Nightfall and Other Stories

  “I’m Jacob Folkers,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  He grinned. It was a big, wide, white-toothed grin. “You can tell me a little about your Farm here, if you don’t mind.”

  I heard Sally coming up behind me and I put out my hand. She slid right into it and the feel of the hard, glossy enamel of her fender was warm in my palm.

  “A nice automatobile,” said Gellhorn.

  That’s one way of putting it. Sally was a 2045 convertible with a Hennis-Carleton positronic motor and an Armat chassis. She had the cleanest, finest lines I’ve ever seen on any model, bar none. For five years, she’d been my favorite, and I’d put everything into her I could dream up. In all that time, there’d never been a human being behind her wheel.

  Not once.

  “Sally,” I said, patting her gently, “meet Mr. Gellhorn.”

  Sally’s cylinder-purr keyed up a little. I listened carefully for any knocking. Lately, I’d been hearing motor-knock in almost all the cars and changing the gasoline hadn’t done a bit of good. Sally was as smooth as her paint job this time, however.

  “Do you have names for all your cars?” asked Gellhorn.

  He sounded amused, and Mrs. Hester doesn’t like people to sound as though they were making fun of the Farm. She said, sharply, “Certainly. The cars have real personalities, don’t they, Jake? The sedans are all males and the convertibles are females.”

  Gellhorn was smiling again. “And do you keep them in separate garages, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Hester glared at him.

  Gellhorn said to me, “And now I wonder if I can talk to you alone, Mr. Folkers?”

  “That depends,” I said. “Are you a reporter?”

  “No, sir. I’m a sales agent. Any talk we have is not for publication. I assure you I am interested in strict privacy.”

  “Let’s walk down the road a bit. There’s a bench we can use.”

  We started down. Mrs. Hester walked away. Sally nudged along after us.

  I said, “You don’t mind if Sally comes along, do you?”

  “Not at all. She can’t repeat what we say, can she?” He laughed at his own joke, reached over and rubbed Sally’s grille.

  Sally raced her motor and Gellhorn’s hand drew away quickly.

  “She’s not used to strangers,” I explained.

  “We sat down on the bench under the big oak tree where we could look across the small lake to the private speedway. It was the warm part of the day and the cars were out in force, at least thirty of them. Even at this distance I could see that Jeremiah was pulling his usual stunt of sneaking up behind some staid older model, then putting on a jerk of speed and yowling past with deliberately squealing brakes. Two weeks before he had crowded old Angus off the asphalt altogether, and I had turned off his motor for two days.

  It didn’t help though, I’m afraid, and it looks as though there’s nothing to be done about it. Jeremiah is a sports model to begin with and that kind is awfully hot-headed.

  “Well, Mr. Gellhorn,” I said. “Could you tell me why you want the information?”

  But he was just looking around. He said, “This is an amazing place, Mr. Folkers.”

  “I wish you’d call me Jake. Everyone does.”

  “All right, Jake. How many cars do you have here?”

  “Fifty-one. We get one or two new ones every year. One year we got five. We haven’t lost one yet. They’re all in perfect running order. We even have a ‘15 model Mat-O-Mot in working order. One of the original automatics. It was the first car here.”

  Good old Matthew. He stayed in the garage most of the day now, but then he was the granddaddy of all positronic-motored cars. Those were the days when blind war veterans, paraplegics and heads of state were the only ones who drove automatics. But Samson Harridge was my boss and he was rich enough to be able to get one. I was his chauffeur at the time.

  The thought makes me feel old. I can remember when there wasn’t an automobile in the world with brains enough to find its own way home. I chauffeured dead lumps of machines that needed a man’s hand at their controls every minute. Every year machines like that used to kill tens of thousands of people.

  The automatics fixed that. A positronic brain can react much faster than a human one, of course, and it paid people to keep hands off the controls. You got in, punched your destination and let it go its own way.

