Ray Bradbury. The Fox and the Forest

                Ray Bradbury
                http://blogs.myspace.com/mysteryal

                The Fox and the Forest
                1950

     There were fireworks the very first night, things that you should be afraid
of  perhaps,  for they might remind you of other more horrible things, but these
were  beautiful,  rockets  that ascended into the ancient soft air of Mexico and
shook  the  stars  apart  in  blue  and white fragments. Everything was good and
sweet,  the  air was that blend of the dead and the living, of the rains and the
dusts,  of  the incense from the church, and the brass smell of the tubas on the
bandstand  which  pulsed  out vast rhythms of "La Paloma." The church doors were
thrown wide and it seemed as if a giant yellow constellation had fallen from the
October sky and lay breathing fire upon the church walls; a million candles sent
their color and fumes about. Newer and better fireworks scurried like tight-rope
walking  comets  across  the cool-tiled square, banged against adobe cafe walls,
then  rushed  on  hot  wires to bash the high church tower, in which boys' naked
feet  alone  could  be  seen  kicking  and  re-kicking, clanging and tilting and
re-tilting  the  monster  bells  into  monstrous music. A flaming bull blundered
about the plaza chasing laughing men and screaming children.
     "The  year  is 1938," said William Travis, standing by his wife on the edge
of the yelling crowd, smiling, "A good year."
     The bull rushed upon them. Ducking, the couple ran, with fire balls pelting
them,  past the music and riot, the church, the band, under the stars, clutching
each  other,  laughing.  The  bull passed, carried lightly on the shoulders of a
charging Mexican, a framework of bamboo and sulphurous gunpowder.
     "I've  never  enjoyed  myself so much in my life." Susan Travis had stopped
for her breath.
     "It's amazing," said William.
     "It will go on, won't it?"
     "All night."
     "No, I mean our trip."
     He frowned and patted his breast pocket. "I've enough traveler's checks for
a lifetime. Enjoy yourself. Forget it. They'll never find us."
     "Never?"
     "Never."  Now someone was setting off giant crackers, hurling them from the
great  bell-tolling  tower  of the church in a sputter of smoke, while the crowd
below  fell  back  under  the  threat  and  the  crackers  exploded in wonderful
concussions  among  their  dancing feet and flailing bodies. A wondrous smell of
frying tortillas hung all about, and in the cafes men sat at tables looking out,
mugs of beer in their brown hands.
     The  bull  was  dead.  The  fire  was  out  of  the bamboo tubes and he was
expended.  The  laborer  lifted  the  framework  from his shoulders. Little boys
clustered to touch the magnificent papier-mache head, the real horns.
     "Let's  examine  the  bull,"  said  William.  As  they walked past the cafe
entrance  Susan  saw  the  man  looking out at them, a white man in a salt-white
suit,  with  a blue tie and blue shirt, and a thin, sunburned face. His hair was
blond and straight and his eyes were blue, and he watched them as they walked.
     She  would never have noticed him if it had not been for the bottles at his
immaculate elbow; a fat bottle of creme de menthe, a clear bottle of vermouth, a
flagon  of  cognac,  and  seven  other bottles of assorted liqueurs, and, at his
finger  tips,  ten small half-filled glasses from which, without taking his eyes
off  the street, he sipped, occasionally squinting, pressing his thin mouth shut
upon  the  savor.  In  his  free hand a thin Havana cigar smoked, and on a chair
stood  twenty  cartons  of  Turkish  cigarettes,  six  boxes of cigars, and some
packaged colognes.
     "Bill-" whispered Susan.
     "Take it easy," he said. "He's nobody."
     "I saw him in the plaza this morning."
     "Don't  look back, keep walking. Examine the papier-mache bull here. That's
it, ask questions."
     "Do you think he's from the Searchers?"
     "They couldn't follow us!"
     "They might!"
     "What a nice bull," said William to the man who owned it.         
     "He couldn't have followed us back through two hundred years, could he?"
     "Watch  yourself, for God's sake," said William. She swayed. He crushed her
elbow tightly, steering her away.
     "Don't faint." He smiled, to make it look good. "You'll be all right. Let's
go  right  in that cafe, drink in front of him, so if he is what we think he is,
he won't suspect."
     "No, I couldn't."
