Second Variety and Other Stories (32 page)

He wondered what they ate. From the big refrigerator in the kitchen he took some cheese and
some hamburger, adding crumbled up bits of bread and lettuce leaves and a little plate of milk.

They liked the milk and bread. But they left the meat alone. The lettuce leaves they used to begin
the making of little huts.

Tommy was fascinated. He watched them all the next morning before school, then again at lunch
time, and all afternoon until dinner.

"What you got up there?" his Dad demanded, at dinner.

"Nothing."

"You haven't got a snake, have you?" his Mom asked apprehensively. "If you have another snake
up there, young man --"

"No." Tommy shook his head, bolting down his meal. "It's not a snake."

He finished eating and ran upstairs.

The little creatures had finished fixing their huts out of the lettuce leaves. Some were inside.
Others were wandering around the cage, exploring it.

Tommy seated himself before the dresser and watched. They were smart. A lot smarter than the
white rats he had owned. And cleaner. They used the sand he had put there for them. They were smart
-- and quite tame.

After awhile Tommy closed the door of the room. Holding his breath he unfastened the cage,
opening one side wide. He reached in his hand and caught one of the little men. He drew him out of the
cage and then opened his hand carefully.

The little man clung to his palm, peering over the edge and up at him, antennae waving wildly.

"Don't be afraid," Tommy said.

The little man got cautiously to his feet. He walked across Tommy's palm, to his wrist. Slowly he
climbed Tommy's arm, glancing over the side. He reached Tommy's shoulder and stopped, gazing up into
his face.

"You're sure small," Tommy said. He got another one from the cage and put the two of them on
the bed. They walked around the bed for a long time. More had come to the open side of the cage and
were staring cautiously out onto the dresser. One found Tommy's comb. He inspected it, tugging at the
teeth. A second joined him. The two tiny creatures tugged at the comb, but without success.

"What do you want?" Tommy asked. After a while they gave up. They found a nickel lying on the
dresser. One of them managed to turn it up on end. He rolled it. The nickel gained speed, rushing toward
the edge of the dresser. The tiny men ran after it in consternation. The nickel fell over the side.

"Be careful," Tommy warned. He didn't want anything to happen to them. He had too many
plans. It would be easy to rig up things for them to do -- like fleas he had seen at the circus. Little carts to
pull. Swings, slides. Things they could operate. He could train them, and then charge admission.

pull. Swings, slides. Things they could operate. He could train them, and then charge admission.

The next day he took one to school in his pocket, inside a fruit jar. He punched holes in the lid so
it could breathe.

At recess he showed it to Dave and Joan Grant. They were fascinated.

"Where did you get it?" Dave demanded.

"That's my business."

"Want to sell it?"

"It's not it. It's him."

Jean blushed. "It doesn't have anything on. You better make it put clothes on right away."

"Can you make clothes for them? I have eight more. Four men and four women."

Joan was excited. "I can -- if you'll give me one of them."

"The heck I will. They're mine."

"Where did they come from? Who made them?"

"None of your business."

Joan made little clothes for the four women. Little skirts and blouses. Tommy lowered the
clothing into the cage. The little people moved around the heap uncertainly, not knowing what to do.

"You better show them," Joan said.

"Show them? Nuts to you."

"I'll dress them." Joan took one of the tiny women from the cage and carefully dressed her in a
blouse and skirt. She dropped the figure back in. "Now let's see what happens."

The others crowded around the dressed woman, plucking curiously at the clothing. Presently they
began to divide up the remaining clothes, some taking blouses, some skirts.

Tommy laughed and laughed. "You better make pants for the men. So they'll all be dressed."

He took a couple of them out and let them run up and down his arms.

"Be careful," Joan warned. "You'll lose them. They'll get away."

"They're tame. They won't run away. I'll show you." Tommy put them down onto the floor. "We
have a game. Watch."

"A game?"

"They hide and I find them."

The figures scampered off, looking for places to hide. In a moment none were in sight. Tommy
got down on his hands and knees, reaching under the dresser, among the bedcovers. A shrill squeak. He
had found one.