  We take it for granted now, but I remember when the first laws came out forcing the old machines off the highways and limiting travel to automatics. Lord, what a fuss. They called it everything from communism to fascism, but it emptied the highways and stopped the killing, and still more people get around more easily the new way.

  Of course, the automatics were ten to a hundred times as expensive as the hand-driven ones, and there weren’t many that could afford a private vehi­cle. The industry specialized in turning out omnibus-automatics. You could always call a company and have one stop at your door in a matter of minutes and take you where you wanted to go. Usually, you had to drive with others who were going your way, but what’s wrong with that?

  Samson Harridge had a private car though, and I went to him the minute it arrived. The car wasn’t Matthew to me then. I didn’t know it was going to be the dean of the Farm some day. I only knew it was taking my job away and I hated it.

  I said, “You won’t be needing me any more, Mr. Harridge?”

  He said, “What are you dithering about, Jake? You don’t think I’ll trust myself to a contraption like that, do you? You stay right at the controls.”

  I said, “But it works by itself, Mr. Harridge. It scans the road, reacts properly to obstacles, humans, and other cars, and remembers routes to travel.”

  “So they say. So they say. Just the same, you’re sitting right behind the wheel in case anything goes wrong.”

  Funny how you can get to like a car. In no time I was calling it Matthew and was spending all my time keeping it polished and humming. A posi­tronic brain stays in condition best when it’s got control of its chassis at all times, which means it’s worth keeping the gas tank filled so that the motor can turn over slowly day and night. After a while, it got so I could tell by the sound of the motor how Matthew felt.

  In his own way, Harridge grew fond of Matthew, too. He had no one else to like. He’d divorced or outlived three wives and outlived five children and three grandchildren. So when he died, maybe it wasn’t surprising that he had his estate converted into a Farm for Retired Automobiles, with me in charge and Matthew the first member of a distinguished line.

  It’s turned out to be my life. I never got married. You can’t get married and still tend to automatics the way you should.

  The newspapers thought it was funny, but after a while they stopped joking about it. Some things you can’t joke about. Maybe you’ve never been able to afford an automatic and maybe you never will, either, but take it from me, you get to love them. They’re hard-working and affectionate. It takes a man with no heart to mistreat one or to see one mistreated.

  It got so that after a man had an automatic for a while, he would make provisions for having it left to the Farm, if he didn’t have an heir he could rely on to give it good care.

  I explained that to Gellhorn.

  He said, “Fifty-one cars! That represents a lot of money.”

  “Fifty thousand minimum per automatic, original investment,” I said. “They’re worth a lot more now. I’ve done things for them.”

  “It must take a lot of money to keep up the Farm.”

  “You’re right there. The Farm’s a non-profit organization, which gives us a break on taxes and, of course, new automatics that come in usually have trust funds attached. Still, costs are always going up. I have to keep the place landscaped; I keep laying down new asphalt and keeping the old in repair; there’s gasoline, oil, repairs, and new gadgets. It adds up.”

  “And you’ve spent a long time at it.”

  ?
??I sure have, Mr. Gellhorn. Thirty-three years.”

  “You don’t seem to be getting much out of it yourself.”

  “I don’t? You surprise me, Mr. Gellhorn. I’ve got Sally and fifty others. Look at her.”

  I was grinning. I couldn’t help it. Sally was so clean, it almost hurt. Some insect must have died on her windshield or one speck of dust too many had landed, so she was going to work. A little tube protruded and spurted Tergosol over the glass. It spread quickly over the silicone surface film and squeejees snapped into place instantly, passing over the windshield and forc­ing the. water into the little channel that led it, dripping, down to the ground. Not a speck of water got onto her glistening apple-green hood. Squeejee and detergent tube snapped back into place and disappeared.

  Gellhorn said, “I never saw an automatic do that.”

