Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe Aug-Sept 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.
[_Time-travel continues to exercise its mesmeric fascination
upon writers, readers and editors of science fiction alike. Probably
because almost all of us, at one time or another, have longed greatly
to visit either the future or the past. Perhaps, in view of the
dangerous paradoxes such travel must involve, it is a good thing that
such horological journeys have to date been confined to the printed
page._]
the house from nowhere
_by ... Arthur G. Stangland_
New neighbors are always exciting. But the anachronistic
MacDonalds offered a bit too much.
* * * * *
The morning paper lay unread before Philon Miller on the breakfast
table and even the prospects of steaming coffee, ham, eggs and orange
juice could not make him forget his last night's visitors.
On the closed-circuit Industrial TV screen glowed the words, _Food
Preparation Center breakfast menu for July 24, 2052. No. 1, orange
juice, coffee, ham and eggs. No. 2, waffle, coffee...._
Automatically he punched the button for _No. 1_. Oh, his visitors had
made matters appear justifiable. The presidential election campaign
was going badly, Rakoff the chairman said, and his poll-quota for the
election had been upped from twenty-five grand to fifty.
A stainless-steel capsule popped into the transparent wall dock. Of
course the party quota system was taken for granted, he mused,
removing the capsule, but it was an obligation you didn't welsh on.
The muscle boys in the party organization saw to that. But still,
fifty thousand....
Across the table John, his sixteen-year-old adopted son, stirred. "I
guess you aren't as hungry as I am, Phil."
"What? Oh, sorry." John--down here for breakfast? What was the
matter? The kid sick or something? Every morning he took his meal to
his room to eat in solitude. Funny kid.
Philon removed the food capsule from the wall dock, stopping the soft
gushing of air in the suction tube. Setting it on the table he snapped
it open and removed the individual thermocels of food.
Philon poured coffee from the thermos and absently stirred in cream
and sugar. Fifty thousand....
John was well into his breakfast already. "Phil, I was down to visit
those people on the corner--you know, the house that appeared there
over-night."
"Um."
"Their name is MacDonald," John said. "And they have a son, Jimmie,
just my age, and a younger girl, Jean. Gosh, you ought to see the
inside of their house, Phil. Old-fashioned! At the windows they got
something called venetian blinds instead of our variable mirror
thermopanes. And you know what? They don't even have an FP connection.
They prepare all their meals in the house!"
John's excitement finally aroused Philon's attention. "No Food
Preparation service? But that's unheard of!"
"They're sure swell people though."
"Where in the world did they come from?" Philon poured more coffee.
"Some place out West--Oregon, I think. Lived in a small town."
"How come their house appeared over-night?"
"Yeah, I asked them about that," John said. "They said their house is
a prefab and it was cheaper to move it from Oregon than to buy one
here. So they moved in one night--lock, stock and barrel."
John looked at Philon with a tentative air. "And another thing--Jimmie
and Jean are their real children."
Philon began to frown in disgust. "Real children--how vulgar! No one
does that anymore. That custom went out years ago with the Eugenic Act
of two thousand twenty-nine. Breeding perfect children is the job of
selected specimens. Why, I remember the day we passed our check over
to Maternity Clinic! You were the best specimen in the place--and you
carried the highest price tag too--ten thousand dollars!"
At that moment Ursula, his wife, her green rinse tumbling in stringy
tufts over her forehead pattered into the breakfast room. Her right
eye was closed in a tight squint against her cigarette smoke.
"Well, do I get my share of breakfast," she muttered, "or do I have to
scrabble at the trough like the rest of the hogs around here?"
Philon nodded at a third thermocel in the capsule. "That's yours,
Ursula." He fixed her with a cocked eye. "What time did that gigolo
get you home this morning?"
Ursula blew the hair out of her eyes, then took a good look at her
husband. "Why all the sudden concern about my affairs? I feel like
going to the Cairo I call up Francois. He dances divinely. I feel like
making love I call up Jose...." She shrugged. "So, I say, why the
sudden concern? All these years you say nothing. Every minute away
from home you're involved in big deals to make money, steal
money--maybe even eat it."
He looked at her cryptically. "I've got to raise a fifty-grand quota."
Without even looking up from her breakfast Ursula said absently, "Oh,
that. It _is_ election year again, isn't it?"
"And I'll have to ask you to cancel all unnecessary expenditures for
the time being."
She shook her head. "Can't--I've already reserved _Love's Passion_ for
this afternoon and a whole block of titles for three months."
Philon compressed his mouth, then practically blew the words at her.
"Damn it, Ursula, you're spending too much time psycho-dreaming these
cheap plays. You know the psychiatrist has warned you to lay off them.
Stimulates your endocrine system too much. No wonder you live on
sleeping pills."