     "We've  got  to.  Come  on now. And so I said to David, that's ridiculous!"
This last in a loud voice as they went up the cafe steps.
     We  are  here,  thought  Susan.  Who are we? Where are we going? What do we
fear?  Start  at  the beginning, she told herself, holding to her sanity, as she
felt the adobe floor underfoot.
     My  name  is  Ann  Kristen; my husband's name is Roger. We were born in the
year  2155  A.D.  And we lived in a world that was evil. A world that was like a
great black ship pulling away from the shore of sanity and civilization, roaring
its  black  horn  in  the night, taking two billion people with it, whether they
wanted  to  go  or not, to death, to fall over the edge of the earth and the sea
into radioactive flame and madness.
     They walked into the cafe. The man was staring at them.
     A phone rang.
     The  phone startled Susan. She remembered a phone ringing two hundred years
in the future, on that blue April morning in 2155, and herself answering it:
     "Ann,  this  is  Rene!  Have  you  heard?  I  mean  about  Travel  in Time,
Incorporated?  Trips  to Rome in 21 B.C., trips to Napoleon's Waterloo-any time,
any place!"
     "Rene, you're joking."
     "No.  Clinton  Smith  left this morning for Philadelphia in 1776. Travel in
Time,  Inc.,  arranges  everything.  Costs money. But, think-to actually see the
burning of Rome, Kubia Khan, Moses and the Red Sea! You've probably got an ad in
your tube mail now."
     She  had  opened  the  suction  mail  tube  and  there  was  the metal foil
advertisement:
     ROME AND THE BORGIAS!
     THE WRIGHT BROTHERS AT KITTY HAWK!
     Travel  in  Time,  Inc.,  can  costume  you,  put you in a crowd during the
assassination  of  Lincoln or Caesar! We guarantee to teach you any language you
need  to  move freely in any civilization, in any year, without friction. Latin,
Greek, ancient American colloquial. Take your vacation in Time as well as Place!
     Rene's  voice was buzzing on the phone. "Tom and I leave for 1492 tomorrow.
They're arranging for Tom to sail with Columbus. Isn't it amazing!"
     "Yes," murmured Ann, stunned. "What does the Government say about this Time
Machine company?"
     "Oh, the police have an eye on it. Afraid people might evade the draft, run
off  and  hide  in  the  Past. Everyone has to leave a security bond behind, his
house and belongings, to guarantee return. After all, the war's on."
     "Yes, the war," murmured Ann. "The war."
     Standing  there,  holding the phone, she had thought. Here is the chance my
husband  and I have talked and prayed over for so many years. We don't like this
world  of 2155. We want to run away from his work at the bomb factory. I from my
position with disease-culture units. Perhaps there is a chance for us to escape,
to run for centuries into a wild country of years where they will never find and
bring us back to burn our books, censor our thoughts, scald our minds with fear,
march us, scream at us with radios....
     They  were in Mexico in the year 1938. She looked at the stained cafe wall.
Good workers for the Future State were allowed vacations into the Past to escape
fatigue. And so she and her husband had moved back into 1938, a room in New York
City, and enjoyed the theaters and the Statue of Liberty which still stood green
in the harbor. And on the third day they had changed their clothes, their names,
and had flown off to hide in Mexico!
     "It  must  be  him," whispered Susan, looking at the stranger seated at the
table.  "Those  cigarettes, the cigars, the liquor. They give him away. Remember
our first night in the Past?"
     A  month  ago, their first night in New York, before their flight, drinking
all  the  strange drinks, savoring and buying odd foods, perfumes, cigarettes of
ten  dozen  rare  brands,  for  they  were  rare  in  the  Future  where war was
everything.  So they had made fools of themselves, rushing in and out of stores,
salons, tobacconists, going up to their room to get wonderfully ill.
     And  now  here  was this stranger doing likewise, doing a thing that only a
man from the Future would do who had been starved for liquors and cigarettes for
many years.
     Susan and William sat and ordered a drink.
     The stranger was examining their clothes, their hair, their jewelry-the way
they  walked  and sat.  "Sit easily," said William under his breath. "Look as if
you've worn this clothing style all your life."
     "We should never have tried to escape."
     "My God!" said William, "he's coming over. Let me do the talking."
