The GD church doesnt like me, which is mutual. Not only that, but Im pretty sure theyve got a tail on me, in the form of a very nice looking girl who could probably kill me with one hand (she looks mean) and who isnt very good at hiding. In fact, I think maybe there not worried about whether I know their tailing me or not. Maybe they want me to know. Maybe she isnt tailing me. Maybe she thinks Im a male prostitute. Here the speculation is more fun than finding the facts, because there jes ain no facks to fine.
Visiting my fellow operatees, the ones on my list. Amos N. Ditweiler is on a business trip, Ronald Smith was killed in a car accident (waste of good operation, there, Maier, what did you give him an elbow?), Joann Capel was home but refuses to show me her scar (and slammed the door when I told her I really had to see it) which is understandable considering the operation she was in the hospital to get, Morris Major wants me to go to hell. Thos are all the ones who live right in Tulsa that I was able to talk to. Good days work. Morris looks like Maier gave him a new nose. Without removing the old one.
Id rather be selling fuller brushes. These people are more than rude. There nasty. Scott Peterson is a fag with a fat giant for a girlfriend, and even though Peterson didnt scare me, when his girlfriend told me to scram, I scrum. Valery Van Vleets mother thought I was a child molester (shes 11) and so I cant see her. R. R. Tranes name is not Rail Road, its Robin Rex, and Id go by R. R. too. But Trane did admit that he had an operation, which was for gall bladder, but thereve been no complications and no extra scars. Heres my guess—he got a new gall bladder and doesnt know it. Or was I the only lucky transplantee?
But, dear diary, we hit paydirt with Bartholomew Biscuit (nee bascom) who viewed me with suspicion but when I told him my sad story got a worried look and told me that hes been really worried because he had his lungs cleaned out (a smoker, filthy habit) only there are scars on both sides of his chest and the anticancer operation is supposed to be done through the throat. What is more (and this interests me a lot) he has noticed that his scars are actually getting wider, and the skin of his scars is white (he is black), which makes him suspicious that somethings a little bit wrong. He promises to call me. Oh, he also said the new skin is hairy. I inspected my scars for hair today. None, so far, that werent already mine. I hope.
August 20 in the wee small hours
Met my tailer from the GDs tonight, we had dinner. She is a tailer from the GDs, admits it cheerfully, but she says shes only there to protect me. Sweet. I offered her five hundred dollars to protect somebody else, but she only smiled and told me to go to hell. I asked her if shed follow me there and she said “anywhere” so I went to my apartment. No dice, GDs believe in virginity for single women, she has the apartment next to mine and told me that she is bugging my room for sound. Nice of her to be so frank. Im Frank too (ha ho) and I told her that she was bugging me too. She said sorry. I said a word that the Noose would replace with a euphemism. She slapped me (do women still slap men for being obscene? X slapped, but it was for kind of the opposite reason) and we went to bed, in different rooms thank heaven, except that heaven is on the GDs side.
Maier was a GD. This girl (Myrel Merle Murl Mirl Mural who knows how anybody spells a weird name like that?) is also a GD. My heart seems to be on their side too. And one (just one, but hes the only one who really talked) of the other operees has weird things happening to him too. I think Im onto something and it aint peaknuckle.
August 20 in the evening after four hours of sleep and a hard days work.
Wanda Bath doesnt.
John Jorgenson is an ad executive and his operation was a very personal one because he is middle-aged and middle-aged people tend to think such operations are very personal. But he, too, for reasons he refuses to describe, is also worried. I urged him to see his doctor, he said he would, and said he would tell me if there was anything unusual. William E. Jagger lives in Sacramento. Mark Muse is a talking aardvark, Ive never seen such a repulsive person, why didn't Maier transplant his head? His operation was to remove a bunion—total anaesthetic, for petes sake, Im going to sue the hospital, they let any nut stick any patient under anaesthetic and nobody even asks questions. His bunion is all better. He also has a scar on his throat and when I asked about it he said “what scar” got a mirror and by gum, he had a scar, hed have to check into that, by gum, by gum. So by gum he says hell call me if theres anything to call me about.
Ditweilers back from his trip, I have an appointment tomorrow, but I think I wont bother. Hes the kind who strings investigative reporters on for months without a word, probably thinks Im going to pry into his affairs. Who gives a darn (euph) about his affairs?
August 21 at four a.m. which is grounds for murdering Doc for his phonecall this morning but hes scared and so am I. There is no medical way that what is happening to me could be happening to me. He checked the genetic type, says that with our limited knowledge of genetics exact identification is impossible but the person whose heart I have was male (thank you), had brown hair, white skin, blue or green eyes, and is of medium height barring pituitary problems. That narrows it down to a fifth of the world. Whee.
At least its proof that the heart isnt mine, since Im tall, blond, have brown eyes, though I am male and white, excluding me from any of the attractive minorities. I
always wanted to be an indian when I was a kid only I couldnt get into a tribe without a reservation (Ha ho).
August 21 in the evening dear diary, why am I even bothering to write to you, when there is a communist plot to take over my body?
Got a call from Jorgenson at 7 a.m. and he wanted me to come over so I did, his doctor opened him up and looked at his prostate and bingo. Whole new set of male organs, not a tricky operation, but Jorgenson didnt want new ones, he liked the old. Too much sentimentality. And in him, too, the transplant has overgrown its boundaries. His doctor is worried. His doctor told him to take a sedative. Why isnt my doctor that thoughtful?
This afternoon went back to talk to Bartholemew Biscuit since he hadnt called, he told me he hadnt called because it was so damn ridiculous, which I agree with except when its me, in which case its pretty serious. Yessiree bob, a lung transplant, which has taken over his heart (me in reverse) and is progressing to the skin. His doctor is not worried. His doctor is delighted. At last, something new for the MDs to do. And get this—genetic check, and it comes from a medium height male with brown hair, white skin, blue or green eyes. Now maybe thats coincidence but I did some research and now I really am scared.
See, the GDs prophet who was assassinated in June was named George Peppinger and I looked up the old Time stories on him and he is, you guessed it, medium height, blue eyes, brown hair, white skin. Im doubtless paranoid, but Maier was a GD and what if these nuts have some idea of keeping there rainmaker alive? I dont like playing incubator to somebody elses chicken. So Im in the airport going back to Doc for a progress report. Murrul Myril Myeroll has bought the ticket next to me, so therell be no writing on the plane. I plan to ask her a few questions. Then I plan to push her out the window (Ha ho). (Whats so funny?)
Doc is treating me really carefully and I feel like Im already deceased. My new heart (Sweetheart, Heart of Gold) has given rise to new lungs, new trachea (those are the plumbing), a new esophagus, a new stomach, and the list goes on and on, so that theres less of me in me than there is him in me. The Doc admits that since he doesnt know how it happens he cant do much to stop it. No way to transplant my whole innards, therere limits to what the MDs can do.
But you see I know whats causing it and Id tell the Doc only then hed lock me away for believing such drivel. See, my little GD virgin friend Moral (yes, folks, I finally got the spelling of her name, and I nearly puked too) is very starryeyed about Peppinger. They dont think Christ or God or anybody reincarnates in particular, they believe that anybody can, if hes got enough of the world spirit. There are spirits and bodies, see, and some spirits are of the world spirit, and they are strong. Others have forsaken the world spirit and stand all alone and so they are weak. So that some spirits are so weak that it takes two or three or many of them to operate one body (welcome schitzophrenia) and other spirits are so strong with the world spirit that they can control many bodies all at once (heil hitler). She has only a little world spirit (humble child) and so only controls one body “But I am alone” she said. I congratulated her and she glared at me.
