The shadows drifted, the vines rustled.
At last the quiet voice said, “All right, Father.”
“Tom!”
In the moonlight the quick figure of a boy slid down through the vines. LaFarge put up his arms to catch him.
The room lights above flashed on. A voice issued from one of the grilled windows. “Who’s down there?”
“Hurry, boy!”
More lights, more voices. “Stop, I have a gun! Vinny, are you all right?” A running of feet.
Together the old man and the boy ran across the garden.
A shot sounded. The bullet struck the wall as they slammed the gate.
“Tom, you that way; I’ll go here and lead them off! Run to the canal; I’ll meet you there in ten minutes, boy!”
They parted.
The moon hid behind a cloud. The old man ran in darkness.
“Anna, I’m here!”
The old woman helped him, trembling, into the boat. “Where’s Tom?”
“He’ll be here in a minute,” panted LaFarge.
They turned to watch the alleys and the sleeping town. Late strollers were still out: a policeman, a night watchman, a rocket pilot, several lonely men coming home from some nocturnal rendezvous, four men and women issuing from a bar, laughing. Music played dimly somewhere.
“Why doesn’t he come?” asked the old woman.
“He’ll come, he’ll come.” But LaFarge was not certain. Suppose the boy had been caught again, somehow, someway, in his travel down to the landing, running through the midnight streets between the dark houses. It was a long run, even for a young boy. But he should have reached here first.
And now, far away, along the moonlit avenue, a figure ran.
LaFarge cried out and then silenced himself, for also far away was another sound of voices and running feet. Lights blazed on in window after window. Across the open plaza leading to the landing, the one figure ran.
It was not Tom; it was only a running shape with a face like silver shining in the light of the globes clustered about the plaza. And as it rushed nearer, nearer, it became more familiar, until when it reached the landing it was Tom! Anna flung up her hands. LaFarge hurried to cast off. But already it was too late.
For out of the avenue and across the silent plaza now came one man, another, a woman, two other men, Mr. Spaulding, all running. They stopped, bewildered. They stared about, wanting to go back because this could be only a nightmare, it was quite insane. But they came on again, hesitantly, stopping, starting.
It was too late. The night, the event, was over. LaFarge twisted the mooring rope in his fingers. He was very cold and lonely. The people raised and put down their feet in the moonlight, drifting with great speed, wide-eyed, until the crowd, all ten of them, halted at the landing. They peered wildly down into the boat. They cried out.
“Don’t move, LaFarge!” Spaulding had a gun.
And now it was evident what had happened. Tom flashing through the moonlit streets, alone, passing people. A policeman seeing the figure dart past. The policeman pivoting, staring at the face, calling a name, giving pursuit “You, stop!” Seeing a criminal face.
All along the way, the same thing, men here, women there, night watchmen, rocket pilots. The swift figure meaning everything to them, all identities, all persons, all names. How many different names had been uttered in the last five minutes? How many different faces shaped over Tom’s face, all wrong?
All down the way the pursued and the pursuing, the dream and the dreamers, the quarry and the hounds. All down the way the sudden revealment, the flash of familiar eyes, the cry of an old, old name, the remembrances of other times, the crowd multiplying. Everyone leaping forward as, like an image reflected from ten thousand mirrors, ten thousand eyes, the running dream came and went, a different face to those ahead, those behind, those yet to be met, those unseen.
And here they all are now, at the boat, wanting the dream for their own, just as we want him to be Tom, not Lavinia or William or Roger or any other, thought LaFarge. But it’s all done now. The thing has gone too far.
“Come up, all of you!” Spaulding ordered them.
Tom stepped up from the boat. Spaulding seized his wrist. “You’re coming home with me. I know.”
“Wait,” said the policeman. “He’s my prisoner. Name’s Dexter; wanted for murder.”
“No!” a woman sobbed. “It’s my husband! I guess I know my husband!”
Other voices objected. The crowd moved in.
Mrs. LaFarge shielded Tom. “This is my son; you have no right to accuse him of anything. We’re going home right now!”