     The  stranger  bowed  before  them.  There  was  the  faintest tap of heels
knocking  together.  Susan  stiffened. That military sound!-unmistakable as that
certain ugly rap on your door at midnight.
     "Mr. Roger Kristen," said the stranger, "you did not pull up your pant legs
when you sat down."
     William  froze.  He  looked  at  his hands lying on either leg, innocently.
Susan's heart was beating swiftly.
     "You've  got  the  wrong  person,"  said  William  quickly.  "My name's not
Krisler."
     "Kristen," corrected the stranger.
     "I'm William Travis," said William. "And I don't see what my pant legs have
to do with you!"
     "Sorry."  The  stranger pulled up a chair. "Let us say I thought I knew you
because  you  did  not  pull your trousers up. Everyone does. If they don't, the
trousers  bag  quickly.  I  am  a long way from home, Mr.-Travis, and in need of
company. My name is Simms."
     "Mr.  Simms,  we appreciate your loneliness, but we're tired. We're leaving
for Acapulco tomorrow."
     "A  charming spot. I was just there, looking for some friends of mine. They
are somewhere. I shall find them yet. Oh, is the lady a bit sick?"
     "Good night, Mr. Simms."
     They started out the door, William holding Susan's arm firmly. They did not
look  back when Mr. Simms called, "Oh, just one other thing." He paused and then
slowly spoke the words:
     "2155 A.D."
     Susan  shut  her  eyes and felt the earth falter under her. She kept going,
into the fiery plaza, seeing nothing.
     They  locked the door of their hotel room. And then she was crying and they
were standing in the dark, and the room tilted under them. Far away firecrackers
exploded, and there was laughter in the plaza.
     "What  a  damned, loud nerve," said William. "Him sitting there, looking us
up  and  down  like animals, smoking his damn cigarettes, drinking his drinks. I
should  have killed him then!" His voice was nearly hysterical. "He even had the
nerve  to  use  his  real  name to us. The Chief of the Searchers. And the thing
about  my  pant  legs.  My God, I should have pulled them up when I sat. It's an
automatic  gesture  of this day and age. When I didn't do it, it set me off from
the  others; it made him think. Here's a man who never wore pants, a man used to
breech uniforms and future styles. I could kill myself for giving us away!"
     "No, no, it was my walk-these high heels- that did it. Our haircuts-so new,
so fresh. Everything about us odd and uneasy."
     He turned on the light. "He's still testing us. He's not positive of us-not
completely.  We  can't run out on him, then. We can't make him certain. We'll go
to Acapulco leisurely."
     "Maybe he is sure of us, but is just playing."
     "I  wouldn't  put  it  past him. He's got all the time in the world. He can
dally  here  if he wants, and bring us back to the Future sixty seconds after we
left it. He might keep us wondering for days, laughing at us."
     Susan  sat  on  the  bed,  wiping the tears from her face, smelling the old
smell of charcoal and incense.
     "They won't make a scene, will they?" "They won't dare. They'll have to get
us alone to put us in that Time Machine and send us back."
     "There's a solution then," she said. "We'll never be alone; we'll always be
in  crowds.  We'll  make a million friends, visit markets, sleep in the Official
Palaces in each town, pay the Chief of Police to guard us until we find a way to
kill Simms and escape, disguise ourselves in new clothes, perhaps as Mexicans."
     Footsteps sounded outside their locked door.
     They  turned  out  the  light  and undressed in silence. The footsteps went
away. A door closed.
     Susan  stood  by  the window looking down at the plaza in the darkness. "So
that building there is a church?"
     "Yes."
     "I've  often  wondered  what  a church looked like. It's been so long since
anyone saw one. Can we visit it tomorrow?"
     "Of course. Come to bed."
     They lay in the dark room.
     Half an hour later their phone rang. She lifted the receiver. "Hello?"
     "The  rabbits  may hide in the forest," said a voice, "but a fox can always
find them."
     She replaced the receiver and lay back straight and cold in the bed.
     Outside,  in  the  year  1938,  a man played three tunes upon a guitar, one
following another.
