Stories 1, p.1
Stories 1, page 1
STORIES BY R.A. LAFFERTY
* indicates outstanding stories
chronological notation taken from "An R.A. Lafferty Checklist"
Institute stories (found in RAL05 file)
*20. Seven Day Terror
*25. What's the Name of That Town?
*39. Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne
*43. The Hole On the Corner
*44. Land of the Great Horses
78. All But the Words
122. Flaming Ducks and Giant Bread
134. Smoe and the Implicit Clay
file A
*6 The Six Fingers of Time
*7. Adam Had Three Brothers
11. Snuffles
14. In the Garden
15. All the People
16. The Weirdest World
*17. Aloys
18. The Ugly Sea
*19. Rainbird
21. Dream
22. Sodom and Gomorrah, Texas
23. The Transcendent Tigers
26. Mad Man
27. The Man With the Speckled Eyes
28. Pig In a Pokey
*30. Slow Tuesday Night
31. Guesting Time
*32. In Our Block
*33. Hog-Belly Honey
*34. Nine Hundred Grandmothers
*35. Golden Trabant
*36. Among the Hairy Earthmen
*37. Narrow Valley
*38. Primary Education of the Camiroi
*41. Polity and Custom of the Camiroi
*42. Ginny Wrapped In the Sun
file B
*45. Camels and Drometaries, Clem
*46. The Ultimate Creature
47. How They Gave It Back
50. McGruder's Marvels
51. This Grand Carcass Yet
*52. Maybe Jones and the City
*53. One At a Time
55. Cliffs That Laughed
56. Configuration of the North Shore
59. Ride a Tin Can
61. Crocodile
*62. About a Secret Crocodile
63. The Cliff Climbers
66. Condillac's Statue
67. Entire and Perfect Chrysolite
*68. Continued On Next Rock
69. Old Foot Forgot
*70. All Pieces of a River Shore
*71. Interurban Queen
*72. Frog On the Mountain
file C
74. The Man Underneath
*76. Encased In Ancient Rind
*79. Boomer Flats
*81. World Abounding
*82. Groaning Hinges of the World
*83. Ishmael Into the Barrens
*84. Nor Limestone Islands
*85. Sky
86. When All the Lands Pour Out Again
91. Once On Aranea
*96 Eurema's Dam
*97. Dorg
*99. And Now Walk Gently Through the Fire
104. Seven Story Dream
*106. The World As Will and Wallpaper
108. By the Seashore
111. Days of Grass, Days of Straw
file D
*115. Mr. Hamadryad
116. The Man With the Aura
120. And Name My Name
121. Royal Licorice
126. Three Shadows of the Wolf
131. The Skinny People of Leptophlebo Street 133. Or Little Ducks Each Day
135. The Hand With One Hundred Fingers
138. Oh Tell Me Will It Freeze Tonight
139a. Funnyfingers
139b. Cabrito
140. Horns On Their Heads
143. Berryhill
*145. Thou Whited Wall
*150. Fall of Pebble Stones
151. Quiz Ship Loose
152. Bequest of Wings
file E
*153. Bright Coins In Never-Ending Stream
*154. Selenium Ghosts of the Eighteen-Seventies 155. Splinters
165. Lord Torpedo, Lord Gyroscope
170. The Only Tune That He Could Play
*175. You Can't Go Back
179. Square and Above Board
180. Ifrit
184. Thieving Bear Planet
185. Golden Gate
*186. This Boding Itch
187. Tongues of the Madagora
*188. Make Sure the Eyes Are Big Enough
189. Marsilia V.
*190. One-Eyed Mocking-Bird
227. Magazine Section
240. Grey Ghost: A Reminiscence
245. Le Hot Spot
THE SIX FINGERS OF TIME
He began by breaking things that morning. He broke the glass of water on his night stand. He knocked it crazily against the opposite wall and shattered it. Yet it shattered slowly. This would have surprised him if he had been fully awake, for he had only reached out weakly for it.
Nor had he wakened regularly to his alarm; he had wakened to a weird, slow, low booming, yet the clock said six, time for the alarm. And the low boom, when it came again, seemed to come from the clock.
He reached out and touched it gently, but it floated off the stand at his touch and bounced around slowly on the floor. And when he picked it up again it had stopped, nor would shaking start it.
He checked the electric clock in the kitchen. This also said six o'clock, but the sweep hand did not move. In his living room the radio clock said six, but the second hand seemed stationary.
"But the lights in both rooms work," said Vincent "How are the clocks both stopped? Are the receptacles on a separate circuit?"
He went back to his bedroom and got his wristwatch. It also said six; and its sweep hand did not sweep.
"Now this could get silly. What is it that would stop both mechanical and electrical clocks?"
He went to the window and looked out at the advertising clock on the Mutual Insurance Building. It said six o'clock, and the second hand did not move.
