He hurried on. The sun was setting. Cars streaked by him, businessmen going home from work. Tomorrow they would be going back - but not him. Not ever again.
He reached his own street. Ed Tildon’s house rose up, a great stately structure of concrete and glass. Tildon’s dog came rushing out to bark. Haskel hastened past. Tildon’s dog. He laughed wildly.
‘Better keep away!’ he shouted at the dog.
He reached his own house and leaped up the front steps two at a time. He tore the door open. The living room was dark and silent. There was a sudden stir of motion. Shapes untangling themselves, getting quickly up from the couch.
‘Verne!’ Madge gasped. ‘What are you doing home so early?’
Verne Haskel threw his briefcase down and dropped his hat and coat over a chair. His lined face was twisted with emotion, pulled out of shape by violent inner forces.
‘What in the world!’ Madge fluttered, hurrying toward him nervously, smoothing down her lounge pajamas. ‘Has something happened? I didn’t expect you so—’ She broke off, blushing. ‘I mean, I—’
Paul Tyler strolled leisurely toward Haskel. ‘Hi there, Verne,’ he murmured, embarrassed. ‘Dropped by to say hello and return a book to your wife.’
Haskel nodded curtly. ‘Afternoon.’ He turned and headed toward the basement door, ignoring the two of them. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’
‘But Verne!’ Madge protested. ‘What’s happened?’
Verne halted briefly at the door. ‘I quit my job.’
‘You what?’
‘I quit my job. I finished Larson off. There won’t be any more of him.’ The basement door slammed.
‘Good Lord!’ Madge shrieked, clutching at Tyler hysterically. ‘He’s gone out of his mind!’
Down in the basement, Verne Haskel snapped on the light impatiently. He put on his engineer’s cap and pulled his stool up beside the great plywood table.
What next?
Morris Home Furnishings. The big plush store. Where the clerks all looked down their noses at him.
He rubbed his hands gleefully. No more of them. No more snooty clerks, lifting their eyebrows when he came in. Only hair and bow ties and folded handkerchiefs.
He removed the model of Morris Home Furnishings and disassembled it. He worked feverishly, with frantic haste. Now that he had really begun he wasted no time. A moment later he was gluing two small buildings in its place. Ritz Shoeshine. Pete’s Bowling Alley.
Haskel giggled excitedly. Fitting extinction for the luxurious, exclusive furniture store. A shoeshine parlor and a bowling alley. Just what it deserved.
The California State Bank. He had always hated the Bank. They had once refused him a loan. He pulled the Bank loose.
Ed Tildon’s mansion. His damn dog. The dog had bit him on the ankle one afternoon. He ripped the model off. His head spun. He could do anything.
Harrison Appliance. They had sold him a bum radio. Off came Harrison Appliance.
Joe’s Cigar and Smoke Shop. Joe had given him a lead quarter in May, 1949. Off came Joe’s.
The Ink Works. He loathed the smell of ink. Maybe a bread factory, instead. He loved baking bread. Off came the Ink Works.
Elm Street was too dark at night. A couple of times he had stumbled. A few more streetlights were in order.
Not enough bars along High Street. Too many dress shops and expensive hat and fur shops and ladies’ apparel. He ripped a whole handful loose and carried them to the workbench.
At the top of the stairs the door opened slowly. Madge peered down, pale and frightened. ‘Verne?’
He scowled up impatiently. ‘What do you want?’
Madge came downstairs hesitantly. Behind her Doctor Tyler followed, suave and handsome in his gray suit. ‘Verne - is everything all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did - did you really quit your job?’
Haskel nodded. He began to disassemble the Ink Works, ignoring his wife and Doctor Tyler.
‘But why?’
Haskel grunted impatiently. ‘No time.’
Doctor Tyler had begun to look worried. ‘Do I understand you’re too busy for your job?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Too busy doing what?’ Tyler’s voice rose; he was trembling nervously. ‘Working down here on this town of yours? Changing things?’
‘Go away,’ Haskel muttered. His deft hands were assembling a lovely little Langendorf Bread Factory. He shaped it with loving care, sprayed it with white paint, brushed a gravel walk and shrubs in front of it. He put it aside and began on a park. A big green park. Woodland had always needed a park. It would go in place of State Street Hotel.
