Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
_Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now no
longer a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field,
describes a strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into
one of these evenings. But, if you do, beware--beware of the
Knights!_
dream
town
_by ... HENRY SLESAR_
The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Who
was to tell she had some rather startling interests?
The woman in the doorway looked like Mom in the homier political
cartoons. She was plump, apple-cheeked, white-haired. She wore a fussy,
old-fashioned nightgown, and was busily clutching a worn house-robe
around her expansive middle. She blinked at Sol Becker's rain-flattened
hair and hang-dog expression, and said: "What is it? What do you want?"
"I'm sorry--" Sol's voice was pained. "The man in the diner said
you might put me up. I had my car stolen: a hitchhiker; going to
Salinas ..." He was puffing.
"Hitchhiker? I don't understand." She clucked at the sight of the pool
of water he was creating in her foyer. "Well, come inside, for heaven's
sake. You're soaking!"
"Thanks," Sol said gratefully.
With the door firmly shut behind him, the warm interior of the little
house covered him like a blanket. He shivered, and let the warmth seep
over him. "I'm terribly sorry. I know how late it is." He looked at his
watch, but the face was too misty to make out the hour.
"Must be nearly three," the woman sniffed. "You couldn't have come at a
worse time. I was just on my way to court--"
The words slid by him. "If I could just stay overnight. Until the
morning. I could call some friends in San Fernando. I'm very susceptible
to head colds," he added inanely.
"Well, take those shoes off, first," the woman grumbled. "You can
undress in the parlor, if you'll keep off the rug. You won't mind using
the sofa?"
"No, of course not. I'd be happy to pay--"
"Oh, tush, nobody's asking you to pay. This isn't a hotel. You mind if I
go back upstairs? They're gonna miss me at the palace."
"No, of course not," Sol said. He followed her into the darkened parlor,
and watched as she turned the screw on a hurricane-style lamp, shedding
a yellow pool of light over half a flowery sofa and a doily-covered wing
chair. "You go on up. I'll be perfectly fine."
"Guess you can use a towel, though. I'll get you one, then I'm going up.
We wake pretty early in this house. Breakfast's at seven; you'll have to
be up if you want any."
"I really can't thank you enough--"
"Tush," the woman said. She scurried out, and returned a moment later
with a thick bath towel. "Sorry I can't give you any bedding. But you'll
find it nice and warm in here." She squinted at the dim face of a
ship's-wheel clock on the mantle, and made a noise with her tongue.
"Three-thirty!" she exclaimed. "I'll miss the whole execution ..."
"The what?"
"Goodnight, young man," Mom said firmly.
She padded off, leaving Sol holding the towel. He patted his face, and
then scrubbed the wet tangle of brown hair. Carefully, he stepped off
the carpet and onto the stone floor in front of the fireplace. He
removed his drenched coat and suit jacket, and squeezed water out over
the ashes.
He stripped down to his underwear, wondering about next morning's
possible embarrassment, and decided to use the damp bath towel as a
blanket. The sofa was downy and comfortable. He curled up under the
towel, shivered once, and closed his eyes.
* * * * *
He was tired and very sleepy, and his customary nightly review was
limited to a few detached thoughts about the wedding he was supposed to
attend in Salinas that weekend ... the hoodlum who had responded to his
good-nature by dumping him out of his own car ... the slogging walk to
the village ... the little round woman who was hurrying off, like the
White Rabbit, to some mysterious appointment on the upper floor ...
Then he went to sleep.
A voice awoke him, shrill and questioning.
"Are you _nakkid_?"
His eyes flew open, and he pulled the towel protectively around his body
and glared at the little girl with the rust-red pigtails.
"Huh, mister?" she said, pushing a finger against her freckled nose.
"Are you?"
"No," he said angrily. "I'm not naked. Will you please go away?"
"Sally!" It was Mom, appearing in the doorway of the parlor. "You leave
the gentleman alone." She went off again.
"Yes," Sol said. "Please let me get dressed. If you don't mind." The
girl didn't move. "What time is it?"
"Dunno," Sally shrugged. "I like poached eggs. They're my favorite eggs
in the whole world."
"That's good," Sol said desperately. "Now why don't you be a good girl
and eat your poached eggs. In the kitchen."
"Ain't ready yet. You going to stay for breakfast?"
"I'm not going to do anything until you get out of here."
She put the end of a pigtail in her mouth and sat down on the chair
opposite. "I went to the palace last night. They had an exelution."
"Please," Sol groaned. "Be a good girl, Sally. If you let me get
dressed, I'll show you how to take your thumb off."
"Oh, that's an old trick. Did you ever see an exelution?"
"No. Did you ever see a little girl with her hide tanned?"
"Huh?"
"_Sally!_" Mom again, sterner. "You get out of there, or
you-know-what ..."
"Okay," the girl said blithely. "I'm goin' to the palace again. If I
brush my teeth. Aren't you _ever_ gonna get up?" She skipped out of the
room, and Sol hastily sat up and reached for his trousers.
When he had dressed, the clothes still damp and unpleasant against his
skin, he went out of the parlor and found the kitchen. Mom was busy at
the stove. He said: "Good morning."
"Breakfast in ten minutes," she said cheerfully. "You like poached
eggs?"
"Sure. Do you have a telephone?"
"In the hallway. Party line, so you may have to wait."
He tried for fifteen minutes to get through, but there was a woman on
the line who was terribly upset about a cotton dress she had ordered
from Sears, and was telling the world about it.
Finally, he got his call through to Salinas, and a sleepy-voiced Fred,
his old Army buddy, listened somewhat indifferently to his tale of woe.
"I might miss the wedding," Sol said unhappily. "I'm awfully sorry."
Fred didn't seem to be half as sorry as he was. When Sol hung up, he was
feeling more despondent than ever.
A man, tall and rangy, with a bobbing Adam's apple and a lined face,
came into the hallway. "Hullo?" he said inquiringly. "You the fella had
the car stolen?"
"Yes."
The man scratched his ear. "Take you over to Sheriff Coogan after
breakfast. He'll let the Stateys know about it. My name's Dawes."
Sol accepted a careful handshake.
"Don't get many people comin' into town," Dawes said, looking at him
curiously. "Ain't seen a stranger in years. But you look like the rest
of us." He chuckled.
Mom called out: "Breakfast!"
* * * * *
At the table, Dawes asked his destination.
"Wedding in Salinas," he explained. "Old Army friend of mine. I picked
this hitchhiker up about two miles from here. He _seemed_ okay."
"Never can tell," Dawes said placidly, munching egg. "Hey, Ma. That why
you were so late comin' to court last night?"
"That's right, Pa." She poured the blackest coffee Sol had ever seen.
"Didn't miss much, though."
"What court is that?" Sol asked politely, his mouth full.
"Umagum," Sally said, a piece of toast sticking out from the side of her
mouth. "Don't you know _nothin'_?"
"_Arma_gon," Dawes corrected. He looked sheepishly at the stranger.
"Don't expect Mister--" He cocked an eyebrow. "What's the name?"
"Becker."
"Don't expect Mr. Becker knows anything about Armagon. It's just a
dream, you know." He smiled apologetically.
"Dream? You mean this--Armagon is a place you dream about?"
"Yep," Dawes said. He lifted cup to lip. "Great coffee, Ma." He leaned
back with a contented sigh. "Dream about it every night. Got so used to
the place, I get all confused in the daytime."