There was a lot of other stuff. I had to pretend to be very interested, and Im a lousy actor because she said she knew I didn't give a darn (she said darn, not my cuph this time, looks like she repented of swearing at me the other night) about the GD church anyway. They think that Christ was not God but his friend, trying to save, not mankind, but God, by casting out all the weak spirits and letting Gods great worldspirit in, and so on, who understands this stuff? I never went to catechism.
Peg of My Heart, I Love You
Dont let us part, I Lave You
I left my heart in San Francisco.
A half-hearted effort
A hearty laugh
Heartless wretch (O that I were so
lucky, mother)
My heart is heavy (full, light, in my
throat)
My hearts in my throat ha ho hee
hee howdy.
There is now strange hair growing around the scar on my chest and also on my back which never had hair before and when I look closely I see a very thin dividing line where the old me is giving way to the new somebody.
Only I know who the somebody is except that I think Im crazy to believe it but the GDs must believe it too else why are they watching me? Protecting me—maybe they think there prophet can take over. If they think so, their right, and hes doing a damn good job.
I thought of killing myself just for spite but then I figured what good would that do because
A. they would stop me (they watch me a lot)
B. and there are 10 other transplantees still living. Ha ho.
If I could draw I would draw a picture of my head and put a little light bulb over it. There are things I can do. World Spirit, go to hell. I shall send you friends.
Luckily, I have done nothing so far to arouse suspicion except that they probably know that I know. Question? How does one untail a tail?
Answer: You dont. Tighter than glue. I tried taxis, I tried walking through crowds, Moral is tighter than glue.
Victory. I am now on the plane to Sacramento and except for the fact that anybody around me might be a GD, I think I made it. Moral is waking up about now unless I broke her neck, which I doubt because lets face it, Im not all that tough. If I hadnt had my gun (registered, folks, my occupation allows weaponry for self defense) and if she hadnt happened to hit her head on a urinal I think I wouldnt have made it. Shes pretty scary. She may be a virgin but she knows all about the laying on of hands. The bruise on my arm is pretty bad, I can see it through my shirt sleeves.
Took a jet to Boston, then from Boston to Dallas only I got off in Chicago and flew to Tulsa and hopped right on another flight to Sacramento. Maybe they'll catch up and maybe they wont, but at least theyll have to do a little research unless somebody saw me who knows me and thats the gamble Im taking.
Greyhound bus to San Francisco. Job done.
Landing in Tulsa. I reread this thing and Im absolutely sure Im insane except sane or not Im committed (ha ho) to this now. No turning back at all.
Radio is talking about the rash of Tulsa murders and frankly I dont see what these nut murderers get out of killing strangers. I would kill myself right now except that it would leave the job undone. I had to kill Valery Van Vleets mother too because there was no way to get to the little girl without
I want to vomit.
I vomited but I don't feel any better. What am I doing Im killing people and even though I don't believe in God I feel damned. I cant be insane because insane people can black these things out and why the hell am I writing at a time like this except that I guess when Im dead I hope that people will understand and at least think I was crazy except Im not except that thats what all crazy people say (and all sane people too) but at least I know that what Im doing is insane. I know its insane but the MDs dont understand whats happening to me and the others and I cant think of any explanation except what the GDs say oh what the hell Ill just shutup and try to sleep
I cant sleep
I dont want to sleep anyway. I want to die.
And the mission is accomplished I had to kill a whole bunch of GDs and thank heaven for my permit to buy ammo because without it theredve been no way. If Im right or wrong it doesnt matter anymore because there all dead and Ill be too as soon as I finish writing this which Id better hurry and do because my guess is theyre trying to find me right now. I realized after I got all but Biscuit that theyd better not try to stop me because the only way they could do it would be to kill me and Im a peace of there prophet, who they dont want to kill. Im carrying valuable cargo. Which is why they havent called the cops, because the cops would kill me. And besides, how would they explain how they know who Id kill next without letting out their little secret which even if nobody believed it I figure they dont want anybody guessing.
I got all new skin on my tummy, and this Peppinger must have been a pretty virile guy, if body hair has anything to do with virility. I feel like a new man Ha ho.
I thought maybe it would be kind of harder to do Biscuit because after all I liked him but after youve killed about twenty people who arent fighting back, who just look at you all surprised and frightened Vomit Vomit. Good thing I dont plan to get myself with poison because Id puke it up before it got me. Dead time, boys and girls. Whoever reads this, take a good look at the GDs and do yourself a favor. Dont let anybody operate on you under total again. There aint nothing worth dying for, unless its making sure that youre the only person living in your body.
I just thought of something. What if I had waited a little longer, and this Peppinger had got to my brain? Would I just become Peppinger?
Who gives a darn (euph).
I do.
I found myself with a pistol barrel in my mouth wondering why. I remember why now, I think. I have read this journal, and I think I remember thoughts of a few minutes ago. They were not my thoughts. But they are my memories.
This gun has killed. These hands pulled the trigger. This heart beat faster as the gun fired. These ears still ache from the explosions. These eyes wept in remorse. My mouth still tastes of vomit.
But I did not kill. Please, God, I did not kill.
I was killed. Mabey says so and I remember a mad face and a meatcleaver, coming from nowhere in the depths of a crowd of smiling, laughing, loving faces. I remember a moment of pain, and then
No. This I cannot
I can think of no reason to believe that this journal is a fraud.
I have looked in the mirror. I am the man I remembered myself to be.
I have met with Hyman, Ron, Moral, Chaste, and Egan. The answers are clear. Such a great sin has never been committed, and yet the hearts of those who sinned were pure.
Surely the humble fishermen whose hearts' love had been torn from them did not sin in wishing him alive again. And in the wishing, neither did these disciples of God's Deliverance sin. But ours is a different age, and it was the genius of Egan and Chaste, the deft hands of Hyman, the force of will of Ron and Moral that have brought me back, not from the grave, for I never was there, but from where I was, and that is sin enough.
The chemicals are destroyed, boiled away or burned or both. The papers are all ash, which has been raked to dust and scattered through the fields and woods of this countryside. And they have knelt before me and given solemn oath before God and before me (it is a mark of all our weakness that they and I hold it necessary to vow before someone else than God) that their secrets will die with them.
We all have blood on our hands. They have the blood of eleven murdered men, women, and children. I have the blood of Frank Mabey whose body I stole. I have done what cannibals only mocked: I have eaten his flesh and taken his virtue and I live because he is dead.
This sin is on our heads, and though we will proceed as we had planned before the manservant of sin cut the thread of my thin and nebulous life, nevertheless we, like Moses and Aaron, will not see the promised land.
I will lock this away until my death, because for the sake of the movement we must go on. Penance for these sins will come later, in God's time. Now we must work in God's Deliverance. After my death this will be Frank Mabey's testament and my confession.
