Why the rope, though?
Some kind of grisly joke? Was the trunk telling him to go string himself up? He couldn’t even do that properly here; there wasn’t a tree in sight tall enough for a man to hang himself from, not even a telephone pole. Norton felt like kicking himself. Here he was, and here he’d remain for hours, maybe even for days, until another car came along. Of all the dumb stunts!
Angrily he hurled the rope into the air. It uncoiled as he let go of it, and one end rose straight up. The rope hovered about a yard off the ground, rigid, pointing skyward. A faint turquoise cloud formed at the upper end, and a thin, muscular olive-skinned boy in a turban and a loincloth climbed down to confront the gaping Norton.
“Well, what’s the trouble?” the boy asked brusquely.
“I’m … out … of .. . gas.”
“There’s a filling station twenty miles back. Why didn’t you tank up there?”
“I … that is …”
“What a damned fool,” the boy said in disgust. “Why do I get stuck with jobs like this? All right, don’t go anywhere and I’ll see what I can do.”
He went up the rope again and vanished.
When he returned, some three minutes later, he was carrying a tin of gasoline. Glowering at Norton, he slid the gas-tank cover aside and poured in the gas.
“This’ll get you to Roswell,” he said. “From now on look at your dashboard once in a while. Idiot!”
He scrambled up the rope. When he disappeared, the rope went limp and fell. Norton shakily picked it up and slipped it into the trunk, whose lid shut with an aggressive slam.
Half an hour went by before Norton felt it was safe to get behind the wheel again. He paced around the car something more than a thousand times, not getting a whole lot steadier in the nerves, and ultimately, with night coming on, got in and switched on the ignition. The engine coughed and turned over. He began to drive toward Roswell at a sober and steadfast fifteen miles an hour.
He was willing to believe anything, now.
And so it did not upset him at all when a handsome reddish-brown horse with the wingspread of a DC-3 came soaring through the air, circled above the car a couple of times, and made a neat landing on the highway alongside him. The horse trotted along, keeping pace with him, while the small white-haired man in the saddle yelled, “Open your window wider, young fellow! I’ve got to talk to you!”
Norton opened the window.
The little man said, “Your name Sam Norton?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, listen, Sam Norton, you’re driving my car!”
Norton saw a dirt turnoff up ahead and pulled into it. As he got out, the pegasus came trotting up and halted to let its rider dismount. It cropped moodily at sagebrush, fluttering its huge wings a couple of times before folding them neatly along its back.
The little man said, “My car, all right. Had her specially made a few years back, when I was on the road a lot. Dropped her off at the garage last winter account of I had a business trip to make abroad, but I never figured they’d sell her out from under me before I got back. It’s a decadent age, that’s the truth.”
“Your … car …” Norton said.
“My car, yep. Afraid I’ll have to take it from you, too. Car like this, you don’t want to own it, anyway. Too complicated. Get yourself a decent little standard-make flivver, eh? Well, now, let’s unhitch this trailer thing of yours, and then—”
“Wait a second,” Norton said. “I bought this car legally. I’ve got a bill of sale to prove it, and a letter from the dealer’s lawyer, explaining that—”
“Don’t matter one bit,” said the little man. “One crook hires another crook to testify to his character, that’s not too impressive. I know you’re an innocent party, son, but the fact remains that the car is my property, and I hope I don’t have to use special persuasion to get you to relinquish it.” “You just want me to get out and walk, is that it? In the middle of the New Mexico desert at sundown? Dragging the damned U-Haul with my bare hands?”
“Hadn’t really considered that problem much,” the little man said. “Wouldn’t altogether be fair to you, would it?” “It sure wouldn’t.” Tie thought a moment. “And what about the two hundred bucks I paid for the car?”
