September 24, 2025 • 25 mins
Dive into a captivating science fiction tale by the renowned Keith Laumer. Follow the journey of a young man who leaves his quiet rural town, driven by curiosity about the world beyond. What lies just beyond the next hill? What does a bustling city truly look like? Is there really an ocean? With only the accounts of others to guide him, he confidently boards the local train. However, upon awakening, he discovers himself alone in an abandoned train with no engine in sight, and the tracks abruptly end in a grain field. What is happening? Is this a strange new reality, or are our perceptions merely illusions? Join us for a thought-provoking adventure‚Aîafter all, it could be anything! Summary by Phil Chenevert
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Part one of It Could Be Anything. This is a
LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
Recording by Phil Shinever. This story was first published in
(00:21):
Amazing Stories January nineteen sixty three. It Could Be Anything
by Keith Lomer, Part one. She'll be pulling out in
a minute, Brett, mister Phillips said. He tucked his railroaders
watch back in his vest pocket. You'd better get aboard
if you're still set on goin'. It was reading all
(00:43):
them books, done it, aunt Hasey said, thit books and
no pictures in them. I knew it had made trouble.
She plucked at the faded hand and brought her shawl
over her thin shoulders, A tiny bird like woman with bright,
anxious eyes. Don't worry about me, Brett said, I'll be back.
The place will be yours when I'm gone. Aunt Hasey said,
(01:06):
Lord knows it won't be long. Why don't you change
your mind and stay on boy, mister Phillips said, blinking
up at the young man. If I talk to mister
j D, I think he can find a job for
you at the plant. So many young people leave Capriston.
Aunt Hasey said, they never come back. Mister Phillips clicked
(01:27):
his teeth. They write at first, he said, then they
gradually lose touch. All your people are here, Brett, aunt
Hasty said, haven't you been happy here? Why can't you
young folks be content with Casperton. Mister Phillips said, there's
everything you need here. It's that pretty lead one it,
(01:48):
aunt Hasty said, if it wasn't for that girl, A
clutter ran down the line of cars. Brett kissed aunt
Hasey's dry cheek, shook mister Phillips's hand, and wung aboard.
His suitcase was on one of the seats. He put
it up above in a rack and sat down. Turned
to wave back at the two old people. It was
(02:11):
a summer morning. Brett leaned back and watched the country
slide by. It was nice country, Brett thought, mostly in corn,
some cattle, and away in the distance of the hazy
blue hills. Now he would see what was on the
other side of them, the cities, the mountains, and the ocean.
(02:31):
Up until now, all he knew about anything outside of
Casperton was what he'd read or seen pictures of as
far as he was concerned chopping wood and milking cows
back in Casperton. They might as well not have existed.
They were just words and pictures printed on paper. But
he didn't want to just read about them. He wanted
(02:54):
to see for himself. Pretty Lee hadn't come to see
him off. She was probably still mad about yesterday. She
had been sitting at the counter of Club Rexall, drinking
a soda and reading a movie magazine with a big
picture of an impossibly pretty face on the cover, the
Cohn you never see. Just walking down the street, he had,
(03:16):
taking the next stool and order to coke. Why don't
you read something good instead of that pap he asked her.
Something good? You mean something dry? I guess, And don't
call it that word. It doesn't sound polite. What does
it say that somebody named Dollstar is fed up with
a glamor and longs for a simple home in the
(03:39):
country and lots of kids. Then why doesn't she move
to Casperton? You wouldn't understand, said Pretty Lee. He took
the magazine leaped through it. Look at this all about
people who give parties that cost thousands of dollars and
fly all over the world, having affairs with each other
and committing suicide and getting divorced. It's like reading about martians.
(04:06):
I still like to read about the stars. There's nothing
wrong with it. Reading all that junk just makes you dissatisfied.
You want to do your hair up crazy like the
pictures in the magazines, and wear weird looking clothes. Prettyly
bent her straw double. She stood up and took her
shopping bag. I'm very glad to know you think my
(04:29):
clothes are weird. You're taking everything I say personally. Look,
he showed her a full color advertisement on the back
cover of the magazine. Look at this. Here's a man
supposed to be cooking steaks on some kind of backyard grill.
He looks like a movie star. He's dressed up like
(04:50):
he's going to get married. There's not a wrinkle anywhere.
There's not a spot on that apron. There isn't even
a grease spot on the frying pan is as smooth
as the billiard table. There's his son. He looks just
like his pop, except that he's not gray. At the temples,
did you ever really see a man that handsome? Or
(05:13):
hair that was just silver over the ears and the
rest glossy black. The daughter looks like a movie starlet,
and her mom is exactly the same, except that she
has that gray streak in front to match your husband.