It is no jest that religion forbids all good things, and the stronger the forbidding, the better the thing forbidden. But the forbidding is only for a time. To own is forbidden, until the thing owned has been earned. To copulate is forbidden, until that copulation is locked within a family. And to die and to kill are forbidden, until God himself reaches down his hand and releases us from life. This I have taught them now. I see that it must be the cornerstone.
They ask me, again and again, what is death like? What did I feel? What did I see?
I show them, but they see not. I tell them, but they hear not. If death were not desirable, it would not have been forbidden us. We are taught to fear it, and we are forbidden to seek those who have died, because if we knew, if we understood what lies within our reach, at the cost of a pill, a bullet, a blade, a breath, then in the moment we understood, this world would be unpopulated. We would leap into our graves like a lecher into his lady's bed.
But we do not know, and the fear is on us, and God in his mercy will deliver us from ourselves if we can school our passions.
Perhaps God will let me stand on a high hill and look out into the promised land before he lets me return to him. Then my people will mourn me. But I will go singing.
Reuben Ives decided on his twelfth birthday that this would be his lucky year. His dog and his doctor disagreed, but he ignored them. Maynard could hide under the bed with his paws over his eyes, but it wouldn't stop Reuben. And the doctor—well, he was one of them, and Reuben had nothing but contempt for him. He showed his contempt by always arriving exactly fifteen minutes late for his appointments, which he knew threw off the doctor's schedule for the rest of the day. And every time the doctor got used to it and scheduled someone else into Reuben's half hour, Reuben would arrive on time. It was just Reuben's way of letting them know that he didn't care, the doctor whispered to the nurse. Ho hum,
Reuben said to himself. And Maynard looked embarrassed and curled up under the chair looking more like a sheep than a sheepdog.
In fact, Reuben thought, he looks kind of sheepish.
“What are you laughing at?” the doctor asked.
Reuben sneered at him. “You. You look terrible with bifocals.”
“Thank you, Reuben,” said the doctor.
“I turned twelve this morning at 9:37,” Reuben announced.
“Happy birthday,” the doctor answered.
“Suck rocks,” Reuben responded. “How do you manage it?”
“Manage what?” asked the doctor, with imperturbable patience.
“Being sincere, whether you mean it or not. I mean can't you—”
“But I mean it,” said the doctor. Reuben laughed.
“How do you feel,” the doctor asked, “about being twelve?”
“I've lived through a dozen years of being dumped on,” said Reuben.
“Really?” asked the doctor. He looked a little more interested than usual.
“Oh, doctor, yes!” cried Reuben frantically. “They're all against me, they follow me everywhere! They're out to get me, all of them. Protect me!”
The doctor sighed and shuffled papers on his desk.
Reuben fell to his knees on the floor. “You won't help, then? You're one of them. I can see it now. Maynard, protect me from them!” Reuben screamed, grabbing at the dog under his chair. Irritated, Maynard bit his hand.
Reuben looked at the scratch marks on his skin. “Et tu, Maynard,” he murmured. “Doctor, look. Even Maynard.”
“Paranoia isn't a joke, Reuben,” the doctor said.
“A joke he says,” Reuben said to Maynard, laughing bitterly.
With the enemy ships circling our planet and everybody we meet a possible traitor, the doctor said to himself, paranoia is normal. The sky is our enemy. The world is our enemy. The only escape from fear is to be buried. But Reuben was not paranoid.
Reuben was chewing the leaves of the rubber plant.
“Isn't it bad enough that you're crazy,” the doctor said to him, “without you acting crazier than you are?”
“Uh uh uh,” Reuben said, getting back on the chair. “You must not express any negative emotions toward a disturbed person. Code Seven, paragraph three.”
“I'm a doctor,” the doctor reminded him. “I can tell you to go to hell if I want to.”
“Do you want to?” asked Reuben.
“Go to hell,” answered the doctor.
“I been there,” said Reuben in his backcountry voice, “and I ain't goin' back.”
“How do you feel,” asked the doctor, “about being twelve?”
“This,” said Reuben, “is my lucky year.”
The doctor looked at him blankly. “What do you mean, lucky?”
“Having luck,” Reuben answered. “Meeting with success; having good fortune. In other words, things is gonna go mah way.”
“And how,” asked the doctor, “is this marvelous thing going to occur?”
But Reuben sat quietly and did not answer. He just stroked Maynard for the rest of the half hour, until the doctor got up and opened the door and said, “Time's up. Get lost, see you next week. Three-thirty. If you're late, I'll revoke your pass.”
“If I'm late,” Reuben said, “you'll see me when I come.”
The doctor sighed as he watched Reuben go out the door. Reuben smiled. He never counted a visit as a success unless the doctor sighed as he went out the door.
Reuben got on the overhead, getting his ticket punched at the machine. When he got off at the downtown station, he flashed his purple pass at the man who took money and credit cards. The man smiled cheerfully and waved Reuben through, but Reuben noticed that he stepped back and that his eyes were full of fear as he looked at the boy. Reuben was not surprised—most people reacted to him that way. He didn't like it. But at least he got through free—fringe benefits of being a Disturbed Person.
He walked out to the middle of the routing room, where the overhead train schedules flashed on large screens. A huge crowd was milling around. Reuben stopped and set Maynard down. (He always carried Maynard on the overhead because the vibrations made Maynard nervous and he would go to the bathroom on the floor.)
“Crowd's a little bigger than usual,” Reuben said to Maynard. Maynard coughed.
Crowds were always big, Reuben thought. He wondered what it had been like back when it was legal to own your own car and people used to drive all over. How would the overhead stay in business then? It gave lousy service. There was always gum on the seats. Nobody would use the overhead unless they had to.
But they had to.
Reuben closed his eyes and counted to two hundred. People stared, but then they noticed the purple card in his hand and looked away. It was illegal to stare at disturbed persons.
Then Reuben opened his eyes. The first person he saw was a tall man in a business suit. The man was walking away, and Reuben stepped out to follow him. Then he realized that the man looked like his father, and he stopped dead. No, it wasn't his father. But Reuben decided not to follow him anyway.
Reuben remembered the last time he had seen his father. It was his birthday, and his father had—his birthday. Father would be coming to visit him again today. Reuben felt very dark and somehow vaguely afraid.
Father would visit him and Mother would stay home. Reuben spat on the ground. The people around him did not look disgusted. It was illegal to look disgusted at the antisocial acts of disturbed persons.
Reuben closed his eyes and counted again. This time when he looked up he saw a short dumpy man in an expensive suit. He seemed uncomfortably hot, even in the air-conditioned station, and Reuben thought this one might be fun. So he put his purple card in his pocket and walked out of the station right behind the man.
Following was easy for the first few blocks, because the man was walking through crowds, and Reuben could stay ten feet behind without the man ever seeing him. Because Reuben was shorter than the adults in the crowd, staying out of sight was simple. It was one of the few times Reuben was glad he was not yet grown up.
But then the man left the crowds and went down a long alley. The only people were a few workmen unloading a truck. The man walked by and waved. The workmen waved back.
Reuben took a rubber ball out of his pocket and threw it down the alley, not far enough to reach the man, but well over halfway. “Okay, Maynard,” Reuben said, “Go earn your dog biscuits.”
Maynard took off down the alley after the ball. When he reached it he didn't pick it up and bring it back. Instead, he pushed it farther along.
