Universe 9 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  “You know all about Moebius strips, Grampa?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Living right alongside of one? Call ‘em that on account you get mobbiouser and mobbiouser each time you go round trying to find a way off.”

  Granny said, “He means the road to Bangor.”

  It’s true, there’s a place where you can easily miss the turn, if you don’t know it, and go off on an old road that was the one before they made the new highway. It sort of loops back in. I said, “Well, I came that way, this morning. No problem.”

  “Sure, ‘s all right coming this way. Going back, though—why, you could do it, or I could. You don’t, though, do you?”

  “No, I usually take the short cut. More of it’s downhill, and you pick up the highway beyond the old loop.”

  “Ayuh. Foreigners, though, they don’t know that. Was a young feller up from Boston, week or so back, all he wanted was to set up in the back field and paint a bit of a picture. Wa’n’t doing no harm to nobody, so I let him set. But when he come to leave, be damn ‘f he could find his way out. Wound up back here at the house three times— near crying, he was, last time around. I figgered he’d had enough, so I took and showed him the way.”

  “Grampa, you didn’t—?”

  Granny’s face stopped me. She looked scared; if she’d been sitting close enough she’d have put a hand over my mouth. Luckily Grampa went on before I put my foot in it. “Showed him the short cut, all neat and simple. Decent little feller. Painting wa’n’t all that bad either, you could tell what he’d been looking at. Guess he got home to Boston all right. Hasn’t been back, anyway.”

  Later, while he was outside and I was wiping the dishes for Granny, I asked her, “What was all that about, Gran? What did I say wrong?”

  “Well, you didn’t say it, dear, so ‘twas all right. You was thinking it, though. That he’d taken the man to the back road.”

  “Was wondering, is all.”

  “But that would have been a dreadful thing to say, Tom. You know he wouldn’t do a thing like that. Not to a harmless painter from Boston.”

  I was remembering the time Grampa showed me the back road, when I was maybe eight years old. “Just taking a walk over to East Whitchett to see Cousin Ella,” he’d said. Dad and Mamma were there, and they sort of looked at each other, not quite smiling, and didn’t say anything. For me it was a mighty special thing to go off for a long walk with Grampa, just us two. Looking back, years later, I saw how he’d been making extra sure I knew the way, at every step. And after that I could never be afraid of getting lost there, though I could see how a person might. Old crossroads, side paths going nowhere, maybe to places where there used to be houses once, and the road itself lazying up and down and around those knobby bumps of hills with their granite bones sticking out, all looking pretty much alike; no sight of a highway or houses anywhere. Then after a while, not such a long while, you come scrambling down one more hill and you’re right in East Whitchett. And that’s all.

  Or so I’d thought, until the summer Dave Morris came up with me for a visit, and we walked over the back road.

  It was the vacation before our senior year; Dave was my roommate at Harvard. He’s a chemical engineer now, and my best critic for the science bits in my stories. He loved that back road. Everything that was commonplace to me was new to him; he’s from New York, and his folks usually took city-type vacations, cruises and jets to Paris, and so on. He hadn’t ever seen blueberries growing. We sat up on the knoll in the cool sunshine, stuffing our mouths with berries, and I noticed Dave was keeping a wary eye on the road below, as if to make sure it would wait for us. He said, “Tom, where d’you suppose you’d come out, from here, if you didn’t make it through to East Whitchett? A different planet, maybe?”

  He was always kidding me about my first attempts at science fiction. But suddenly—as though he’d innocently thrown a switch, changing the light—I was seeing a shimmer and quiver in the air, a slant, an uncertainty; if any piece of the world could tilt bass-ackward and tip you out through a crack, this would be it. You told yourself it couldn’t happen, but here on the back road you didn’t know it couldn’t. I said—making a safe joke of it— “Could be, I don’t know. Maybe we’d better get going.”

  So we went on to East Whitchett, and passed the time with Cousin Ella, and came home the ordinary way by the short cut, in plenty of time for supper. Dave was full of enthusiasm over our walk and the lovely country; it’s a gift he has, a thing I can never do—keeping the air bright with words, hands and eyes talking. I could see Granny sort of warm-happy chuckling to herself: Poor city boy, time he got some clean air into his chest.

  And then he mentioned the blueberries. Grampa sort of went still all over. He said to me, flat and quiet, “You showed David the back road?”

  Dave laughed. “Showed me! Why, Mr. Waldron, I couldn’t begin to find my way through there without following Tom. All those crazy little roads—man, it’s really out of this world. Like stepping into the fourth dimension.”

  You could watch Grampa digesting that while he finished his pie. “That’s the science word for it, hey? Fourth dimension. . . . Well, now, I’ll remember that, be damn ‘f I don’t.”

  I put away the last cup, thinking of questions I ought to ask Granny while I had the chance. Seemed I was remembering old yarns about people disappearing from the back road, but was I remembering or maybe dreaming them up, now, like getting a plot for a fresh story? Some other time, I decided. I said, “Guess I’ll go for a little walk, Gran.”