You can see the car in the drive. The treads
of the tires must have been scrubbed. They're not even dusty.
(05:35):
There's not a pebble out of place. All the flowers
are in full bloom. No dead ones, no leaves on
the lawn, no dry twigs showing on the trees. That
other house in the background looks like a palace. And
the man with the rake looking over the fence, he
looks like this one's twin brother, and he's out raking
(05:56):
leaves and brand new clothes. Peggy Lee grabbed her magazine.
You just seem to hate everything that's nicer than this
messy town. I don't think it's nicer. I like you.
Your hair isn't always perfectly smooth, and you've got a
mended place on your dress, and you feel human. You
(06:17):
smell human. Oh. Peggy Lee turned and flounced out of
the drug store. Brett shifted in the dusty plush seat
and looked around. There were a few other people in
the car. An old man was reading a newspaper. Two
old ladies whispered together. There was a woman of about
(06:38):
thirty with a mean looking kid, and some others. They
didn't look like magazine pictures, any of them. He tried
to picture them doing the things you read in newspapers,
the old lady putting poison in somebody's tea, the old
man giving orders to start a war. He thought about
babies and houses and cities, airplanes flying over, and bombs
(07:02):
falling down. Huge explosive bombs blam. Buildings fall in, pieces
of glass and stone fly through the air. The babies
are blown up, along with everything else. But the kind
of people he knew couldn't do anything like that. They
like to loaf and eat and talk and drink beer,
(07:25):
and buy a new tractor or refrigerator and go fishing.
And if they ever got mad and hit somebody afterwards,
they were embarrassed and wanted to shake hands. The train
slowed came to a shuddery stop. Through the window he
saw a cardboardy looking building with the words Baxter's Junction
(07:46):
painted across it. There were a few faded posters on
a bulletin board. An old man was sitting on a
bench waiting. The two old ladies got off and the
boy in blue jeans got on. The trains hearted up,
Brett folded his jacket and tucked it under his head
and tried to doze off. Brett awoke, yawned, and sat up.
(08:10):
The train was slowing. He remembered you couldn't use the
toilets while the train was stopped. He got up and
went to the end of the car. The door was jammed.
He got it open and went inside and closed the
door behind him. The train was going slower, clock clock
clock clock clock clock clock lock. He washed his hands,
(08:36):
then pulled at the door. It was stuck. He pulled harder.
The handle was too small. It was hard to get
hold of. The train came to a halt. Brett braced
himself and strained against the door. It didn't budge. He
looked out the grimy window. The sun was lower. It
(08:57):
was about three point thirty. He guessed he couldn't see
anything but some dry looking fields outside in the corridor,
there were footsteps. He started to call, but then didn't.
It would be too embarrassing pounding on the door and
yelling let me out, I'm stuck in the toilet. He
tried to rattle the door. It didn't rattle. Somebody was
(09:22):
dragging something heavy passed the door. Mail bags. Maybe he'd
better yell, But damn it, the door couldn't be all
that hard to open. He studied the latch. All he
had to do was turn it. He got a good
grip and twisted nothing. He heard the mail bag bump, bump,
(09:43):
and then another to hack with it. He'd yell. He'd
wait until he heard the footsteps pass the door again,
and then he'd make some noise. Brett waited. It was
quiet now. He rapped on the door anyway, no answer.
Maybe there was nobody left in the car. In a minute,
(10:04):
the train would start up and he'd be stuck here
until the next stop. He banged on the door. Hey,
the door's stuck. It sounded foolish. He listened. It was
very quiet. He pounded again. The car creaked. Once he
put his ear to the door, he couldn't hear anything.
(10:26):
He turned back to the window. There was no one
in sight. He put his cheek flat against it. Looked
along the car. He saw only dry fields. He turned
around and gave the door a good kick. If he
damaged it, it was too bad. The railroad shouldn't have
defective locks on the doors. If they tried to make
(10:48):
him pay for it, he'd tell them they were lucky
he didn't sue the railroad. He braced himself against the
opposite wall, drew his foot back, and kicked hard at
the lock. Something broke. He pulled the door open. He
was looking out the open door and through the window beyond.
There was no platform, just the same dry fields he
(11:11):
could see on the other side. He came out and
went along to his seat. The car was empty. Now
he looked out the window. Why had the train stopped here?
Maybe there was some kind of trouble with the engine.
It had been sitting here for ten minutes or so. Now.
Brett got up and went along to the door, stepped
(11:32):
down on to the iron step. Leaning out, he could
see the train stretching along ahead. One car, two cars.
There was no engine. Maybe he was turned around. He
looked the other way. There were three cars, no engine
there either. He must be on some kind of sighting.