"Oh, shut up!" She stared at him, the anger in her tugging at her
loose mouth. "If I feel like a psychoplay I'm going to have me a
psychoplay. It's the only stimulation I get any more."
Muttering, "T'hell with it!" Philon got up from the table and walked
into the living room. Slipping into his gray top coat and hat he
ascended to the copter roofport.
Before stepping into the copter seat he paused to study the MacDonald
house on the corner. Odd-looking house at that. Mid-twentieth century,
yet it looked brand new.
Then, putting the house out of mind, Philon shot his copter skyward
and joined Skyway No. 7 traffic into town.
Descending on his office building he left the ship in care of the
parking attendant and by elevator dropped to his floor. At a door
marked _Miller Electronic Manufacturing Co._ he walked in.
In his office he slouched into his chair and stared at the small
calendar on his desk. Rakoff wanted the fifty-thousand before Royal
Pastel Mink Monday. One week--that wasn't very much time.
Flinching from the unpleasant problem, he stared at the city skyline,
his mind drifting lazily. He thought about Royal Pastel Mink Monday.
Some said it was just another Day dreamed up by furriers to make
people fur-conscious. Others said it commemorated a period of great
public indifference which cost large numbers their freedom to vote.
Of course the other party had their symbology too--like the Teapot
Celebration. No one seemed to know for sure what it meant. Anyway, why
worry how they started? Why did people knock on wood for luck--or
throw salt over their left shoulder?
But then once in awhile there arose some who spelled out a strange
lonely cry, calling themselves the conscience of the people. They
spoke sternly of the thin moral fiber of the country, berating the
people for what they called their amoral evolution brought on by
indifference and negligence until they no longer could hear the still
guiding voice of their conscience. But they were scornfully laughed
down and it seemed to Philon he heard less and less of these men.
In the late afternoon a whip from party headquarters dropped in.
"Hello, Feisel," Philon said with little enthusiasm for the
swarthy-faced man.
Without even the formality of a greeting Feisel smiled down at Philon
in a half-sneer. "Well, Philon, how we doin' with the fifty grand,
eh?"
Philon tossed a sheaf of papers on the desk with a gesture of
impatience. "Now look, I'll raise the fifty G's by the end of the
week."
Feisel lifted a thin black eyebrow and shrugged elaborately. "Just
inquiring, my friend, just inquiring. You know--just showing friendly
interest."
"Well, go peddle your papers to somebody else. You make me nervous."
Feisel sniffed with injured pride. "That's gratitude for you. And just
when I was going to put a little bee in your bonnet. I thought you'd
like to know what happened to another guy just like you. You see, he
got ideas, instead of digging to get his quota. He tried to lam out
and you know where they found him? On the sidewalk below his
twenty-third-floor window."
As Feisel went out, Philon swore softly at his retreating back. But
Feisel's little story sent a chill through him.
That evening when he descended from his copter port and stepped into
his living room he was surprised to hear young voices upstairs.
Deciding to investigate he stepped on the escalator. At John's door he
poked his head in.
"Hello."
A young blond-headed boy with bright clear eyes turned to look at him
and a younger girl with short curly hair smiled back.
John said, "Phil, this is Jimmie, and Jean, his sister. They don't
have a home-school teleclass rig yet, so they're attending with me."
"I see." Philon nodded to the children. "And how did you like your
first day at school?"
"Fine," Jean said, beaming until her eyes almost disappeared. "It was
fun. The teacher was talking about the history of atomic energy and
when I told her we had one of the first editions of the famous Smyth
report on _Atomic Energy_ she was surprised."
"A first edition of the _Smyth Report_? No wonder your teacher was
surprised." Through Philon's mind ran the recollection that first
editions of the Smyth Report brought as high as seventy thousand
dollars.
The children's excited chatter was suddenly interrupted by the front
door chimes. Stepping to the wall televiewer, Philon pressed a button
and said, "Who is it?"
A pleasant-faced man with a startled look said, "Oh--sorry. This
gadget on the door-casing surprised me. Ah--I think my children,
Jimmie and Jean, are here. I'm Bill MacDonald."
Behind him Philon heard Jean suppress a dismayed cry. "Gosh, Jimmie,
it's late. Daddy's had to come for us!"
Philon said, "And I'm Phil Miller, MacDonald. Come in. We'll be down
in a moment."
The MacDonald children and John headed for the stairs in a happy rush,
ignoring the descending escalator, two steps at a time. Philon
followed at a meditative pace, his thoughts trooping stealthily
abreast. Seventy thousand dollars. Now, if he were to....
"Beautiful home you've got here, Miller."
Philon came out of his daydreaming to see MacDonald coming into view
around the corner of a living room ell.