“Fetch!” yelled Reuben. The dog ignored him and pushed the ball even farther.
“Come back with that ball, you stupid mongrel!” Reuben yelled. Then he took off trotting down the alley.
The men stopped work and watched Reuben. Suspiciously, he thought. One of the workmen glanced up the alley, where the man Reuben was following was just turning the corner. Then the workman turned back and looked at Reuben.
“How come you ain in school, boy?” the man challenged.
Reuben pulled the purple card from his pocket.
“Oh, hey, boy,” the man said, embarrassed. “Hey, sorry, okay, kid?”
“Sure, fine,” Reuben answered. Maynard had the ball at the end of the alley.
“Dog doesn't fetch too good, huh, kid?” the workman asked, trying to joke. A lot of people tried to be friendly to disturbed persons. Reuben felt nothing but contempt. He ran on after Maynard.
But when he got to the end of the alley and took the ball back from Maynard, he noticed that the workmen were still watching him. Suspiciously, Reuben thought again. What are they suspicious of? And they had seemed to know the man Reuben was following.
It didn't matter. The man was nowhere to be seen on the busy street the alley opened into. Lost him, Reuben thought as he gave a biscuit to Maynard. “Not fast enough this time,” Reuben said. Maynard ignored him and gobbled the biscuit. “You're not a dog,” Reuben said. “You're a pig.”
Maynard stopped eating and glared at him.
“Okay, sorry,” Reuben said. “Geez, what a sensitive dog.”
Maynard swallowed the last of the biscuit and trotted on down the street.
“What is this,” Reuben said. “Trying to play hero and smell him out?” But Maynard went on until he had stopped in front of Auerbach's department store. “Okay, Ugluk, Dog of the North, let's go find somebody else.”
But Maynard wouldn't budge. And then the man came out of the department store carrying a small sack. The chase was on again. Maynard strutted out ahead of Reuben. “Let's not have any of that I-told-you-so crap,” Reuben said to Maynard. Maynard ignored him and went on strutting.
The man stopped one more time before they got to Liberty Park, and that was to buy a newspaper. When he got to the park he strolled to a bench under some trees where there were some guys throwing a frisbee, and a family having a picnic. He started reading the paper.
Reuben and Maynard watched for about five minutes. The man turned a page. “Whoopee,” Reuben said. “What a winner. Let's go follow somebody else.” But just then the man looked at his watch, folded the paper, and left. Reuben almost got up to follow him, but the grass was too comfortable and the guy was dull anyway. He watched the frisbee game.
Then he glanced at the bench. The man had left the sack he had bought at Auerbach's. What a dunce.
“Hey, Maynard,” Reuben said softly, stroking the dog's neck. “We've been following a dunce. Left his bag on the bench.”
And then a woman with a poodle walked over to the bench and sat down to rest.
The poodle was in heat. Maynard was feeling frisky. He got up and trotted over to the poodle. The poodle seemed to sneer at the shambling sheepdog. Maynard didn't mind. It didn't seem to occur to him that a fellow dog could be snobbish.
But snobbish the poodle was, and she began to bark, running behind the woman for safety. Cheerfully persistent, Maynard followed. The poodle tried to go farther, but the leash stopped her. Maynard kept coming. So the poodle lunged away, snapping the leash out of the woman's hand.
“Gertrude!” the woman shouted.
Gertrude took off at a brisk run. Maynard shuffled after her, gaining on her in his ramshackle way. The poodle dodged and headed back for the bench. Maynard turned faster than anyone would have thought he could, and began to head her off.
“Gertrude, come back here!” the woman yelled. “Whose dog is that? Leave Gertrude alone, you mangy mongrel!”
Reuben had been enjoying the show. But when the woman called his dog a mangy mongrel he got mad. “Who you calling mangy?” he called out.
“Is that your animal?” the woman asked.
“I feed him,” Reuben said.
“Get him away from my dog!” the woman demanded.
Reuben called to Maynard.
“Hey, Maynard, get back here,” he said. Maynard didn't even glance back. “Come on, Maynard. You'll probably get a disease anyway.”
The woman gasped in anger. At that moment Maynard got tired of chasing—he wasn't used to having to ask twice—and came back. Gertrude, utterly exhausted, came back to the woman, who reached down and picked up the leash. “Gertrude, you poor thing,” the woman crooned. “Was that big nasty dog making you fraidsy? Was he, sweety?”
“Oh, Maynard, you poor poopsy-woopsy,” Reuben crooned in imitation. “Did that little warthog run away from you?” Maynard moved away in disgust, but Reuben got what he wanted: the woman had heard him.
“What do you mean, anyway,” the woman snapped, “letting your dog run around in a public park without a leash? I should have you arrested.”
Reubed pulled the purple card from his pocket. He loved to watch how people suddenly became kind and thoughtful.
The woman saw the card and suddenly became kind and thoughtful. “I'm so sorry,” she said sweetly, though Reuben could tell it was a strain. “I hope my dog didn't disturb you,” she said as she moved away. Was that sarcastic? Reuben wondered. She had more spunk than most. But she was still a zero.
“She's still a zero,” Reuben said to Maynard. Then he remembered the Auerbach's package on the bench and went over to see what the man had bought.
But the package was gone. Reuben tried to remember if anyone had gone near the bench during the melee. No one. The woman must have lifted the package. Clever, Reuben thought. “Clever,” he said to Maynard. “The lady's a thief.”
But something didn't ring true in the whole situation. What had been in the bag? And when did the woman take it? And why, for that matter, had the man forgotten it? Why— Coincidence.
His father was waiting for him when he got home.
“Reuben, my boy,” said his father cheerfully. “Happy birthday, my lad. Good to see you.”
“Hello, Father,” Reuben said as he opened a can of dog food for Maynard.
“It's been a long time,” his father said.
Reuben set the dog food down in a dish. Maynard slurped it up noisily. “Has it?” Reuben asked. “I've been busy.”
“I've been busy,” his father said. Then he realized that Reuben had just said that. “Oh, you just said that.” Then his father laughed. “Mother sends her love.”
“How nice,” Reuben said.
“And I brought you a present,” his father said. He had even wrapped it.
“Thank you,” Reuben said.
“Take it,” his father said, offering him the package.
Reuben took the package.
“Aren't you going to open it?” Reuben's father asked.
“Do you want me to?”
His father's patience snapped right then. It always snapped within the first five minutes.
“I don't care if you flush it down the toilet.”
Reuben opened the package. It was a watch. Very expensive. The kind that told the time, the day, the weather, did math problems up to twelve digits, and played FM radio.
“Three hundred twenty-nine ninety-five plus tax,” Reuben said. “Or did you get a discount?”
His father looked angry. “I got a discount, Reuben. I own the store.”
“Ah,” Reuben said, putting on the watch. “Did you know that two plus two is four?”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“So did the watch. It's a clever watch. Thank you.”
Then Reuben ran water into another dish and set it in front of Maynard. Maynard slopped into it, splashing all over the floor as he drank. Reuben's father sat down on the couch. “Nice place,” he said.
“Yes,” Reuben answered. “The government gives us new furniture every three years. It makes us disturbed persons feel—not so disturbed. Of course, some of them can't cope with new furniture, so they don't change it. And others—the furniture slashers —they get new furniture more often. But me, I'm a regular disturbed person, so I got my new furniture at the regular time.”
