We had almost plunged into a hole forty feet across and twenty feet deep
in the middle. The hole was perfectly round, like a half section of a
grapefruit.
"What's this?" I asked. "Where's the garage?"
"That's where the garage should be." Marge looked dazed. "But it's
gone!"
I took another look at that hole scooped out with geometrical precision,
and turned to Doreen. "What did you say Elmer was working on?"
"Agg--" she sobbed, "agg--agg--aggravation." She began to bawl in
earnest. "Now he's gone. He's mad. He won't ever come back, I betcha."
"That's a fact," I muttered. "He may not have been mad, but he certainly
was aggravated. Marge, listen! This is a mystery. We've just got to let
it stay a mystery. We don't know anything, understand? The cops will
finally decide Elmer blew himself up, and we'll leave it at that. One
thing I'm pretty sure about--he's not coming back."
* * * * *
So that's how it was. Tom Kennedy keeps trying and trying to put Elmer's
unhappen genii back together again. And every time he fails he takes it
out on me because I didn't get to Elmer sooner. But you can see
perfectly well he's way off base, trying to make out I could have done a
thing to prevent what happened.
Is it my fault if the dumb kid didn't know enough to take the proper
precautions when he decided to develop anti-gravitation--and got shot
off, garage and all, someplace into outer space?
What do they teach kids nowadays, anyway?
--ROBERT ARTHUR
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ May 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.