The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty

by R. A. Lafferty

  “Oh, yes. All have names. Might as well take them all.”

  “Only people, Manuel.”

  “Mulos?”

  “No.”

  “Conejos?”

  “No, Manuel, no.”

  “No trouble. Might as well take them all.”

  “Only people—God give me strength!—only people, Manuel.”

  “How about little people?”

  “Children, yes, that has been explained to you.”

  “Little people. Not children. Little people.”

  “If they are people, take them.”

  “How big they have to be?”

  “It doesn't make any difference how big they are. If they are people, take them.”

  Manuel took Mula and went. His sector was the Santa Magdalena—a scarp of baldheaded and desolate mountains, steep but not high, and so torrid in the afternoons that it was said that the old lava sometimes began to writhe and flow again from the sun's heat alone.

  In the Center Valley, there were five thousand acres of slag and glassified rock from some forgotten old blast that had melted the hills and destroyed their mantle, reducing all to a terrible flatness. This was Sodom — strewn with low-lying ghosts as of people and objects, formed when the granite bubbled like water.

  Away from the dead center, the ravines were body-deep in chaparral, and the mountains stood gray-green in old cactus. The stunted trees were lower than the giant bushes and yuccas.

  Manuel went with Mula — a round easy man and a spare gaunt mule. Mula was a mule, but there were other inhabitants of the Santa Magdalena whose genus was less certain.

  Yet even about Mula there was an ancestral oddity. Her paternal grandfather had been a goat. Manuel once told Mr. Marshal about this, but Marshal had not accepted it.

  “She is a mule,” he said. “Therefore, her father was a jack. Therefore his father was also a jack, a donkey. It could not be any other way, Manuel.”

  Manuel often wondered about this, for he had raised the whole strain of animals and he remembered who had been with whom.

  “A donkey! A jack! Two feet tall, and with a beard and horns! I always thought he was a goat.”

  Manuel and Mula stopped at noon on Lost Soul Creek. There would be no travel in the hot afternoon. But Manuel had a job to do and he did it. He took the forms from one of the packs that he had unslung from Mula and counted out nine of them. He wrote down all the data on nine people. He knew all there was to know about them — their nativities and their antecedents. He knew that there were only nine regular people in the nine hundred square miles of the Santa Magdalena. But he was systematic, so he checked the list over again and again. There seemed to be somebody missing. Oh yes, himself. He got another form and filled out all the data on himself.

  Now — in one way of looking at it — his part in the census was finished. If only he had looked at it that way, he would have saved worry and trouble for everyone, and also ten thousand lives. But the instructions they had given him were ambiguous, for all that they had tried to make them clear.

  So very early the next morning, Manuel rose and cooked beans and said, “Might as well take them all.”

  He called Mula from the thorn patch where she was grazing and gave her salt and loaded her again. Then they went to take the rest of the census — but in fear. There was a clear duty to get the job done, but there was also a dread of it that the superiors did not understand. There was reason also why Mula was loaded with packs of census forms till she could hardly walk.

  Manuel prayed out loud as they climbed the purgatorial scarp above Lost Soul Creek “—ruega por nosotros pecodores ahora”— the very gulches stood angry and stark in the hot early morning— “y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”

  Three days later an incredible dwarf staggered into the outskirts of High Plains, Texas. He was followed by a dying wolf-sized animal that did not look like a wolf. A lady called the police to save the pair from rock-throwing kids who would have killed them; and the two as yet unclassified things were taken to the station house.

  The dwarf was three feet high — a skeleton stretched over with brown-burnt leather. The other was an uncanine looking dog-sized beast so full of burs and thorns that it might have been a porcupine. But it was more a nightmare replica of a shrunken mule.

  The midget was mad. The animal had more presence of mind; she lay down quietly and died. That was all she could do considering the state she was in.

  “Who is census chief now?” asked the mad midget. “Is Mr. Marshal's little boy the census chief?”

  “Mr. Marshal is, yes. Who are you? How do you know of Marshal? And what is that which you are pulling out of your pants—if they are pants?”

  “Census list. Names of everyone in town. I had to steal it.”

  “It looks like microfilm—the writing is so small. And the roll goes on and on. There must be a million names here.”

  “Little bit more, little bit more. I get two bits a name.”

  They got Marshal there. He was very busy, but he came. He had been given a deadline by the mayor and the citizen's group. He had to produce a population of ten thousand persons for High Plains, Texas. This was difficult, for there weren't that many people in the town. He had been working hard on it, though. But he came when the police called him.

  “You Marshal's little boy?” the mad midget asked him. “You look just like your father.”

  “That voice — I should know that voice even if it's cracked to pieces,” said Marshall. “That has to be Manuel's voice.”

  “Sure, I'm Manuel, just like when I left thirty-five years ago.”

  “You can't be Manuel—shrunk three feet and two hundred pounds and aged a million.”

  “You look here at my census slip, Mr. Marshal. It says I'm Manuel. And here are nine more of the regular people, and one million of the little people. I couldn't get the little ones on the regular forms. I had to steal their list.”

  “You can't be Manuel,” said Marshal.