As for Tom, he was trembling and shaking violently. He looked very sick. The crowd thickened about him, putting out their wild hands, seizing and demanding.
Tom screamed.
Before their eyes he changed. He was Tom and James and a man named Switchman, another named Butterfield; he was the town mayor and the young girl Judith and the husband William and the wife Clarisse.
He was melting wax shaping to their minds. They shouted, they pressed forward, pleading. He screamed, threw out his hands, his face dissolving to each demand. “Tom!” cried LaFarge. “Alice!” another. “William!” They snatched his wrists, whirled him about, until with one last shriek of horror he fell.
He lay on the stones, melted wax cooling, his face all faces, one eye blue, the other golden, hair that was brown, red, yellow, black, one eyebrow thick, one thin, one hand large, one small.
They stood over him and put their fingers to their mouths. They bent down.
“He’s dead,” someone said at last.
It began to rain.
The rain fell upon the people, and they looked up at the sky.
Slowly, and then more quickly, they turned and walked away and then started running, scattering from the scene. In a minute the place was desolate. Only Mr. and Mrs. LaFarge remained, looking down, hand in hand, terrified.
The rain fell upon the upturned, unrecognizable face.
Anna said nothing but began to cry.
“Come along home, Anna, there’s nothing we can do,” said the old man.
They climbed down into the boat and went back along the canal in the darkness. They entered their house and lit a small fire and warmed their hands, They went to bed and lay together, cold and thin, listening to the rain returned to the roof above them.
“Listen,” said LaFarge at midnight. “Did you hear something?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“I’ll go look anyway.”
He fumbled across the dark room and waited by the outer door for a long time before he opened it.
He pulled the door wide and looked out.
Rain poured from the black sky upon the empty dooryard, into the canal and among the blue mountains.
He waited five minutes and then softly, his hands wet, he shut and bolted the door.
November 2005 The Luggage Store
It was a very remote thing, when the luggage-store proprietor heard the news on the night radio, received all the way from Earth on a light-sound beam. The proprietor felt how remote it was.
There was going to be a war on Earth.
He went out to peer into the sky.
Yes, there it was. Earth, in the evening heavens, following the sun into the hills. The words on the radio and that green star were one and the same.
“I don’t believe it,” said the proprietor.
“It’s because you’re not there,” said Father Peregrine, who had stopped by to pass the time of evening.
“What do you mean, Father?”
“It’s like when I was a boy,” said Father Peregrine. “We heard about wars in China. But we never believed them. It was too far away. And there were too many people dying. It was impossible.
Even when we saw the motion pictures we didn’t believe it. Well, that’s how it is now. Earth is China. It’s so far away it’s unbelievable. It’s not here. You can’t touch it. You can’t even see it. All you see is a green light. Two billion people living on that light? Unbelievable! War? We don’t hear the explosions.”
“We will,” said the proprietor. “I keep thinking about all those people that were going to come to Mars this week. What was it? A hundred thousand or so coming up in the next month or so. What about them if the war starts?”
“I imagine they’ll turn back. They’ll be needed on Earth.”
“Well,” said the proprietor, “I’d better get my luggage dusted off. I got a feeling there’ll be a rush sale here any time.”
“Do you think everyone now on Mars will go back to Earth if this is the Big War we’ve all been expecting for years?”
“It’s a funny thing, Father, but yes, I think we’ll all go back. I know, we came up here to get away from things—politics, the atom bomb, war, pressure groups, prejudice, laws—I know. But it’s still home there. You wait and see.
When the first bomb drops on America the people up here’ll start thinking. They haven’t been here long enough. A couple years is all. If they’d been here forty years, it’d be different, but they got relatives down there, and their home towns. Me, I can’t believe in Earth any more; I can’t imagine it much. But I’m old. I don’t count. I might stay on here.”
“I doubt it.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right.”
They stood on the porch watching the stars. Finally Father Peregrine pulled some money from his pocket and handed it to the proprietor. “Come to think of it, you’d better give me a new valise. My old one’s in pretty bad condition …”
November 2005 The Off Season
Sam Parkhill motioned with the broom,
