Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
By KEITH LAUMER
it could be ANYTHING
_Keith Laumer, well-known for his tales of adventure and action, shows us a different side of his talent in this original, exciting and thought-provoking exploration of the meaning of meaning._
Illustrated by FINLAY
"She'll be pulling out in a minute, Brett," Mr. Phillips said. He tuckedhis railroader's watch back in his vest pocket. "You better getaboard--if you're still set on going."
"It was reading all them books done it," Aunt Haicey said. "Thick books,and no pictures in them. I knew it'd make trouble." She plucked at thefaded hand-embroidered shawl over her thin shoulders, a tiny bird-likewoman with bright anxious eyes.
"Don't worry about me," Brett said. "I'll be back."
"The place'll be yours when I'm gone," Aunt Haicey said. "Lord knows itwon't be long."
"Why don't you change your mind and stay on, boy?" Mr. Phillips said,blinking up at the young man. "If I talk to Mr. J.D., I think he canfind a job for you at the plant."
"So many young people leave Casperton," Aunt Haicey said. "They nevercome back."
Mr. Phillips clicked his teeth. "They write, at first," he said. "Thenthey gradually lose touch."
"All your people are here, Brett," Aunt Haicey said. "Haven't you beenhappy here?"
"Why can't you young folks be content with Casperton?" Mr. Phillipssaid. "There's everything you need here."
"It's that Pretty-Lee done it," Aunt Haicey said. "If it wasn't for thatgirl--"
A clatter ran down the line of cars. Brett kissed Aunt Haicey's drycheek, shook Mr. Phillips' hand, and swung aboard. His suitcase was onone of the seats. He put it up above in the rack, and sat down, turnedto wave back at the two old people.
It was a summer morning. Brett leaned back and watched the country slideby. It was nice country, Brett thought; mostly in corn, some cattle, andaway in the distance the hazy blue hills. Now he would see what was onthe other side of them: the cities, the mountains, and the ocean. Upuntil now all he knew about anything outside of Casperton was what he'dread or seen pictures of. As far as he was concerned, chopping wood andmilking cows back in Casperton, they might as well not have existed.They were just words and pictures printed on paper. But he didn't wantto just read about them. He wanted to see for himself.
* * *
Pretty-Lee hadn't come to see him off. She was probably still mad aboutyesterday. She had been sitting at the counter at the Club Rexall,drinking a soda and reading a movie magazine with a big picture of animpossibly pretty face on the cover--the kind you never see just walkingdown the street. He had taken the next stool and ordered a coke.
"Why don't you read something good, instead of that pap?" he asked her.
"Something good? You mean something dry, I guess. And don't call it ...that word. It doesn't sound polite."
"What does it say? That somebody named Doll Starr is fed up with glamorand longs for a simple home in the country and lots of kids? Then whydoesn't she move to Casperton?"
"You wouldn't understand," said Pretty-Lee.
He took the magazine, leafed through it. "Look at this: all aboutpeople who give parties that cost thousands of dollars, and fly all overthe world having affairs with each other and committing suicide andgetting divorced. It's like reading about Martians."
"I still like to read about the stars. There's nothing wrong with it."
"Reading all that junk just makes you dissatisfied. You want to do yourhair up crazy like the pictures in the magazines and wear weird-lookingclothes--"
Pretty-Lee bent her straw double. She stood up and took her shoppingbag. "I'm very glad to know you think my clothes are weird--"
"You're taking everything I say personally. Look." He showed her afull-color advertisement on the back cover of the magazine. "Look atthis. Here's a man supposed to be cooking steaks on some kind ofback-yard grill. He looks like a movie star; he's dressed up like he wasgoing to get married; there's not a wrinkle anywhere. There's not a spoton that apron. There isn't even a grease spot on the frying pan. Thelawn is as smooth as a billiard table. There's his son; he looks justlike his pop, except that he's not grey at the temples. Did you everreally see a man that handsome, or hair that was just silver over theears and the rest glossy black? The daughter looks like a movie starlet,and her mom is exactly the same, except that she has that grey streak infront to match her husband. You can see the car in the drive; the treadsof the tires must have just been scrubbed; they're not even dusty.There's not a pebble out of place; all the flowers are in full bloom; nodead ones. No leaves on the lawn; no dry twigs showing on the trees.That other house in the background looks like a palace, and the man withthe rake, looking over the fence: he looks like this one's twin brother,and he's out raking leaves in brand new clothes--"
Pretty-Lee grabbed her magazine. "You just seem to hate everythingthat's nicer than this messy town--"
"I don't think it's nicer. I like you; your hair isn't always perfectlysmooth, and you've got a mended place on your dress, and you feel human,you smell human--"
"Oh!" Pretty-Lee turned and flounced out of the drug store.
* * *
Brett shifted in the dusty plush seat and looked around. There were afew other people in the car. An old man was reading a newspaper; two oldladies whispered together. There was a woman of about thirty with amean-looking kid; and some others. They didn't look like magazinepictures, any of them. He tried to picture them doing the things youread in newspapers: the old ladies putting poison in somebody's tea; theold man giving orders to start a war. He thought about babies in housesin cities, and airplanes flying over, and bombs falling down: hugeexplosive bombs. Blam! Buildings fall in, pieces of glass and stone flythrough the air. The babies are blown up along with everything else--
But the kind of people he knew couldn't do anything like that. Theyliked to loaf and eat and talk and drink beer and buy a new tractor orrefrigerator and go fishing. And if they ever got mad and hitsomebody--afterwards they were embarrassed and wanted to shake hands....
The train slowed, came to a shuddery stop. Through the window he saw acardboardy-looking building with the words BAXTER'S JUNCTION paintedacross it. There were a few faded posters on a bulletin board. An oldman was sitting on a bench, waiting. The two old ladies got off and aboy in blue jeans got on. The train started up. Brett folded his jacketand tucked it under his head and tried to doze off....
* * * * *
Brett awoke, yawned, sat up. The train was slowing. He remembered youcouldn't use the toilets while the train was stopped. He got up and wentto the end of the car. The door was jammed. He got it open and wentinside and closed the door behind him. The train was going slower,clack-clack ... clack-clack ... clack; clack ... cuh-lack ...
He washed his hands, then pulled at the door. It was stuck. He pulledharder. The handle was too small; it was hard to get hold of. The traincame to a halt. Brett braced himself and strained against the door. Itdidn't budge.
He looked out the grimy window. The sun was getting lower. It was aboutthree-thirty, he guessed. He couldn't see anything but some dry-lookingfields.
Outside in the corridor there were footsteps. He started to call, butthen didn't. It would be too embarrassing, pounding on the door andyelling, "Let me out! I'm stuck in the toilet ..."
He tried to rattle the door. It didn't rattle. Somebody was draggingsomething heavy past the door. Mail bags, maybe. He'd better yell. Butdammit, the door couldn't be all that hard to open. He studied thelatch. All he had to do wa
s turn it. He got a good grip and twisted.Nothing.
He heard the mail bag bump-bump, and then another one. To heck with it;he'd yell. He'd wait until he heard the footsteps pass the door againand then he'd make some noise.
Brett waited. It was quiet now. He rapped on the door anyway. No answer.Maybe there was nobody left in the car. In a minute the train wouldstart up and he'd be stuck here until the next stop. He banged on thedoor. "Hey! The door is stuck!"
It sounded foolish. He listened. It was very quiet. He pounded again.The car