(11:57):
Brett stepped back inside and pushed through. In the next car,
it was empty. He walked along the length of it
into the next car. It was empty too. He went
back through the two cars and his own car, and
on all the way to the end of the train.
All the cars were empty. He stood on the platform
(12:18):
at the end of the last car and looked back
along the rails. They ran straight through the dry fields
right to the horizon. He stepped down to the ground
and went along the cindery bed to the front of
the train, stepping on the ends of the wooden ties.
The coupling stood open. The tall, dusty coach stood silently
(12:41):
on its iron wheels, waiting ahead. The tracks went on
and stopped. He walked along the ties, following the iron rails,
shining on top and brown with rust on the sides.
A hundred feet from the train, they in the cinders,
(13:02):
went on another ten feet and petered out beyond the fields.
Closed in. Brett looked up at the sun. It was
lower now in the west, dislike getting yellow and late afternoonish.
He turned and looked back at the train. The cars
stood high and prim empty, silent. He walked back, climbed in,
(13:23):
got his bag down from the rack, pulled on his jacket.
He jumped down to the cinders, followed them to where
they ended. He hesitated a moment, then pushed between the
knee high stalks eastward across the field. He could see
what looked like a smudge on the far horizon. He
(13:44):
walked until dark, then made himself a nest in the
dead stalks and went to sleep. He lay on his back,
looking up at pink dawn clouds around him. Dry stalk
rustled in a faint stir of air. He felt crumbly
earth under his fingers. He sat up, reached out and
(14:05):
broke off a stalk. It crumbled into fragile chips. He
wondered what it was. It wasn't any crop he'd ever
seen before. He stood, looked around the field, went on
and on, dead flat. A locust came whirring toward him,
plumped to earth at his feet. He picked it up,
(14:27):
long elbowed legs, groped at his fingers aimlessly. He tossed
the insect in the air. It fluttered away to the east.
The smudge was clearer now, It seemed to be a
gray wall, far away a city. He picked up his
bag and started on. He was getting hungry. He hadn't
(14:47):
eaten since the previous morning. He was thirsty too. The
city couldn't be more than three hours walk. He tramped
along the dry plants, crackling under his feet, little puffs
of d dust rising from the dry ground. He thought
about the rails running across the empty fields ending. He
(15:10):
had heard the locomotive groaning up ahead as the train slowed,
and there had been feet in the corridor. Where had
they gone? He thought of the train, Casperton, Aunt, Hasey,
mister Phillips. They seemed very far away, something remembered from
long ago. Up above. The sun was hot. That was real.
(15:32):
The rest seemed unimportant. Ahead there was a city. He
would walk until he came to it. He tried to
think of other things, television, crowds of people, money, the
tattered paper, and the worn silver. Only the sun and
the dusty plain and the dead plants were real now
(15:52):
he could see them, feel them. And the suitcase. It
was heavy. He shifted hands, kept going. There was something
white on the ground ahead, a small shiny surface protruding
from the earth. Brett dropped the suitcase, went down on
one knee, dug into the dry soil, pulled out a
(16:14):
china teacup, the handle missing, caked dirt crumbled, away under
his thumb, leaving the surface clean. He looked at the
bottom of the cup. It was unmarked. Why just one teacup,
he wondered, Here in the middle of nowhere. He dropped it,
took up his suitcase and went on. After that, he
(16:36):
watched the ground more closely. He found a shoe. It
was badly weathered, but the sole was good. It was
a high topped workshoe, size ten and a half sea
Who he dropped it here? He thought of other lone
shoes he had seen lying at the roadside or in alleys.
How did they get there? Half an hour later he
(16:59):
detoured around the rusted front fender of an old fashioned car.
He looked around for the rest of the car, but
saw nothing. The wall was closer now, perhaps five miles more.
A scrap of white paper fluttered across the field in
a stir of air. He saw another more blowing across
in the fitful gusts. He ran a few steps, caught one,
(17:22):
smoothed it out by now paid. Later he picked up another.
Prepare to meet God, a third said. When with Wilkie
the wall loomed above him. Smooth and gray dust was
caked on his skin and clothes, and as he walked,
he brushed at himself absently. The suitcase dragged at his arm,
(17:46):
thumped against his shin. He was very hungry and thirsty.
He sniffed the air instinctively, searching for the odors of food.
He had been following the wall for a long time,
searching for an opening. It curved away from him, rising
vertically from the level earth. Its surface was porous, unadorned,
(18:08):
too smooth to climb. It was Brett estimated twenty feet
high if there was anything to make a ladder. From ahead,
he saw a wide gate flanked by gray columns. He
came up to it, put the suitcase down, and wiped
at his forehead with his handkerchief. Through the opening in
the wall, a paved street was visible, and the facades
(18:30):
of buildings. Those on the street before him were low,
not more than two or three stories, but behind them
taller towers reared up. There were no people in sight,
no sounds stirred in the hot noontime air. Brett picked
up his bag and passed through the gate. For the
next hour, he walked empty pavements, listening to the echoes
(18:53):
of his footsteps against brown stone fronts, empty shop windows,
curtained glass doors, and here and there a vacant lot.
