“Really,” she said, smiling. “We’re not newlyweds. Why, we’ve been married a whole year and a half—”
He told her what he’d found out in the police station.
Phyllis looked around the living room. It had seemed so warm and cheerful a week ago. Now, a shadow under the couch frightened her; an open closet door was something to shudder at. She knew it would never be the same.
There was a knock at the door.
“Don’t go,” Phyllis said.
“Who’s there?” Mallen asked.
“Joe Dutton, from down the block. I suppose you’ve heard the news?”
“Yes,” Mallen said, standing beside the closed door.
“We’re barricading the streets,” Dutton said. “Going to look over anyone going in or out. We’re going to put a stop to this, even if the police can’t. Want to join us?”
“You bet,” Mallen said, and opened the door. The short, swarthy man on the other side was wearing an old Army jacket. He was gripping a two-foot chunk of wood.
“We’re going to cover these blocks like a blanket,” Dutton said. “If anyone else is grabbed, it’ll have to be underground.” Mallen kissed his wife and joined him.
That afternoon there was a mass meeting in the school auditorium. Everyone from the affected blocks was there, and as many of the townspeople as could crowd in. The first thing they found out was that, in spite of the blockades, three more people were missing from the Vainsville project.
Captain Lesner spoke and told them that he had called Albany for help. Special officers were on their way down, and the FBI was coming in on it, too. He stated frankly that he didn’t know what or who was doing it, or why. He couldn’t even figure out why all the missing were from one part of the Vainsville project.
He had got word from Albany about the counterfeited food that seemed to be scattered all over the project. The examining chemists could detect no trace of any toxic agent. That seemed to explode a recent theory that the food had been used to drug people, making them walk out of their homes to whatever was taking them. However, he cautioned everyone not to eat it. You could never tell.
The companies whose labels had been impregnated had disclaimed any knowledge. They were prepared to bring suit against anyone infringing on their copyrights.
The mayor spoke, in a series of well-intentioned platitudes, counseling them to be of good heart; the civic authorities were taking the whole situation in hand.
Of course, the mayor didn’t live in the Vainsville project.
The meeting broke up, and the men returned to the barricades.
They started looking for firewood for the evening, but it was unnecessary. Help arrived from Albany, a cavalcade of men and equipment. The four blocks were surrounded by armed guards. Portable searchlights were set up and the area declared under an eight o’clock curfew.
Mr. Carter missed all the excitement. He had been fishing all day. At sunset he returned, empty-handed but happy. The guards let him through, and he walked into the house.
“A beautiful fishing day,” he declared.
The Mallens spent a terrible night, fully clothed, dozing in snatches, looking at the searchlights playing against their windows and hearing the tramp of armed guards.
Eight o’clock Sunday morning—two more people missing. Gone from four blocks more closely guarded than a concentration camp.
At ten o’clock Mr. Carter, brushing aside the objections of the Mallens, shouldered his fishing kit and left. He hadn’t missed a day since April thirtieth and wasn’t planning on missing one all season.
Sunday noon—another person gone, bringing the total up to sixteen.
Sunday, one o’clock—all the missing children were found!
A police car found them on a road near the outskirts of town, eight of them, including the Carmichael boy, walking dazedly toward their homes. They were rushed to a hospital.
There was no trace of the missing adults, though.
Word of mouth spread the news faster than the newspapers or radio could. The children were completely unharmed. Under examination by psychiatrists it was found that they didn’t remember where they had been or how they had been taken there. All the psychiatrists could piece together was a sensation of flying, accompanied by a sickness in the stomach. The children were kept in the hospital for safety, under guard.
But between noon and evening, another child disappeared from Vainsville.
Just before sunset, Mr. Carter came home. In his knapsack were two big rainbow trout. He greeted the Mallens gaily and went to the garage to clean his fish.
Jim Mallen stepped into the backyard and started to the garage after him, frowning. He wanted to ask the old man about something he had said a day or two ago. He couldn’t quite remember what it was, but it seemed important.
His next-door neighbor, whose name he couldn’t remember, greeted him.
“Mallen,” he said. “I think I know.”
“What?” Mallen asked.
“Have you examined the theories?” the neighbor asked.
“Of course.” His neighbor was a skinny fellow in shirtsleeves and vest. His bald head glistened red in the sunset.
“Then listen. It can’t be a kidnapper. No sense in their methods. Right?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And a maniac is out. How could he snatch fifteen, sixteen people? And return the children? Even a gang of maniacs couldn’t do that, not with the number or cops we’ve got watching. Right?”
“Go on.” Out of the corner of his eye Mallen saw his neighbor’s fat wife come down the back steps. She walked over to them and listened.
“The same goes for a gang of criminals, or even Martians. Impossible to do it, and no reason even if they could. We’ve got to look for something illogical—and that leaves just one logical answer.”
Mallen waited, and glanced at the woman. She was looking at him, arms folded across her aproned chest. In fact, she was glaring at him. Can she be angry at me? Mallen thought. What have I done?
“The only answer,” his neighbor said slowly, “is that there is a hole somewhere around here. A hole in the space-time continuum.”
“What!” blurted Mallen. “I don’t quite follow that.”
“A hole in time,” the bald engineer explained, “or a hole in space. Or in both. Don’t ask me how it got there; it’s there. What happens is, a person steps into that hole, and bingo! He’s somewhere else. Or in some other time. Or both. This hole can’t be seen, of course—it’s fourth-dimensional—but it’s there. The way I see it, if you traced the movements of these people, you’d find every one of them passed through a certain spot—and vanished.”
“Hmmm.” Mallen thought it over. “That sounds interesting—but we know that lots of people vanished right out of their own homes.”
“Yeah,” the neighbor agreed. “Let me think—I know! The hole in space-time isn’t fixed. It drifts, moves around. First it’s in Carpenter’s house, then it moves on aimlessly—”
“Why doesn’t it move out of these four blocks?” Mallen asked, wondering why the man’s wife was still glaring at him, her lips tightly compressed.
“Well,” the neighbor said, “it has to have some limitations.”
“And why were the children returned?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Mallen, you can’t ask me to figure out every little thing, can you? It’s a good working theory. We’ll have to have more facts before we can work out the whole thing.”
“Hello there!” Mr. Carter called, emerging from the garage. He held up two beautiful trout, neatly cleaned and washed.
“The trout is a gamey fighter and makes magnificent eating as well. The most excellent of sports, and the most excellent of foods!” He walked unhurriedly into the house.
“I’ve got a better theory,” the neighbor’s wife said, unfolding her arms and placing her hands on her ample hips.
Both men turned to look at her.