The Big Front Yard Read online

  Maybe that television set and the stove and radio, he thought, was just their way of paying rent to me. And if that were the case, he told himself, whoever they might be, he’d be more than willing to let them stay right on.

  He looked around some more and could find nothing wrong.

  He went upstairs and called to Beasly in the kitchen.

  “Come on out to the garage, where I keep the paint. We’ll hunt up some remover and show you how to use it.”

  Beasly, a supply of cookies clutched in his hand, trotted willingly behind him.

  As they rounded the corner of the house they could hear Towser’s muffled barking. Listening to him, it seemed to Taine that he was getting hoarse.

  Three days, he thought—or was it four?

  “If we don’t do something about it,” he said, “that fool dog is going to get himself wore out.”

  He went into the garage and came back with two shovels and a pick.

  “Come on,” he said to Beasly. “We have to put a stop to this before we have any peace.”

  Towser had done himself a noble job of excavation. He was almost completely out of sight. Only the end of his considerably bedraggled tail showed out of the hole he had clawed in the forest floor.

  Beasly had been right about the tanklike thing. One edge of it showed out of one side of the hole.

  Towser backed out of the hole and sat down heavily, his whiskers dripping clay, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.

  “He says that it’s about time that we showed up,” said Beasly.

  Taine walked around the hole and knelt down. He reached down a hand to brush the dirt off the projecting edge of Beasly’s tank. The clay was stubborn and hard to wipe away, but from the feel of it the tank was heavy metal.

  Taine picked up a shovel and rapped it against the tank. The tank gave out a clang.

  They got to work, shoveling away a foot or so of topsoil that lay above the object. It was hard work and the thing was bigger than they had thought and it took some time to get it uncovered, even roughly.

  “I’m hungry,” Beasly complained.

  Taine glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock.

  “Run on back to the house,” he said to Beasly. “You’ll find something in the refrigerator and there’s milk to drink.”

  “How about you, Hiram? Ain’t you ever hungry?”

  “You could bring me back a sandwich and see if you can find a trowel.”

  “What you want a trowel for?”

  “I want to scrape the dirt off this thing and see what it is.”

  He squatted down beside the thing they had unearthed and watched Beasly disappear into the woods.

  A man, he told himself, might better joke about it—if to do no more than keep his fear away.

  Beasly wasn’t scared, of course. Beasly didn’t have the sense to be scared of a thing like this.

  Twelve feet wide by twenty long and oval shaped. About the size, he thought, of a good-size living room. And there never had been a tank of that shape or size in all of Willow Bend.

  He fished his jackknife out of his pocket and started to scratch away the dirt at one point on the surface of the thing. He got a square inch free of dirt and it was no metal such as he had ever seen. It looked for all the world like glass.

  He kept on scraping at the dirt until he had a clean place as big as an outstretched hand.

  It wasn’t any metal. He’d almost swear to that. It looked like cloudy glass—like the milk-glass goblets and bowls he was always on the lookout for. There were a lot of people who were plain nuts about it and they’d pay fancy prices for it.

  He closed the knife and put it back into his pocket and squatted, looking at the oval shape that Towser had discovered.

  And the conviction grew: Whatever it was that had come to live with him undoubtedly had arrived in this same contraption. From space or time, he thought, and was astonished that he thought it, for he’d never thought such a thing before.

  He picked up his shovel and began to dig again, digging down this time, following the curving side of this alien thing that lay within the earth.

  And as he dug, he wondered. What should he say about this—or should he say anything? Maybe the smartest course would be to cover it again and never breathe a word about it to a living soul.

  Beasly would talk about it, naturally. But no one in the village would pay attention to anything that Beasly said. Everyone in Willow Bend knew Beasly was cracked.

  Beasly finally came back. He carried three inexpertly-made sandwiches wrapped in an old newspaper and a quart bottle almost full of milk.

  “You certainly took your time,” said Taine, slightly irritated.

  “I got interested,” Beasly explained.

  “Interested in what?”

  “Well, there were three big trucks and they were lugging a lot of heavy stuff down into the basement. Two or three big cabinets and a lot of other junk. And you know Abbie’s television set? Well, they took the set away. I told them that they shouldn’t, but they took it anyway.”

  “I forgot,” said Taine. “Henry said he’d send the computer over and I plumb forgot.”

  Taine ate the sandwiches, sharing them with Towser, who was very grateful in a muddy way.

  Finished, Taine rose and picked up his shovel.

  “Let’s get to work,” he said.

  “But you got all that stuff down in the basement.”

  “That can wait,” said Taine. “This job we have to finish.”

  It was getting dusk by the time they finished.

  Taine leaned wearily on his shovel.

  Twelve feet by twenty across the top and ten feet deep—and all of it, every bit of it, made of the milk-glass stuff that sounded like a bell when you whacked it with a shovel.

