Norma looked disgusted. “Murder.”
“How would you define it?”
“If you don’t even know the person?” Norma asked.
Arthur looked astounded. “Are you saying what I think you are?”
“If it’s some old Chinese peasant ten thousand miles away? Some diseased native in the Congo?”
“How about some baby boy in Pennsylvania?” Arthur countered. “Some beautiful little girl on the next block?”
“Now you’re loading things.”
“The point is, Norma,” he continued, “that who you kill makes no difference. It’s still murder.”
“The point is,” Norma broke in, “if it’s someone you’ve never seen in your life and never will see, someone whose death you don’t even have to know about, you still wouldn’t push the button?”
Arthur stared at her, appalled. “You mean you would?”
“Fifty thousand dollars, Arthur.”
“What has the amount . . .”
“Fifty thousand dollars, Arthur,” Norma interrupted. “A chance to take that trip to Europe we’ve always talked about.”
“Norma, no.”
“A chance to buy that cottage on the Island.”
“Norma, no.” His face was white. “For God’s sake, no!”
She shuddered. “All right, take it easy,” she said. “Why are you getting so upset? It’s only talk.”
After dinner, Arthur went into the living room. Before he left the table, he said, “I’d rather not discuss it anymore, if you don’t mind.”
Norma shrugged. “Fine with me.”
—
She got up earlier than usual to make pancakes, eggs, and bacon for Arthur’s breakfast.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked with a smile.
“No occasion.” Norma looked offended. “I wanted to do it, that’s all.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad you did.”
She refilled his cup. “Wanted to show you I’m not . . .” she shrugged.
“Not what?”
“Selfish.”
“Did I say you were?”
“Well—” She gestured vaguely. “—last night . . .”
Arthur didn’t speak.
“All that talk about the button,” Norma said. “I think you—well, misunderstood me.”
“In what way?” His voice was guarded.
“I think you felt—” She gestured again. “—that I was only thinking of myself.”
“Oh.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Norma.”
“Well, I wasn’t. When I talked about Europe, a cottage on the Island . . .”
“Norma, why are we getting so involved in this?”
“I’m not involved at all.” She drew in a shaking breath. “I’m simply trying to indicate that . . .”
“What?”
“That I’d like for us to go to Europe. Like for us to have a nicer apartment, nicer furniture, nicer clothes. Like for us to finally have a baby, for that matter.”
“Norma, we will,” he said.
“When?”
He stared at her in dismay. “Norma . . .”
“When?”
“Are you—” He seemed to draw back slightly. “Are you really saying . . . ?”
“I’m saying that they’re probably doing it for some research project!” she cut him off. “That they want to know what average people would do under such a circumstance! That they’re just saying someone would die, in order to study reactions, see if there’d be guilt, anxiety, whatever! You don’t really think they’d kill somebody, do you?”
Arthur didn’t answer. She saw his hands trembling. After awhile, he got up and left.
When he’d gone to work, Norma remained at the table, staring into her coffee. I’m going to be late, she thought. She shrugged. What difference did it make? She should be home anyways, not working in an office.
While she was stacking the dishes, she turned abruptly, dried her hands, and took the package from the bottom cabinet. Opening it, she set the button unit on the table. She stared at it for a long time before taking the key from its envelope and removing the glass dome. She stared at the button. How ridiculous, she thought. All this over a meaningless button.
Reaching out, she pressed it down. For us, she thought angrily.
She shuddered. Was it happening? A chill of horror swept across her.
In a moment, it had passed. She made a contemptuous noise. Ridiculous, she thought. To get so worked up over nothing.
—
She had just turned the supper steaks and was making herself another drink when the telephone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Lewis?”
“Yes?”
“This is the Lenox Hill Hospital.”
She felt unreal as the voice informed her of the subway accident, the shoving crowd. Arthur pushed from the platform in front of the train. She was conscious of shaking her head but couldn’t stop.
As she hung up, she remembered Arthur’s life insurance policy for $25,000, with double indemnity for—
“No.” She couldn’t seem to breathe. She struggled to her feet and walked in the kitchen numbly. Something cold pressed at her skull as she removed the button unit from the wastebasket. There were no nails or screws visible. She couldn’t see how it was put together.
Abruptly, she began to smash it on the sink edge, pounding it harder and harder, until the wood split. She pulled the sides apart, cutting her fingers without noticing. There were no transistors in the box, no wires or tubes. The box was empty.
She whirled with a gasp as the telephone rang. Stumbling into the living room, she picked up the receiver.
“Mrs. Lewis?” Mr. Steward asked.
It wasn’t her voice shrieking so; it couldn’t be. “You said I wouldn’t know the one that died!”
“My dear lady,” Mr. Steward said, “do you really think you knew your husband?”
DUEL
At 11:32 a.m., Mann passed the truck.
He was heading west, en route to San Francisco. It was Thursday and unseasonably hot for April. He had his suitcoat off, his tie removed and shirt collar opened, his sleeve cuffs folded back. There was sunlight on his left arm and on part of his lap. He could feel the heat of it through his dark trousers as he drove along the two-lane highway. For the past twenty minutes, he had not seen another vehicle going in either direction.