"Well, it is possible that the confusion is not limited to myself. I heard once the fanciful theory that a cold shower will clear the mind. For me it never has, but I will try it. I can always use cleanliness for an excuse."
The shower didn't work. Yes, it did: the water came now, but not like water; like very slow syrup that hung in the air. He reached up to touch it hanging down there and stretching. And it shattered like glass when he touched it, and drifted in fantastic slow globs across the room. But it had the feel of water. It was wet and pleasantly cool. And in a quarter of a minute or so it was down over his shoulders and back, and he luxuriated in it. He let it soak on his noggin, and it cleared his wits at once.
"There is not a thing wrong with me. I am fine. It is not my fault that the water is slow this morning and other things are awry."
He reached for the towel and it tore to pieces in his hands like porous wet paper.
He now became very careful in the way he handled things. Slow1y, tenderly and deftly he took them so that they would not break. He shaved himself without mishap in spite of the slow water in the lavatory also.
Then he dressed himself with the greatest caution and cunning, breaking nothing except his shoe laces, and that is likely to happen at any time.
"If there is nothing the matter with me, then I will check and see if there is anything seriously wrong with the world. The dawn was fairly along when I looked out, as it should have been. Approximately twenty minutes have passed; it is a clear morning: the sun should now have hit the top several stories of the Insurance Building."
But it had not. It was still a clear morning, but the dawn had not brightened at all in the twenty minutes. And that big clock still said six.
It had not changed.
Yet it had changed, and he knew it with a queer feeling. He pictured it as it had been before. But the sweep second hand had moved. It had swept a third of the dial.
So he pulled up a chair at the window and watched it. He realized that, though he could not see it move, yet it did make progress. He watched it for perhaps five minutes. It moved through a space of perhaps five seconds.
"Well, that is not my problem. It is that of the clock maker, either a terrestrial or a celestial one."
But he left his rooms without a good breakfast, and he left them very early. How did he know that it was early since there was something wrong with the time? Well, it was early at least according to the sun and according to the clocks, neither of which institutions seemed to be working properly.
He left without a good breakfast because the coffee would not make and the bacon would not fry. And in plain point of fact the fire would not heat. The gas flame sprung up from the pilot like a slowly spreading stream or an unfolding flower. Then it burned far too steadily. The skillet remained cold when placed over it; nor would water even heat. It had taken at least five minutes to get the water out of the faucet in the first place.
He ate a few pieces of leftover bread and some scraps of meat.
In the street there was no motion, no real motion. A truck, first seeming at rest, moved very slowly. There was no gear in which it could move so slowly. And there was a taxi which crept along, but Charles Vincent had to look at it carefully for some time to be sure that it was in motion. Then he received a shock. He realized by the early morning light that the driver of it was dead. Dead with his eyes wide open!
Slow as it was going, and by whatever means it was moving, it should really be stopped. Vincent walked over to it, opened the door, and pulled on the brake, Then he looked into the eyes of that dead man. Was he really dead? It was hard to be sure. He felt warm. But, even as Vincent looked, the eyes of the dead man had begun to close . And close they did and open again in a matter of about twenty seconds.
This was weird. The slowly closing and opening eyes sent a chill through Vincent. And the dead man had begun to lean forward in his seat.
Vincent put a hand in the middle of the man's chest to hold him upright, but he found the forward pressure to be as relentless as it was slow. He was unable to keep the dead man up.
So he let him go, watching curiously; and in a few seconds the driver's face was against the wheel. But it was almost as if it had no intention of stopping there. It pressed into the wheel with dogged force.
The man would surely break his face. Vincent took several holds on the dead man and counteracted the pressure somewhat. Yet the face was being damaged, and if things were normal blood would have flowed.
The man had been dead so long however, that though he was still warm his blood must have congealed, for it was fully two minutes before it began to ooze.
"Whatever I have done, I have done enough damage," said Vincent.
"And, in whatever nightmare I am in, I am likely to do further harm if I meddle more. I had better leave it alone."
He walked on down the street. Yet whatever vehicles he saw now were moving with an incredible slowness as though driven by some fantastic gear reduction. And there were people here and there frozen solid. It was a chilly morning, but it was not that cold. They were immobile in positions of motion, as though they were playing the children's game of Statues.
"How is it," said Charles Vincent, "that this young girl, who I believe works across the street from us, should have died standing up and in full stride? But, no. She is not dead. Or if so she died with a very alert expression. And, oh my God, she's doing it too!"
For he realized that the eyes of the girl were closing, and in a space of a few seconds they had completed their cycle and were open again.
Also, and this was even stranger, she had moved, moved forward in full stride. He would have timed her if he could. How could he time her when all the clocks in the world were crazy? Yet she must have been taking about two steps a minute.
Vincent went into the cafeteria. The early morning crowd that he had often watched through the window was there. The girl who made flapjacks in the window had just flipped one and it hung in the air. Then it floated over as though caught by a slight breeze, and sank slowly down as if settling in water.