Tyler pulled Madge away from the table, off in a corner of the basement. ‘Good God.’ He lit a cigarette shakily. The cigarette flipped out of his hands and rolled away. He ignored it and fumbled for another. ‘You see? You see what he’s doing?’
Madge shook her head mutely. ‘What is it? I don’t—’
‘How long has he been working on this? All his life?’
Madge nodded, white-faced. ‘Yes, all his life.’
Tyler’s features twisted. ‘My God, Madge. It’s enough to drive you out of your mind. I can hardly believe it. We’ve got to do something.’
‘What’s happening?’ Madge moaned. ‘What—’
‘He’s losing himself into it.’ Tyler’s face was a mask of incredulous disbelief. ‘Faster and faster.’
‘He’s always come down here,’ Madge faltered. ‘It’s nothing new. He’s always wanted to get away.’
‘Yes. Get away.’ Tyler shuddered, clenched his fists and pulled himself together. He advanced across the basement and stopped by Verne Haskel.
‘What do you want?’ Haskel muttered, noticing him.
Tyler licked his lips. ‘You’re adding some things, aren’t you? New buildings.’
Haskel nodded.
Tyler touched the little bread factory with shaking fingers. ‘What’s this? Bread? Where does it go?’ He moved around the table. ‘I don’t remember any bread factory in Woodland.’ He whirled. ‘You aren’t by any chance improving on the town? Fixing it up here and there?’
‘Get the hell out of here,’ Haskel said, with ominous calm. ‘Both of you.’
‘Verne!’ Madge squeaked.
‘I’ve got a lot to do. You can bring sandwiches down about eleven. I hope to finish sometime tonight.’
‘Finish?’ Tyler asked.
‘Finish,’ Haskel answered, returning to his work.
‘Come on, Madge.’ Tyler grabbed her and pulled her to the stairs. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He strode ahead of her, up to the stairs and into the hall. ‘Come on!’ As soon as she was up he closed the door tightly after them.
Madge dabbed at her eyes hysterically. ‘He’s gone crazy, Paul! What’ll we do?’
Tyler was in deep thought. ‘Be quiet. I have to think this out.’ He paced back and forth, a hard scowl on his features. ‘It’ll come soon. It won’t be long, not at this rate. Sometime tonight.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘His withdrawal. Into his substitute world. The improved model he controls. Where he can get away.’
‘Isn’t there something we can do?’
‘Do?’ Tyler smiled faintly. ‘Do we want to do something?’
Madge gasped. ‘But we can’t just—’
‘Maybe this will solve our problem. This may be what we’ve been looking for.’ Tyler eyed Mrs Haskel thoughtfully. ‘This may be just the thing.’
It was after midnight, almost two o’clock in the morning, when he began to get things into final shape. He was tired - but alert. Things were happening fast. The job was almost done.
Virtually perfect.
He halted work a moment, surveying what he had accomplished. The town had been radically changed. About ten o’clock he had begun basic structural alterations in the lay-out of the streets. He had removed most of the public buildings, the civic center and the
sprawling business district around it.
He had erected a new city hall, police station, and an immense park with fountains and indirect lighting. He had cleared the slum area, the old rundown stores and houses and streets. The streets were wider and well-lit. The houses were now small and clean. The stores modern and attractive - without being ostentatious.
All advertising signs had been removed. Most of the filling stations were gone. The immense factory area was gone, too. Rolling countryside took its place. Trees and hills and green grass.
The wealthy district had been altered. There were now only a few of the mansions left - belonging to persons he looked favorably on. The rest had been cut down, turned into uniform two-bedroom dwellings, one story, with a single garage each.
The city hall was no longer an elaborate, rococo structure. Now it was low and simple, modeled after the Parthenon, a favorite of his.
There were ten or twelve persons who had done him special harm. He had altered their houses considerably. Given them war-time housing unit apartments, six to a building, at the far edge of town. Where the wind came off the bay, carrying the smell of decaying mud-flats.
Jim Larson’s house was completely gone. He had erased Larson utterly. He no longer existed, not in this new Woodland - which was now almost complete.