"See? They like it." He carried them back to the cage, one by one. The last one stayed hidden a
long time. It had got into one of the dresser drawers, down in a bag of marbles, pulling the marbles over
its head.

"They're clever," Joan said. "Wouldn't you give me even one of them?"

"No," Tommy said emphatically. "They're mine. I'm not letting them get away from me. I'm not
giving any of them to anybody."

Tommy met Joan after school the next day. She had made little trousers and shirts for the men.

"Here." She gave them to him. They walked along the sidewalk. "I hope they fit."

"Thanks." Tommy took the clothes and put them in his pocket. They cut across the vacant lot. At
the end of the lot Dave Grant and some kids were sitting around in a circle, playing marbles.

"Who's winning?" Tommy said, stopping.

"I am," Dave said, not looking up.

"Let me play." Tommy dropped down. "Come on." He held out his hand. "Give me your agate."

Dave shook his head. "Get away."

Tommy punched him on the arm. "Come on! Just one shot." He considered. "Tell you what --"

A shadow fell over them.

Tommy looked up. And blanched.

Tommy looked up. And blanched.

Tommy got slowly to his feet. Silence had fallen over the children. Some of them scrambled
away, snatching up their marbles.

"Whaft do you want?" Tommy demanded. His voice was dry and husky, almost inaudible.

Billings's cold eyes bored into him, two keen orbs, without warmth of any kind. "You took them.
I want them back. Right away." His voice was hard, colorless. He held out his hand. "Where are they?"

"What are you talking about?" Tommy muttered. He backed away. "I don't know what you
mean."

"The Project. You stole them from my room. I want them back."

"The heck I did. What do you mean?"

Billings turned toward Dave Grant. "He's the one you meant, isn't he?"

Dave nodded. "I saw them. He has them in his room. He won't let anybody near them."

"You came and stole them. Why?" Billings moved toward Tommy ominously. "Why did you take
them? What do you want with them?"

"You're crazy," Tommy murmured, but his voice trembled. Dave Grant said nothing. He looked
away sheepishly. "It's a lie," Tommy said.

Billings grabbed him. Cold, ancient hands gripped him, digging into his shoulders. "Give them
back! I want them. I'm responsible for them."

"Let go." Tommy jerked loose. "I don't have them with me." He caught his breath. "I mean --"

"Then you do have them. At home. In your room. Bring them there. Go and get them. All nine."

Tommy put his hands in his pockets. Some of his courage was returning. "I don't know," he said.
"What'll you give me?"

Billings's eyes flashed. "Give you?" He raised his arm threateningly. "Why, you little --"

Tommy jumped back. "You can't make me return them. You don't have any control over us." He
grinned boldly. "You said so yourself. We're out of your power. I heard you say so."

Billings's face was like granite. "I'll take them. They're mine. They belong to me."

"If you try to take them I'll call the cops. And my Dad'll be there. My Dad and the cops."

Billings gripped his umbrella. He opened and shut his mouth, his face a dark, ugly red. Neither he
nor Tommy spoke. The other kids gazed at the two of them wide-eyed, awed and subdued.

Suddenly a thought twisted across Billings's face. He looked down at the ground, the crude circle
and the marbles. His cold eyes flickered. "Listen to this. I will -- I will play against you for them."

"What?"

"The game. Marbles. If you win you can keep them. If I win I get them back at once. All of
them."

Tommy considered, glancing from Mr Billings down at the circle on the ground. "If I win you
won't ever try to take them? You will let me keep them -- for good?"

"Yes."

"All right." Tommy moved away. "It's a deal. If you win you can have them back. But if I win
they belong to me. And you don't ever get them back."

"Bring them here at once."

"Sure. I'll go get them." -- And my agate, too, he thought to himself. "I'll be right back."

"I'll wait here," Mr Billings said, his huge hands gripping the umbrella.

Tommy ran down the porch steps, two at a time.

His mother came to the door. "You shouldn't be going out again so late. If you're not home in half
an hour you don't get any dinner."