The little man laughed. “Shucks, it cost me more than that to rent the pegasus to come chasing you! And the overhead! You know how much hay that critter—”
“That’s your problem,” Norton said. “Mine is that you want to strand me in the desert and that you want to take away a car that I bought in good faith for two hundred dollars, and even if it’s a goddam magic car 1—”
“Hush, now,” said the little man. “You’re gettin’ all upset, Sam! We can work this thing out. You’re going to L.A., that it?”
“Ye-es.”
“So am I. Okay, we travel together. I’ll deliver you and your trailer, here, and then the car’s mine again, and you forget anything you might have seen these last few days.”
“And my two hundred dol—”
“Oh, all right.” The little man walked to the back of the car. The trunk opened; he slipped in a hand and pulled forth a sheaf of new bills, a dozen twenties, which he handed to Norton. “Here. With a little something extra, thrown in. And don’t look at them so suspiciously, hear? That’s good legal tender U.S. money. They even got different serial numbers, every one.” He winked and strolled over to the grazing pegasus, which he slapped briskly on the rump. “Get along, now. Head for home. You cost me enough already!”
The horse began to canter along the highway. As it broke into a gallop it spread its superb wings; they beat furiously a moment, and the horse took off, rising in a superb arc until it was no bigger than a hawk against the darkening sky, and then was gone.
The little man slipped into the driver’s seat of the car and fondled the wheel in obvious affection. At a nod, Norton took the seat beside him, and off they went.
“I understand you peddle computers,” the little man said when he had driven a couple of miles. “Mighty interesting things, computers. I’ve been considering computerizing our operation too, you know? It’s a pretty big outfit, a lot of consulting stuff all over the world, mostly dowsing now, some thaumaturgy, now and then a little transmutation, things like that, and though we use traditional methods we don’t object to the scientific approach. Now, let me tell you a bit about our inventory flow, and maybe you can make a few intelligent suggestions, young fellow, and you might just be landing a nice contract for yourself—”
Norton had the roughs for the system worked out before they hit Arizona. From Phoenix he phoned Ellen and found out that she had rented an apartment just outside Beverly Hills, in what looked like a terribly expensive neighborhood but really wasn’t, at least, not by comparison with some of the other things she’d seen, and—
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m in the process of closing a pretty big sale. I … ah … picked up a hitchhiker, and turns out he’s thinking of going computer soon, a fairly large company—”
“Sam, you haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“Not a drop.”
“A hitchhiker and you sold him a computer. Next you’ll tell me about the flying saucer you saw. ”
“Don’t be silly,” Norton said. “Flying saucers aren’t real. ”
They drove into L.A. in midmoming, two days later. By then he had written the whole order, and everything was set; the commission, he figured, would be enough to see him through a new car, maybe one of those Swedish jobs Ellen’s sister had heard about. The little man seemed to have no difficulty finding the address of the apartment Ellen had taken; he negotiated the maze of the freeways with complete ease and assurance, and pulled up outside the house.
“Been a most pleasant trip, young fellow,” the little man said. “I’ll be talking to my bankers later today about that wonderful machine of yours. Meanwhile here we part. You’ll have to unhitch the trailer, now.”
“What am I su
pposed to tell my wife about the car I drove here in?”
“Oh, just say that you sold it to that hitchhiker at a good profit. I think she’ll appreciate that.”
They got out. While Norton undid the U-Haul’s couplings, the little man took something from the trunk, which had opened a moment before. It was a large rubbery tarpaulin. The little man began to spread it over the car. “Give us a hand here, will you?” he said. “Spread it nice and neat, so it covers the fenders and everything.” He got inside, while Norton, baffled, carefully tucked the tarpaulin into place.
“You want me to cover the windshield too?” he asked.
“Everything,” said the little man, and Norton covered the windshield. Now the car was wholly hidden.
There was a hissing sound, as of air being let out of tires. The tarpaulin began to flatten. As it sank toward the ground, there came a cheery voice from underneath, calling, “Good luck, young fellow!”