     During the night she put her hand out and almost touched the year 2155. She
felt  her  fingers slide over cool spaces of time, as over a corrugated surface,
and  she  heard  the insistent thump of marching feet, a million bands playing a
million military tunes, and she saw the fifty thousand rows of diseased cultures
in  their aseptic glass tubes, her hand reaching out to them at her work in that
huge   factory   in   the  Future;  the  tubes  of  leprosy,  bubonic,  typhoid,
tuberculosis,  and  then  the  great  explosion.  She  saw  her hand burned to a
wrinkled  plum,  felt  it recoil from a concussion so immense that the world was
lifted  and  let fall and all the buildings broke and people hemorrhaged and lay
silent.  Great  volcanoes,  machines, winds, avalanches slid down to silence and
she awoke, sobbing, in the bed, in Mexico, many years away....
     In the early morning, drugged with the single hour's sleep they had finally
been  able to obtain, they awoke to the sound of loud automobiles in the street.
Susan  peered  down  from the iron balcony at a small crowd of eight people only
now  emerging,  chattering,  yelling, from trucks and cars with red lettering on
them. A crowd of Mexicans had followed the trucks.
     "Que pasa?' Susan called to a little boy.
     The boy replied.
     Susan turned back to her husband. "An American motion-picture company, here
on location."
     "Sounds interesting." William was in the shower, "Let's watch them. I don't
think  we'd  better  leave today. We'll try to lull Simms. Watch the films being
made.  They  say  the  primitive  film  making  was something. Get our minds off
ourselves."
     Ourselves,  thought  Susan.  For  a  moment,  in  the  bright  sun, she had
forgotten  that  somewhere  in  the hotel, waiting, was a man smoking a thousand
cigarettes,  it  seemed. She saw the eight loud happy Americans below and wanted
to  call  to them: "Save me, hide me, help me! Color my hair, my eyes; clothe me
in strange clothes. I need your help. I'm from the year 2155!"
     But  the  words  stayed in her throat. The functionaries of Travel in Time,
Inc., were not foolish. In your brain, before you left on your trip, they placed
a  psychological  bloc.  You could tell no one your true time or birthplace, nor
could you reveal any of the Future to those in the Past. The Past and the Future
must be protected from each other. Only with this psychological bloc were people
allowed  to travel unguarded through the ages. The Future must be protected from
any change brought about by her people traveling in the Past. Even if she wanted
to with all her heart, she could not tell any of those happy people below in the
plaza who she was, or what her predicament had become.
     "What about breakfast?" said William.
     Breakfast  was  being  served  in the immense dining room. Ham and eggs for
everyone.  The place was full of tourists. The film people entered, all eight of
them-six  men  and two women, giggling, shoving chairs about. And Susan sat near
them,  feeling  the warmth and protection they offered, even when Mr. Simms came
down  the  lobby  stairs, smoking his Turkish cigarette with great intensity. He
nodded  at  them  from  a  distance,  and Susan nodded back, smiling, because he
couldn't  do  anything  to  them  here, in front of eight film people and twenty
other tourists.
     "Those actors," said William. "Perhaps I could hire two of them, say it was
a  joke, dress them in our clothes, have them drive off in our car when Simms is
in such a spot where he can't see their faces. If two people pretending to be us
could  lure  him off for a few hours, we might make it to Mexico City. It'd take
him years to find us there!"
     "Hey!"
     A fat man, with liquor on his breath, leaned on their table.
     "American  tourists!"  he  cried.  "I'm so sick of seeing Mexicans, I could
kiss  you!"  He  shook their hands. "Come on, eat with us. Misery loves company.
I'm  Misery, this is Miss Gloom, and Mr. and Mrs. Do-We-Hate-Mexico! We all hate
it.  But  we're here for some preliminary shots for a damn film. The rest of the
crew arrives tomorrow. My name's Joe Melton. I'm a director. And if this ain't a
hell  of  a  country! Funerals in the streets, people dying. Come on, move over.
Join the party; cheer us up!"
     Susan and William were both laughing.
     "Am I funny?" Mr. Melton asked the immediate world.
     "Wonderful!" Susan moved over.
     Mr. Simms was glaring across the dining room at them.
     She made a face at him.
     Mr. Simms advanced among the tables.
     "Mr. and Mrs. Travis," he called. "I thought we were breakfasting together,
alone."
     "Sorry," said William.
     "Sit down, pal," said Mr. Melton. "Any friend of theirs is a pal of mine."
