CAROL FARMER

As their horse-drawn wagon came to the crest of a large hill on Mason Street, Carol’s eyes came to rest on a distant gray speck. It was very far away, featureless and motionless; simply a gray dot suspended above the hills that stretched into the distance. She pointed it out to the man that sat beside her and who held the reins of the two bay horses.

“Stone face, Mr. Vitelli. Three miles to the south. Altitude one-thousand feet.” She felt a little stupid pointing it out, he could probably see it after all. But this was her job, and she intended to do her job whether it made her feel stupid or not.

Vitelli nodded. “Confirmed. I see it.” He jerked his head towards the east, over the wagon’s left side. “Now, take a look at that one over there.”

Carol turned in her seat and rose up onto her knees so she could get a clear look. She saw it, but couldn’t quite believe it. The stone face was perhaps only a quarter of a mile away. At the moment, it seemed to be gliding up to the north, its cube-like mass unhurried, silently following the interior coastline of the peninsula. The stone face disappeared behind a big office building and as she sat back down, a little humbled, Carol realized what a chance she was taking. How easily it could fly over and crush them both to dust, along with their little wagon!

“You’ll see so many down here that you won’t even give them a second look after a while,” Vitelli said. “It’s like seeing a seal down at the wharf. Just part of the wildlife.”

“But they’re intelligent, aren’t they?” Carol had heard stories on that count, every kid had heard stories about the stone faces. About how a clever farmer had hidden a diesel-powered tractor in his barn, and only plowed his fields on cloudy, starless nights, but the stone faces had heard it and made some deep holes in an unplowed field and then one night, wham! The tractor had fallen into the hole, crushed the farmer, and the stone faces had come along and quickly buried it all under fifteen feet of dirt.

Vitelli, looking thoughtful, shrugged. “Who knows? They never speak, and those big mugs of theirs never even so much as twitch. I guess we can thank god for that. Can you imagine one of them snarling at you or, even worse, smiling?” He shuddered. “No, I like ‘em much better impassive.”

“I think you’re right, Mr. Vitelli,” Carol said. She saw another one, now, off to the west, coming right down the street, about five-hundred feet up. “Stone face sighted, boss. One half mile to the-” Vitelli caught her arm and squeezed, cutting her off.

“Not so loud now. And no pointing. At least one of them is always bound to be close by. Just assume it. If you’re pointing everywhere, you’ll just draw attention to us.”

“But you told me to-”

“I know,” Vitelli said. “But this is the city now. And they flock here. Sometimes they just float down the street, just above your head." Vitelli showed her with his hand how close they got. Then his face became serious. "So, you understand?"

“Yes,” Carol said. She rubbed her arm. Then, self-consciously, she stopped. Now she was in the city. She couldn’t let people, or aliens, see her hurt, because no one would give her any pity here. At least that was what she had concluded, after having read Jack London and Charles Dickens and that other one that had written McTeague. She straightened up on the bench and made her face hard and inscrutable.

Vitelli nodded and tapped his leg. “So everything’s alright.”

They were off the hill now, in the downtown area, and Mr. Vitelli guided the horses onto a large, level street headed west. Here, there were even more people that at the ferry dock at the Golden Gate. In fact, there seemed to be more people on this one street than lived in her whole hometown. They flooded the sidewalks and spilled out onto the road, threading through the thick stream of wagons and horses. And there were not just people.

Of course, she had seen aliens from time to time back home. When she had been small, a few had traveled with the circus troupe that had come through town every year. But that had been all. But here they were everywhere. Large aliens, eight feet tall, ducked under awnings on the sidewalk. And there were small aliens, barely knee-height, scurrying underfoot. Some were like people, but there were the insect-types, too. And amorphous, shape-shifting aliens that looked like pink putty, oozing along. And aliens that looked like small shrubs, or some covered with fur. And, she noticed to her surprise, some wore expensive-looking clothes: silk suits, long, wool overcoats, ornately-patterned shawls and covers of all shapes. And some wore ordinary clothes, too: white workman’s overalls splattered with paint and plaster, or greasy mechanics uniforms.

Suddenly, something whooshed past her.

She turned rapidly in her seat to look back as a large carriage propelled itself along the street; propelled itself, without any horses. “What the heck is that?”

Vitelli chuckled. “That,” he said, “is a street-car.”

“There are street-cars in San Francisco?”

“Yes.” Vitelli smiled proudly, his chest puffed out as he took in her astonishment. “They’re pulled along by a steam-powered cable system.”

“But aren’t they like trains? And none of the trains still run.”