  “He can't be Manuel,” said the big policemen and the little policemen.

  “Maybe not then. I thought I was. Who am I then? Let's look at the other papers to see which one I am.”

  “No, you can't be any of them either, Manuel. And you surely can't be Manuel.”

  “Give him a name anyhow and get him counted,” said the head of the citizens group. “We got to get to that ten thousand mark.”

  “Tell us what happened, Manuel—if you are—which you aren't—but tell us.”

  “After I counted the regular people, I went to count the little people. I took a spade and spaded the top off their town to get in. But they put an encanto on me and made me and Mula run a treadmill for thirty-five years.”

  “Where was this, Manuel?”

  “At the Little People Town — Nuevo Danae. But after thirty-five years, the encanto wore off, and Mula and I stole the list of names and ran away.”

  “But where did you really get this list of so many names written so small, Manuel?”

  “Suffering saddle sores, Marshal, don't ask the little bug so many questions! You got a million names in your hand. Certify them! Send them in! There's enough of us right here to pass a resolution. We declare that place annexed forthwith. This will make High Plains the biggest town in Texas.”

  So Marshal certified the names and sent them in to Washington. This gave High Plains the largest percent increase of any city in the nation—but it was challenged. There were some soreheads in Houston who said that it wasn't possible—that High Plains had nowhere near that many people and that there must have been a miscount.

  In the days that the argument was going on, they cleaned up and fed Manuel—if it were he—and tried to get from him a cogent story.

  “How do you know it was thirty-five years, Manuel?”

  “On the treadmill, it seemed like thirty-five years.”

  “It could have been only about three days.”

  “How come I'm so old then?”


  “We don't know that Manuel. We sure don't know that. How big were these people?”

  “Who knows. A finger long, maybe two.”

  “And what is their town?”

  “It's an old prairie dog town that they fixed up. You have to dig down with a spade to get to the streets.”

  “Maybe they really were prairie dogs, Manuel. Maybe the heat got you and you only dreamed that they were little people.”

  “Prairie dogs can't write as good as on that list,” said Manuel. “Prairie dogs can't write hardly at all.”

  “That's true. The list is hard to explain. And such odd names on it, too.”

  “Where is Mula? I don't see Mula since I came back.”

  “Mula just lay down and died, Manuel.”

  “Gave me the slip. Why didn't I think of that? I'll do it too. I'm too worn out for anything else.”

  “Before you do, Manuel, just a couple of last questions.”

  “Make them real fast then. I'm on my way.”

  “Did you know the little people were there before?”

  “Oh sure. Everybody in the Santa Magdalena see them. Eight, nine people know they are there. ‘Who wants to be laughed at?’ they say. They never talked about it.”

  “And, Manuel, how do we get to the place? Can you show us on a map?”

  Manuel made a grimace and died quietly. He didn't understand those maps, and he took the easy way out. They buried him — not knowing for sure whether he was Manuel or not. There wasn't much of him to bury.

  It was the same night—very late, and after he had been asleep—that Marshal was awakened by the ring of an authoritative voice. He was being harangued by a four-inch-tall man on his bedside table—a man of dominating presence and acid voice. “Come out of that cot, you clown! Give me your name and station!”

  “I'm Marshal, and I suspect that you're a late pig sandwich. I shouldn't eat so late.”

  “Say ‘Sir’ when you reply to me! I am no pig sandwich and I do not commonly call on fools. Get on your feet, you clod!” Wondering, Marshal did.

  “I want the list that was stolen. Don't gape. Get it! Don't stall, don't stutter. Get me that tax list! It isn't words I want from you.”

  “Listen, you cicada,” said Marshal with his last bravery, “I'll take you and—”

  “You will not! You will notice that you are now paralyzed from the neck down. I suspect that you were always so from there up. Where is it?”

  “S—sent it to Washington.”

  “You bug-eyed behemoth! Do you realize what a trip that will be? You grandfather of inanities, it will be a pleasure to destroy you.

  “I don't know what you are,” said Marshal. “I don't believe you even belong on the world.”

  “Not belong on the world? We own the world. We can show written title to the world. Can you?”

  “I doubt it. Where did you get the title?”

  “We got it from a promoter of sorts, a con man really. I have to admit that we were taken, but we were in a spot and needed a world. He said that the larger bifurcates were too stupid to be a nuisance. We should have known that the stupider the creature the more of a nuisance it is.”

  “I have decided the same thing about the smaller the creature. We may have to fumigate that old mountain mess.”

  “Oh, you can't harm us. We're too powerful. But we can obliterate you in an instant.”

  “Hah!” exploded Marshal.

  “Say ‘hah, sir’ when you address me. Do you know the place in the mountain that is called Sodom?”

  “I know the place. It was caused by a large meteor.”

  “It was caused by one of these,” said the small creature, and what he held up was the size of a grain of sand. “There was another city of you bug-eyed beasts there,” continued the small martinet. “You wouldn't know about it. It's been a few hundred years. We decided it was too close. Now I have decided that you are too close.”

  “A thing that size couldn't crack a walnut,” said Marshal.

  “You floundering fop, it will blast this town flat.”