     Mr.  Simms  sat.  The film people talked loudly, and while they talked, Mr.
Simms said quietly, "I hope you slept well."
     "Did you?"
     "I'm  not  used  to spring mattresses," replied Mr. Simms wryly. "But there
are  compensations.  I stayed up half the night trying new cigarettes and foods.
Odd, fascinating. A whole new spectrum of sensation, these ancient vices."
     "We don't know what you're talking about," said Susan.
     "Always  the  play  acting."  Simms  laughed.  "It's  no  use.  Nor is this
stratagem of crowds. I'll get you alone soon enough. I'm immensely patient."
     "Say,"  Mr.  Melton broke in, his face flushed, "is this guy giving you any
trouble?"
     "It's all right."
     "Say the word and I'll give him the bum's rush."
     Melton  turned  back  to yell at his associates. In the laughter, Mr. Simms
went  on:  "Let  us come to the point. It took me a month of tracing you through
towns  and  cities  to  find you, and all of yesterday to be sure of you. If you
come  with me quietly, I might be able to get you off with no punishment, if you
agree to go back to work on the hydrogen-plus bomb."
     "Science this guy talks at breakfast!" observed Mr. Melton, half listening.
     Simms went on, imperturbably. "Think it over. You can't escape. If you kill
me, others will follow you."
     "We  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about."  "Stop  it!"  cried  Simms
irritably.  "Use your intelligence! You know we can't let you get away with this
escape. Other people in the year 2155 might get the same idea and do what you've
done. We need people."
     "To fight your wars," said William at last. "Bill!"
     "It's all right, Susan. We'll talk on his terms now. We can't escape."
     "Excellent,"  said  Simms.  "Really,  you've both been incredibly romantic,
running away from your responsibilities."
     "Running away from horror."
     "Nonsense. Only a war."
     "What are you guys talking about?" asked Mr. Melton.
     Susan  wanted  to  tell  him. But you could only speak in generalities. The
psychological  bloc  in  your mind allowed that. Generalities, such as Simms and
William were now discussing.
     "Only the war," said William. "Half the world dead of leprosy bombs!"
     "Nevertheless,"  Simms  pointed  out, "the inhabitants of the Future resent
you  two  hiding  on  a tropical isle, as it were, while they drop off the cliff
into  hell.  Death  loves death, not life. Dying people love to know that others
die  with  them.  It is a comfort to learn you are not alone in the kiln, in the
grave. I am the guardian of their collective resentment against you two."
     "Look at the guardian of resentments!" said Mr. Melton to his companions.
     "The longer you keep me waiting, the harder it will go for you. We need you
on  the  bomb project, Mr. Travis. Return now-no torture. Later, we'll force you
to  work,  and after you've finished the bomb, we'll try a number of complicated
new devices on you, sir."
     "I've  a  proposition,"  said  William. "I'll come back with you if my wife
stays here alive, safe, away from that war."
     Mr.  Simms  considered it. "All right. Meet me in the plaza in ten minutes.
Pick  me  up  in  your  car.  Drive me to a deserted country spot. I'll have the
Travel Machine pick us up there."
     "Bill!" Susan held his arm tightly.
     "Don't argue." He looked over at her. "It's settled." To Simms: "One thing.
Last night you could have gotten in our room and kidnaped us. Why didn't you?"
     "Shall  we  say  that  I was enjoying myself?" replied Mr. Simms languidly,
sucking  his  new  cigar. "I hate giving up this wonderful atmosphere, this sun,
this  vacation.  I  regret leaving behind the wine and the cigarettes. Oh, how I
regret  it.  The plaza then, in ten minutes. Your wife will be protected and may
stay  here as long as she wishes. Say your good-bys." Mr. Simms arose and walked
out.
     "There goes Mr. Big Talk!" yelled Mr. Melton at the departing gentleman. He
turned  and  looked  at  Susan.  "Hey. Someone's crying. Breakfast's no time for
people to cry. Now is it?"
     At  nine-fifteen  Susan  stood on the balcony of their room, gazing down at
the  plaza.  Mr.  Simms  was  seated there, his neat legs crossed, on a delicate
bronze bench. Biting the tip from a cigar, he lit it tenderly.