“The cable system means that they can’t go very far. They can’t go cross-country, for instance. They can’t be used to rapidly transport men and equipment, like in the War. So, the technology was deemed benign.”

That was so. Carol had learned in her high-school history class about how France and Germany had quickly massed their armies together at their borders using trains, and how once the process was started it couldn’t be stopped. And she had learned how, if it weren’t for the trains, the war would’ve lasted perhaps a few months, instead of four years. And how it was calculated now by experts that battle deaths would’ve been reduced from ten million to perhaps a hundred thousand. Trains had nearly annihilated Europe, along with the artillery guns and chemical bombs.

“How come they haven’t broken down?” Carol asked. “How can new parts be made?”

“The steam system is operated at low pressure,” Vitelli answered. “That means they don’t move quite as fast as they used to, but the strain on the cables and gearing is reduced. And also, our local government had the foresight to buy up spare parts from the decommissioned systems of other cities. The streetcars, you see, are fairly expensive to run. But it’s worth it.”

“Yes,” Carol agreed. “It certainly is.” She would like to ride on one of the streetcars. Maybe Mr. Vitelli would take her, buy her a ticket. Then she thought better of it.

No, she and Mr. Vitelli shouldn’t do anything like that. When he had offered her a job at the small lodging house where she had worked and she had accepted, she had been worried that he would make a pass at her. But he never had. And it wouldn’t do to give him any ideas. No, their relationship would have to be purely professional. But once she was paid, she could still buy a ticket on the streetcar and ride it alone. She fixed her mind on that, and excitement bubbled up inside of her. She felt vindicated in her choice to leave home. There was so much here!

“We’ll turn left here,” Vitelli was saying, “and then three more blocks and we’ll be at Mal Crydor’s warehouse. Ostensibly, it deals in flowers on a wholesale basis. You’ll like it.”

“And I’ll let you do the talking,” Carol said.

Vitelli laughed. “No, you can talk to Mal. He’s a decent being. In fact, he’ll talk your ear right off if you let him.”

“Is he-?” Carol gestured vaguely.

“Is he strange looking?”

Carol nodded.

“As far as it goes, no, he’s relatively normal looking. Two eyes, a mouth, no nose. Well, actually, his nose is located close to the ground and isn’t recognizable as such. He’s one of the blob-forms, amorphous, rubbery and pink in color. Not intimidating. His hearing apparati are small pin-hole sized openings located all over his body, like pores. So he’ll hear anything you and I say, even if we’re a block away whispering. That’s the only thing I’d advise you to watch out for.”

Carol breathed a sigh of relief. That she could deal with. “I’m just glad he’s a blob-form and not one of the insectoid-types. I’d hate to have to talk to one of the insectoid-types. I don’t know how anyone can stand dealing with them. They’re scary.”

Vitelli frowned, but nodded in agreement. “They are scary. And not just scary looking. They’re big and strong. And minds like whips. They’re not big talkers, anyways. If you run into an insectoid type, just remember: don’t bother it and it won’t bother you.”

Carol nodded.

Vitelli pulled back on the reins and the wagon jerked to a stop. “Well,” he said, “this is us.” He began to jump down from the wagon and then paused, turned back to her. His face was earnest. “There’s just one thing more, Carol. The rules are different here. Aliens are a protected class. Now, you seem to me like a fine young woman, but there’s no telling how you’ll react if you come across some strange form that hasn’t quite grasped our etiquette. Just remember, harassment of any kind isn’t tolerated around here. If you find yourself if a situation that scares you or makes you uncomfortable, don’t get hysterical and-”

“I’m not hysterical,” Carol gritted. “I got it.”

Vitelli laughed. “Ok, I believe you do. So, everything’s alright.” He jumped down from the wagon and began to stretch. Carol followed carefully, clambering down the running board and gently alighting onto the road.

She had noticed as soon as they had disembarked from the ferry that the streets here were paved. Back home, long ago, the main street had been paved, but repairs were costly and eventually it had been covered over. Almost her entire life she had been used to leaping down from wagons and horses, but here she would have to break that habit. But that was ok, because as she walked around the wagon she noticed with satisfaction the nice, crisp sound her heels made when they struck the pavement, and also she noticed with pleasure that she stirred up no dust nor tracked any mud. The hems of her skirts would no longer have to get dirty. At least, not as long as they were in town, and not away selling.

On the sidewalk, she joined Vitelli, who was already at the door of the warehouse, hands in pockets, having knocked. Carol waited around with him for a few moments, then said, “Try again?”

“Won’t make a difference,” Vitelli said. “If he’s in there, he’s heard.”

“Maybe he’s out to lunch,” Carol suggested.

