by Fritz Leiber
“Do you suppose it’s off the track?” he asked anxiously.
“Not a chance,” someone told him—the beard, he thought. The assurance of the tones gave him a possible solution. Scientists came from all over the world these days and might have all sorts of advanced ideas. This could be a group working at a nearby atomic project and leading its peculiar private life on the side.
* * * *
As they eddied toward the house he heard Lois remind someone, “But you finally did declare it a holiday,” and a husband who looked like a gay pharaoh respond, “I had another see at the mood charts and I found a subtle surge I’d missed.”
Meanwhile the beard (a black one) had taken Tom in charge. Tom wasn’t sure of his name, but he had a tan skin, a green sarong, and a fiercely jovial expression. “The swimming pool’s around there, the landing spot’s on the other side,” he began, then noticed Tom gazing at the sooty roof. “Sun power cells,” he explained proudly. “They store all the current we need.”
Tom felt his idea confirmed. “Wonder you don’t use atomic power,” he observed lightly.
The beard nodded. “We’ve been asked that. Matter of esthetics. Why waste sunlight or use hard radiations needlessly? Of course, you might feel differently. What’s your group, did you say?”
“Tosker-Brown,” Tom told him, adding when the beard frowned, “the Fellowship people, you know.”
“I don’t,” the beard confessed. “Where are you located?”
Tom briefly described the ranch house and cabins at the other end of the valley.
“Comic, I can’t place it.” The beard shrugged. “Here come the children.”
A dozen naked youngsters raced around the ranch house, followed by a woman in a vaguely African dress open down the sides.
“Yours?” Tom asked.
“Ours,” the beard answered.
“C’est un homme!”
“Regardez des vêtements!”
“No need to practice, kids; this is a holiday,” the beard told them. “Tom, Helen,” he said, introducing the woman with the air-conditioned garment. “Her turn today to companion die Kinder.”
One of the latter rapped on the beard’s knee. “May we show the stranger our things?” Instantly the others joined in pleading. The beard shot an inquiring glance at Tom, who nodded. A moment later the small troupe was hurrying him toward a spacious lean-to at the end of the ranch house. It was chuckful of strange toys, rocks and plants, small animals in cages and out, and the oddest model airplanes, or submarines. But Tom was given no time to look at any one thing for long.
“See my crystals? I grew them.”
“Smell my mutated gardenias. Tell now, isn’t there a difference?” There didn’t seem to be, but he nodded.
“Look at my squabbits.” This referred to some long-eared white squirrels nibbling carrots and nuts.
“Here’s my newest model spaceship, a DS-57-B. Notice the detail.” The oldest boy shoved one of the submarine affairs in his face.
* * * *
Tom felt like a figure that is being tugged about in a rococo painting by wide pink ribbons in the chubby hands of naked cherubs. Except that these cherubs were slim and tanned, fantastically energetic, and apparently of depressingly high IQ. (What these scientists did to children!) He missed Lois and was grateful for the single little girl solemnly skipping rope in a corner and paying no attention to him.
The odd lingo she repeated stuck in his mind: “Gik-lo, I-o, Rik-o, Gis-so. Gik-lo, I-o.…”
Suddenly the air was filled with soft chimes. “Lunch,” the children shouted and ran away.
Tom followed at a soberer pace along the wall of the ranch house. He glanced in the huge windows, curious about the living and sleeping arrangements of the Wolvers, but the panes were strangely darkened. Then he entered the wide doorway through which the children had scampered and his curiosity turned to wonder.
A resilient green floor that wasn’t flat, but sloped up toward the white of the far wall like a breaking wave. Chairs like giants’ hands tenderly cupped. Little tables growing like mushrooms and broad-leafed plants out of the green floor. A vast picture window showing the red rocks.
Yet it was the wood-paneled walls that electrified his artistic interest. They blossomed with fruits and flowers, deep and poignantly carved in several styles. He had never seen such work.
He became aware of a silence and realized that his hosts and hostesses were smiling at him from around a long table. Moved by a sudden humility, he knelt and unlaced his sneakers and added them to the pile of sandals and digitals by the door. As he rose, a soft and comic piping started and he realized that beyond the table the children were lined up, solemnly puffing at little wooden flutes and recorders. He saw the empty chair at the table and went toward it, conscious for the moment of nothing but his dusty feet.
He was disappointed that Lois wasn’t sitting next to him, but the food reminded him that he was hungry. There was a charming little steak, striped black and brown with perfection, and all sorts of vegetables and fruits, one or two of which he didn’t recognize.
“Flown from Africa,” someone explained to him.
These sly scientists, he thought, living behind their security curtain in the most improbable world!
When they were sitting with coffee and wine, and the children had finished their concert and were busy at another table, he asked, “How do you manage all this?”