     Susan  heard  the  throb of a motor, and far up the street, out of a garage
and down the cobbled hill, slowly, came William in his car.
     The  car  picked  up  speed.  Thirty,  now  forty, now fifty miles an hour.
Chickens scattered before it.
     Mr.  Simms  took off his white panama hat and mopped his pink forehead, put
his hat back on, and then saw the car.
     It was rushing sixty miles an hour, straight on for the plaza.
     "William!" screamed Susan.
     The  car  hit the low plaza curb, thundering; it jumped up, sped across the
tiles  toward  the  green bench where Mr. Simms now dropped his cigar, shrieked,
flailed  his  hands, and was hit by the car. His body flew up and up in the air,
and down and down, crazily, into the street.
     On  the  far  side  of  the plaza, one front wheel broken, the car stopped.
People were running.
     Susan went in and closed the balcony doors.
     They  came down the Official Palace steps together, arm in arm, their faces
pale, at twelve noon.
     "Adios, senor," said the mayor behind them. "Senora."
     They stood in the plaza where the crowd was pointing at the blood.
     "Will they want to see you again?" asked Susan.
     "No,  we  went  over and over it. It was an accident. I lost control of the
car. I wept for them.
     God  knows  I  had  to  get my relief out somewhere. I felt like weeping. I
hated to kill him. I've never wanted to do anything like that in my life."
     "They won't prosecute you?"
     "They  talked about it, but no. I talked faster. They believe me. It was an
accident. It's over."
     "Where will we go? Mexico City? Uruapan?"
     "The  car's in the repair shop. It'll be ready at four this afternoon. Then
we'll get the hell out."
     "Will we be followed? Was Simms working alone?"
     "I don't know. We'll have a little head start on them, I think."
     The film people were coming out of the hotel as they approached. Mr. Melton
hurried  up, scowling. "Hey I heard what happened. Too bad. Everything okay now?
Want to get your minds off it? We're doing some preliminary shots up the street.
You want to watch, you're welcome. Come on, do you good."
     They went.
     They  stood  on  the cobbled street while the film camera was being set up.
Susan  looked  at  the  road  leading  down  and  away, and the highway going to
Acapulco and the sea, past pyramids and ruins and little adobe towns with yellow
walls,  blue  walls, purple walls and flaming bougainvillea, and she thought, We
shall  take  the  roads,  travel in clusters and crowds, in markets, in lobbies,
bribe  police  to  sleep  near,  keep double locks, but always the crowds, never
alone  again,  always  afraid  the  next person who passes may be another Simms.
Never  knowing  if we've tricked and lost the Searchers. And always up ahead, in
the  Future, they'll wait for us to be brought back, waiting with their bombs to
bum  us  and  disease  to rot us, and their police to tell us to roll over, turn
around, jump through the hoop! And so we'll keep running through the forest, and
we'll never ever stop or sleep well again in our lives.
     A  crowd gathered to watch the film being made. And Susan watched the crowd
and the streets.
     "Seen anyone suspicious?"
     "No. What time is it?"
     "Three o'clock. The car should be almost ready."
     The test film was finished at three forty-five. They all walked down to the
hotel,  talking.  William paused at the garage. "The car'll be ready at six," he
said, coming out, worried.
     "But no later than that?"
     "It'll be ready, don't worry."
     In  the  hotel  lobby they looked around for other men traveling alone, men
who  resembled Mr. Simms, men with new haircuts and too much cigarette smoke and
cologne  smell  about  them,  but  the lobby was empty. Going up the stairs, Mr.
Melton said, "Well, it's been a long hard day. Who'd like to put a header on it?
You folks? Martini? Beer?"
     "Maybe one."
     The whole crowd pushed into Mr. Melton's room and the drinking began.
     "Watch the time," said William. Time, thought Susan. If only they had time.
All she wanted was to sit in the plaza all of a long bright day in October, with
not  a  worry  or a thought, with the sun on her face and arms, her eyes closed,
smiling  at the warmth, and never move. Just sleep in the Mexican sun, and sleep
warmly and easily and slowly and happily for many, many days....
     Mr.  Melton  opened the champagne. "To a very beautiful lady, lovely enough
for  films,"  he  said,  toasting  Susan.  "I  might  even give you a test." She
laughed.
