"Oh, yes."
"How long?"
"A couple of years, I guess." She moved away to wait on a young soldier who had taken a stool down the counter.
Paine sat drinking his coffee and smoking, idly watching the people passing by outside. Ordinary people. Men and women, mostly women. Some had grocery bags and little wire carts. Automobiles drove slowly back and forth. A sleepy little suburban town. Modern, upper middle-class. A quality town. No slums here. Small, attractive houses. Stores with sloping grass fronts and neon signs.
Some high school kids burst into the drugstore, laughing and bumping into each other. Two girls in bright sweaters sat down next to Paine and ordered lime drinks. They chatted gaily, bits of their conversation drifting to him.
He gazed at them, pondering moodily. They were real, all right. Lipstick and red fingernails. Sweaters and armloads of school books. Hundreds of high school kids, crowding eagerly into the drugstore.
Paine rubbed his forehead wearily. It didn't seem possible. Maybe he was out of his mind. The town was real. Completely real. It must have always existed. A whole town couldn't rise up out of nothing; out of a cloud of gray haze. Five thousand people, houses and streets and stores.
Stores. Bradshaw Insurance.
Stabbing realization chilled him. Suddenly he understood. It was spreading. Beyond Macon Heights. Into the city. The city was changing, too. Bradshaw Insurance. Crichet's place of business.
Macon Heights couldn't exist without warping the city. They interlocked. The five thousand people came from the city. Their jobs. Their lives. The city was involved.
But how much? How much was the city changing?
Paine threw a quarter on the counter and hurried out of the drugstore, toward the train station. He had to get back to the city. Laura, the change. Was she still there? Was his own life safe?
Fear gripped him. Laura, all his possessions, his plans, hopes and dreams. Suddenly Macon Heights was unimportant. His own world was in jeopardy. Only one thing mattered now. He had to make sure of it; make sure his own life was still there. Untouched by the spreading circle of change that was lapping out from Macon Heights.
"Where to, buddy?" the cabdriver asked, as Paine came rushing out of the train station.
Paine gave him the address of the apartment. The cab roared out into traffic. Paine settled back nervously. Outside the window the streets and office buildings flashed past. White collar workers were already beginning to get off work, swelling out onto the sidewalks to stand in clumps at each corner.
How much had changed? He concentrated on a row of buildings. The big department store. Had that always been there? The little boot-black shop next to it. He had never noticed that before.
MORRIS HOME FURNISHINGS.
He didn't remember that. But how could he be sure? He felt confused. How could he tell?
The cab let him off in front of the apartment house. Paine stood for a moment, looking around him. Down at the end of the block the owner of the Italian delicatessen was out putting up the awning. Had he ever noticed a delicatessen there before?
He could not remember.
What had happened to the big meat market across the street? There was nothing but neat little houses; older houses that looked like they'd been there plenty long. Had a meat market ever been there? The houses looked solid.
In the next block the striped pole of a barbershop glittered. Had there always been a barbershop there?
there?
Terror gripped him. Laura. His world...
Paine raced up the front steps and pushed open the door of the apartment house. He hurried up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. The door of the apartment was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered, his heart in his mouth, praying silently.
The living-room was dark and silent. The shades were half pulled. He glanced around wildly. The light blue couch, magazines on its arms. The low blond-oak table. The television set. But the room was empty.
"Laura!" he gasped.
Laura hurried from the kitchen, eyes wide with alarm. "Bob! What are you doing home? Is anything the matter?"
Paine relaxed, sagging with relief. "Hello, honey." He kissed her, holding her tight against him. She was warm and substantial; completely real. "No, nothing's wrong. Everything's fine."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Paine took off his coat shakily and dropped it over the back of the couch. He wandered around the room, examining things, his confidence returning. His familiar blue couch, cigarette burns on its arms. His ragged footstool. His desk where he did his work at night. His fishing rods leaning up against the wall behind the bookcase.
The big television set he had purchased only last month; that was safe, too.
Everything, all he owned, was untouched. Safe. Unharmed.
"Dinner won't be ready for half an hour," Laura murmured anxiously, unfastening her apron. "I didn't expect you home so early. I've just been sitting around all day. I did clean the stove. Some salesman left a sample of a new cleaner."
"That's okay." He examined a favorite Renoir print on the wall. "Take your time. It's good to see all these things again. I --"
From the bedroom a crying sound came. Laura turned quickly. "I guess we woke up Jimmy."
"Jimmy?"
Laura laughed. "Darling, don't you remember your own son?"
"Of course," Paine murmured, annoyed. He followed Laura slowly into the bedroom. "Just for a minute everything seemed strange." He rubbed his forehead, frowning. "Strange and unfamiliar. Sort of out of focus."
They stood by the crib, gazing down at the baby. Jimmy glared back up at his mother and dad.
"It must have been the sun," Laura said. "It's so terribly hot outside."
"That must be it. I'm okay now." Paine reached down and poked at the baby. He put his arm around his wife, hugging her to him. "It must have been the sun," he said. He looked down into her eyes and smiled.
The World She Wanted
Half-dozing, Larry Brewster contemplated the litter of cigarette-butts, empty beer-bottles, and twisted match-folders heaped on the table before him. He reached out and adjusted one beer-bottle -thereby achieving just the right effect.
In the back of the Wind-Up the small dixieland jazz combo played noisily. The harsh jazz-sound mixed with the murmur of voices, the semi-darkness, the clink of glasses at the bar. Larry Brewster sighed in happy contentment. "This," he stated, "is Nirvana." He nodded his head slowly, agreeing with the words uttered. "Or at least the seventh level of zen-buddhist heaven."
sighed in happy contentment. "This," he stated, "is Nirvana." He nodded his head slowly, agreeing with the words uttered. "Or at least the seventh level of zen-buddhist heaven."
"That's a fact," Larry admitted, reflecting on the matter. "I was speaking metaphorically, not literally."
"You should be more careful; you should mean exactly what you say."
"And say exactly what you mean?" Larry peered up. "Have I had the pleasure of knowing you, young lady?"
The slender, golden-haired girl dropped into the seat across the table from Larry, her eyes sharp and bright in the half-gloom of the bar. She smiled at him, white teeth sparkling. "No," she said. "We've never met; our time has just now arrived."
"Our -- our time?" Larry drew himself up slowly, pulling his lanky frame together. There was something in the girl's bright, competent face that vaguely alarmed him, penetrating his alcoholic haze. Her smile was too calm, too assured. "Just exactly what do you mean?" Larry murmured. "What's this all about?"
The girl slipped out of her coat, revealing full, rounded breasts and a supple figure. "I'll have a martini," she said. "And by the way -- my name is Allison Holmes."
"Larry Brewster." Larry studied the girl intently. "What did you say you wanted?"