“Who is the only person around here who isn’t the least bit worried about what’s going on? Who goes walking all over with a bag he says has fish in it? Who says he spends all his time fishing?”
“Oh, no,” Mallen said. “Not Dad Carter. He has a whole philosophy about fishing—”
“I don’t care about philosophy!” the woman shrieked. “He fools you, but he doesn’t fool me! I only know he’s the only man in this neighborhood who isn’t the least bit worried and he’s around and gone every day and lynching would probably be too good for him!” With that she spun and waddled into her house.
“Look, Mallen,” the bald neighbor said. “I’m sorry. You know how women are. She’s upset, even if Danny is safe in the hospital.”
“Sure,” Mallen said.
“She doesn’t understand the space-time continuum,” he went on earnestly. “But I’ll explain it to her tonight. She’ll apologize in the morning. You’ll see.”
The men shook hands and returned to their respective homes.
Darkness came swiftly, and searchlights went on all over town. Beams of light knifed down streets, into backyards, reflected from closed windows. The inhabitants of Vainsville settled down to wait for more disappearances.
Jim Mallen wished he could put his hands on whatever was doing it. Just for a second—that was all he’d need. But to have to sit and wait. He felt so helpless. His wife’s lips were pale and cracked, and her eyes were tired. But Mr. Carter was cheerful as usual. He fried the trout over a gas burner, serving both of them.
“I found a beautiful quiet pool today,” Mr. Carter announced. “It is near the mouth of Old Creek, up a little tributary. I fished there all day, leaning back against the grassy bank and watching the clouds. Fantastic things, clouds! I shall go there tomorrow and fish in it one more day. Then I will move on. A wise fisherman does not fish out a stream. Moderation is the code of the fisherman. Take a little, leave a little. I have often thought—”
“Oh Dad, please!” Phyllis screamed, and burst into tears. Mr. Carter shook his head sadly, smiled an understanding smile and finished his trout. Then he went into the living room to work on a new fly.
Exhausted, the Mallens went to bed...
Mallen awoke and sat upright He looked over and saw his wife asleep beside him. The luminous dial of his watch read four fifty-eight. Almost morning, he thought.
He got out of bed, slipped on a bathrobe, and padded softly downstairs. The searchlights were flashing against the living room window, and he could see a guard outside.
That was a reassuring sight, he thought, and went into the kitchen. Moving quietly, he poured a glass of milk. There was fresh cake on top of the refrigerator, and he cut himself a slice.
Kidnappers, he thought. Maniacs. Men from Mars. Holes in space. Or any combination thereof. No, that was wrong. He wished he could remember what he wanted to ask Mr. Carter. It was important.
He rinsed out the glass, put the cake back on the refrigerator, and walked to the living room. Suddenly he was thrown violently to one side.
Something had hold of him! He flailed out, but there was nothing to hit. Something was gripping him like an iron hand, dragging him off his feet. He threw himself to one side, scrambling for a footing. His feet left the floor and he hung for a moment, kicking and squirming. The grip around his ribs was so tight he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make a sound. Inexorably, he was being lifted.
Hole in space, he thought, and tried to scream. His wildly flailing arms caught a corner of the couch and he seized it. The couch was lifted with him. He yanked, and the grip relaxed for a moment, letting him drop to the floor.
He scrambled across the floor toward the door. The grip caught him again, but he was near a radiator. He wrapped both arms around it, trying to resist the pull. He yanked again and managed to get one leg around, then the other.
The radiator creaked horribly as the pull increased. Mallen felt as though his waist would part, but he held on, every muscle stretched to the breaking point. Suddenly the grip relaxed completely.
He collapsed to the floor.
When he came to, it was broad daylight. Phyllis was splashing water in his face, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He blinked, and wondered for a moment where he was.
“Am I still here?” he asked.
“Are you all right?” Phyllis demanded. “What happened? Oh, darling! Let’s get out of this place—”
“Where’s your father?” Mallen asked groggily, getting to his feet.
“Fishing. Now please sit down. I’m going to call a doctor.”
“No. Wait.” Mallen went into the kitchen. On the refrigerator was the cake box. It read “Johnson’s Cake Shop. Vainsville, New YorK.” A capital K in New York. Really a very small error.
And Mr. Carter? Was the answer there? Mallen raced upstairs and dressed. He crumpled the cake box and thrust it into his pocket, and hurried out of the door.
“Don’t touch anything until I get back!” he shouted at Phyllis. She watched him get into the car and race down the street. Trying hard to keep from crying, she walked into the kitchen.
Mallen was at Old Creek in fifteen minutes. He parked the car and started walking up the stream.
“Mr. Carter!” he shouted as he went. “Mr. Carter!”
He walked and shouted for half an hour, into deeper and deeper woods. The trees overhung the stream now, and he had to wade to make any speed at all. He increased his pace, splashing, slipping on stones, trying to run.
“Mr. Carter!”
“Hello!” He heard the old man’s voice. He followed the sound, up a branch of the stream. There was Mr. Carter, sitting on the steep bank of a little pool, holding his long bamboo pole. Mallen scrambled up beside him.
“Take it easy, son,” Mr. Carter said. “Glad you took my advice about fishing.”
“No,” Mallen panted. “I want you to tell me something.”
“Gladly,” the old man said. “What would you like to know?”
“A fisherman wouldn’t fish out a pool completely, would he?”
“I wouldn’t. But some might.”
“And bait. Any good fisherman would use artificial bait?”
“I pride myself on my flies,” Mr. Carter said. “I try to approximate the real thing. Here, for example, is a beautiful replica of a hornet.” He plucked a yellow hook from his hat. “And here is a lovely mosquito.”
Suddenly his line stirred. Easily, surely, the old man brought it in. He caught the gasping trout in his hand and showed him to Mallen.
“A little fellow—I won’t keep him.” He removed the hook gently, easing it out of the gasping gill, and placed the fish back in the water.
“When you throw him back—do you think he knows? Does he tell the others?”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Carter said. “The experience doesn’t teach him anything. I’ve had the same young fish bite my line two or three times. They have to grow up a bit before they know.”
“I thought so.” Mallen looked at the old man. Mr. Carter was unaware of the world around him, untouched by the terror that had struck Vainsville.
Fishermen live in a world of their own, thought Mallen.
“But you should have been here an hour ago,” Mr. Carter said. “I hooked a beauty. A magnificent fellow, two pounds if he was an ounce. What a battle for an old war-horse like me! And he got away. But there’ll come another—hey, where are you going?”
“Back!” Mallen shouted, splashing into the stream. He knew now what he had been looking for in Mr. Carter. A parallel. And now it was clear.
Harmless Mr. Carter, pulling up his trout, just like that other, greater fisherman, pulling up his—
“Back to warn the other fish!” Mallen shouted over his shoulder, stumbling along the stream bed. If only Phyllis hadn’t touched any food! He pulled the cake box out of his pocket and threw it as hard as he could. The hateful lure!