Jock, the gay pharaoh, shrugged. “It’s not difficult.”
Rachel, the slim Negro, chuckled in her throat. “We’re just people, Tom.”
He tried to phrase his question without mentioning money. “What do you all do?”
“Jock’s a uranium miner,” Larry (the beard) answered, briskly taking over. “Rachel’s an algae farmer. I’m a rocket pilot. Lois—”
* * * *
Although pleased at this final confirmation of his guess, Tom couldn’t help feeling a surge of uneasiness. “Sure you should be telling me these things?”
Larry laughed. “Why not? Lois and Jokichi have been exchange-workers in China the last six months.”
“Mostly digging ditches,” Jokichi put in with a smile.
“—and Sasha’s in an assembly plant. Helen’s a psychiatrist. Oh, we just do ordinary things. Now we’re on grand vacation.”
“Grand vacation?”
“When all of us have a vacation together,” Larry explained. “What do you do?”
“I’m an artist,” Tom said, taking out a cigaret.
“But what else?” Larry asked.
Tom felt an angry embarrassment. “Just an artist,” he mumbled, cigaret in mouth, digging in his pockets for a match.
“Hold on,” said Joyce beside him and pointed a silver pencil at the tip of the cigaret. He felt a faint thrill in his lips and then started back, coughing. The cigaret was lighted.
“Please mutate my poppy seeds, Mommy.” A little girl had darted to Joyce from the children’s table.
“You’re a very dirty little girl,” Joyce told her without reproof. “Hold them out.” She briefly directed the silver pencil at the clay pellets on the grimy little palm. The little girl shivered delightedly. “I love ultrasonics, they feel so funny.” She scampered off.
Tom cleared his throat. “I must say I’m tremendously impressed with the wood carvings. I’d like to photograph them. Oh, Lord!”
“What’s the matter?” Rachel asked.
“I lost my camera somewhere.”
“Camera?” Jokichi showed interest. “You mean one for stills?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“A Leica,” Tom told him.
Jokichi seemed impressed. “That is interesting. I’ve never seen one of those old ones.”
“Tom’s a button man,” Lois remarked by way of explanation, apparently. “Was the camera in a brown case? You dropped it where we met. We can get it later.”
“Good, I’d really like to take those pictures,” Tom
said. “Incidentally, who did the carvings?”
“We did,” Jock said. “Together.”
Tom was grateful that the scamper of the children out of the room saved him from having to reply. He couldn’t think of anything but a grunt of astonishment.
The conversation split into a group of chats about something called a psych machine, trips to Russia, the planet Mars, and several artists Tom had never heard of. He wanted to talk to Lois, but she was one of the group gabbling about Mars like children. He felt suddenly uneasy and out of things, and neither Rachel’s deprecating remarks about her section of the wood carvings nor Joyce’s interesting smiles helped much. He was glad when they all began to get up. He wandered outside and made his way to the children’s lean-to, feeling very depressed.
* * * *
Once again he was the center of a friendly naked cluster, except for the same solemn-faced little girl skipping rope. A rather malicious but not very hopeful whim prompted him to ask the youngest, “What’s one and one?”
“Ten,” the shaver answered glibly. Tom felt pleased.
“It could also be two,” the oldest boy remarked.
“I’ll say,” Tom agreed. “What’s the population of the world?”
“About seven hundred million.”
Tom nodded noncommittally and, grabbing at the first long word that he thought of, turned to the eldest girl. “What’s poliomyelitis?”
“Never heard of it,” she said.
The solemn little girl kept droning the same ridiculous chant: “Gik-lo, I-o, Rik-o, Gis-so.”
His ego eased, Tom went outside and there was Lois.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
She took his hand. “Have we pushed ourselves at you too much? Has our jabbering bothered you? We’re a loud-mouthed family and I didn’t think to ask if you were loning.”
“Loning?”
“Solituding.”
“In a way,” he said. They didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Are you happy, Lois, in your life here?” he asked.
Her smile was instant. “Of course. Don’t you like my group?”
He hesitated. “They make me feel rather no good,” he said, and then admitted, “but in a way I’m more attracted to them than any people I’ve ever met.”
“You are?” Her grip on his hand tightened. “Then why don’t you stay with us for a while? I like you. It’s too early to propose anything, but I think you have a quality our group lacks. You could see how you fit in. And there’s Joyce. She’s just visiting, too. You wouldn’t have to lone unless you wanted.”
Before he could think, there was a rhythmic rush of feet and the Wolvers were around them.
“We’re swimming,” Simone announced.
Lois looked at Tom inquiringly. He smiled his willingness, started to mention he didn’t have trunks, then realized that wouldn’t be news here. He wondered whether he would blush.
