Judith Merril - The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 4

Helplessly, Tosher just stood there and watched her fall. Her round mouth and her puzzled expression—as if this were some problem she could solve, given another five minutes—were vividly clear to him. And in that instant he recognized her.

“Judy!” he called. Just that one call.

And the round mouth of her, fixed, dwindling in the center of his vision, changed suddenly into an expanding hole, growing rounder, bigger, bigger yet. It was swallowing, vaporizing away the barrier that stood between Tosher and his past. The sight of Judy had finally vanquished his nine-year amnesia.

Standing there on the edge of nothing, Tosher could at last see back into his lost life. A figure was standing there. It was Norton Sykes, The Man Who Started It All, the man who had vanished when the first load of enemy suitcases fell on his hideout. Tosher recognized Norton’s figure: it was himself.

“Me . . . Norton . . .” he muttered and then, aloud in an oddly conversational tone, “but I don’t want to be Norton.”

And he took a pace forward into thin air.

Most of this I saw with my own two eyes. Directly I heard Tosher breaking the mirror, I guessed something was wrong. In rocky jigsaws, we scrap chaps are always as silent as mice.

All I had to do was drop the helicart down one story and angle it round one corner. I did it in a hurry, and the pulley system snagged me. In my haste, I had forgotten it still connected me with the attic.

Rather than flip the crate up again to disconnect, I snatched up my welder and jumped back onto the platform to burn the steel pulley cable through and thus release the helicart. It took a hell of a time. The welder wouldn’t function properly and my hands were shaking as if I had palsy.

I was stuck half round the corner, helpless. I could see Tosher and the woman from where I was, but couldn’t get to them. I shouted, but they didn’t look. When the cable finally gave, I was just too late to catch Tosher as he fell.

The terrible thing was, that woman wasn’t Judy any more than I am. I checked afterward. It was just a delusion of poor old Tosher’s. But of course he was—or had been— Norton Sykes. I’d found that out years ago. All the boys in the yard knew, but they never let on. Nor did they ever hold it against him, although as Norton Sykes, Tosher had been a virtual dictator.

It’s an odd world. A dictator can make a damn good scrap man. And vice versa, unfortunately.

Another Britisher presents what you might call a double-doom story—set in a graveyard, around the tombstone that marks the underground retreat of the war-torn remnants of humanity. Mankind dug under long ago; but the scent of fresh-turned dirt is present still—appetizingly, for some.

Sammy was playing knucklebones on The Tombstone when the vampire arrived. As a vampire he obviously had a lot to learn. Sammy had heard him, recognized him for what he was and had dismissed him as a possible danger long before the stranger stumbled into the light of the tiny fire which Sammy tended. Even when he finally arrived Sammy paid him no attention, concentrating instead on his game, rolling the five scraps of bone with easy familiarity.

He was good at the game, having had much time in which to practice, and he took a quiet pride in the skillful manner he tossed and snatched, flipped and caught, spun and held the knucklebones. He ended the game by throwing them high into the air, catching them on the back of his hand. It was a broad, shovel-like hand with stubby fingers, thick, strong nails and well-developed muscles.

“Not bad, eh?” Sammy flipped the bones again, letting them bounce down the back of his hand and trapping them neatly between his fingers. He looked up, grinning at the stranger.

“What?” The vampire, a pale, distraught young character was obviously out of his depth. He wore a faded khaki shirt and pants, a pair of cracked and mildewed boots and a baffled expression. “What did you say?”

“I said ‘Not bad, eh?’ “ Sammy rolled the bones lovingly between his palms. “I bet that you couldn’t handle them like that.”

“I don’t suppose I could,” admitted the stranger. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Help yourself.” Sammy waved to a spot opposite him across the fire. “Glad of company.” He rolled his bones again and stared moodily into the fire.

The stranger stared too. He seemed to be struggling with some private burden for twice he attempted to speak and changed his mind at the last moment. He squinted towards Sammy but the fire was low and the light was bad and all he could make out was a formless blur. Finally he coughed and got to the heart of what was worrying him.

“Look,” he said. “My name is Smith, Edward Smith, and I seem to be in some sort of trouble. I wonder if you could help me?”

“Everyone’s in some sort of trouble,” said Sammy feelingly. “What’s your particular brand?”

“Well,” said Smith urgently, “something seems to have happened to me.” He passed a wavering hand across his forehead. “This may sound crazy to you but I seem to be living in some weird kind of dream.”

“Do tell,” said Sammy, he was interested. Casually he flipped the knucklebones into a pocket of the tattered old jacket he wore. “What makes you think that?”

“Everything.” Smith frowned as he tried to collect his thoughts. “I was sick, I remember that well enough what with Uncle screaming about doctor’s bills and the price of medicine and how he was having trouble getting in the harvest because I couldn’t help him and how he’d have to hire a man and who was going to pay for it?” Smith took a deep breath.

Sammy nodded, picking idly at his teeth. “I follow.”

“I was as sick as a dog,” corrected Smith feelingly. “I guess I would have died if it hadn’t been for some queer old coot of a doctor Uncle dug up from somewhere or other. He was cheap, I guess, otherwise I wouldn’t have had him but he had a smell like he’d been out in the rain and hadn’t dried off properly.”

“And he only came after dark,” said Sammy. “Right?”

“How did you know?” Smith blinked in surprise. “Maybe you know him, is that it?”

“I could take a guess,” said Sammy. He picked at his teeth again. “Then what happened?”

“I don’t know.” Smith was genuinely baffled. “I must have passed out, I guess, because the next thing I know I was in a hole in the ground on the side of a hill. I had a cramp something cruel so I yelled for help but no one could have heard me because no one came to see what was wrong.” He frowned again. “And that’s another queer thing. When I finally managed to get out of the hole and take a look round I couldn’t find a thing. The farm was gone, the road all grown over, everything had changed.” He shook his head and stared bleakly into the fire. “So I’m either dreaming or crazy.”

“You might be crazy,” said Sammy. “I wouldn’t argue about that, not knowing you well enough to form an opinion, but you’re not dreaming, that’s for sure.”

“I must be,” said Smith; he didn’t seem to like the idea that he was crazy. “All this is a stupid mixed-up nightmare. It must be.”

Sammy didn’t bother to argue. He merely reached out and gently pinched Smith on the thigh. Smith screamed and rolled beside the fire, nursing his leg and whimpering with pain.

“Still think that you’re dreaming?” asked Sammy pleasantly.

“No,” said Smith wildly. “But if I’m not dreaming then I’m crazy. I’m just a poor, crazy madman, that’s what.”

“Crazy you might be but a man you are not,” said Sammy. Smith jerked up his head.