"Paris Furs." Madge clasped her arms. "Brrrrr. Come on, Paul. Let's go upstairs before I freeze."
Tyler laughed. "Okay, sissy." He headed toward the stairs, frowning again. "I wonder why. Steuben Pets. Never heard of it. Everything is so detailed. He must know the town by heart. To put a shop there that isn't --" He clicked off the basement light. "And the mortuary. What's supposed to be there? Isn't the --"
"Forget it," Madge called back, hurrying past him, into the warm living-room. "You're practically as bad as he is. Men are such children."
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.