Jock fell in beside him as they rounded the ranch house. “Larry’s been telling me about your group at the other end of the valley. It’s comic, but I’ve whirled down the valley a dozen times and never spotted any sort of place there. What’s it like?”
“A ranch house and several cabins.”
* * * *
Jock frowned. “Comic I never saw it.” His face cleared. “How about whirling over there? You could point it out to me.”
“It’s really there,” Tom said uneasily. “I’m not making it up.”
“Of course,” Jock assured him. “It was just an idea.”
“We could pick up your camera on the way,” Lois put in.
The rest of the group had turned back from the huge oval pool and the dark blue and flashing thing beyond it, and stood gay-colored against the pool’s pale blue shimmer.
“How about it?” Jock asked them. “A whirl before we bathe?”
Two or three said yes besides Lois, and Jock led the way toward the helicopter that Tom now saw standing beyond the pool, its beetle body as blue as a scarab, its vanes flashing silver.
The others piled in. Tom followed as casually as he could, trying to suppress the pounding of his heart. “Wonder you don’t go by rocket,” he remarked lightly.
Jock laughed. “For such a short trip?”
The vanes began to thrum. Tom sat stiffly, gripping the sides of the seat, then realized that the others had sunk back lazily in the cushions. There was a moment of strain and they were falling ahead and up. Looking out the side, Tom saw for a moment the sooty roof of the ranch house and the blue of the pool and the pinkish umber of tanned bodies. Then the helicopter lurched gently around. Without warning a miserable uneasiness gripped him, a desire to cling mixed with an urge to escape. He tried to convince himself it was fear of the height.
He heard Lois tell Jock, “That’s the place, down by that rock that looks like a wrecked spaceship.”
The helicopter began to fall forward. Tom felt Lois’ hand on his.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she said.
“What?” he asked dully.
“Whether you’ll stay with us. At least for a while.”
He looked at her. Her smile was a comfort. He said, “If I possibly can.”
“What could possibly stop you?”
“I don’t know,” he answered abstractedly.
“You’re strange,” Lois told him. “There’s a weight of sadness in you. As if you lived in a less happy age. As if it weren’t 2050.”
“Twenty?” he repeated, awakening from his thoughts with a jerk. “What’s the time?” he asked anxiously.
“Two,” Jock said. The word sounded like a knell.
“You need cheering,” Lois announced firmly.
Amid a whoosh of air rebounding from earth, they jounced gently down. Lois vaulted out. “Come on,” she said.
Tom followed her. “Where?” he asked stupidly, looking around at the red rocks through the settling sand cloud stirred by the vanes.
“Your camera,” she told him, laughing. “Over there. Come on, I’ll race you.”
He started to run with her and then his uneasiness got beyond his control. He ran faster and faster. He saw Lois catch her foot on a rock and go down sprawling, but he couldn’t stop. He ran desperately around the rock and into a gust of up-whirling sand that terrified him with its suddenness. He tried to escape from the stinging, blinding gust, but there was the nightmarish fright that his wild strides were carrying him nowhere.
Then the sand settled. He stopped running and looked around him. He was standing by the balancing rock. He was gasping. At his feet the rusty brown leather of the camera case peeped from the sand. Lois was nowhere in sight. Neither was the helicopter. The valley seemed different, rawer—one might almost have said younger.
Hours after dark he trailed into Tosker-Brown. Curtained lights still glowed from a few cabins. He was footsore, bewildered, frightened. All afternoon and through the twilight and into the moonlit evening that turned the red rocks black, he had searched the valley. Nowhere had he been able to find the soot-roofed ranch house of the Wolvers. He hadn’t even been able to locate the rock like a giant bobbin where he’d met Lois.
During the next days he often returned to the valley. But he never found anything. And he never happened to be near the balancing rock when the time winds blew at ten and two, though once or twice he did see dust devils. Then he went away and eventually forgot.
In his casual reading he ran across popular science articles describing the binary system of numbers used in electronic calculating machines, where one and one make ten. He always skipped them. And more than once he saw the four equations expressing Einstein’s generalized theory of gravitation:
He never connected them with the little girl’s chant: “Gik-lo, I-o, Rik-o, Gis-so.”
YESTERDAY HOUSE
Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, August 1952.
I
The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expect
ant child, yet so near the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the Annie O. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let the sail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gait made comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledge came nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove’s surface by the sloop’s prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly had to reach out his hand.
He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw the line around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through the cove’s high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islands and the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughed in satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thing every man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthest island out.
He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time he dropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. had always been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rock had faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about the quietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically, paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit of Earth.
The man’s lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banal fancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop, without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out to explore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, but after a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and he came out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn’t quite gone to the farthest one out.
* * * *
Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tide would have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high island that the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing. He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he’d wondered back in the woods whether his might not be the first human feet to kick through the underbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands.
Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now moving smoothly enough.