“I'm glad they, uh, take care of you so well,” said Reuben's father lamely.
“I'm sure you are. Eases the conscience, doesn't it?”
“Reuben, do you have to?”
“Does Mother miss me?” Reuben asked. “Or has she forgotten her little boy?”
“She hasn't forgotten.”
“Why don't you tell her that my name is Reuben? It might remind her. I'm twelve, too, a big boy now, with bright eyes and tousled, sweet-looking blond hair. A lovely child, of whom she can be very proud.”
Reuben's father had a sick look on his face. “Can't you lay off? For one day a year?”
“Daddy, this is the only day in the year I get to lay on.”
“Well, I hope you've had a good time.”
“It's been swell,” Reuben answered.
Reuben's father paced angrily to the window and back again. “You aren't crazy,” he finally said. “You aren't crazy, Mr. Boy Genius. You just think you're too good for the world. Come down off your IQ for a few minutes someday, Reuben. Maybe real human beings have something you don't have.”
Reuben smiled at his father. “I love you, Daddy,” he said.
He watched his father struggle, trying not to answer, knowing what would happen if he did. Finally habit won, and his father said, “I love you, too, Reuben.”
Reuben began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, rolling on the couch, falling off and rolling on the floor. When he finally stopped laughing his father was gone, and Maynard was scratching his paws on the refrigerator door. Reuben lay on the floor looking at the ceiling for a while. Then he went to bed. For a few crazy moments he wanted to cry himself to sleep. But he hadn't shed a tear in years. Not about to start now.
He dreamed about his mother.
He woke up with Maynard licking his face.
He followed the short dumpy man every day that week, and all the next week, too. The man had a routine. Mondays at the park, where he always forgot a package from Auerbach's and the woman walking her dog happened to pick it up. Reuben never saw her take it, but it was always gone. Tuesdays to the airport, where he left a briefcase in a locker—Reuben followed on the overhead.
Wednesdays to the post office, where he took a letter from a post office box. The man opened the letter as he walked. Inside was another envelope, which he casually dropped by a mailbox. A few moments later another man came along, picked up the envelope, and walked away. Reuben followed this second man every time, and every time a block away from the mailbox the man opened the envelope, crumpled up the letter and threw it in a wastebasket without reading it, and saved the envelope Strange Reuben thought.
Thursdays the man was back in the park, only this time the woman came first and left an empty package of dog biscuits, which the man carried to the garbage and threw away. And Fridays the man went to a dirty movie and stayed there for three hours. So many people came and went that Reuben had no way of knowing if one of them was coming to meet the man.
And by the end of the two weeks, Reuben was more confused than ever. The short dumpy man was obviously a messenger. And obviously the messages he carried were secret. But who were the messages from? And who were they to?
Reuben imagined many things. Perhaps it was a gang of criminals passing the messages. But the short dumpy man didn't seem like a criminal. That meant nothing, of course, as Reuben well knew. But he still didn't think that that was the answer.
It might be government work. That fit much better, because the man's regular routine seemed like just the sort of stupid thing the government would have somebody do. But why would the government be hiding its actions like this? It seemed to Reuben that the government spent most of its time hiding things from the people, not from itself.
Which left the last guess, which Reuben thought was crazier than the others. The man must be a spy.
Of course, everyone knew who a spy would be spying for. There was only one enemy. The spaceships circling the world had been there all Reuben's life, a shadow hanging over the planet. All the enemy needed was an ally on the Earth and they would attack.
But who in the world would be friends with the enemy? What could anyone gain by being enslaved as the other planets had been enslaved?
It didn't matter who, Reuben decided. It was the only possible answer to the things he had seen.
The next Wednesday when he followed the man, Reuben waited for his chance. Obviously the bit with the letter was so that if someone found it, they would simply mail it without ever realizing that it was something important. So when the short dumpy man dropped the letter, Reuben ran in before the other man could get there. He picked up the letter, looked carefully at the envelope, and dropped it in the slot. As he turned and left, he saw the other man come over to find the letter, then move quickly away when he realized it was gone.
They won't suspect a thing, Reuben thought.
When he and Maynard got home that night, Reuben wrote down the address that had been on the envelope:
Bill
14 N 7 W
Enterprise, Utah 840033
Mr. Hyrum Wainscott
1408 S 2200 E
Salt Lake City, Utah 841236
And that was all. An address and a return address.
Reuben decided it was a code. He sat down and copied out the alphabet and tried to link up all the letters in ways that might make an intelligent pattern. He tried assigning number values to the letters, and letter values to the numbers. But no matter what he did, it made no sense. He fell asleep at the table.
When he woke up he looked at his work of the night before and decided it had all been stupid. The letter meant nothing. The man just had some weird habits. He dropped letters a lot. He always left Auerbach's sacks behind when he went to the park. He left briefcases in airport lockers just for fun. And he liked dirty movies. It meant nothing.
Then Reuben looked at the address again and realized how simple it really was. The address was real. It told where the real message was. The return address was just for show.
Reuben gathered up Maynard, who grumbled about leaving the house so early, and took the overhead to thirteenth south and twenty-first east. He walked from there to the corner of fourteenth and twenty-second.
There was no 1408.
Another theory down the drain. Discouraged, Reuben got back on the overhead and headed into town.
And just as he stepped off the overhead he realized what the address meant. He headed straight for the library and got the Forest Service map of Utah. He found Enterprise near the southwest corner of the state.
Fourteen miles north and seven miles west of the town of Enterprise, Utah, there was absolutely nothing but desert mountains. It was miles off the road, and there wasn't a town or even a settlement close enough to matter.
So if on the fourteenth day of the eighth month, which was in three days, at 2200 hours—ten p.m., just after dark—something were to happen fourteen miles north and seven miles west of Enterprise, Utah, not a soul would see it.
What would it be? A meeting? A parachute drop? An important message? It didn't matter. The short dumpy man had delivered the message, but it had not been received. Would the meeting or the message or the parachute drop take place anyway? They must have a backup system. It would undoubtedly happen right on schedule. And I have to do something about it, Reuben thought. It didn't occur to him that it was none of his business. He might feel contempt for everyone he knew, but the enemy was the enemy.
Reuben went straight to the doctor's office. It wasn't time for his appointment, but the doctor was willing to see him anyway. Reuben explained about everything he had done in the last few weeks, about the short dumpy man and the messages, and finally about the address and what he had finally realized that it meant.
The doctor leaned forward across the desk.
“I think this is a very important day,” the doctor said.
“Of course it is,” Reuben answered. “We've got to tell the authorities. You've got to, I mean, because they'd never believe me.”
“And why do you think they'd never believe you, Reuben?” the doctor asked.
“Because I'm a disturbed person. They'd just send you a memo about what crazy thing I did this time.”
“And why do you think they'd do that?” the doctor asked.
“Because,” Reuben said, “this is just the sort of thing a paranoid schizophrenic would cook up. You know I'm not a paranoid schizophrenic. They don't.”
The doctor looked very pleased with himself. “So you feel that you're helpless without relying on an outside authority figure, is that it?”
Reuben cocked his head and looked at the doctor. “Yeah, Doc,” Reuben said. “That's it.”
