mouse ran from behind it as he dropped the tray in. Stubb froze; the mouse stopped to contemplate him, sitting up like a little kangaroo. Slowly, Stubb fished out a penknife and opened a blade at each end. The second clicked as it sprang into place, and the mouse resumed its dash for safety. Stubb threw, but missed by a foot.
Outside, new snow sparkled under the stars. He kicked it to find the shards of tile, then turned up his collar and walked, occasionally halting to peer upward.
The woman behind the register looked up and smiled when he came in. “My best customer.”
“Right. Am I the only one tonight?”
“The only soul. Leastways, there hasn’t been nobody in since you was here last. Need somethin’ else?”
“Forgot to get a paper,” Stubb said.
“These’s yesterday’s now. You want to wait twenty minutes, the new ones’ll come.”
“Maybe.” Stubb picked up a paper.
“How ’bout some coffee? On the house.”
“Sure, it’s cold outside.”
“The company gives it to us so we can give it to the prowl-car mens. Havin’ them come in for it keeps the place from bein’ stuck up so much. We get to drink it ourselves and give it out, only we’re not supposed to make the first pot till after midnight. What you lookin’ for?”
“Story on the new freeway,” Stubb told her.
The Visit
“A moment,” Barnes called. “Just a moment.” In the dark he had mislaid the picture. He scrabbled for it—not finding it dove for the light switch, located the picture, hung it over his peephole, and threw open the door.
“I am so sorry,” the witch said. “You were sleeping. I should have been more thoughtful.”
“I wasn’t asleep. Wide awake, that’s me. Honest.” He stumbled backward. “Won’t you come in?”
She nodded and stepped inside. Without her high-heeled boots, her head came only to his shoulder. The scarlet robe was oriental, embroidered with writhing black dragons; she clutched it at her chin, and with her long, dark hair she might almost have been Chinese.
“You are so very kind, Mr. Barnes. You have every reason to be annoyed with me.”
“Never!” The chair was still facing the picture of the gowned blonde. He seized it in an agony of haste and held it for her, seating himself on the bed only after she had consented to sit down.
“You have taped up pictures, I see. I would guess that you are the only one among us who has labored to decorate his chamber.”
“These are what I sell,” Barnes explained. He cleared his throat. “Having them here reminds me of them, and I think about what I can say about them.”
“System,” the witch said admiringly. “You are correct, Mr. Barnes. System is everything.” Her eyes, which until now had been more impressive than inviting, were melting.
“I try,” Barnes told her.
“Often with great success, I am sure.” The witch released the collar of her robe and folded her hands demurely in her lap, permitting Barnes to see her decolletage and a triangle of the black corset. For the first time, she seemed to notice the hook on which the picture of the blonde hung. “You are religious too. How refreshing to find that in a man! Mr. Barnes, I have come to you for help.”
He swallowed. “If you mean, financial, I’m afraid—”
“It was I who gave you the money for our food tonight. Have you forgotten?”
“No, Ma’am, not at all, and I promise you when I get my commissions—”
“There is no need. I meant only to show you that I do not require money from you. Doubtless other women you have known have in this way or that always demanded it.”
“No, no,” Barnes told her. “Not at all.”
“Really? You are an exception then. At any rate, I am asking for your help, Mr. Barnes. I wish to enlist you under my banner, as it were.”
“Anything I can do, Ma’am, why I’d be delighted—”
“Perhaps you should hear first. Do you credit the supernatural?”
“Why, ah …” For a moment Barnes looked embarrassed. “I can’t really say I believe or I don’t. I suppose you could say I’ve always thought there was more to everything than anybody could really know, but frankly I haven’t thought about it much. I’ve never felt it concerned me. Maybe when we die we’ll find out.”
“There is little reason to think so, Mr. Barnes. People are inclined to believe that in this world the higher world is obscure, and in the next it will be made plain. But is it not equally probable that while we are here the higher world is revealed, and if we perish in ignorance of it, we shall remain in that ignorance in the next?”
“I don’t know,” Barnes admitted.
“As a man, you would no doubt be more impressed by science than by the symbolism of the mystics. To you I would say that to speak of a higher world is to speak of a higher state of energy. That is nearly always, you will note, what we mean when we speak of height—the stone upon the mountaintop, for example, possesses greater potential energy than the stone at the bottom of the tarn. If one end of a poker is red, we say that end is of a higher temperature, or that its thermal energy is higher. When we die, by the Law of Entropy, which all scientists acknowledge, we pass from a higher state to a lower. Since we will then be further from the higher world, how are