Wee grown and desolate. He paused at cross streets, looking
down long vacant ways. Now and then a distant sound
came to him, the lonely hawk of a horn, a
(19:14):
faintly tolling bell, a clatter of hoofs. He came to
a narrow alley that cut like a dark canyon between
blank walls. He stood at its mouth, listening to a
distant murmur, like a crowd at a funeral. He turned
down the narrow way. It went straight for a few yards,
(19:35):
then twisted. As he followed his turnings, the cloud noise
gradually grew louder. He could make out individual voices, now
an occasional word above the hubbub. He started to hurry,
eager to find some one to talk to. Abruptly, the voices,
hundreds of voices, he thought, rose in a roar, a
(19:56):
long drawn yea thought of a stadium crowd. As the
home team trotted onto the field, he could hear a band, now,
a shrilling of brass, the clatter and thump of percussion instruments.
Now he could see the mouth of the alley ahead,
a sunny street hung with bunting the backs of people
(20:18):
and over their heads, the rhythmic bobbing of a passing procession.
Tall shakos and guide ons in almost even rows. Two
tall poles with a streamer between them swung into view.
He caught a glimpse of tall red letters four our side.
(20:38):
He moved closer, edged up behind the gray backed crowd.
A phalanx of yellow tuniced men approached, walking stiffly, fez
tassels swinging. A small boy dorted out into the street
loped along at their side. The music screeched and wheezed.
Bratt tapped the man before him, what's it all about?
(21:00):
He couldn't hear his own voice. The man ignored him.
Brett moved along behind the crowd, looking for a vantage
point or a thinning in the ranks. There seemed to
be fewer people ahead. He came to the end of
the crowd, moved on a few yards, stood at the curb.
The yellow jackets had passed now, and a group of
(21:21):
round thighed girls in satin blouses and black boots and
white fur caps glided into view, silent, expressionless as they
reached a point fifty feet from Brett. They broke abruptly
into a strutting prance, knees high hips, flirting, tossing, shining
batons high catching them, twirling them and up again. Brett
(21:44):
grained his neck, looking for TV cameras. The crowd lining
the opposite side of the street stood in solid ranks,
drably clad, eyes following the procession, mouths working. A fat
man in a rumpled suit and a panama hat, squeezed
to the front, stood picking his teeth. Somehow, he seemed
(22:04):
out of place among the others. Behind the spectators. The
store fronts looked normal, dowdy brick and mismatched glass and
oxidized aluminum, dusty windows and cluttered displays of cardboard. A
faded sign that read to day only prices slashed to
Brett's left. The sidewalk stretched empty to his right. The
(22:26):
crowd was packed close, the shout rising and falling. Now
A rank of blue suited policemen followed the Majorrettes, swinging
along silently behind them, over them. A piece of paper
blew along the street. Brett turned to the man on
his right, pardon me, can you tell me the name
(22:46):
of this town? The man ignored him. Brett tapped the
man's shoulder. Hey, what town is this? The man took
off his hat, whirled it overhead, then threw it up.
It sailed away over the crowd. Lost. Brett wondered briefly
how people who threw their hats ever recovered them. But
(23:08):
then nobody he knew would throw his hat. You mind
telling me the name of this place, Brett said, as
he took the man's arm pulled. The man rotated toward Brett,
leaned heavily against him. Brett stepped back. The man fell
lay stiffly, his arms moving, his eyes and mouth open. Ah,
(23:32):
he said, worm, rum, rum i joy. Brett stooped quickly.
I'm sorry, he cried. He looked around. Help this man.
Nobody was watching. The next man a few feet away,
stood close against his neighbor, hatless, his jaw moving. This
(23:53):
man's sick, said Brett. Tucking at the man's arm, he fell.
The man's eyes moved reluctantly to Brett. None of my business,
he muttered, Won't anybody give me a hand? Probably a
drunk behind Brett, a voice called in a penetrating whisper,
Quick you get into the alley. He turned. A gaunt
(24:18):
man of about thirty, with sparse reddish hair, perspiration glistening
on his upper lip, stood at the mouth of a
narrow way like the one Brett had come through. He
wore a grimy, pale yellow shirt with a wide flaring collar,
limp and sweat stained, dark green knee breeches, soft leather
boots scuffed and dirty, with limp tops that drooped over
(24:40):
his ankles. He gestured drew back into the alley. In
here Brett went toward him. This man, come on, you fool.
