The Skull (3 page)

"I just moved in. From Oregon."

"From Oregon? I didn't know Oregon people had accents."

"Do I have an accent?"

"You use words funny."

"How?"

"I don't know. Doesn't he, Lora?"

"You slur them," Lora said, smiling. "Talk some more. I'm interested in
dialects." She glanced at him, white-teethed. Conger felt his heart
constrict.

"I have a speech impediment."

"Oh." Her eyes widened. "I'm sorry."

They looked at him curiously as the car purred along. Conger for his
part was struggling to find some way of asking them questions without
seeming curious. "I guess people from out of town don't come here much,"
he said. "Strangers."

"No." Bill shook his head. "Not very much."

"I'll bet I'm the first outsider for a long time."

"I guess so."

Conger hesitated. "A friend of mine—someone I know, might be coming
through here. Where do you suppose I might—" He stopped. "Would there
be anyone certain to see him? Someone I could ask, make sure I don't
miss him if he comes?"

They were puzzled. "Just keep your eyes open. Cooper Creek isn't very
big."

"No. That's right."

They drove in silence. Conger studied the outline of the girl. Probably
she was the boy's mistress. Perhaps she was his trial wife. Or had they
developed trial marriage back so far? He could not remember. But surely
such an attractive girl would be someone's mistress by this time; she
would be sixteen or so, by her looks. He might ask her sometime, if they
ever met again.

The next day Conger went walking along the one main street of Cooper
Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then
the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.

He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, talking to the clerk. She was
laughing, rocking back and forth.

Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was
drinking hot chocolate, with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as
he slid into the seat beside her.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Am I intruding?"

"No." She shook her head. Her eyes were large and dark. "Not at all."

The clerk came over. "What do you want?"

Conger looked at the chocolate. "Same as she has."

Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She
smiled at him. "By the way. You don't know my name. Lora Hunt."

She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to
do with it. "Conger is my name," he murmured.

"Conger? Is that your last or first name?"

"Last or first?" He hesitated. "Last. Omar Conger."

"Omar?" She laughed. "That's like the poet, Omar Khayyam."

"I don't know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few
works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough—" He
broke off. She was staring. He flushed. "Where I come from," he
finished.

"The Church? Which church do you mean?"

"The Church." He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it
gratefully. Lora was still watching him.

"You're an unusual person," she said. "Bill didn't like you, but he
never likes anything different. He's so—so prosaic. Don't you think
that when a person gets older he should become—broadened in his
outlook?"

Conger nodded.

"He says foreign people ought to stay where they belong, not come here.
But you're not so foreign. He means orientals; you know."

Conger nodded.

The screen door opened behind them. Bill came into the room. He stared
at them. "Well," he said.

Conger turned. "Hello."

"Well." Bill sat down. "Hello, Lora." He was looking at Conger. "I
didn't expect to see you here."

Conger tensed. He could feel the hostility of the boy. "Something wrong
with that?"

"No. Nothing wrong with it."

There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. "Come on. Let's go."

"Go?" She was astonished. "Why?"

"Just go!" He grabbed her hand. "Come on! The car's outside."

"Why, Bill Willet," Lora said. "You're jealous!"

"Who is this guy?" Bill said. "Do you know anything about him? Look at
him, his beard—"

She flared. "So what? Just because he doesn't drive a Packard and go to
Cooper High!"

Conger sized the boy up. He was big—big and strong. Probably he was
part of some civil control organization.

"Sorry," Conger said. "I'll go."

"What's your business in town?" Bill asked. "What are you doing here?
Why are you hanging around Lora?"

Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. "No reason. I'll see you later."

He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger's fingers went to his
belt.
Half pressure
, he whispered to himself.
No more. Half
pressure.

He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the
lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.

"My God—" Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn't meant any of
it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It
would tingle.

Tingle, and paralyze.

He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner
when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man.
Conger went on.

As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him.
He stopped, holding his breath.

"Who is it?" a man's voice came. Conger waited, tense.

"Who is it?" the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A
light flashed. Conger moved.

"It's me," he said.

"Who is 'me'?"

"Conger is my name. I'm staying at the Appleton's place. Who are you?"

The man came slowly up to him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There
was a gun at his waist.

"I'm Sheriff Duff. I think you're the person I want to talk to. You were
in Bloom's today, about three o'clock?"

"Bloom's?"

"The fountain. Where the kids hang out." Duff came up beside him,
shining his light into Conger's face. Conger blinked.

"Turn that thing away," he said.

A pause. "All right." The light flickered to the ground. "You were
there. Some trouble broke out between you and the Willet boy. Is that
right? You had a beef over his girl—"

"We had a discussion," Conger said carefully.

"Then what happened?"

"Why?"

"I'm just curious. They say you did something."

"Did something? Did what?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm wondering. They saw a flash, and
something seemed to happen. They all blacked out. Couldn't move."

"How are they now?"

"All right."

There was silence.

"Well?" Duff said. "What was it? A bomb?"

"A bomb?" Conger laughed. "No. My cigarette lighter caught fire. There
was a leak, and the fluid ignited."

"Why did they all pass out?"