"Half an hour," Tommy cried, running down the dark sidewalk, his hands pressed against the
bulge in his jacket. Against the wood cigar box that moved and squirmed. He ran and ran, gasping for
breath.

Mr Billings was still standing by the edge of the lot, waiting silently. The sun had set. Evening was
coming. The children had gone home. As Tommy stepped onto the vacant lot a chill, hostile wind moved
among the weeds and grass, flapping against his pants legs.

Mr Billings was still standing by the edge of the lot, waiting silently. The sun had set. Evening was
coming. The children had gone home. As Tommy stepped onto the vacant lot a chill, hostile wind moved
among the weeds and grass, flapping against his pants legs.

"Sure." Tommy halted, his chest rising and falling. He reached slowly under his jacket and
brought out the heavy wood cigar box. He slipped the rubber band off it, lifting the lid a crack. "In here."

Mr Billings came close, breathing hoarsely. Tommy snapped the lid shut and restored the rubber
band. "We have to play." He put the box down on the ground. "They're mine -- unless you win them
back."

Billings subsided. "All right. Let's begin, then."

Tommy searched his pockets. He brought out his agate, holding it carefully. In the fading light the
big red-black marble gleamed, rings of sand and white. Like Jupiter. An immense, hard marble.

"Here we go," Tommy said. He knelt down, sketching a rough circle on the ground. He emptied
out a sack of marbles into the ring. "You got any?"

"Any?"

"Marbles. What are you going to shoot with?"

"One of yours."

"Sure." Tommy took a marble from the ring and tossed it to him. "Want me to shoot first?"

Billings nodded.

"Fine." Tommy grinned. He took aim carefully, closing one eye. For a moment his body was
rigid, set in an intense, hard arc. Then he shot. Marbles rattled and clinked, rolling out of the circle and
into the grass and weeds beyond. He had done well. He gathered up his winnings, collecting them back
in the cloth sack.

"Is it my turn?" Billings asked.

"No. My agate's still in the ring." Tommy squatted down again. "I get another shot."

He shot. This time he collected three marbles. Again his agate was within the circle.

"Another shot," Tommy said, grinning. He had almost half. He knelt and aimed, holding his
breath. Twenty-four marbles remained. If he could get four more he would have won. Four more -

He shot. Two marbles left the circle. And his agate. The agate rolled out, bouncing into the
weeds.

Tommy collected the two marbles and the agate. He had nineteen in all. Twenty-two remained in
the ring.

"Okay," he murmured reluctantly. "It's your shot this time. Go ahead."

Edward Billings knelt down stiffly, gasping and tottering. His face was gray. He turned his marble
around in his hand uncertainly.

"Haven't you ever played before?" Tommy demanded. "You don't know how to hold it, do you?"

Billings shook his head. "No."

"You have to get it between your first finger and your thumb." Tommy watched the stiff old
fingers with the marble. Billings dropped it once and picked it quickly up again. "Your thumb makes it go.
Like this. Here, I'll show you."

Tommy took hold of the ancient fingers and bent them around the marble. Finally he had them in
place. "Go ahead." Tommy straightened up. "Let's see how you do."

The old man took a long time. He gazed at the marbles in the ring, his hand shaking. Tommy
could hear his breathing, the hoarse, deep panting, in the damp evening air.

The old man glanced at the cigar box resting in the shadows. Then back at the circle. His fingers
moved -

There was a flash. A blinding flash. Tommy gave a cry, wiping at his eyes. Everything spun,
lashing and tilting. He stumbled and fell, sinking into the wet weeds. His head throbbed. He sat on the
ground, rubbing his eyes, shaking his head, trying to see.

At last the drifting sparks cleared. He looked around him, blinking.

The circle was empty. There were no marbles in the ring. Billings had got them all.

Tommy reached out. His fingers touched something hot. He jumped. It was a fragment of glass, a
glowing red fragment of molten glass. All round him, in the damp weeds and grass, fragments of glass
gleamed, cooling slowly into darkness. A thousand splinters of stars, glowing and fading around him.