The man took Brett's arm, pulled him deeper into the
dark passage. Brett resisted. Wait a minute, that fellow, He
tried to point, don't you know? Oh yet the redhead
(25:01):
spoke with a strange accent. Goleums, you got to get
out of sight. Before the end of part one,
Part one of It Could Be Anything. This is a
LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
Recording by Phil Shinever. This story was first published in
(00:21):
Amazing Stories January nineteen sixty three. It Could Be Anything
by Keith Lomer, Part one. She'll be pulling out in
a minute, Brett, mister Phillips said. He tucked his railroaders
watch back in his vest pocket. You'd better get aboard
if you're still set on goin'. It was reading all
(00:43):
them books, done it, aunt Hasey said, thit books and
no pictures in them. I knew it had made trouble.
She plucked at the faded hand and brought her shawl
over her thin shoulders, A tiny bird like woman with bright,
anxious eyes. Don't worry about me, Brett said, I'll be back.
The place will be yours when I'm gone. Aunt Hasey said,
(01:06):
Lord knows it won't be long. Why don't you change
your mind and stay on boy, mister Phillips said, blinking
up at the young man. If I talk to mister
j D, I think he can find a job for
you at the plant. So many young people leave Capriston.
Aunt Hasey said, they never come back. Mister Phillips clicked
(01:27):
his teeth. They write at first, he said, then they
gradually lose touch. All your people are here, Brett, aunt
Hasty said, haven't you been happy here? Why can't you
young folks be content with Casperton. Mister Phillips said, there's
everything you need here. It's that pretty lead one it,
(01:48):
aunt Hasty said, if it wasn't for that girl, A
clutter ran down the line of cars. Brett kissed aunt
Hasey's dry cheek, shook mister Phillips's hand, and wung aboard.
His suitcase was on one of the seats. He put
it up above in a rack and sat down. Turned
to wave back at the two old people. It was
(02:11):
a summer morning. Brett leaned back and watched the country
slide by. It was nice country, Brett thought, mostly in corn,
some cattle, and away in the distance of the hazy
blue hills. Now he would see what was on the
other side of them, the cities, the mountains, and the ocean.
(02:31):
Up until now, all he knew about anything outside of
Casperton was what he'd read or seen pictures of as
far as he was concerned chopping wood and milking cows
back in Casperton. They might as well not have existed.
They were just words and pictures printed on paper. But
he didn't want to just read about them. He wanted
(02:54):
to see for himself. Pretty Lee hadn't come to see
him off. She was probably still mad about yesterday. She
had been sitting at the counter of Club Rexall, drinking
a soda and reading a movie magazine with a big
picture of an impossibly pretty face on the cover, the
Cohn you never see. Just walking down the street, he had,
(03:16):
taking the next stool and order to coke. Why don't
you read something good instead of that pap he asked her.
Something good? You mean something dry? I guess, And don't
call it that word. It doesn't sound polite. What does
it say that somebody named Dollstar is fed up with
a glamor and longs for a simple home in the
(03:39):
country and lots of kids. Then why doesn't she move
to Casperton? You wouldn't understand, said Pretty Lee. He took
the magazine leaped through it. Look at this all about
people who give parties that cost thousands of dollars and
fly all over the world, having affairs with each other
and committing suicide and getting divorced. It's like reading about martians.
(04:06):
I still like to read about the stars. There's nothing
wrong with it. Reading all that junk just makes you dissatisfied.
You want to do your hair up crazy like the
pictures in the magazines, and wear weird looking clothes. Prettyly
bent her straw double. She stood up and took her
shopping bag. I'm very glad to know you think my
(04:29):
clothes are weird. You're taking everything I say personally. Look,
he showed her a full color advertisement on the back
cover of the magazine. Look at this. Here's a man
supposed to be cooking steaks on some kind of backyard grill.
He looks like a movie star. He's dressed up like
(04:50):
he's going to get married. There's not a wrinkle anywhere.
There's not a spot on that apron. There isn't even
a grease spot on the frying pan is as smooth
as the billiard table. There's his son. He looks just
like his pop, except that he's not gray. At the temples,
did you ever really see a man that handsome? Or
(05:13):
hair that was just silver over the ears and the
rest glossy black. The daughter looks like a movie starlet,
and her mom is exactly the same, except that she
has that gray streak in front to match your husband.
You can see the car in the drive. The treads
of the tires must have been scrubbed. They're not even dusty.
(05:35):
There's not a pebble out of place. All the flowers
are in full bloom. No dead ones, no leaves on
the lawn, no dry twigs showing on the trees. That
other house in the background looks like a palace. And
the man with the rake looking over the fence, he
looks like this one's twin brother, and he's out raking
(05:56):
leaves and brand new clothes. Peggy Lee grabbed her magazine.