  They’d have to be small, he thought, if there were many of them, to live in a space that size, especially if they had to stay there very long. And that fitted in, of course, for it they weren’t small they couldn’t now be living in the space between the basement joists.

  If they were really living there, thought Taine. If it wasn’t all just a lot of supposition.

  Maybe, he thought, even if they had been living in the house, they might be there no longer—for Towser had smelled or heard or somehow sensed them in the morning, but by that very night he’d paid them no attention.

  Taine slung his shovel across his shoulder and hoisted the pick.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s go. We’ve put in a long, hard day.”

  They tramped out through the brush and reached the road. Fireflies were flickering off and on in the woody darkness and the street lamps were swaying in the summer breeze. The stars were hard and bright.

  Maybe they still were in the house, thought Taine. Maybe when they found out that Towser had objected to them, they had fixed it so he’d be aware of them no longer.

  They probably were highly adaptive. It stood to good reason they would have to be. It hadn’t taken them too long, he told himself grimly, to adapt to a human house.

  He and Beasly went up the gravel driveway in the dark to put the tools away in the garage and there was something funny going on, for there was no garage.

  There was no garage and there was no front on the house and the driveway was cut off abruptly and there was nothing but the curving wall of what apparently had been the end of the garage.

  They came up to the curving wall and stopped, squinting unbelieving in the summer dark.

  There was no garage, no porch, no front of the house at all. It was as if someone had taken the opposite corners of the front of the house and bent them together until they touched, folding the entire front of the building inside the curvature of the bent-together corners.

  Taine now had a curved-front house. Although it was, actually, not as simple as all that, for the curvature was not in proportion to what actually would have happened in case of such a feat. The curve was long and graceful and somehow not quite ap
parent. It was as if the front of the house had been eliminated and an illusion of the rest of the house had been summoned to mask the disappearance.

  Taine dropped the shovel and the pick and they clattered on the driveway gravel. He put his hand up to his face and wiped it across his eyes, as if to clear his eyes of something that could not possibly be there.

  And when he took the hand away it had not changed a bit.

  There was no front to the house.

  Then he was running around the house, hardly knowing he was running, and there was a fear inside of him at what had happened to the house.

  But the back of the house was all right. It was exactly as it had always been.

  He clattered up the stoop with Beasly and Towser running close behind him. He pushed open the door and burst into the entry and scrambled up the stairs into the kitchen and went across the kitchen in three strides to see what had happened to the front of the house.

  At the door between the kitchen and the living room he stopped and his hands went out to grasp the door jamb as he stared in disbelief at the windows of the living room.

  It was night outside. There could be no doubt of that. He had seen the fireflies flickering in the brush and weeds and the street lamps had been lit and the stars were out.

  But a flood of sunlight was pouring through the windows of the living room and out beyond the windows lay a land that was not Willow Bend.

  “Beasly,” he gasped, “look out there in front!”

  Beasly looked.

  “What place is that?” he asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Towser had found his dish and was pushing it around the kitchen floor with his nose, by way of telling Taine that it was time to eat.

  Taine went across the living room and opened the front door. The garage, he saw, was there. The pickup stood with its nose against the open garage door and the car was safe inside.

  There was nothing wrong with the front of the house at all.

  But if the front of the house was all right, that was all that was.

  For the driveway was chopped off just a few feet beyond the tail end of the pickup and there was no yard or woods or road. There was just a desert—a flat, far-reaching desert, level as a floor, with occasional boulder piles and haphazard clumps of vegetation and all of the ground covered with sand and pebbles. A big blinding sun hung just above a horizon that seemed much too far away and a funny thing about it was that the sun was in the north, where no proper sun should be. It had a peculiar whiteness, too.

  Beasly stepped out on the porch and Taine saw that he was shivering like a frightened dog.

  “Maybe,” Taine told him, kindly, “you’d better go back in and start making us some supper.”

  “But, Hiram—”

  “It’s all right,” said Taine. “It’s bound to be all right.”

  “If you say so, Hiram.”

  He went in and the screen door banged behind him and in a minute Taine heard him in the kitchen.

  He didn’t blame Beasly for shivering, he admitted to himself. It was a sort of shock to step out of your front door into an unknown land. A man might eventually get used to it, of course, but it would take some doing.

  He stepped down off the porch and walked around the truck and around the garage comer and when he rounded the comer he was half prepared to walk back into familiar Willow Bend—for when he had gone in the back door the village had been there.

  There was no Willow Bend. There was more of the desert, a great deal more of it.

  He walked around the house and there was no back to the house. The back of the house now was just the same as the front had been before—the same smooth curve pulling the sides of the house together.

  He walked on around the house to the front again and there was desert all the way. And the front was still all right. It hadn’t changed at all. The truck was there on the chopped-off driveway and the garage was open and the car inside.

  Taine walked out a way into the desert and hunkered down and scooped up a handful of the pebbles and the pebbles were just pebbles.

  He squatted there and let the pebbles trickle through his fingers.