The early morning breakfasters, like the people in the street, were all dead in this new way, moving with almost imperceptible motion. And all had apparently died in the act of drinking coffee, eating eggs, or munching toast. And if there was only time enough, there was an even chance that they would get the drinking, eating, and munching done with, for there was a shadow of movement in them all.
The cashier had the register drawer open and money in her hand, and the hand of the customer was out-stretched for it. In time, somewhere in the new leisurely time, the hands would come together and the change be given.
And so it happened. It may have been a minute and a half, or two minutes, or two and a half. It is always hard to judge time, and now it had become all but impossible.
"I am still hungry," said Charles Vincent, "but it would be foolhardy to wait on the service here. Should I help myself? They would not mind if they are dead. And, if they are not dead, in any case it seems that I am invisible to them."
He wolfed several rolls. He opened a bottle of milk and held it upside-down over his glass while he ate another roll. Liquids had all become so perversely slow.
But he felt better for his erratic breakfast. He would have paid for it, but how?
He left the cafeteria and walked about the town as it seemed still to be quite early, though one could depend on neither sun nor clock for the time any more. The traffic lights were unchanging. He sat for a long time in a 1ittle park and watched the town and the big clock in the Commerce Building tower; but like all the clocks it was either stopped or the hand would creep too slowly to be seen.
It must have been just about an hour till the traffic lights changed, but change they did at last. By picking a point on the building across the street and watching what moved by it, he found that the traffic did indeed move. In a minute or so, the entire length of a car would pass a given point.
He had, he recalled, been very far behind in his work, and it had been worrying him. He decided to go to the office, early as it was or seemed to be.
He let himself in. Nobody else was there. He resolved not to look at the clock and to be very careful of the way he handled all objects because of his new propensity for breaking things. This considered, all seemed normal here. He had said the day before that he could hardly catch up on his work if he worked for two days solid. He now resolved at least to work steadily until something happened, whatever it was.
For hour after hour he worked on his tabulations and reports. Nobody else had arrived. Could something be wrong? Certainly something was wrong.
But today was not a holiday. That was not it.
Just how long can a stubborn and mystified man work away at his task? It was hour after hour after hour. He did not become hungry nor particularly tired. And he did get through a lot of work.
"It must be half done. However it has happened, I have caught up at least a day's work; I will keep on."
He must have worked silently for another eight or ten hours.
He was caught up completely on his back work.
"Well, to some extent I can work into the future. I can head-up and carry over. I can put in everything but the figures of the field reports."
And he did so.
"It will he hard to bury me in work again. I could almost coast
for a day. I don't even know what day it is, but I must have worked twenty hours straight through and nobody has arrived. Perhaps nobody ever will arrive. If they are moving with the speed of the people in the nightmare outside, it is no wonder they have not arrived."
He put his head down in his arms on the desk. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the misshapen left thumb that had always been his and which he had always tried to conceal a little by the way handled he his hands.
"At least I know that I am still myself. I'd know myself anywhere by that."
Then he went to sleep at his desk.
Jenny came in with a quick click-click-click of high heels, and he wakened to the noise.
"What are you doing dozing at your desk, Mr. Vincent? Have you been here all night?"
"I don't know, Jenny. Honestly I don't."
"I was only teasing. Sometimes when I get here a little early I take a catnap myself."
The clock said six minutes till eight, and the second hand was sweeping normally. Time had returned to the world. Or to him. But had all that early morning of his been a dream? Then it had been a very efficient dream. He had accomplished work he could hardly have done in two days. And it was the same day that it was supposed to be.
He went to the water fountain. The water now behaved normally. He went to the window. The traffic was behaving as it should. Though sometimes slow and sometimes snarled, yet it was in the pace of the regular world.
The other workers arrived. They were not balls of fire, but neither was it necessary to observe them for several minutes to he sure that they weren't dead.
"It did have its advantages," Charles Vincent said. "I would be afraid to have it permanently, but it would be handy to go into the state for a few minutes a day and accomplish the business of hours. I may be a case for the doctor. But just how would I go about telling a doctor what was bothering me?"
Now it had surely been less than too hours from his first rising till the time that he wakened from his second sleep to the noise of Jenny.
And how long that second sleep had been, or in which time enclave, he had no idea. But how account for it all? He had spent a long time in his own rooms, much longer than ordinary in his confusion. He had walked the city mile after mile in his puzzlement. And he had sat in the little park for hours and studied the situation. And he had sat and worked at his own desk for an outlandish long time.
Well, he would go to the doctor. A man is obliged to refrain from making a fool of himself to the world at large, but to his lawyer, his priest, or his doctor he will sometimes have to come as a fool. By their callings they are restrained from scoffing openly.
He went to the doctor at noon.
Dr. Mason was not particularly a friend. Charles Vincent realized with some unease that he did not have any particular friends, only acquaintances and associates. It was as though he were of a species slightly apart from his fellows. He wished a little now that he had a particular friend.