Almost. Haskel studied his work intently. All the changes had to be made now. Not later. This was the time of creation. Later, when it had been finished, it could not be altered. He had to catch all the necessary changes now - or forget them.
The new Woodland looked pretty good. Clean and neat - and simple. The rich district had been toned down. The poor district had been improved. Glaring ads, signs, displays, had all been changed or removed. The business community was smaller. Parks and countryside took the place of factories. The civic center was lovely.
He added a couple of playgrounds for smaller kids. A small theater instead of the enormous Uptown with its flashing neon sign. After some consideration he removed most of the bars he had previously constructed. The new Woodland was going to be moral. Extremely moral. Few bars, no billiards, no red light district. And there was an especially fine jail for undesirables.
The most difficult part had been the microscopic lettering on the main office door of the city hall. He had left it until last, and then painted the words with agonizing care:
MAYOR
VERNON R. HASKEL
A few last changes. He gave the Edwardses a ‘39 Plymouth instead of a new Cadillac. He added more trees in the downtown district. One more fire department. One less dress shop. He had never liked taxis. On impulse, he removed the taxi stand and put in a flower shop.
Haskel rubbed his hands. Anything more? Or was it complete … Perfect … He studied each part intently. What had he overlooked?
The high school. He removed it and put in two smaller high schools, one at each end of town. Another hospital. That took almost half an hour. He was getting tired. His hands were less swift. He mopped his forehead shakily. Anything else? He sat down on his stool wearily, to rest and think.
All done. It was complete. Joy welled up in him. A bursting cry of happiness. His work was over.
‘Finished!’ Verne Haskel shouted.
He got unsteadily to his feet. He closed his eyes, held his arms out, and advanced toward the plywood table. Reaching, grasping, fingers extended, Haskel headed toward it, a look of radiant exaltation on his seamed, middle-aged face.
Upstairs, Tyler and Madge heard the shout. A distant booming that rolled through the house in waves. Madge winced in terror. ‘What was that?’
Tyler listened intently. He heard Haskel moving below them, in the basement. Abruptly, he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I think it’s happened. Sooner than I expected.’
‘It? You mean he’s—’
Tyler got quickly to his feet. ‘He’s gone, Madge. Into his other world. We’re finally free.’
Madge caught his arm. ‘Maybe we’re making a mistake. It’s so terrible. Shouldn’t we - try to do something? Bring him out of it - try to pull him back.’
‘Bring him back?’ Tyler laughed nervously. ‘I don’t think we could, now. Even if we wanted to. It’s too late.’ He hurried toward the basement door. ‘Come on.’
‘It’s horrible.’ Madge shuddered and followed reluctantly. ‘I wish we had never got started.’
Tyler halted briefly at the door. ‘Horrible? He’s happier, where he is, now. And you’re happier. The way it was, nobody was happy. This is the best thing.’
He opened the basement door. Madge followed him. They moved cautiously down the stairs, into the dark, silent basement, damp with the faint night mists.
The basement was empty.
Tyler relaxed. He was overcome with dazed relief. ‘He’s gone. Everything’s okay. It worked out exactly right.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Madge repeated hopelessly, as Tyler’s Buick purred along the dark, deserted streets. ‘Where did he go?’
‘You know where he went,’ Tyler answered. ‘Into his substitute world, of course.’ He screeched around a corner on two wheels. ‘The rest should be fairly simple. A few routine forms. There really isn’t much left, now.’
The night was frigid and bleak. No lights showed, except an occasional lonely streetlamp. Far off, a train whistle sounded mournfully, a dismal echo. Rows of silent houses flickered by on both sides of them.
‘Where are we going?’ Madge asked. She sat huddled against the door, face pale with shock and terror, shivering under her coat.
‘To the police station.’
‘Why?’
‘To report him, naturally. So they’ll know he’s gone. We’ll have to wait; it’ll be several years before he’ll be declared legally dead.’ Tyler reached over and hugged her briefly. ‘We’ll make out in the meantime, I’m sure.’
‘What if - they find him?’