  In Willow Bend there was a back door and there wasn’t any front. Here, wherever here might be, there was a front door, but there wasn’t any back.

  He stood up and tossed the rest of the pebbles away and wiped his dusty hands upon his breeches.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a sense of movement on the porch and there they were.

  A line of tiny animals, if animals they were, came marching down the steps, one behind another. They were four inches high or so and they went on all four feet, although it was plain to see that their front feet were really hands, not feet. They had ratlike faces that were vaguely human, with noses long and pointed. They looked as if they might have scales instead of hide, for their bodies glistened with a rippling motion as they walked. And all of them had tails that looked very much like the coiled-wire tails one finds on certain toys and the tails stuck straight up above them, quivering as they walked.

  They came down the steps in single file, in perfect military order, with half a foot or so of spacing between each one of them.

  They came down the steps and walked out into the desert in a straight, undeviating line as if they knew exactly where they might be bound. There was something deadly purposeful about them and yet they didn’t hurry.

  Taine counted sixteen of them and he watched them go out into the desert until they were almost lost to sight.

  There go the ones, he thought, who came to live with me. They are the ones who fixed up the ceiling and who repaired Abbie’s television set and jiggered up the stove and radio. And more than likely, too, they were the ones who had come to Earth in the strange milk-glass contraption out there in the woods.

  And if they had come to Earth in that deal out in the woods, then what sort of place was this?

  He climbed the porch and opened the screen door and saw the neat, six-inch circle his departing guests had achieved in the screen to get out of the house. He made a mental note that some day, when he had the time, he would have to fix it.

  He went in and slammed the door behind him.

  “Beasly,” he shouted.

  There was no answer.

  Towser crawled from beneath the love seat and apologized.

  “It’s all right, pal,” said Taine. “That outfit scared me, too.”

  He went into the kitchen. The dim ceiling light shone on the overturned coffee pot, the broken cup in the center of the floor, the upset bowl of eggs. One broken egg was a white and yellow gob on the linoleum.

  He stepped down on the landing and saw that the screen door in the back was wrecked beyond repair. Its rusty mesh was broken-exploded might have been a better word—and a part of the frame was smashed.

  Taine looked at it in wondering admiration.

  “The poor fool,” he said. “He went straight through it without opening it at all.”

  He snapped on the light and went down the basement stairs. Halfway down he stopped in utter wonderment.

  To his left was a wall—a wall of the same sort of material as had been used to put in the ceiling.

  He stooped and saw that the wall ran clear across the basement, floor to ceiling, shutting off the workshop area.

  And inside the workshop, what?

  For one thing, he remembered, the computer that Henry had sent over just this morning. Three trucks, Beasly had said—three truck-loads of equipment delivered straight into their paws!

  Taine sat down weakly on the steps.

  They must have thought, he told himself, that he was co-operating! Maybe they had figured that he knew what they were about and so went along with them. Or perhaps they thought he was paying them for fixing up the TV set and the stove and radio.

  But to tackle first things first, why had they repaired the TV set and the stove and radio? As a sort of rental payment? As a friendly ges
ture? Or as a sort of practice run to find out what they could about this world’s technology? To find, perhaps, how their technology could be adapted to the materials and conditions on this planet they had found?

  Taine raised a hand and rapped with his knuckles on the wall beside the stairs and the smooth white surface gave out a pinging sound.

  He laid his ear against the wall and listened closely and it seemed to him he could hear a low-key humming, but if so it was so faint he could not be absolutely sure.

  Banker Stevens’ lawn mower was in there, behind the wall, and a lot of other stuff waiting for repair. They’d take the hide right off him, he thought, especially Banker Stevens. Stevens was a tight man.

  Beasly must have been half-crazed with fear, he thought. When he had seen those things coming up out of the basement, he’d gone clean off his rocker. He’d gone straight through the door without even bothering to try to open it and now he was down in the village yapping to anyone who’d stop to listen to him.

  No one ordinarily would pay Beasly much attention, but if he yapped long enough and wild enough, they’d probably do some checking. They’d come storming up here and they’d give the place a going over and they’d stand goggle-eyed at what they found in front and pretty soon some of them would have worked their way around to sort of running things.

  And it was none of their business, Taine stubbornly told himself, his ever-present business sense rising to the fore. There was a lot of real estate lying around out there in his front yard and the only way anyone could get to it was by going through his house. That being the case, it stood to reason that all that land out there was his. Maybe it wasn’t any good at all. There might be nothing there. But before he had other people overrunning it, he’d better check and see.

  He went up the stairs and out into the garage.

  The sun was still just above the northern horizon and there was nothing moving.

  He found a hammer and some nails and a few short lengths of plank in the garage and took them in the house.

  Towser, he saw, had taken advantage of the situation and was sleeping in the gold-upholstered chair. Taine didn’t bother him.

  Taine locked the back door and nailed some planks across it. He locked the kitchen and the bedroom windows and nailed planks across them, too.