  “I guess not,” I said. “I fixed that up specially on our cars. They’re clean. They’re always scrubbing their glass. They like it. I’ve even got Sally fixed up with wax jets. She polishes herself every night till you can see your face in any part of her and shave by it. If I can scrape up the money, I’d be putting it on the rest of the girls. Convertibles are very vain.”

  “I can tell you how to scrape up the money, if that interests you.”

  “That always does. How?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, fake? Any of your cars is worth fifty thousand minimum, you said. I’ll bet most of them top six figures.”

  “So?”

  “Ever think of selling a few?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t realize it, I guess, Mr. Gellhorn, but I can’t sell any of these. They belong to the Farm, not to me.”

  “The money would go to the Farm.”

  “The incorporation papers of the Farm provide that the cars receive perpetual care. They can’t be sold.”

  “What about the motors, then?”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  Gellhorn shifted position and his voice got confidential. “Look here, Jake, let me explain the situation. There’s a big market for private automatics if they could only be made cheaply enough. Right?”

  “That’s no secret.”

  “And ninety-five per cent of the cost is the motor. Right? Now, I know where we can get a supply of bodies. I also know where we can sell automat­ics at a good price--twenty or thirty thousand for the cheaper models, maybe fifty or sixty for the better ones. All I need are the motors. You see the solution?”

  “I don’t, Mr. Gellhorn.” I did, but I wanted him to spell it out.

  “It’s right here. You’ve got fifty-one of them. You’re an expert automatobile mechanic, Jake. You must be. You could unhook a motor and place it in another car so that no one would know the difference.”

  “It wouldn’t be exactly ethical.”

  “You wouldn’t be harming the cars. You’d be doing them a favor. Use your older cars. Use that old Mat-O-Mot.”

  “Well, now, wait a while, Mr. Gellhorn. The motors and bodies aren’t two separate items. They’re a single unit. Those motors are used to their own bodies. They wouldn’t be happy in another car.”

  “All right, that’s a point. That’s a very good point, Jake. It would be like taking your mind and putting it in someone else’s skull. Right? You don’t think you would like that?”

  “I don’t think I would. No.”

  “But what if I took your mind and put it into the body of a young athlete. What about that, Jake? You’re not a youngster anymore. If you had the chance, wouldn’t you enjoy being twenty again? That’s what I’m offering some of your positronic motors. They’ll be put into new ‘57 bodies. The latest construction.”

  I laughed. “That doesn’t make much sense, Mr. Gellhorn. Some of our cars may be old, but they’re well-cared for. Nobody drives them. They’re allowed their own way. They’re retired, Mr. Gellhorn. I wouldn’t want a twenty-year-old body if it meant I had to dig ditches for the rest of my new life and never have enough to eat.... What do you think, Sally?”

  Sally’s two doors opened and then shut with a cushioned slam.

  “What that?” said Gellhorn.

  “That’s the way Sally laughs.”

  Gellhorn forced a smile. I guess he thought I was making a bad joke. He said, “Talk sense, Jake. Cars are made to be driven. They’re probably not happy if you don’t drive them.”

  I said, “Sally hasn’t been driven in five years. She looks happy to me.”

  “I wonder.”

  He got up and walked toward Sally slowly. “Hi, Sally, how’d you like a drive?”

  Sally’s motor revved up. She backed away.

  “Don’t push her, Mr. Gellhorn,” I said. “She’s liable to be a little skit­tish.”

  Two sedans were about a hundred yards up the road. They had stopped. Maybe, in their own way, they were watching. I didn’t bother about them. I had my eyes on Sally, and I kept them there.

  Gellhorn said, “Steady now, Sally.” He lunged out and seized the door handle. It didn’t budge, of course.

  He said, “It opened a minute ago.”

  I said, “Automatic lock. She’s got a sense of privacy, Sally has.”

  He let go, then said, slowly and deliberately, “A car with a sense of privacy shouldn’t go around with its top down.”