Tyler shook his head angrily. He was still tense, on edge. ‘Don’t you understand? They’ll never find him - he doesn’t exist. As least, not in our world. He’s in his own world. You saw it. The model. The improved substitute.’
‘He’s there?’
‘All his life he’s worked on it. Built it up. Made it real. He brought that world into being - and now he’s in it. That’s what he wanted. That’s why he built it. He didn’t merely dream about an escape world. He actually constructed it - every bit and piece. Now he’s warped himself right out of our world, into it. Out of our lives.’
Madge finally began to understand. ‘Then he really did lose himself in his substitute world. You meant that, what you said about him - getting away.’
‘It took me awhile to realize it. The mind constructs reality. Frames it. Creates it. We all have a common reality, a common dream. But Haskel turned his back on our common reality and created his own. And he had a unique capacity - far beyond the ordinary. He devoted his whole life, his whole skill to building it. He’s there now.’
Tyler hesitated and frowned. He gripped the wheel tightly and increased speed. The Buick hissed along the dark street, through the silent, unmoving bleakness that was the town.
‘There’s only one thing,’ he continued presently. ‘One thing I don’t understand.’
‘What is it?’
‘The model. It was also gone. I assumed he’d - shrink, I suppose. Merge with it. But the model’s gone, too.’ Tyler shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He peered into the darkness. ‘We’re almost there. This is Elm.’
It was then Madge screamed. ‘Look!’
To the right of the car was a small, neat building. And a sign. The sign was easily visible in the darkness.
WOODLAND MORTUARY
Madge was sobbing in horror. The car roared forward, automatically guided by Tyler’s numb hands. Another sign flashed by briefly, as they coasted up before the city hall.
STEUBEN PET SHOP
The city hall was lit by recessed, hidden illumination. A low, simple building, a square of glowing white. Like a
marble Greek temple.
Tyler pulled the car to a halt. Then suddenly shrieked and started up again. But not soon enough.
The two shiny-black police cars came silently up around the Buick, one on each side. The four stern cops already had their hands on the door. Stepping out and coming toward him, grim and efficient.
The Father-Thing
‘Dinner’s ready,’ commanded Mrs Walton. ‘Go get your father and tell him to wash his hands. The same applies to you, young man.’ She carried a steaming casserole to the neatly set table. ‘You’ll find him out in the garage.’
Charles hesitated. He was only eight years old, and the problem bothering him would have confounded Hillel. ‘I—’ he began uncertainly.
‘What’s wrong?’ June Walton caught the uneasy tone in her son’s voice and her matronly bosom fluttered with sudden alarm. ‘Isn’t Ted out in the garage? For heaven’s sake, he was sharpening the hedge shears a minute ago. He didn’t go over to the Andersons’, did he? I told him dinner was practically on the table.’
‘He’s in the garage,’ Charles said. ‘But he’s - talking to himself.’
‘Talking to himself!’ Mrs Walton removed her bright plastic apron and hung it over the doorknob. ‘Ted? Why, he never talks to himself. Go tell him to come in here.’ She poured boiling black coffee in the little blue-and-white china cups and began ladling out creamed corn. ‘What’s wrong with you? Go tell him!’
‘I don’t know which of them to tell.’ Charles blurted out desperately. ‘They both look alike.’
June Walton’s fingers lost their hold on the aluminum pan; for a moment the creamed corn slushed dangerously. ‘Young man—’ she began angrily, but at that moment Ted Walton came striding into the kitchen, inhaling and sniffing and rubbing his hands together.
‘Ah,’ he cried happily. ‘Lamb stew.’
‘Beef stew,’ June murmured. ‘Ted, what were you doing out there?’
Ted threw himself down at his place and unfolded his napkin. ‘I got the shears sharpened like a razor. Oiled and sharpened. Better not touch them - they’ll cut your hand off.’ He was a good-looking man in his early thirties; thick blond hair, strong arms, competent hands, square face and flashing brown eyes. ‘Man, this stew looks good. Hard day at the office - Friday, you know. Stuff piles up and we have to get all the accounts out by five. Al McKinley claims the department could handle 20 per cent more stuff if we organized our lunch hours; staggered them so somebody was there all the time.’ He beckoned Charles over. ‘Sit down and let’s go.’