost. He would not know himself.

  “Who?” he said. “Who?”

  “You,” they said. “You.”

  They laughed. And they were singing, some of them. And doing other things. Celebrating beneath this final black threatening sky, this roiling heaven.

  Woody could not bear it. “I have to find a 28K-916 Hersh,” he said. “I can’t stay. I have to go.”

  “Goodbye. Goodbye,” they called as he hurried away. He looked back from the hillside and some were looking up at the sky and waiting. Waiting for the clouds to open and the rain to pour down. Woody feared the rain. He ran.

  No map. No directions. No map. No instructions. No umbrella. But he still had two toll tokens.

  Down the path he ran into the rock park. Along the path. Still on the true path. And there before him were the twin boulders. Before him was the green stair with the orange railing. Before him was haven.

  But there was a chain across the top of the stair. There was a locked gate across the bottom of the stair. And the lamps at the entrance were not lit. All said, “Closed.” All said, “Try Other Entrance.”

  The other entrance. The other entrance. Where was the other entrance? There it was! It was visible on the other side of the rock park, marked by another pair of lamps set atop another pair of boulders.

  Woody left the path and struck toward them. He ran in all his hope of home. He ran in all his fear of rain. His understanding was not profound, but he knew that if he were rained upon, nothing would be as it was.

  He did not notice that in leaving the path his father had marked for him before Woody had ventured out of the closet, he had lost his last protection. First the robot, sturdy and comforting. Then the umbrella to shield him. Then he had lost his map and instructions. And finally he had left the true path.

  Woody reached the other entrance. There was a chain across the top of the stairs. There was a gate across the bottom of the stairs. There were signs and the signs said, “Closed,” and “Try Other Entrance.”

  The other entrance. The other entrance. Where was the other entrance? There it was! It was visible on the other side of the rock park.

  Woody hurried toward it. But then halfway between the two he stopped. That was where he had already been. He looked confused. He began to spin. Around and around on his toe he went. He did not know what to do. Overhead the skies impended. Poor Woody. He really needed someone in charge to tell him what to do next.

  Around and around he went. Suddenly an imposing figure flashed into being before him. It glowed lemon-yellow and it was very tall.

  “Halt. Cease that,” it said. It was an even stranger foreign creature than the blue alien in the Friends of the New York Subway System uniform. “Woody Asenion?”

  Woody nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I know all about you. You’re late. You’re very late. It’s time for the rain to start. It should have started by now.”

  “Is it going to rain?” Woody asked. “Is it truly going to rain?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But I don’t want it to rain,” Woody said. “I want to be home safe in my own closet. Is it because I left the path?”

  “Yes, it is,” the strange creature said. “And now you’re going to get wet.”

  “No,” said Woody. “I won’t. I’ll run between the raindrops. I won’t get wet”

  And he started to run in fear and in trembling. The lightning lightened to see him run. Thunder clapped the stale air between its hands. The forefinger of the rain prodded after Woody.

  Rain fell at Woody, but he dodged and ducked. He was slicker than a greased pig. He ran down Grapefruit Street, and the rain missed him. He ran up Joralemon and it spattered around him and never touched him. He ran past the infamous Red Hook of Brooklyn. He ran through the marketplaces and bazaars of Brooklyn. He ran through a quiet sleeping town of little brown houses, all like beehives. He ran through all the places of Brooklyn and the rain pursued him everywhere.

  And he would not be touched. This was Woody Asenion, who was raised in a closet and who didn’t dare to open the door by himself. Who would have thought he would be so daring? Who would have thought he would be so nimble? Fear took him to heights he had never dreamed of. Fear made him magnificent.

  Watching people paused and cheered as he passed. They had to admire him. Pigeons fled before him. Lightning circled his head. Thunder thundered. The skies rolled and tumbled blackly, but not a drop of rain could touch Woody Asenion.

  Then at last as he ran up the long slow slope to Prospect Park, he began to tire. His breath was sharp in his throat. His steps grew labored. His dodges grew less canny. And then of a sudden lightning struck all around him. It struck before him. It struck behind him. It struck on his either hand. All at once. Woody was engulfed in thunder, drowned in thunder, rolled and tossed by thunder. He was washed to the ground. He was beached. He was helpless.

  And as he lay there, unable to help himself, it rained on Woody. A single giant drop of water. The drop surrounded him and gently drenched him from head to toe, and after that Woody was not the same. That was a very strange drop of rain.

  And now Woody was all wet. He stood and looked down at himself. He held his arms out and watched them drip. Then he laughed. He shook himself and laughed. He was really changed.

  All the other multiforms, all the other people, came running up to Woody and surrounded him. They were all wet, too.

  “Here,” said the boy in the doublet. “Look what we found for you.” It was an orange-and-black box, factory-new. It was a 28K-916 Hersh. It said so on the box. He gave it to Woody.

  The girl said, “Woody. You made it, Woody.” She kissed him and Woody could only smile and laugh some more. He was happy.

  The boy in the white suit handed Woody his chrysanthemum. “We waited for you,” he said. “We didn’t get wet until you did.”

  It was such a great secret to be included in. It didn’t matter to Woody that he was the very last to know. He was the first to get wet. How lucky he was.

  Woody began to dance then. If fear had made him an inspired dodger, the promise of the new horizontal world made him an intoxicated dancer. His dance was brilliant. His dance was so brilliant that everybody danced Woody’s dance for a time. But nobody danced it as well as Woody did.

  Woody danced, and with him danced all the no-longer-verticals. With him danced three alien beings—two blue, one lemon-yellow. With him danced the two boys and the girl. With him danced all the people from the subway train. With him danced all the people from his neighborhood, including the little girl who also lived at 206 W. 104th St. in Manhattan. She danced between two robots, one tall, one short.

  Then Woody saw his father. His father was dancing Woody’s dance, too! There were three other men of his age dancing with him.

  Woody danced over to his father and everybody danced after him. Mr. Asenion said, “These are my friends, Murray, Stanton and Hyatt. We are going to invent together.”

  Woody said, “I have your 28K-916 Hersh.”

  “No need,” his father said, waving it away, never ceasing to dance. “No need. I made do without it.” And everybody cheered for Woody’s father.

  Then the step changed and everybody danced his own way again. But Woody was still happy. Woody celebrated, too. And the horizontal world began.

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