Robert Silverberg - As Is

Norton had the roughs for the system worked out before they hit Arizona. From Phoenix he phoned Ellen and found out that she had rented an apartment just outside Beverly Hills, in what looked like a terribly expensive neighborhood but really wasn’t—at least, not by comparison with some of the other things she’d seen, and—

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m in the process of closing a pretty big sale. I—ah—picked up a hitchhiker, and turns out he’s thinking of going computer soon, a fairly large company—”

“Sam, you haven’t been drinking, have you?”

“Not a drop.”

“A hitchhiker and you sold him a computer. Next you’ll tell me about the flying saucer you saw.”

“Don’t be silly,” Norton said. “Flying saucers aren’t real.”

They drove into L.A. in mid-morning, two days later. By then he had written the whole order, and everything was set; the commission, he figured, would be enough to see him through a new car, maybe one of those Swedish jobs Ellen’s sister had heard about. The little man seemed to have no difficulty finding the address of the apartment Ellen had taken; he negotiated the maze of the freeways with complete ease and assurance, and pulled up outside the house.

“Been a most pleasant trip, young fellow,” the little man said. “I’ll be talking to my bankers later today about that wonderful machine of yours. Meanwhile here we part. You’ll have to unhitch the trailer, now.”

“What am I supposed to tell my wife about the car I drove here In?”

“Oh, just say that you sold it to that hitchhiker at a good profit. I think she’ll appreciate that.”

They got out. While Norton undid the U-Haul’s couplings, the little man took something from the trunk, which had opened a moment before. It was a large rubbery tarpaulin. The little man began to spread it over the car. “Give us a hand here, will you?” he said. “Spread it nice and neat, so it covers the fenders and everything.” He got inside, while Norton, baffled, carefully tucked the tarpaulin into place.

“You want me to cover the windshield too?” he asked.

“Everything,” said the little man.

There was a hissing sound, as of air being let out of tires. The tarpaulin began to flatten. At it sank toward the ground, there came a cheery voice from underneath, calling, “Good luck, young fellow!”

In moments the tarpaulin was less than three feet high. In a minute more it lay flat against the pavement There was no sign of the car. It might have evaporated, or vanished into the earth. Slowly, uncomprehendingly, Norton picked up the tarpaulin, folded it until he could fit it under his arm, and walked into the house to tell his wife that he had arrived in Los Angeles.

Sam Norton never met the little man again, but he made the sale, and the commission saw him through a new car with something left over.

He still has the tarpaulin, too. He keeps it folded up and tied and wrapped and retied and carefully locked away in his basement He’s afraid to get rid of it, but he doesn’t like to think of what might happen if someone comes across it and spreads it out.