“You've had these feelings of personal helplessness for a long time, haven't you? Or have they just started?”
Reuben got up. “Come on, Maynard. The doctor's busy.”
“Not at all,” the doctor said, rising from his chair. “I have plenty of time to talk to you.”
“I've got things to do,” Reuben said. The doctor sighed. But this time Reuben felt no pleasure in it. He should have known that the doctor would only see this whole thing as another symptom.
So Reuben went to the only other person he could think of. His father's office was in the old Kennecott Copper Building, right at the dead center of downtown.
Reuben's hands were cold when he punched the buttons on the elevator. And when the elevator stopped abruptly on the sixteenth floor, Reuben's knees were shaky and he was breathing hard. He had only been to his father's office once before. And that was five years ago, before the—before. The secretary told him his father was not in.
“Don't give me that,” Reuben said impatiently. “He's always in. Tell him his little boy is here to see him.”
The secretary glared at him and left her desk, motioning to a security man standing nearby. The security man came and sat at the desk. The secretary came back in a few minutes and whispered in the security man's ear.
“All right, sonny,” the security man said. “Come with me.”
They went down a thickly carpeted hall with real wood walls and several doors. At the end of the hall they turned right and went down another corridor. At last they came to Reuben's father's office. The security man opened the door and let Reuben in.
“Hello, Reuben,” his father said, looking at him strangely.
“Hello, Father,” Reuben said, wondering why in the world he had come to this man for help.
“What can I do for you?” his father asked.
“I need your help,” Reuben answered. Maynard scratched his paws on the front of Reuben's father's real wood desk. He reached down and picked Maynard up. “Sorry.”
“That's all right,” his father said. “Sit down and tell me.”
So Reuben told him about the short dumpy man and the messages and the envelope and the desert northwest of Enterprise. And his father nodded all the way through.
“Have you told the police?” his father asked quizzically.
“No, Father. I'm a disturbed person, remember? I need you to tell them.”
His father nodded, and Reuben felt relieved. Until his father said, “Do you have any other evidence?”
“Isn't that enough?” Reuben asked.
“Well, it seems a little farfetched. Why couldn't it just be a wrong address that somebody put on the envelope?”
“But it all fits,” Reuben said, with a sinking feeling. “And what about the things this guy does?”
“Lots of people do lots of things,” his father said. “Have you talked to the doctor about this?”
Reuben looked at his father and realized how carefully he was thinking of his words before he spoke and how he was playing nervously with his telephone receiver. And he knew that his father didn't believe him, that he was afraid of him, that he wanted the doctor to be there.
“The doctor?” Reuben asked. “Yes, Father. Go ahead and call him. I'm sure he'll make you feel better about your little boy. He'll call this a sign of incipient social interest, and tell you that you should be encouraged that my emotional dysfunction should now be bringing me to seek contact with my father and to try to win favor from society for my heroic but imagined deeds.” Reuben got up and went to the door. “Come on, Maynard. Don't shed on the rug.” Maynard followed him out the door.
Back on the street Reuben felt angry and bitter. Why had he bothered? They had never believed him, never seen things his way. They all tried to cope with him, as if he were an epidemic or a forest fire that they had to keep under control. Even his mother, back in the early years—in all his memories of her, Reuben could see her trying to talk to him, trying to answer his questions, but afraid, like his father, like his doctor, like the people on the street.
He pulled out his purple card and watched people move aside, opening a path for him through the crowd. The huge trees on Main Street even seemed to recoil.
Maynard stopped and went to the bathroom on one of the trees. “Not a bad idea,” Reuben said. “Let 'em all drop dead. Let the enemy come down and take over everything. They deserve it.”
It was when Reuben was eating a sandwich at the restaurant in the overhead station that he thought of what an enemy invasion would mean. It was all right to think of huge blond men with white eyes dragging his father off in chains. But when he thought of them coming to his mother, he set down his sandwich, got off his chair, and left, flashing his purple card at the checkout lady, who smiled at him with fear in her eyes.
He took the overhead to Murray, where he transferred to the overhead up Cotton-wood Canyon. It was full of sightseers and retired people heading up to their cabins.
He got off at the seventh stop and walked up a winding asphalt path to a large house nestled among huge pines on the north slope of the canyon. The house was all wood —it could only belong to a millionaire many times over. Reuben chuckled to think of his father's wealth.
He went to the door but did not touch the knob. Instead he stood and thought for a moment. They must have expected him to come here sometime. The doorknob would be keyed so that his palm or fingers would trigger an alarm. He remembered the household routine.
He knelt on the welcome mat close to the door, where the camera would not catch his face—only the top of his head, which would make him look like a little boy. He pushed the doorbell strip with his elbow.
A woman's voice spoke. “Who is it?”
“Groceries,” Reuben answered.
“Today?” The woman paused. “This is Thursday. There aren't supposed to be deliveries on Thursday.”
“They send me, I come,” Reuben answered.
“All right,” the woman sighed. The door slip open. Reuben came in on his knees. Once past the door he stood up. He could hear the kitchen intercom saying, “Just leave them on the table, please.” But he did not go into the kitchen. Instead he climbed the stairs in the living room and went down a short hall to the door that stood ajar. Inside the room someone was typing. Reuben went to the door and pushed it farther open. Well, there—
His mother sat at the typewriter, her long dark hair falling on the keys as she leaned over her work. He had often seen her like that, years ago when he had lived at home.
Then she felt his presence in the door and looked up. She was beautiful, with soft features and large eyes and a white scar down her left cheek.
She looked at him for a moment, and then fear and recognition entered her eyes at the same time.
“Reuben,” she whispered.
“Mother,” he said, stepping into the room.
She got up and moved back toward the window.
“Wait,” he said.
“Stay there,” she said.
“Mother, listen to me.”
“You aren't supposed to be here,” she said, her voice husky with fear. “They'll take away your card. They'll put you in a —place.”
“Not if you listen to me. Not if you help me.”
She shook her head, her face white. She touched the scar on her cheek.
“Mother, I'm sorry,” Reuben said. “Please believe me. Please trust me.”
“Go away,” she said. A tear ran down her cheek.
“Mother, I love you,” Reuben said, reaching out his hand. “See? My hands are empty. I won't hurt you, I promise.”
“No.”
“Mother, you've got to listen to me!”
She closed her eyes. “I'm listening,” she whispered desperately.
And for the third time that day Reuben told the story of the short dumpy man and the message on the envelope. He told her about the doctor and about his father.
“Do you believe me?” Reuben asked.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Is it true?” she asked softly.
“Every word,” Reuben said, wanting to shout, but keeping his voice to a whisper. “I didn't make any of it up.”
“I don't know,” she said. “I don't know if I believe you.”
Reuben's heart sank again, only this time the pain and tightness in his chest and throat were more than he could bear. Tears came to his eyes.
“Well you've just got to,” he said. No sound came, but his mother saw his lips move. She took a step toward him and then stopped, seeing what no one had seen for five years. Tears on Reuben's cheeks.
“Show me,” she said. “I'll go with you and you show me.”
Reuben nodded, and then he fell to his knees and began to cry, saying, “You've got to believe me,” over and over again. When he stopped crying, his head dizzy and his throat thick, he realized that his mother's arms were around him. Suddenly ashamed, he stood up and stepped away. He looked in her eyes and saw that even though she was looking lovingly at him, his sudden movement had made her afraid again. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Two-fifteen,” she said.
