Haskel’s fingers closed over the tiny building, the model of Larson’s Pump and Valve Works. Savagely, he ripped it loose and threw it to the floor. He crushed it underfoot, grinding the bits of glass and metal and cardboard into a shapeless mass God, he was shaking all over. He stared down at the remains, his heart pounding wildly. Strange emotions, crazy emotions, twisted through him. Thoughts he never had had before. For a long time he gazed down at the crumpled wad by his shoe. What had once been the model of Larson’s Pump and Valve Works.
Abruptly he pulled away. In a trance he returned to his workbench and sat stiffly down on the stool. He pulled his tools and materials together, clicking the power drill on.
It took only a few moments. Working rapidly, with quick, expert fingers, Haskel assembled a new model. He painted, glued, fitted pieces together. He lettered a microscopic sign and sprayed a green lawn into place.
Then he carried the new model carefully over to the table and glued it in the correct spot. The place where Larson’s Pump and Valve Works had been. The new building gleamed in the overhead light, still moist and shiny.
WOODLAND MORTUARY
Haskel rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of satisfaction. The
Valve Works was gone. He had destroyed it. Obliterated it. Removed it from the town. Below him was Woodland— without the Valve Works. A mortuary instead.
His eyes gleamed. His lips twitched. His surging emotions swelled. He had got rid of it. In a brief flurry of action. In a second. The whole thing was simple— amazingly easy.
Odd he hadn’t thought of it before.
Sipping a tall glass of ice- cold beer thoughtfully, Madge Haskel said, “There’s something wrong with Verne. I noticed it especially last night. When he came home from work.”
Doctor Paul Tyler grunted absently. “A highly neurotic type. Sense of inferiority. Withdrawal and introversion.”
“But he’s getting worse. Him and his trains. Those damn model trains. My God, Paul! Do you know he has a whole town down there in the basement?”
Tyler was curious. “Really? I never knew that.”
“All the time I’ve known him he’s had them down there. Started when he was a kid. Imagine a grown man playing with trains! It’s—it’s disgusting. Every night the same thing.”
“Interesting.” Tyler rubbed his jaw. “He keeps at them continually? An unvarying pattern?”
“Every night. Last night he didn’t even eat dinner. He just came home and went directly down.”
Paul Tyler’s polished features twisted into a frown. Across from him Madge sat languidly sipping her beer. It was two in the afternoon. The day was warm and bright. The living room was attractive in a lazy, quiet way. Abruptly Tyler got to his feet. “Let’s take a look at them. The models. I didn’t know it had gone so far.”
“Do you really want to?” Madge slid back the sleeve of her green silk lounge pajamas and consulted her wristwatch. "He won’t be home until five.” She jumped to her feet, setting down her glass. “All right. We have time.”
“Fine. Let’s go down.” Tyler caught hold of Madge’s arm and they hurried down into the basement, a strange excitement flooding through them. Madge clicked on the basement light and they approached the big plywood table, giggling and nervous, like mischievous children. “See?” Madge said, squeezing Tyler’s arm. “Look at it. Took years. All his life.” Tyler nodded slowly. “Must have.” There was awe in his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The detail. . . . He has skill.”
“Yes, Verne is good with his hands.” Madge indicated the workbench. “He buys tools all the time.”
Tyler walked slowly around the big table, bending over and peering. “Amazing. Every building. The whole town is here. Look! There’s my place.”
He indicated his luxurious apartment building, a few blocks from the Haskel residence.
“I guess it's all there/' Madge said. “Imagine a grown man coming down here and playing with model trains!”
“Power.” Tyler pushed an engine along a track. “That's why it appeals to boys. Trains are big things. Huge and noisy. Power-sex symbols. The boy sees the train rushing along the track. It's so huge and ruthless it scares him. Then he gets a toy train. A model, like these. He controls it. Makes it start, stop. Go slow. Fast. He runs it. It responds to him.”
Madge shivered. "Let’s go upstairs where it’s warm. It’s so cold down here.”
“But as the boy grows up, he gets bigger and stronger. He can shed the model-symbol. Master the real object, the real train. Get genuine control over things. Valid mastery.” Tyler shook his head. “Not this substitute thing. Unusual, a grown person going to such lengths.” He frowned. “I never noticed a mortuary on State Street.”
“A mortuary?”
“And this. Steuben Pet Shop. Next door to the radio repair shop. There’s no pet shop there.” Tyler cudgeled his brain. “What is there? Next to the radio repair place.”
“Paris Furs.” Madge clasped her arms. “Brrrrr. Come on, Paul. Let’s go upstairs before 1 freeze.”
Tyler laughed. “Okay, sissy.” He headed toward the stairs, frowning again. “I wonder why. Steuben Pets. Never heard of it. Everything is so detailed. He must know the town by heart. To put a shop there that isn’t—” He clicked off the basement light. “And the mortuary. What’s supposed to be there? Isn’t the—”
“Forget it,” Madge called back, hurrying past him, into the warm living room.
"You’re practically as bad as he is. Men are such children."
Tyler didn’t respond. He was deep in thought. His suave confidence was gone; he looked nervous and shaken.
Madge pulled the Venetian blinds down. The living room sank into amber gloom. She flopped down on the couch and pulled Tyler down beside her. “Stop looking like that,” she ordered. “I’ve never seen you this way.” Her slim arms circled his neck and her lips brushed close to his ear. “I wouldn’t have let you in if I thought you were going to worry about him”
Tyler grunted, preoccupied. “Why did you let me in?” The pressure of Madge’s arms increased. Her silk pajamas rustled as she moved against him. “Silly,” she said.
Big red-headed Jim Larson gaped in disbelief. “What do you mean? What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m quitting.” Haskel shoveled the contents of his desk into his briefcase. “Mail the check to my house.” “But—”
“Get out of the way." Haskel pushed past Larson, out into the hall. Larson was stunned with amazement. There was a fixed expression on Haskel’s face. A glazed look. A rigid look Larson had never seen before.
“Are you—all right?” Larson asked.
“Sure.” Haskel opened the front door of the plant and disappeared outside. The door slammed after him. “Sure I’m all right,” he muttered to himself. He made his way through the crowds of late-afternoon shoppers, his lips twitching. “You damn right I'm all right.”
“Watch it, buddy,” a laborer muttered ominously, as Haskel shoved past him.
“Sorry.” Haskel hurried on, gripping his briefcase. At the top of the hill he paused a moment to get his breath. Behind him was Larson’s Pump and Valve Works. Haskel laughed shrilly. Twenty years — cut short in a second. It was over. No more Larson. No more dull, grinding job, day after day. Without promotion or future. Routine and boredom, months on end. It was over and done for. A new life was beginning.
He hurried on. The sun was setting. Cars streaked by him, businessmen going home from work. Tomorrow they would be going back—but not him. Not ever again.
He reached his own street. Ed Tildon’s house rose up, a great stately structure of concrete and glass Tildon’s dog came rushing out to bark. Haskel hastened past. Tildon’s dog. He laughed wildly.