You just seem to hate everything that's nicer than this
messy town. I don't think it's nicer. I like you.
Your hair isn't always perfectly smooth, and you've got a
mended place on your dress, and you feel human. You
(06:17):
smell human. Oh. Peggy Lee turned and flounced out of
the drug store. Brett shifted in the dusty plush seat
and looked around. There were a few other people in
the car. An old man was reading a newspaper. Two
old ladies whispered together. There was a woman of about
(06:38):
thirty with a mean looking kid, and some others. They
didn't look like magazine pictures, any of them. He tried
to picture them doing the things you read in newspapers,
the old lady putting poison in somebody's tea, the old
man giving orders to start a war. He thought about
babies and houses and cities, airplanes flying over, and bombs
(07:02):
falling down. Huge explosive bombs blam. Buildings fall in, pieces
of glass and stone fly through the air. The babies
are blown up, along with everything else. But the kind
of people he knew couldn't do anything like that. They
like to loaf and eat and talk and drink beer,
(07:25):
and buy a new tractor or refrigerator and go fishing.
And if they ever got mad and hit somebody afterwards,
they were embarrassed and wanted to shake hands. The train
slowed came to a shuddery stop. Through the window he
saw a cardboardy looking building with the words Baxter's Junction
(07:46):
painted across it. There were a few faded posters on
a bulletin board. An old man was sitting on a
bench waiting. The two old ladies got off and the
boy in blue jeans got on. The trains hearted up,
Brett folded his jacket and tucked it under his head
and tried to doze off. Brett awoke, yawned, and sat up.
(08:10):
The train was slowing. He remembered you couldn't use the
toilets while the train was stopped. He got up and
went to the end of the car. The door was jammed.
He got it open and went inside and closed the
door behind him. The train was going slower, clock clock
clock clock clock clock clock lock. He washed his hands,
(08:36):
then pulled at the door. It was stuck. He pulled harder.
The handle was too small. It was hard to get
hold of. The train came to a halt. Brett braced
himself and strained against the door. It didn't budge. He
looked out the grimy window. The sun was lower. It
(08:57):
was about three point thirty. He guessed he couldn't see
anything but some dry looking fields outside in the corridor,
there were footsteps. He started to call, but then didn't.
It would be too embarrassing pounding on the door and
yelling let me out, I'm stuck in the toilet. He
tried to rattle the door. It didn't rattle. Somebody was
(09:22):
dragging something heavy passed the door. Mail bags. Maybe he'd
better yell, But damn it, the door couldn't be all
that hard to open. He studied the latch. All he
had to do was turn it. He got a good
grip and twisted nothing. He heard the mail bag bump, bump,
(09:43):
and then another to hack with it. He'd yell. He'd
wait until he heard the footsteps pass the door again,
and then he'd make some noise. Brett waited. It was
quiet now. He rapped on the door anyway, no answer.
Maybe there was nobody left in the car. In a minute,
(10:04):
the train would start up and he'd be stuck here
until the next stop. He banged on the door. Hey,
the door's stuck. It sounded foolish. He listened. It was
very quiet. He pounded again. The car creaked. Once he
put his ear to the door, he couldn't hear anything.
(10:26):
He turned back to the window. There was no one
in sight. He put his cheek flat against it. Looked
along the car. He saw only dry fields. He turned
around and gave the door a good kick. If he
damaged it, it was too bad. The railroad shouldn't have
defective locks on the doors. If they tried to make
(10:48):
him pay for it, he'd tell them they were lucky
he didn't sue the railroad. He braced himself against the
opposite wall, drew his foot back, and kicked hard at
the lock. Something broke. He pulled the door open. He
was looking out the open door and through the window beyond.
There was no platform, just the same dry fields he
(11:11):
could see on the other side. He came out and
went along to his seat. The car was empty. Now
he looked out the window. Why had the train stopped here?
Maybe there was some kind of trouble with the engine.
It had been sitting here for ten minutes or so. Now.
Brett got up and went along to the door, stepped
(11:32):
down on to the iron step. Leaning out, he could
see the train stretching along ahead. One car, two cars.
There was no engine. Maybe he was turned around. He
looked the other way. There were three cars, no engine
there either. He must be on some kind of sighting.
(11:57):
Brett stepped back inside and pushed through. In the next car,
it was empty. He walked along the length of it
into the next car. It was empty too. He went
back through the two cars and his own car, and
on all the way to the end of the train.
All the cars were empty. He stood on the platform
(12:18):
at the end of the last car and looked back
along the rails. They ran straight through the dry fields
right to the horizon. He stepped down to the ground
and went along the cindery bed to the front of
the train, stepping on the ends of the wooden ties.