“There's time. Come with me and I'll show you.” They walked down the hill together to the overhead.
They got to the park a half hour later. He led her to a waiting place he had used before. “We'll toss sticks for Maynard. It'll look natural. Just pretend you're my—”
She nodded. “All right,” she said.
In ten minutes the woman with the poodle came. Maynard looked over wistfully, but kept playing with the sticks. Reuben told his mother not to watch the woman. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her give a dog biscuit to Gertrude, then shake the box and toss it to the ground by the bench. Just like the last two weeks.
Then the woman got up and moved away. Reuben knelt by Maynard. “All right, Maynard,” he said. “Earn your biscuits. Get the box.”
Then Reuben stood and threw a stick toward the bench. Maynard took off after the stick, but when he got near the box he stopped and sniffed around, went to the bathroom on the bench, then picked up the box and ran back to Reuben.
“Bad dog,” Reuben said loudly, but Maynard understood, waiting patiently for the biscuit that Reuben surreptitiously dropped. Then Maynard set down the box and picked up the biscuit. Reuben grabbed the box and said to his mother, “All right. Let's go. Slowly and naturally, in case they're watching.”
They walked away from the park without looking back, and caught the overhead for Magna. On the first stop Reuben told her to get out, and he followed her to the overhead to Kearns. They hopped a few more overheads, then got on one heading back downtown. Only then did Reuben look at the box.
“What does the box mean?” asked his mother.
Reuben shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “I've never picked up one of these before. I just know that she leaves this, and the guy picks it up and throws it away.”
And then he felt a terrible fear that the box would be meaningless and that his mother would think he had made it up, that he was really crazy. And she would tell the doctor, and the doctor would know that he had broken the rules and gone to see her, and he would lose his pass and go to the hospital, and he would rather die.
He reached into the box and found something taped to the inside. He peeled off the tape and pulled out three microfiches. It was too small to read, of course, but his mother looked at them and her face went white.
“There's really something there,” she said.
She hadn't believed him.
She turned to him and smiled. “Reuben, Reuben, I hoped so hard that it would be there.”
He felt strange. Her smile was so warm that he felt his face flush with heat that pulsed rapidly. She had hoped that they would find something.
“Here,” he said. “Put them in your purse. We'll go to the federal building. There's an FBI office there.”
“All right,” she said, putting the film in her purse.
“You saw,” he said. “You saw the woman leave the box. You saw how it happened.”
“Of course,” she said. “I saw it all. And with this, whatever it is, I'm sure there'll be somebody down in Enterprise on the fourteenth.”
“There better be,” Reuben said. “This is a serious business.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. But when Reuben got of the overhead to walk to the federal building, it seemed perfectly natural to be holding his mother's hand.
The FBI believed Reuben and his mother. Or rather, they believed the microfilm. Reuben and his mother were in the federal building for several hours, explaining how and when and what and where, and the FBI agent listened respectfully to Reuben's reasoning about the envelope.
“Thanks, kid,” the man said when it was over. “We'll handle it from here.”
So Reuben and his mother left. Reuben went to the door of the house in the canyon with her, and she asked him to come in.
“I would only leave again,” Reuben said.
He turned to go, but then, as an afterthought, he said, “Mother.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Uh, Father shouldn't …”
“I won't tell him.” She closed the door.
Reuben and Maynard went back to the apartment. Reuben slept badly that night. He kept dreaming of his father hitting his mother, though he had never seen him do such a thing. And then he dreamed of the lady in the park with the dog named Gertrude. He watched her and watched her in his dream, but he could never see her pick up the package from Auerbach's. It always just disappeared during the first split second he glanced away.
He woke up feeling foul. Even brushing his teeth didn't take the taste out of his mouth. He went to where he usually found the short dumpy man and waited. Now that the FBI was taking care of things, there was no real point in following him. Except that there was nothing else to do.
But the man did not come. Reuben waited all day. Finally he went to the theater at the time the man usually came out. The dirty movie ended, but the short dumpy man was not among the crowd that came out.
Why did the routine change today?
But it was the weekend, and Reuben followed someone else on Saturday and Sunday.
On Saturday he followed a prostitute to the Nevada border. He didn't have a passport, so he took the overhead back to Salt Lake.
On Sunday he followed a wino along Second South and finally used his purple card to buy a bottle of something. The wino said thank you and offered to share. Reuben said no but Maynard drank a little.
Reuben and Maynard went home and watched murders and happy families on television.
Sunday was October 22nd, and as he went to bed Reuben realized that northwest of Enterprise whatever the enemy was doing was being stopped tonight.
The next day the short dumpy man was right on schedule: the package from Auerbach's, the bench in the park, and the lady with the dog. Since it was all over by now Reuben let Maynard chase Gertrude again.
The lady was more irritated than ever, and Reuben laughed. The two dogs raced barking along by the pond, and the geese swam away in a hurry.
“Stop your dog,” the lady said. “Please. Gertrude gets an upset stomach.” She spoke carefully, remembering Reuben's purple card.
Reuben looked at the bench, ignoring her. Once again the Auerbach's package had disappeared. But he was sure the woman hadn't gone anywhere near it.
Gertrude ran back to the woman, who was trying to control her fury. She scooped up the female dog. Maynard bounded up and tried to jump on Gertrude. He missed, leaving muddy pawprints all over the lady's skirt. Reuben laughed.
The lady kicked Maynard. Reuben stopped laughing. That was dangerous—Maynard had a mean streak a mile wide, and he always bit the legs that kicked him.
Maynard snapped at the lady. She kicked again, and this time Maynard bit, sinking his teeth into the loose flesh of her calf.
But the woman didn't shriek as Reuben had expected. She just shook her leg, and Maynard loosed his grip and dropped away. She glared at Reuben and walked off, carrying Gertrude. She didn't limp.
Maynard lay on the ground, not moving. Reuben walked up to him. “Hey, Maynard, getting weak in your old age?”
But Maynard didn't even resent the gibe. He was dead.
When Reuben was sure of it, he picked up his dog's corpse and walked home. He laid Maynard's body on the carpet. There was no blood. There was no sign of any damage. There was no sign there was any' disease. Maynard had bit the lady and died.
Reuben called the FBI. The man told him to come down and bring the dog. He sounded worried, Reuben decided.
“What happened?” Reuben said to the FBI man as soon as he arrived. At the same moment the FBI man looked at Maynard's corpse and said, “What happened?”
Reuben answered, “The lady in the park. He bit her.”
“And?”
“And nothing. And he died.”
“What did she do?”
“She got bit,” Reuben said, a little angrily, though he knew it would be dangerous to let any emotion happen right now.
“And the dog died.”
“The man in the pinstripe suit wins the prize,” Reuben said, absentmindedly stroking the dog's fur.
“Look, kid, I know you've told us straight so far, but you're a DP, right? Do you hallucinate?”
Reuben glared at him. “Never.”
“Hey, okay,” the man said, “I just had to ask.”
“What happened? Down in the south?” Reuben asked.
“Well,” the FBI man said, “I don't know if I can tell you, and unless the boss says I can tell you and signs it in triplicate in his own blood, I'm sure as hell not going to breathe a word.”