     "I  mean  it,"  said  Melton.  "You're  very nice. I could make you a movie
star."
     "And  take  me  to  Hollywood?"  cried  Susan. "Get the hell out of Mexico,
sure!" Susan glanced at William and he lifted an eyebrow and nodded. It would be
a  change of scene, clothing, locale, name, perhaps; and they would be traveling
with eight other people, a good shield against any interference from the Future.
"It  sounds  wonderful,"  said  Susan.  She  was  feeling the champagne now. The
afternoon  was  slipping by; the party was whirling about her. She felt safe and
good and alive and truly happy for the first time in many years.
     "What kind of film would my wife be good for?" asked William, refilling his
glass.
     Melton appraised Susan. -The party stopped laughing and listened.
     "Well,  I'd like to do a story of suspense," said Melton. "A story of a man
and wife, like yourselves."
     "Go on."
     "Sort of a war story, maybe," said the director, examining the color of his
drink against the sunlight.
     Susan and William waited.
     "A story about a man and wife who live in a little house on a little street
in the year 2155, maybe," said Melton. "This is ad lib, understand. But this man
and  wife  are faced with a terrible war, super-plus hydrogen bombs, censorship,
death  in  that year, and-here's the gimmick-they escape into the Past, followed
by  a man who they think is evil, but who is only trying to show them what their
duty is."
     William dropped his glass to the floor.
     Mr.  Melton  continued:  "And  this couple take refuge with a group of film
people whom they learn to trust. Safety in numbers, they say to themselves."
     Susan  felt  herself  slip  down  into  a  chair. Everyone was watching the
director.  He took a little sip of wine. "Ah, that's a fine wine. Well, this man
and  woman,  it  seems,  don't realize how important they are to the Future. The
man,  especially,  is  the keystone to a new bomb metal. So the Searchers, let's
call  them,  spare no trouble or expense to find, capture, and take home the man
and  wife,  once  they get them totally alone, in a hotel room, where no one can
see.  Strategy.  The  Searchers  work alone, or in groups of eight. One trick or
another will do it. Don't you think it would make a wonderful film, Susan? Don't
you, Bill?" He finished his drink.
     Susan sat with her eyes straight ahead of her.
     "Have a drink?" said Mr. Melton.
     William's  gun  was out and fired three times, and one of the men fell, and
the others ran forward. Susan screamed. A hand was clamped to her mouth. Now the
gun was on the floor and William was struggling, held.
     Mr. Melton said, "Please," standing there where he had stood, blood showing
on his fingers. "Let's not make matters worse."
     Someone pounded on the hall door.
     "Let me in!"
     "The  manager," said Mr. Melton dryly. He jerked his head. "Everyone, let's
move!"
     "Let me in! I'll call the police!"
     Susan and William looked at each other quickly, and then at the door.
     "The manager wishes to come in," said Mr. Melton. "Quick!"
     A  camera  was carried forward. From it shot a blue light which encompassed
the  room instantly. It widened out and the people of the party vanished, one by
one.
     "Quickly!"
     Outside the window, in the instant before she vanished, Susan saw the green
land  and  the  purple  and  yellow  and  blue and crimson walls and the cobbles
flowing  down like a river, a man upon a burro riding into the warm hills, a boy
drinking  Orange  Crush,  she  could  feel the sweet liquid in her throat, a man
standing under a cool plaza tree with a guitar, she could feel her hand upon the
strings, and, far away, the sea, the blue and tender sea, she could feel it roll
her over and take her in.
     And then she was gone. Her husband was gone.
     The door burst wide open. The manager and his staff rushed in.
     The room was empty.
     "But  they  were  just  here!  I saw them come in, and now-gone!" cried the
manager.  "The windows are covered with iron grating. They couldn't get out that
way!"
     In  the  late  afternoon  the  priest was summoned and they opened the room
again  and  aired it out, and had him sprinkle holy water through each comer and
give it his blessing.
     "What shall we do with these?" asked the charwoman.
     She  pointed  to  the  closet,  where  there were 67 bottles of chartreuse,
cognac,  creme  de  cacao  absinthe,  vermouth,  tequila, 106 cartons of Turkish
cigarettes, and 198 yellow boxes of fifty-cent pure Havana-filler cigars...