Then he saw the truck ahead, moving up a curving grade between two high green hills. He heard the grinding strain of its motor and saw a double shadow on the road. The truck was pulling a trailer.
He paid no attention to the details of the truck. As he drew behind it on the grade, he edged his car toward the opposite lane. The road ahead had blind curves and he didn’t try to pass until the truck had crossed the ridge. He waited until it started around a left curve on the downgrade, then, seeing that the way was clear, pressed down on the accelerator pedal and steered his car into the eastbound lane. He waited until he could see the truck front in his rearview mirror before he turned back into the proper lane.
Mann looked across the countryside ahead. There were ranges of mountains as far as he could see and, all around him, rolling green hills. He whistled softly as the car sped down the winding grade, its tires making crisp sounds on the pavement.
At the bottom of the hill, he crossed a concrete bridge and, glancing to the right, saw a dry stream bed strewn with rocks and gravel. As the car moved off the bridge, he saw a trailer park set back from the highway to his right. How can anyone live out here? he thought. His shifting gaze caught sight of a pet cemetery ahead and he smiled. Maybe those people in the trailers wanted to be close to the graves of their dogs and cats.
The highway ahead was straight now. Mann dri
fted into a reverie, the sunlight on his arm and lap. He wondered what Ruth was doing. The kids, of course, were in school and would be for hours yet. Maybe Ruth was shopping; Thursday was the day she usually went. Mann visualized her in the supermarket, putting various items into the basket cart. He wished he were with her instead of starting on another sales trip. Hours of driving yet before he’d reach San Francisco. Three days of hotel sleeping and restaurant eating, hoped-for contacts and likely disappointments. He sighed; then, reaching out impulsively, he switched on the radio. He revolved the tuning knob until he found a station playing soft, innocuous music. He hummed along with it, eyes almost out of focus on the road ahead.
He started as the truck roared past him on the left, causing his car to shudder slightly. He watched the truck and trailer cut in abruptly for the westbound lane and frowned as he had to brake to maintain a safe distance behind it. What’s with you? he thought.
He eyed the truck with cursory disapproval. It was a huge gasoline tanker pulling a tank trailer, each of them having six pairs of wheels. He could see that it was not a new rig but was dented and in need of renovation, its tanks painted a cheap-looking silvery color. Mann wondered if the driver had done the painting himself. His gaze shifted from the word FLAMMABLE printed across the back of the trailer tank, red letters on a white background, to the parallel reflector lines painted in red across the bottom of the tank to the massive rubber flaps swaying behind the rear tires, then back up again. The reflector lines looked as though they’d been clumsily applied with a stencil. The driver must be an independent trucker, he decided, and not too affluent a one, from the looks of his outfit. He glanced at the trailer’s license plate. It was a California issue.
Mann checked his speedometer. He was holding steady at 55 miles an hour, as he invariably did when he drove without thinking on the open highway. The truck driver must have done a good 70 to pass him so quickly. That seemed a little odd. Weren’t truck drivers supposed to be a cautious lot?
He grimaced at the smell of the truck’s exhaust and looked at the vertical pipe to the left of the cab. It was spewing smoke, which clouded darkly back across the trailer. Christ, he thought. With all the furor about air pollution, why do they keep allowing that sort of thing on the highways?
He scowled at the constant fumes. They’d make him nauseated in a little while, he knew. He couldn’t lag back here like this. Either he slowed down or he passed the truck again. He didn’t have the time to slow down. He’d gotten a late start. Keeping it at 55 all the way, he’d just about make his afternoon appointment. No, he’d have to pass.
Depressing the gas pedal, he eased his car toward the opposite lane. No sign of anything ahead. Traffic on this route seemed almost nonexistent today. He pushed down harder on the accelerator and steered all the way into the eastbound lane.
As he passed the truck, he glanced at it. The cab was too high for him to see into. All he caught sight of was the back of the truck driver’s left hand on the steering wheel. It was darkly tanned and square-looking, with large veins knotted on its surface.
When Mann could see the truck reflected in the rearview mirror, he pulled back over to the proper lane and looked ahead again.
He glanced at the rearview mirror in surprise as the truck driver gave him an extended horn blast. What was that? he wondered; a greeting or a curse? He grunted with amusement, glancing at the mirror as he drove. The front fenders of the truck were a dingy purple color, the paint faded and chipped; another amateurish job. All he could see was the lower portion of the truck; the rest was cut off by the top of his rear window.
To Mann’s right, now, was a slope of shalelike earth with patches of scrub grass growing on it. His gaze jumped to the clapboard house on top of the slope. The television aerial on its roof was sagging at an angle of less than 40 degrees. Must give great reception, he thought.
He looked to the front again, glancing aside abruptly at a sign printed in jagged block letters on a piece of plywood: NIGHT CRAWLERS—BAIT. What the hell is a night crawler? he wondered. It sounded like some monster in a low-grade Hollywood thriller.
The unexpected roar of the truck motor made his gaze jump to the rearview mirror. Instantly, his startled look jumped to the side mirror. By God, the guy was passing him again. Mann turned his head to scowl at the leviathan form as it drifted by. He tried to see into the cab but couldn’t because of its height. What’s with him, anyway? he wondered. What the hell are we having here, a contest? See which vehicle can stay ahead the longest?