The coupling stood open. The tall, dusty coach stood silently
(12:41):
on its iron wheels, waiting ahead. The tracks went on
and stopped. He walked along the ties, following the iron rails,
shining on top and brown with rust on the sides.
A hundred feet from the train, they in the cinders,
(13:02):
went on another ten feet and petered out beyond the fields.
Closed in. Brett looked up at the sun. It was
lower now in the west, dislike getting yellow and late afternoonish.
He turned and looked back at the train. The cars
stood high and prim empty, silent. He walked back, climbed in,
(13:23):
got his bag down from the rack, pulled on his jacket.
He jumped down to the cinders, followed them to where
they ended. He hesitated a moment, then pushed between the
knee high stalks eastward across the field. He could see
what looked like a smudge on the far horizon. He
(13:44):
walked until dark, then made himself a nest in the
dead stalks and went to sleep. He lay on his back,
looking up at pink dawn clouds around him. Dry stalk
rustled in a faint stir of air. He felt crumbly
earth under his fingers. He sat up, reached out and
(14:05):
broke off a stalk. It crumbled into fragile chips. He
wondered what it was. It wasn't any crop he'd ever
seen before. He stood, looked around the field, went on
and on, dead flat. A locust came whirring toward him,
plumped to earth at his feet. He picked it up,
(14:27):
long elbowed legs, groped at his fingers aimlessly. He tossed
the insect in the air. It fluttered away to the east.
The smudge was clearer now, It seemed to be a
gray wall, far away a city. He picked up his
bag and started on. He was getting hungry. He hadn't
(14:47):
eaten since the previous morning. He was thirsty too. The
city couldn't be more than three hours walk. He tramped
along the dry plants, crackling under his feet, little puffs
of d dust rising from the dry ground. He thought
about the rails running across the empty fields ending. He
(15:10):
had heard the locomotive groaning up ahead as the train slowed,
and there had been feet in the corridor. Where had
they gone? He thought of the train, Casperton, Aunt, Hasey,
mister Phillips. They seemed very far away, something remembered from
long ago. Up above. The sun was hot. That was real.
(15:32):
The rest seemed unimportant. Ahead there was a city. He
would walk until he came to it. He tried to
think of other things, television, crowds of people, money, the
tattered paper, and the worn silver. Only the sun and
the dusty plain and the dead plants were real now
(15:52):
he could see them, feel them. And the suitcase. It
was heavy. He shifted hands, kept going. There was something
white on the ground ahead, a small shiny surface protruding
from the earth. Brett dropped the suitcase, went down on
one knee, dug into the dry soil, pulled out a
(16:14):
china teacup, the handle missing, caked dirt crumbled, away under
his thumb, leaving the surface clean. He looked at the
bottom of the cup. It was unmarked. Why just one teacup,
he wondered, Here in the middle of nowhere. He dropped it,
took up his suitcase and went on. After that, he
(16:36):
watched the ground more closely. He found a shoe. It
was badly weathered, but the sole was good. It was
a high topped workshoe, size ten and a half sea
Who he dropped it here? He thought of other lone
shoes he had seen lying at the roadside or in alleys.
How did they get there? Half an hour later he
(16:59):
detoured around the rusted front fender of an old fashioned car.
He looked around for the rest of the car, but
saw nothing. The wall was closer now, perhaps five miles more.
A scrap of white paper fluttered across the field in
a stir of air. He saw another more blowing across
in the fitful gusts. He ran a few steps, caught one,
(17:22):
smoothed it out by now paid. Later he picked up another.
Prepare to meet God, a third said. When with Wilkie
the wall loomed above him. Smooth and gray dust was
caked on his skin and clothes, and as he walked,
he brushed at himself absently. The suitcase dragged at his arm,
(17:46):
thumped against his shin. He was very hungry and thirsty.
He sniffed the air instinctively, searching for the odors of food.
He had been following the wall for a long time,
searching for an opening. It curved away from him, rising
vertically from the level earth. Its surface was porous, unadorned,
(18:08):
too smooth to climb. It was Brett estimated twenty feet
high if there was anything to make a ladder. From ahead,
he saw a wide gate flanked by gray columns. He
came up to it, put the suitcase down, and wiped
at his forehead with his handkerchief. Through the opening in
the wall, a paved street was visible, and the facades
(18:30):
of buildings. Those on the street before him were low,
not more than two or three stories, but behind them
taller towers reared up. There were no people in sight,
no sounds stirred in the hot noontime air. Brett picked
up his bag and passed through the gate. For the
next hour, he walked empty pavements, listening to the echoes
(18:53):
of his footsteps against brown stone fronts, empty shop windows,
curtained glass doors, and here and there a vacant lot.