“They weren't there, were they,” Reuben said.
The FBI man looked at him. “What makes you think they weren't?”
“Because,” Reuben said, “the day after I told you they broke their routine, and the lady in the park knew enough to kill Maynard.”
“Who the hell is Maynard?” the FBI man asked.
“My dog,” said Reuben.
“Oh, he's got a name,” the FBI man commented. “Hey, look, can I do an autopsy? Cause of death?”
“You?” Reuben asked.
“I mean one of our staff.”
“Sure,” Reuben said. “Maynard won't give a damn.”
The FBI man laughed. “Right,” he said, and then stopped laughing when he saw the expression on Reuben's face. “Hey, kid, I'll have the dog right back, okay?”
Reuben nodded and sat down to wait. While he waited he wondered what they'd say if he told them about the way the lady in the park always snatched the packages when nobody could see, and how she never even seemed to get close to the bench. They'd be sure to think he was hallucinating after all.
It was a circle. No way out. He looked at the drab walls and his mind wandered.
What did the enemy look like, anyway? Nobody could say. On the few planets they had come to and had not yet conquered no one had ever seen them. On the planets they had conquered, no one would say. All that anyone knew—or at least all the government would let on—was that without active help from the people on the planet they were attacking, the enemy couldn't do a thing. But with such help, they were irresistible.
What if thev were already on the Earth? Reuben looked at his hands, how the fingers were all the same and yet different. What if they could look just like us, and they were already going to the store, and holding down influential jobs, and—why not?—walking dogs in the park and picking up Auerbach's packages without going near them? Possible, Reuben thought.
Maybe I do hallucinate, he thought. The idea frightened him.
The FBI man came back after about an hour.
“What did Maynard die of?” Reuben asked, jumping to his feet.
“Nothing,” said the man. “He's not dead. I mean, he is, of course,” he caught himself, seeing the look of hope that Reuben couldn't hide. “But there's no reason in the world that the dog should be dead. Perfect shape. Good for years. Not an injury.”
“But dead anyway,” said another man who came through the door. Reuben hadn't met him before.
“He's The Boss,” the FBI man said, “and he wants to have a talk.” The Boss smiled. Reuben did not smile. The FBI man left the room.
Reuben and The Boss had a talk. During the talk Reuben figured out that nothing had happened down in southern Utah, that the whole thing was either called off or was so subtle that nobody saw it. The FBI was hunting for straws, because they did have the microfilm, and it had to mean something.
“Ideas?” The Boss asked.
“You're asking me for ideas?” Reuben asked.
“Is there anyone else in the room?” The Boss asked.
“What kind of great ideas do you think I can give you when you've been trying so hard not to tell me that nothing happened down in Enterprise and that you don't know what's going on?” Reuben said with a look that made The Boss feel a little weak.
“So you can read between the lines,” The Boss whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” Reuben asked.
“Get off my back for a minute,” The Boss said. “In my line of work we meet guys with brains about once every twenty years. Everybody else is a cop, a crook, or a congressman.”
“So let's trade some secrets,” Reuben said, feeling, for some reason, a little less contempt for The Boss than he felt toward everyone else.
“All right,” The Boss agreed.
“You first,” Reuben said.
“Okay,” The Boss said, sighing. “So much for Top Secret. Right, nothing happened in Enterprise, even though everything pointed to it, and so we figure that either they were on to you, in which case why the hell did they have another rendezvous in the park today, or else the whole thing was a sham and they wanted someone to find out about Enterprise so we'd all go there while the real thing happened someplace else. In which case we're looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“And you want ideas,” Reuben said.
“You said we'd trade secrets,” The Boss said,
“All right,” Reuben said. “How's this? Maybe it was a sham, like you said, only not to keep you from noticing something happening at the same time someplace else, but to keep you from noticing that it already happened awhile ago.”
The Boss looked at him. “Like?”
“Like you're running around this time and maybe next time and maybe the time after, trying to find where the enemy is going to land—all the time not noticing that they're already here and working right where you won't notice them—under your noses.”
The Boss looked interested. “So if they can do that, what've they been waiting for?”
“I don't know,” Reuben said, “unless maybe there aren't very many of them, and they need to get up an organization, or else maybe they're weak, and they have to divide us in order to take over. I don't know. But I think they're here.”
And then Reuben told The Boss about the way the woman in the park never seemed to touch the Auerbach's package. “And the way Maynard died. My dog. Just bit her and then dropped dead.”
“Interesting theory,” The Boss said. “In fact it holds up pretty well, just the sort of devious thing we might expect. Except for one thing.”
“Yeah?” asked Reuben.
“We know who the lady is. Birth certificate, lots of relatives, no way she could be a plant, already thirty years old when the enemy ships came. Sorry. Just an ordinary Earth-type traitor.”
“Was she ever bit by a dog before?” Reuben asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” The Boss asked.
“Because unless it's ordinary for certain people to cause dogs to drop dead without an injury, then she isn't ordinary. She's changed, right?”
The Boss smiled. “Very good, Reuben,” he said. “We'll check it out.”
Reuben shook his head. “Promise me something.”
The Boss said, “What in particular? Some promises I can't make.”
“Promise me you'll tell me what happens.”
On the way out Reuben stopped by Maynard's corpse in the autopsy rooms. The body was kind of a mess, and Reuben did not touch Maynard's fur.
“Want us to take care of this for you?” The Boss asked.
“Yeah,” Reuben said.
Three months later they told him what happened, and as Reuben had announced on his birthday, it was his lucky year. He got to meet the president of the United States and shake his hand and wear a medal, none of which impressed him much. He got to have his picture in every newspaper in the country, along with pictures of the people he had followed who turned out to be the enemy, which didn't thrill him either.
However, he also got to go home.
His father wasn't happy about it and Reuben noticed that there were new locks on all the bedroom doors, but Reuben just thought Suck Rocks and talked to his mother for an hour or two alone just to bug his father. They quarreled a lot, Reuben and his father. And his mother really didn't understand him any better than she ever had. But all in all it beat hell out of the government-owned apartment and there were other compensations.
It turned out that the enemy was a very intelligent but not-too-tough marsh gas sort of thing, only about six of them, and they had to take over human bodies—curious people, who came too close—in order to do anything at all. And once they were in a human body, when the body died so did they. So—firing squads (Utah law) and the problem was over. The ships continued to circle around the Earth, but after a few months some air force shuttleships with heavy rockets shot them down. All the ships defenses, impregnable a few months before, were gone, and the ships fell into the Sargasso Sea.
It was on Reuben's thirteenth birthday that he realized his lucky year was over. That was the day they took away his purple card and he had to start carrying money and asking permission. But he didn't mind all that much. It was kind of fun.
The day after his thirteenth birthday his mother and father took him to the park. Out at the car, Reuben's father remembered the camera.
“It's upstairs in my closet,” his father said, and Reuben ran back up the asphalt path. He stopped just inside the front door. He bowed his head a moment, reached out his hand, and waited.
The camera materialized in his palm.
He opened his eyes, looked at the camera, smiled, and ran back outside, being careful to lock the door behind him as his father always asked. Then he skipped down the sidewalk, conversing with the stranger in his mind, who followed him far more closely than he would have thought possible back in the old days when he was a child, and still human.