  He stepped back three or four paces, then quickly, so quickly I couldn’t take a step to stop him, he ran forward and vaulted into the car. He caught Sally completely by surprise, because as he came down, he shut off the ignition before she could lock it in place.

  For the first time in five years, Sally’s motor was dead.

  I think I yelled, but Gellhorn had the switch on “Manual” and locked that in place, too. He kicked the motor into action. Sally was alive again but she had no freedom of action.

  He started up the road. The sedans were still there. They turned and drifted away, not very quickly. I suppose it was all a puzzle to them.

  One was Giuseppe, from the Milan factories, and the other was Stephen. They were always together. They were both new at the Farm, but they’d been here long enough to know that our cars just didn’t have drivers.

  Gellhorn went straight on, and when the sedans finally got it through their heads that Sally wasn’t going to slow down, that she couldn’t slow down, it was too late for anything but desperate measures.

  They broke for it, one to each side, and Sally raced between them like a streak. Steve crashed through the lakeside fence and rolled to a halt on the grass and mud not six inches from the water’s edge. Giuseppe bumped along the land side of the road to a shaken halt.

  I had Steve back on the highway and was trying to find out what harm, if any, the fence had done him, when Gellhorn came back.

  Gellhorn opened Sally’s door and stepped out. Leaning back, he shut off the ignition a second time.

  “There,” he said. “I think I did her a lot of good.”

  I held my temper. “Why did you dash through the sedans? There was no reason for that.”

  “I kept expecting them to turn out.”

  “They did. One went through a fence.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake,” he said. “I thought they’d move more quickly. You know how it is. I’ve been in lots of buses, but I’ve only been in a private automatic two or three times in my life, and this is the first time I ever drove one. That just shows you, Jake. It got me, driving one, and I’m pretty hard-boiled. I tell you, we don’t have to go more than twenty per cent below list price to reach a good market, and it would be ninety per cent profit.”

  “Which we would split?”

  “Fifty-fifty. And I take all the risks, remember.”

  “All right. I listened to you. Now you listen to me.” I raised my voice because I was just too mad to be polite anymore. “When you turn off Sally’s motor, you hurt her. How would you like to be kicked unconscious? That’s what you do to Sally, when you turn her off.”

  “You’re
exaggerating, Jake. The automatobuses get turned off every night.”

  “Sure, that’s why I want none of my boys or girls in your fancy ‘57 bodies, where I won’t know what treatment they’ll get. Buses need major repairs in their positronic circuits every couple of years. Old Matthew hasn’t had his circuits touched in twenty years. What can you offer him compared with that?”

  “Well, you’re excited now. Suppose you think over my proposition when you’ve cooled down and get in touch with me.”

  “I’ve thought it over all I want to. If I ever see you again, I’ll call the police.”

  His mouth got hard and ugly. He said, “Just a minute, old-timer.”

  I said, “Just a minute, you. This is private property and I’m ordering you off.”

  He shrugged. “Well, then, goodbye.”

  I said, “Mrs. Hester will see you off the property. Make that goodbye permanent.”

  But it wasn’t permanent. I saw him again two days later. Two and a half days, rather, because it was about noon when I saw him first and a little after midnight when I saw him again.

  I sat up in bed when he turned the light on, blinking blindly till I made out what was happening. Once I could see, it didn’t take much explaining. In fact, it took none at all. He had a gun in his right fist, the nasty little needle barrel just visible between two fingers. I knew that all he had to do was to increase the pressure of his hand and I would be torn apart., He said, “Put on your clothes, Jake.”

  I didn’t move. I just watched him.

  He said, “Look, Jake, I know the situation. I visited you two days ago, remember. You have no guards on this place, no electrified fences, no warn­ing signals. Nothing.”

  I said, “I don’t need any. Meanwhile there’s nothing to stop you from leaving, Mr. Gellhorn. I would if I were you. This place can be very danger­ous.”