In moments the tarpaulin was less than three feet high. In a minute more it lay flat against the pavement. There was no sign of the car. It might have evaporated, or vanished into the earth. Slowly, uncomprehendingly, Norton picked up the tarpaulin, folded it until he could fit it under his arm, and walked into the house to tell his wife that he had arrived in Los Angeles.
Ah, that elusive, sneaky, somehow slightly dangerous Mr. Sheckley has gone and done it to the reader again. A Sheckley story is always a joy to read because you never quite know what to expect. Of all the authors in this collection, the one I envision actually cackling with a soft manic glee as he bends over the keyboard is Robert Sheckley.
The curse is a mainstay of modem as well as traditional fantasy. There are funny curses, and horrendous curses, liberating curses and damning curses. Then there is the IRS. Another mainstay is the wish, whether conveyed by genie, accident, malapropism or telegram (does anybody actually get telegrams anymore?).
Put the two together in the hands of a quiet riot name of Sheckley, dump them on an ordinary schlemiel, and you end up with …
The Same to You Doubled
ROBERT SHECKLEY
In New York, it never fails, the doorbell rings just when you’ve plopped down onto the couch for a well-deserved snooze. Now, a person of character would say, “To hell with that, a man’s home is his castle and they can slide any telegrams under the door.” But if you’re like Edelstein, not particularly strong on character, then you think to yourself that maybe it’s the blonde from 12C who has come up to borrow a jar of chili powder. Or it could even be some crazy film producer who wants to make a movie based on the letters you’ve been sending your mother in Santa Monica. (And why not; don’t they make movies out of worse material than that?)
Yet this time, Edelstein had really decided not to answer the bell. Lying on the couch, his eyes still closed, he called out, “I don’t want any.”
“Yes you do,” a voice from the other side of the door replied.
“I’ve got all the encyclopedias, brushes and waterless cookery I need,” Edelstein called back wearily. “Whatever you’ve got, I’ve got it already.”
“Look,” the voice said, “I’m not selling anything. I want to give you something.”
Edelstein smiled the thin, sour smile of the New Yorker who knows that if someone made him a gift of a package of genuine, unmarked $20 bills, he’d still somehow end up having to pay for it.
“If it’s free” Edelstein answered, “then I definitely can’t afford it.”
“But I mean really free,” the voice said. “I mean free that it won’t cost you anything now or ever.”
“I’m not interested,” Edelstein replied, admiring his firmness of character.
The voice did not answer.
Edelstein called out, “Hey, if you’re still there, please go away.”
“My dear Mr. Edelstein,” the voice said, “cynicism is merely a form of naivete. Mr. Edelstein, wisdom is discrimination.”
“He gives me lectures now,” Edelstein said to the wall.
“All right,” the voice said, “forget the whole thing, keep your cynicism and your racial prejudice; do I need this kind of trouble?”
“Just a minute,” Edelstein answered. “What makes you think I’m prejudiced?”
“Let’s not crap around,” the voice said. “If I was raising funds for Hadassah or selling Israel bonds, it would have been different. But, obviously, I am what I am, so excuse me for living.”
“Not so fast,” Edelstein said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a voice from the other side of the door. For all I know, you could be Catholic or Seventh-Day Adventist or even Jewish.”
“You knew” the voice responded.
“Mister, I swear to you—”
“Look,” the voice said, “it doesn’t matter, I come up against a lot of this kind of thing. Goodbye, Mr. Edelstein.”
“Just a minute,” Edelstein replied.
He cursed himself for a fool. How often had he fallen for some huckster’s line, ending up, for example, paying $9.98 for an illustrated two-volume Sexual History of Mankind, which his friend Manowitz had pointed out he could have bought in any Marboro bookstore for $2.98?
But the voice was right. Edelstein had somehow known that he was dealing with a goy.
And the voice would go away thinking. The Jews, they think they’re better than anyone else. Further, he would tell this to his bigoted friends at the next meeting of the Elks or the Knights of Columbus, and there it would be, another black eye for the Jews.