“He’s got three employees,” Vitelli said. “It’s just a front, but it has to be a functioning front, with suppliers and customers and a payroll. It’s a real business, Mal just isn’t under any pressure to turn a big profit. Ah, hell.” He knocked again, this time harder. The big building reverberated, sounding cold and hollow.

“What about those windows up there?” Carol suggested. She pointed at the four large windows on the second floor of the building. “We’ll take a look inside, see if anyone’s home.”

“How do you suggest we get to them?” Vitelli shot back. He looked worried now, he had taken his jacket off and perspiration shone through his shirt. Carol merely shrugged. “He’s not here,” Vitelli continued. “And he’s always here. So, something’s wrong. Maybe he got spooked or something. Some pinko raid.” Vitelli scratched his head.

“What’ll we do?” Carol asked.

“Well, we have to get new product. That’s our number one priority. Now hopefully that’ll come from Mal, but if he’s flown the coop we’ll have to track down a new supplier. Anyways, no matter how you look at it, I’ve got to go talk to some beings.” He approached Carol and took out his coin purse. “I’m going to give you ten silver dollars. I want you to get us a room at a boarding house about a mile from here.” He held out the money, but as she reached for it, he snatched it back. “Now, I trust you won’t run off with this. Or go on a big spending spree.”

“What’s the address?” Carol asked as she reached out and grasped the money. She counted it and put it away in her purse.

Vitelli smiled. “Twenty-four-oh-six Norris Avenue. Register under the name Mrs. Janet Vitelli.”

“Janet Vitelli,” Carol repeated. I'm Janet Vitelli, Janet Vitelli, Janet Vitelli, she repeated to herself.

“Obtain for us one room, with one bed. We have to have it that way for the subterfuge to be effectively. You will sleep on the floor.”

Carol glowered.

“I’m just kidding, of course,” Vitelli corrected himself. He smiled playfully, but a little chastened. “Now, you might have to hang around a couple of days. Just stay out of trouble while I’m gone, but I’ll be back to get you either way. Even if we’re sunk as far as this operation, for the moment, we’ll find something else to do. Ok?”

“Ok.” Carol said.

Vitelli paused for a long time, then reached into his jacket and took out a leather case. “And I’m going to give you this.” She started to open the case but he took hold of her hand. “No, don’t open it. It’s a blade, you see? What they call a shiv. Small, discreet, but if you get into any trouble, you can defend yourself. Alright?”

Carol nodded, turning the leather case over in her hands, feeling its weight. She began to put it in her bag, but then thought better and instead stowed it away in her pocket.

Vitelli nodded. “Alright, so long Carol. I mean, Mrs. Vitelli.” He gave her a wink and then trotted back to the wagon and climbed aboard. “Everything’s alright, right?”

“Right,” Carol said. “Thanks, Mr. Vitelli.”

Vitelli nodded, waved, then flicked the reins and the horses trotted off down the street, taking the wagon with them. Carol watched until it had been obscured by other milling traffic and then she was alone.

Carol smiled to herself. She had made it to San Francisco, had ten dollars in her pocket, a place to stay, and worked for a man with an apparently high level of connection to the local business community. Now she only needed to find...what was it? Twenty-four-oh-six Norris Avenue. That was what Vitelli had said. She decided she should head back towards the downtown area, where there was more traffic and she could ask for directions.

As she approached a busy street, she noticed that here there were an awful lot of aliens. In fact, they seemed to make up most of the pedestrian traffic. Well, now was as good a time as any to get acquainted, to get used to their presence. After all, she would be doing business with them. She sighted one of the more innocuous looking specimens: a small insectoid-type that looked a little like a child-sized ladybug. But it was not a child, it was out here on its own and besides, insect children went through a larval stage, didn’t they? So she just needed to treat it as any other person. Talk to it like a regular human, she coached herself. Confidently, she strode up to the bug and leaned down.

“Excuse me, miss,” she said, “I’m new to town and need some directions.”

The ladybug looked at her for a while, then, by use of a small trumpet-like instrument inserted into some receptacle near its mouth area, it said in a sweet, lilting voice, “Certainly. Where are you trying to go?”

“Twenty-four-oh-six Norris Avenue.”

The ladybug was silent for a while, cogitating, and then, pointing to the south with one of its antennae, said, “Two miles that way. Goodday.”

Beaming, Carol said, “Thank you very much, miss.”

Waving its one of its antenna, the ladybug trotted away.

Well, that wasn’t so bad, Carol thought. She had always wondered how some of the more exotic alien types handled communication, but it seemed methods had been worked out. Carol turned in the direction the bug had pointed and started off.