  I went down the short cut a ways, but only as far as the turn-off to the back road. Stood there for a while, then turned home again. Not knowing any more than I had already.

  When I got back near the house I heard voices. Strangers’ voices. Two men getting out of a big black car. White shirts, so help me, and neckties. Briefcases. Grampa sitting there a-sprawl in his old chair on the porch, not moving to get up. Granny peeking out the kitchen window.

  The pudgy one squeezed himself out of the car and started toward the porch, trying on a hopeful sort of grin. I could see him as the fat kid who’s always getting picked on by the tougher boys at school. “Good morning, Mr. Walton.” I thought he was wishing he could take off that stupid suit jacket, was maybe itching some place where he couldn’t scratch.

  “Waldron. Henry M. Waldron.”

  “Mr. Waldron, of course.” Small unhappy jerk at the mouth corner, quickly fixed by a big jolly smile. “Glad to know you, sir. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Beautiful country you got here. Beautiful.”

  “Ayuh.”

  The other fellow, the thin one, was obviously the boss. Intense, solemn, horn-rimmed spectacles. He was frowning a little. He set to work straightening out the protocol: “Mr. Waldron, let me introduce myself: I am Charles Rowlandson, of the Federal Energy Commission, and my friend here is John Carter, from your own State Power Authority.”

  “Government men.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Waldron. Your government. Now we know you’re busy, we don’t want to waste your time. You’re a well-informed intelligent man; I’m sure you’re aware of the great crisis of our time. Power, sir: energy. You’ve heard the scientists have calculated—”

  “Those fellers. Always calc’lating something. Ask my boy Tom here, he knows ‘em.”

  I’d come to stand beside Grampa’s chair; I had a crazy feeling he might need me. Johnny-boy gave me a big hello grin: “Ah, how do you do, young man? You’re a scientist?”

  “Me? No, I’m just a—a writer. Pay me no mind. Grampa’s having a joke on me.”

  “Oh, ah?”

  They decided to let it ride. Mr. Rowlandson—I wouldn’t have dared think of him as Charley—acknowledged my existence with a benevolent nod. He had planted himself on the porch step and was opening his briefcase—quite a procedure; it seemed to have three or four fastenings at least.

  “We’d be sadly at a loss without those calculations, Mr. Waldron. Our civilization depends on science, yo
u know. And our present situation with regard to energy is—ah— it’s not too much to call it unprecedented. We cannot allow the wheels of progress to grind to a halt.”

  “Progress, Mr. Waltham!” Johnny’s pink face reflected glory from that blessed word. “What a wonderful age we live in! Just think what progress you and I have seen in our lifetime—cars for everybody, jets, satellites, television—all depending on power, Mr. Watson, power! And if this great country of ours is to go on growing—as it must, sir, as it must—”

  Mr. Rowlandson didn’t want to take time out for a campaign speech. He put on that faint gray frown again, just enough to turn his partner off. I was beginning to feel sorry for Johnny. I said, “Why don’t you take off your coat, Mr. Carter? It’s plenty hot here.”

  “Why—why, I believe I will. Thank you.”

  Rowlandson had his briefcase open now. Patiently, he began again. “Now, we’re agreed there must be new power stations, new sources of energy for growing industry; I think there can be no argument on that. And I’m sure you know, Mr. Waldron, we have an option, a really tremendous opportunity, that no previous age ever had. Nuclear power, sir. That is the future.”

  “Was a piece in the paper about it, awhile back.”

  “Indeed.” Rowlandson had taken out an impressive folder of documents. “Now, the problem that confronts us is to find the best sites for these new power plants. Ours is strictly a preliminary survey, Mr. Waldron; in the last analysis, decisionwise, the outcome will be conditioned by our recommendations. It has been brought to our attention that you are the owner of a large tract of land lying to the north and west of this highway.” He fetched a big map out of the briefcase. “Ah, approximately two hundred acres, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Nope.”

  “No? But our information is—”

  “You looked it up, don’t have to ask what I’d say.”

  Johnny chuckled. “Oh, very sharp, very witty! Now this land of yours has exceptional advantages, adjoining the lake here, you see, and—”

  “Land’s not for sale.”

  “Well, Mr. Wilson, I’m sure you’ve heard of eminent domain, means if the government needs your land it can—”

  “Not around here it don’t”

  Rowlandson said, “Your own attorney will be happy to explain the situation to you, Mr. Waldron. You would receive an excellent price, of course, if we should decide in your favor. But, as I was saying, all this is preliminary. I’d suggest you have a meeting of your neighbors to talk it over, that’s the way we like to have things done, and well be delighted to send you a speaker if you’ll notify us. Clear everything up for you, informationwise. And there’s another side to this, of course—new jobs, you know—everyone will be better off, moneywise, you can see that. Meanwhile we thought you’d be interested in these fine aerial survey maps—this copy is for you, sir, you might call it a portrait of your property.”

  “You fellers been riding your airplanes over my back land?”

  Johnny laughed merrily. “Why, you don’t own the air, you know, Mr. Wharton.”