  “And if it does, what will happen to you?”

  “Nothing. I don't even blink for things like that. I haven't time to explain it to you, you gaping goof. I have to get to Washington.”

  It may be that Marshal did not believe himself quite awake. He certainly didn't take the threat seriously enough. For, in a manner still not understood, the little man did trigger it off.

  When the final count was in, High Plains did not have the highest percentage gain in the Nation. Actually it showed the sharpest decline of any town — from 7313 to nothing. It is believed that High Plains was destroyed by a giant meteor. But there are eight, nine people in the Santa Magdalena who know what really happened, and they won't tell. They were going to make a forest preserve out of the place, except that it has no trees worthy of the name. Now it is proposed to make it the Sodom and Gomorrah State Park from the two mysterious scenes of desolation there just seven miles apart.

  It is an interesting place, as wild a region as you will ever find, and is recommended for the man who has seen everything.

  Task Force Fifty-Eight and a Half

  It is disquieting that those should already have become ancient days. It doesn't make one old to remember them; but it makes the world old, recalling what it used to be like. It has been going downhill since then. Isocrates said that the world was created solely for one afternoon; and that, when that high time came, a few would know it; and the rest would not matter.

  That was George Isocrates. He always talked like that. He was a lawyer in Chicago. The sayings of the original Isocrates have only come down to us garbled.

  There were four who knew it when it came. They were out in an inflated rubber boat known as Task Force Fifty-Eight and a Half. The boat belonged to Joe Stoffel, an army sergeant who would have been a general if he had had the years and the inclination. He was called Stuff. He was the best looking of the four, one of the two huskiest, and one of the four smartest.

  “Let's go across to Ita Pulau,” said Stuff, and the water had just turned from white-green to green.

  “Ba-goose,” said George Elias. The accent is on the goose.

  “Tiddy ba-goose,” said Phil Plunkett.

  There is a difficulty here. If you do not already know it, you must learn the Malay language before going on. Fortunately it is easy and can be learned in a minute.

  Ba-goose means good, and tiddy ba-goose means bad. These two concepts cover nearly everything, so the language is mostly learned. But there are several other words that should be known for true fluency. Perahu is a boat, and Pulau is an island. Ikan is a fish. And there are numbers. Lima is five (lima on the beam-a is said when praying for that point at dice); Satu is one. Dua is two. Tiga is three (tiga come to me-ga is also said at craps). Seven is either Tujoh or Pito. One of these words is Malay, the other is of a language spoken farther down in the islands. Remember both of the words; one of them is right.

  Empat is four; Lapan is eight; Enam is six. Nine and ten are very difficult words, and both of them begin with S. If you do not know them, fake them. Those are the numbers. If you put them together right you can count to a thousand.

  Perempuan is a woman. Telor is an egg. Makan is eat. Minum is drink. Bulan is the moon. There may not be a word for the sun; if there is, it is not remembered.

  There is the entire language in twenty words, all that is needed for conversation. If you would be perfect there are three obscene words, and for various other objects and ideas the pedants use other words that need not be learned by everyone.

  If other languages were taught as simply and directly (and intelligently) as this there would be less trouble for all.

  “Why not?” asked Stuff. He asked this in English.

  “The tide will be too strong for us coming back.”

  The water had turned from green to deep green, and the oar moved the boat as though it had no resistance at all. The fact was that Stuff was using th
e oar; and, as he owned the boat, he would likely take it to Ita Pulau, which is Ita Island in the language which you have just learned.

  It is necessary to fix in time and space that afternoon for which the world was made. That time was July 4, 1945 at thirteen hours, and the four soldiers had an afternoon's liberty (or the three Americans had, and the other seemed to be always at liberty). The location on Earth was one degree and forty-nine minutes north, and one hundred twenty-eight degrees and eleven minutes east, both plus odd seconds. These were the Moluccas, called the Spice Islands.

  It was at that time and place that the sea gave a jolt which meant that this was the afternoon for which the world was made, and that this was the last afternoon on Earth for all four of them. The water had turned from deep-green to blue meaning that here it was more than four hundred feet deep, and the jolt could not have been from obstruction or shallow; it was from a deep running tide.

  “I'll have the world by the tail when this is over,” said Stuff. (They rode in the bottom of a cup.) “I already have it by the tail, but it'll be a hairier tail then, and I'll have a better hold. I can have anything I want here now, but there aren't enough things here. But then I'll have it all.”

  “Wottle you do?” asked Shoe-Horn. His name was Calzatoio, which means a shoe-horn.

  “If I have the world by the tail I can do anything I want. Did you ever have a calf by the tail? You can twist that tail any way and make the calf go where you want.”

  “Hard to hold on though,” said Plunkett.

  “Not for me. I'll twist the world just the way I want to. When I have things going my way, then everyone will have to come jump on my sled or they won't ride.”

  They rode in the bottom of the cup. It was the sea itself, concave to the extreme (though instrument would not have shown it), a crater that seemed only a mile across, though it was twenty times that. The high islands around them were all mountainous, and it seemed that their peaks lacked only a little of meeting overhead.