Wee grown and desolate. He paused at cross streets, looking
down long vacant ways. Now and then a distant sound
came to him, the lonely hawk of a horn, a
(19:14):
faintly tolling bell, a clatter of hoofs. He came to
a narrow alley that cut like a dark canyon between
blank walls. He stood at its mouth, listening to a
distant murmur, like a crowd at a funeral. He turned
down the narrow way. It went straight for a few yards,
(19:35):
then twisted. As he followed his turnings, the cloud noise
gradually grew louder. He could make out individual voices, now
an occasional word above the hubbub. He started to hurry,
eager to find some one to talk to. Abruptly, the voices,
hundreds of voices, he thought, rose in a roar, a
(19:56):
long drawn yea thought of a stadium crowd. As the
home team trotted onto the field, he could hear a band, now,
a shrilling of brass, the clatter and thump of percussion instruments.
Now he could see the mouth of the alley ahead,
a sunny street hung with bunting the backs of people
(20:18):
and over their heads, the rhythmic bobbing of a passing procession.
Tall shakos and guide ons in almost even rows. Two
tall poles with a streamer between them swung into view.
He caught a glimpse of tall red letters four our side.
(20:38):
He moved closer, edged up behind the gray backed crowd.
A phalanx of yellow tuniced men approached, walking stiffly, fez
tassels swinging. A small boy dorted out into the street
loped along at their side. The music screeched and wheezed.
Bratt tapped the man before him, what's it all about?
(21:00):
He couldn't hear his own voice. The man ignored him.
Brett moved along behind the crowd, looking for a vantage
point or a thinning in the ranks. There seemed to
be fewer people ahead. He came to the end of
the crowd, moved on a few yards, stood at the curb.
The yellow jackets had passed now, and a group of
(21:21):
round thighed girls in satin blouses and black boots and
white fur caps glided into view, silent, expressionless as they
reached a point fifty feet from Brett. They broke abruptly
into a strutting prance, knees high hips, flirting, tossing, shining
batons high catching them, twirling them and up again. Brett
(21:44):
grained his neck, looking for TV cameras. The crowd lining
the opposite side of the street stood in solid ranks,
drably clad, eyes following the procession, mouths working. A fat
man in a rumpled suit and a panama hat, squeezed
to the front, stood picking his teeth. Somehow, he seemed
(22:04):
out of place among the others. Behind the spectators. The
store fronts looked normal, dowdy brick and mismatched glass and
oxidized aluminum, dusty windows and cluttered displays of cardboard. A
faded sign that read to day only prices slashed to
Brett's left. The sidewalk stretched empty to his right. The
(22:26):
crowd was packed close, the shout rising and falling. Now
A rank of blue suited policemen followed the Majorrettes, swinging
along silently behind them, over them. A piece of paper
blew along the street. Brett turned to the man on
his right, pardon me, can you tell me the name
(22:46):
of this town? The man ignored him. Brett tapped the
man's shoulder. Hey, what town is this? The man took
off his hat, whirled it overhead, then threw it up.
It sailed away over the crowd. Lost. Brett wondered briefly
how people who threw their hats ever recovered them. But
(23:08):
then nobody he knew would throw his hat. You mind
telling me the name of this place, Brett said, as
he took the man's arm pulled. The man rotated toward Brett,
leaned heavily against him. Brett stepped back. The man fell
lay stiffly, his arms moving, his eyes and mouth open. Ah,
(23:32):
he said, worm, rum, rum i joy. Brett stooped quickly.
I'm sorry, he cried. He looked around. Help this man.
Nobody was watching. The next man a few feet away,
stood close against his neighbor, hatless, his jaw moving. This
(23:53):
man's sick, said Brett. Tucking at the man's arm, he fell.
The man's eyes moved reluctantly to Brett. None of my business,
he muttered, Won't anybody give me a hand? Probably a
drunk behind Brett, a voice called in a penetrating whisper,
Quick you get into the alley. He turned. A gaunt
(24:18):
man of about thirty, with sparse reddish hair, perspiration glistening
on his upper lip, stood at the mouth of a
narrow way like the one Brett had come through. He
wore a grimy, pale yellow shirt with a wide flaring collar,
limp and sweat stained, dark green knee breeches, soft leather
boots scuffed and dirty, with limp tops that drooped over
(24:40):
his ankles. He gestured drew back into the alley. In
here Brett went toward him. This man, come on, you fool.
The man took Brett's arm, pulled him deeper into the
dark passage. Brett resisted. Wait a minute, that fellow, He
tried to point, don't you know? Oh yet the redhead
(25:01):
spoke with a strange accent. Goleums, you got to get
out of sight. Before the end of part one,
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