  “Depends how low you’ve been flying. We got laws on that.”

  “Yes, and you’ll find we’ve been careful not to infringe on your rights.” Rowlandson was opening up the map. Grampa didn’t do anything to stop him from spreading it out on the porch floor. I love maps, and it was a beauty. There was Grampa’s house, clear as clear; you could pick out every house in East Whitchett, and the tricky loop of highway on the road to Bangor. Only in one spot there was nothing but a kind of blur: that was the piece around the back road. I thought of pointing it out to them, asking if there might have been a bad spot in the film there, and then I thought I wouldn’t.

  Grampa might have slid his eyes sidewise a bit to look at it. People don’t always credit him with 20-20 vision, at his age. He said, “You folks aiming to make recommendations about my back land? That what you said?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “That’s good land back there, mister. Some of the best acreage in the state. Can’t waste land like that on no goddamn atoms.”

  Rowlandson started to say something, then clamped his mouth on it, the frown coming back. He stood up, closed the briefcase. The two of them didn’t quite look at each other.

  There was a while when nothing happened. Then Grampa got up and stretched, and they both backed off a bit; they hadn’t noticed he was all that big. He stood thinking, not making any move at them.

  “Well, now, being as all this is so pre-liminary, reckon you boys’ll be wanting to get back to wherever you’re going. You can tell your boss that back land a’n’t for sale.

  And you can tell’m yes, we’ll have a meeting, like you said, only we don’t need no speaker from you, mister, we can read, you might be surprised about that. We’ll let you know if you can come back here. Or not.”

  Johnny tried again, earnestly: “I’m sure we can expect your cooperation, Mr. Weldon, an intelligent public-spirited citizen like you—”

  “You won’t be wanting to go back just the way you came,” Grampa said. “Mean twist in die road, bothers some folks, even with those pretty maps. I’ll show you a better way. Tom, you want to get out the pickup, bring her round front?”

  I went, feeling sick and scared. But not able to think of anything to do about it. I was expecting him to motion me down out of the truck, but he said, “Move over,” and climbed in. That old Chevvy always coughs and sputters for me, no matter what I do, but one touch of Grampa’s big foot on the pedal and she starts purring like a Cadillac with kittens.

  “Yes, sir, the short cut is a mighty pretty road,” he told them, talking down over his shoulder. “Goes through that back land of mine, you can anyway get a look at it from the car. You just follow along after us, road takes you right back into the highway, headed straight for Bangor. Can’t miss it.”

  We’d been tooling along the short cut for a couple-three miles before Grampa said anything to me.

  “I know what you was thinking, Tommy. Won’t say I didn’t have the notion, myself. Thing of it is, though, even those government men, why, they’re people. Got to give ‘em a chance.” Another mile, or two. “Not saying what we mightn’t have to do, if they was to keep coming back. Wouldn’t do it on my own, no, we got to get the meeting onto it, have everything square and legal. Can’t let ‘em build that goddamn thing. Not here.”

  (. . . a crack into the fourth dimension?)

  We came out into the straight piece, where the black car would be nosing impatiently at our tail. I scrunched around to look back. “Grampa, I don’t think they’re following us.”

  He stopped and listened a bit, then swung the pickup around and drove back, slowly, studying both sides of the road. Nothing. No place where a big car could turn off, not until the back road. We stopped there. Everything was empty, quiet. A thrush was timing up, off in the woods.

  Grampa said, “They must of went that-a-way, after all.”

  “Look, Grampa—it’s nothing but an ordinary little old country road. Isn’t it?”

  “A’n’t no sort of use going in there to look for ‘em.”

  “No, they’d have made it through to East Whitchett by now, wouldn’t they? No reason why not. Is there?”

  “I dunno about reasons, Tommy. All I’m saying, I never told ‘em to go that-a-way. Told ‘em to follow the pickup. You heard me.”

  “Yes, but—Grampa, you know you ought not to have said they couldn’t miss it.”

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  * * * *

  Since his last appearance here (“Under the Generator,” Universe 6), John Shirley has sold stories to a wide variety of science fiction magazines and original-story anthologies, plus two novels, Changeworld and City Come A-Walkin’. Born in Houston, Texas, in 1953, he traveled around the country with “wanderlustful parents,” worked in a variety of occupations so unusual that many don’t have proper names, and currently lives with his wife Ann Feldstein Shirley in Portland, Oregon, wh
ere he turns out some of the oddest stories in science fiction.

  “Will the Chill” is typical of Shirley’s work in that it embodies, in a crisply written adventure story, some offbeat speculations about the interface between physics and metaphysics . . . and a protagonist who’s a cold, alienated man who remains likable. “Or at least admirable,” says Shirley.

  * * * *

  WILL THE CHILL

  John Shirley

  “I refuse to speak to him,” Tondius Will declared.

  “If you don’t, there will be no more sponsor,” replied Great Senses. The biocyber computer paused, its wall of lights changed from considering-yellow to assertion-blue; the programming room’s shadows fled before the brighter glow of blue so that the oval chamber resembled the interior of a great turquoise egg.