He thought of speeding up to stay ahead but changed his mind. When the truck and trailer started back into the westbound lane, he let up on the pedal, voicing a newly incredulous sound as he saw that if he hadn’t slowed down, he would have been prematurely cut off again. Jesus Christ, he thought. What’s with this guy?
His scowl deepened as the odor of the truck’s exhaust reached his nostrils again. Irritably, he cranked up the window on his left. Damn it, was he going to have to breathe that crap all the way to San Francisco? He couldn’t afford to slow down. He had to meet Forbes at a quarter after three and that was that.
He looked ahead. At least there was no traffic complicating matters. Mann pressed down on the accelerator pedal, drawing close behind the truck. When the highway curved enough to the left to give him a completely open view of the route ahead, he jarred down on the pedal, steering out into the opposite lane.
The truck edged over, blocking his way.
For several moments, all Mann could do was stare at it in blank confusion. Then, with a startled noise, he braked, returning to the proper lane. The truck moved back in front of him.
Mann could not allow himself to accept what apparently had taken place. It had to be a coincidence. The truck driver couldn’t have blocked his way on purpose. He waited for more than a minute, then flicked down the turn-indicator lever to make his intentions perfectly clear and, depressing the accelerator pedal, steered again into the eastbound lane.
Immediately, the truck shifted, barring his way.
“Jesus Christ!” Mann was astounded. This was unbelievable. He’d never seen such a thing in twenty-six years of driving. He returned to the west-bound lane, shaking his head as the truck swung back in front of him.
He eased up on the gas pedal, falling back to avoid the truck’s exhaust. Now what? he wondered. He still had to make San Francisco on schedule. Why in God’s name hadn’t he gone a little out of his way in the beginning, so he could have traveled by freeway? This damned highway was two lane all the way.
Impulsively, he sped into the eastbound lane again. To his surprise, the truck driver did not pull over. Instead, the driver stuck his left arm out and waved him on. Mann started pushing down on the accelerator. Suddenly, he let up on the pedal with a gasp and jerked the steering wheel around, raking back behind the truck so quickly that his car began to fishtail. He was fighting to control its zigzag whipping when a blue convertible shot by him in the opposite lane. Mann caught a momentary vision of the man inside it glaring at him.
The car came under his control again. Mann was sucking breath in through his mouth. His heart was pounding almost painfully. My God! he thought. He wanted me to hit that car head on. The realization stunned him. True, he should have seen to it himself that the road ahead was clear; that was his failure. But to wave him on . . . Mann felt appalled and sickened. Boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, he thought. This was really one for the books. That son of a bitch had meant for not only him to be killed but a totally uninvolved passer-by as well. The idea seemed beyond his comprehension. On a California highway on a Thursday morning? Why?
Mann tried to calm himself and rationalize the incident. Maybe it’s the heat, he thought. Maybe the truck driver had a tension headache or an upset stomach; maybe both. Maybe he’d had a fight with his wife. Maybe she’d failed to put out last night. Mann tried in vain to smile. There could be any number of reasons. Reaching out, h
e twisted off the radio. The cheerful music irritated him.
He drove behind the truck for several minutes, his face a mask of animosity. As the exhaust fumes started putting his stomach on edge, he suddenly forced down the heel of his right hand on the horn bar and held it there. Seeing that the route ahead was clear, he pushed in the accelerator pedal all the way and steered into the opposite lane.
The movement of his car was paralleled immediately by the truck. Mann stayed in place, right hand jammed down on the horn bar. Get out of the way, you son of a bitch! he thought. He felt the muscles of his jaw hardening until they ached. There was a twisting in his stomach.
“Damn!” He pulled back quickly to the proper lane, shuddering with fury. “You miserable son of a bitch,” he muttered, glaring at the truck as it was shifted back in front of him. What the hell is wrong with you? I pass your goddamn rig a couple of times and you go flying off the deep end? Are you nuts or something? Mann nodded tensely. Yes, he thought, he is. No other explanation.
He wondered what Ruth would think of all this, how she’d react. Probably, she’d start to honk the horn and would keep on honking it, assuming that, eventually, it would attract the attention of a policeman. He looked around with a scowl. Just where in hell were the policemen out here, anyway? He made a scoffing noise. What policemen? Here in the boondocks? They probably had a sheriff on horseback, for Christ’s sake.
He wondered suddenly if he could fool the truck driver by passing on the right. Edging his car toward the shoulder, he peered ahead. No chance. There wasn’t room enough. The truck driver could shove him through that wire fence if he wanted to, sure as hell, he thought.
Driving where he was, he grew conscious of the debris lying beside the highway: beer cans, candy wrappers, ice-cream containers, newspaper sections browned and rotted by the weather, a FOR SALE sign torn in half. Keep America beautiful, he thought sardonically. He passed a boulder with the name WILL JASPER painted on it in white. Who the hell is Will Jasper? he wondered. What would he think of this situation.
The Best of Richard Matheson Page 16