“I do have a weak character,” Edelstein thought sadly.
He called out, “All right! You can come in! But I warn you from the start, I am not going to buy anything.”
He pulled himself to his feet and started toward the door. Then he stopped, for the voice had replied, “Thank you very much,” and then a man had walked through the closed, double-locked wooden door.
The man was of medium height, nicely dressed in a gray pinstripe modified Edwardian suit. His cordovan boots were highly polished. He was black, carried a briefcase, and he had stepped through Edelstein’s door as if it had been made of Jell-O.
“Just a minute, stop, hold on one minute,” Edelstein said. He found that he was clasping both of his hands together and his heart was beating unpleasantly fast.
The man stood perfectly still and at his ease, one yard within the apartment. Edelstein started to breathe again. He said, “Sorry, I just had a brief attack, a kind of hallucination—”
“Want to see me do it again?” the man asked.
“My God, no! So you did walk through the door! Oh, God, I think I’m in trouble.”
Edelstein went back to the couch and sat down heavily. The man sat down in a nearby chair.
“What is this all about?” Edelstein whispered.
“I do the door thing to save time,” the man said. “It usually closes the credulity gap. My name is Charles Sitwell. I am a field man for the Devil.”
Edelstein believed him. He tried to think of a prayer, but all he could remember was the one he used to say over bread in the summer camp he had attended when he was a boy. It probably wouldn’t help. He also knew the Lord’s Prayer, but that wasn’t even his religion. Perhaps the salute to the flag… .
“Don’t get all worked up,” Sitwell said. “I’m not here after your soul or any old-fashioned crap like that.”
“How can I believe you?” Edelstein asked.
“Figure it out for yourself,” Sitwell told him. “Consider only the war aspect. Nothing but rebellions and revolutions for the past fifty years or so. For us, that means an unprecedented supply of condemned Americans, Viet Cong, Nigerians, Biafrans, Indonesians, South Africans, Russians, Indians, Pakistanis and Arabs. Israelis, too, I’m sorry to tell you. Also, we’re pulling in more Chinese than usual, and just recently, we’ve begun to get plenty of action on the South American market. Speaking frankly, Mr. Edelstein, we’re overloaded with souls. If another war starts this year, we’ll have to declare an amnest
y on venial sins.” Edelstein thought it over. “Then you’re really not here to take me to hell?”
“Hell, no!” Sitwell said. “I told you, our waiting list is longer than for Peter Cooper Village; we hardly have any room left in limbo.”
“Well… . Then why are you here?”
Sitwell crossed his legs and leaned forward earnestly. “Mr. Edelstein, you have to understand that hell is very much like U.S. Steel or I.T.&T. We’re a big outfit and we’re more or less a monopoly. But, like any really big corporation, we are imbued with the ideal of public service and we like to be well thought of.”
“Makes sense,” Edelstein said.
“But, unlike Ford, we can’t very well establish a foundation and start giving out scholarships and work grants. People wouldn’t understand. For the same reason, we can’t start building model cities or fighting pollution. We can’t even throw up a dam in Afghanistan without someone questioning our motives.”
“I see where it could be a problem,” Edelstein admitted. “Yet we like to do something. So, from time to time, but especially now, with business so good, we like to distribute a small bonus to a random selection of potential customers.”
“Customer? Me?”
“No one is calling you a sinner,” Sitwell pointed out. “1 said potential—which means everybody. ”
“Oh… . What kind of bonus?”
“Three wishes,” Sitwell said briskly. “That’s the traditional form.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Edelstein said. “1 can have any three wishes I want? With no penalty, no secret ifs and buts?”
“There is one but,” Sitwell said.
“I knew it,” Edelstein said.
“It’s simple enough. Whatever you wish for, your worst enemy gets double.”
Edelstein thought about that. “So if I asked for a million dollars—”
Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves Page 3