"Fumes."

Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his
belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.

"If you say so," he said. "Anyhow, there wasn't any real harm done." He
stepped back from Conger. "And that Willet is a trouble-maker."

"Good night, then," Conger said. He started past the Sheriff.

"One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you go. You don't mind if I look at
your identification, do you?"

"No. Not at all." Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet
out. The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger
watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet,
studying historic documents, relics of the times, all the papers they
felt would be relevant.

Duff handed it back. "Okay. Sorry to bother you." The light winked off.

When Conger reached the house he found the Appletons sitting around the
television set. They did not look up as he came in. He lingered at the
door.

"Can I ask you something?" he said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly. "Can I
ask you—what's the date?"

"The date?" She studied him. "The first of December."

"December first! Why, it was just November!"

They were all looking at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth
century they still used the old twelve-month system. November fed
directly into December; there was no Quartember between.

He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! The second of December! Tomorrow!

"Thanks," he said. "Thanks."

He went up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had
been taken into captivity on the second of December, according to the
newspaper records. Tomorrow, only twelve hours hence, the Founder would
appear to speak to the people and then be dragged away.

The day was warm and bright. Conger's shoes crunched the melting crust
of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a
hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.

He stopped to look around. Everything was silent. There was no one in
sight. He brought a thin rod from his waist and turned the handle of it.
For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a shimmering in the air.

The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It was
good to see it again. After all, it was his only way back.

He walked up on the ridge. He looked around with some satisfaction, his
hands on his hips. Hudson's field was spread out, all the way to the
beginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer of
snow.

Here, the Founder would come. Here, he would speak to them. And here the
authorities would take him.

Only he would be dead before they came. He would be dead before he even
spoke.

Conger returned to the crystal globe. He pushed through the door and
stepped inside. He took the Slem-gun from the shelf and screwed the bolt
into place. It was ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment he
considered. Should he have it with him?

No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someone
approached him in the meantime? When he saw the Founder coming toward
the field, then he could go and get the gun.

Conger looked toward the shelf. There was the neat plastic package. He
took it down and unwrapped it.

He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. In spite of himself, a
cold feeling rushed through him. This was the man's skull, the skull of
the Founder, who was still alive, who would come here, this day, who
would stand on the field not fifty yards away.

What if
he
could see this, his own skull, yellow and eroded? Two
centuries old. Would he still speak? Would he speak, if he could see it,
the grinning, aged skull? What would there be for him to say, to tell
the people? What message could he bring?

What action would not be futile, when a man could look upon his own
aged, yellowed skull? Better they should enjoy their temporary lives,
while they still had them to enjoy.

A man who could hold his own skull in his hands would believe in few
causes, few movements. Rather, he would preach the opposite—

A sound. Conger dropped the skull back on the shelf and took up the gun.
Outside something was moving. He went quickly to the door, his heart
beating. Was it
he
? Was it the Founder, wandering by himself in the
cold, looking for a place to speak? Was he meditating over his words,
choosing his sentences?

What if he could see what Conger had held!

He pushed the door open, the gun raised.

Lora!

He stared at her. She was dressed in a wool jacket and boots, her hands
in her pockets. A cloud of steam came from her mouth and nostrils. Her
breast was rising and falling.

Silently, they looked at each other. At last Conger lowered the gun.

"What is it?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

She pointed. She did not seem able to speak. He frowned; what was wrong
with her?

"What is it?" he said. "What do you want?" He looked in the direction
she had pointed. "I don't see anything."

"They're coming."

"They? Who? Who are coming?"

"They are. The police. During the night the Sheriff had the state police
send cars. All around, everywhere. Blocking the roads. There's about
sixty of them coming. Some from town, some around behind." She stopped,
gasping. "They said—they said—"

"What?"

"They said you were some kind of a Communist. They said—"

Conger went into the cage. He put the gun down on the shelf and came
back out. He leaped down and went to the girl.

"Thanks. You came here to tell me? You don't believe it?"

"I don't know."

"Did you come alone?"

"No. Joe brought me in his truck. From town."

"Joe? Who's he?"

"Joe French. The plumber. He's a friend of Dad's."

"Let's go." They crossed the snow, up the ridge and onto the field. The
little panel truck was parked half way across the field. A heavy short
man was sitting behind the wheel, smoking his pipe. He sat up as he saw
the two of them coming toward him.

"Are you the one?" he said to Conger.

"Yes. Thanks for warning me."

The plumber shrugged. "I don't know anything about this. Lora says
you're all right." He turned around. "It might interest you to know some
more of them are coming. Not to warn you—just curious."

"More of them?" Conger looked toward the town. Black shapes were picking
their way across the snow.

"People from the town. You can't keep this sort of thing quiet, not in a
small town. We all listen to the police radio; they heard the same way
Lora did. Someone tuned in, spread it around—"

The shapes were getting closer. Conger could, make out a couple of them.
Bill Willet was there, with some boys from the high school. The
Appletons were along, hanging back in the rear.

"Even Ed Davies," Conger murmured.

The storekeeper was toiling onto the field, with three or four other men
from the town.