Second Variety and Other Stories (59 page)

Tyler didn't respond. He was deep in thought. His suave confidence was gone; he looked
nervous and shaken.

Madge pulled the Venetian blinds down. The living-room sank into amber gloom. She flopped
down on the couch and pulled Tyler down beside her. "Stop looking like that," she ordered. "I've never
seen you this way." Her slim arms circled his neck and her lips brushed close to his ear. "I wouldn't have
let you in if I thought you were going to worry about him."

Tyler grunted, preoccupied. "Why did you let me in?"

The pressure of Madge's arms increased. Her silk pajamas rustled as she moved against him.
"Silly," she said.

Big red-headed Jim Larson gaped in disbelief. "What do you mean? What's the matter with
you?"

"I'm quitting." Haskel shoveled the contents of his desk into his briefcase. "Mail the check to my
house."

"But --"

"Get out of the way." Haskel pushed past Larson, out into the hall. Larson was stunned with
amazement. There was a fixed expression on Haskel's face. A glazed look. A rigid look Larson had
never seen before.

"Are you -- all right?" Larson asked.

"Sure." Haskel opened the front door of the plant and disappeared outside. The door slammed
after him. "Sure I'm all right," he muttered to himself. He made his way through the crowds of

after him. "Sure I'm all right," he muttered to himself. He made his way through the crowds of

"Watch it, buddy," a laborer muttered ominously, as Haskel shoved past him.

"Sorry." Haskel hurried on, gripping his briefcase. At the top of the hill he paused a moment to
get his breath. Behind him was Larson's Pump and Valve Works. Haskel laughed shrilly. Twenty years -cut
short in a second. It was over. No more Larson. No more dull, grinding job, day after day. Without
promotion or future. Routine and boredom, months on end. It was over and done for. A new life and
beginning.

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 glueing 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.

were in order.

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."

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."

"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 layout 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 run-down 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 of 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.

taxis. On impulse, he removed the taxi stand and put in a flower shop.

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."