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                        THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS

                           BY ANDREW FETLER

            He heard children's voices, but there couldn't
             be any children--not in that terrible place!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


"In the middle of the night," the man said to the landlady over a
soft-boiled egg and a slice of toast. "Right under my window." He
leaned forward. "You know how children talk to themselves?"

"Was it the same voice you heard the first two nights?" Mrs. Tilton
asked.

"I'm not sure now about the first night. Might have been another voice
that first night."

"And now it was a child?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Tilton rose to get the coffee. "Are you quite sure?"

"You don't think I'm imagining?"

"We have no children," she said.

"A neighbor's, no doubt."

"There isn't a child in the whole village, Mr. Coat."

"That's what puzzles me. Don't you think we ought to report it?"

"I'll get your coffee," she said, and went into the kitchen.

"I didn't actually _see_ the child," he called to her. "But I'm sure I
heard the voice."

The woman brought the cup of coffee; she had poured it in the kitchen.
The first two mornings, he remembered, she had set the coffee pot on
the table.

"Aren't you having any?" he asked.

"I had mine, thank you. Will you want anything else?"

He could see past her into the kitchen--the corner of a large
wood-burning stove and a row of brass pots. The floor was flagstoned
and a hand pump stood over a sink.

"Do you really grow your own strawberries?" he asked.

"Yes. Would you like some?"

"Very much."

Mrs. Tilton went to get the berries. She had forgotten to serve cream
with the coffee. The coffee had a bitter taste and a faint smell of
iodine. But he was not used to natural coffee. And without cream. He
took another sip and slowly stretched his stiff legs. In the window he
saw lilac bushes in bloom.

"Picked this morning," Mrs. Tilton said, setting a bowl of strawberries
before him.

"Oh, thank you." He sniffed at the berries. "They smell of earth," he
said, smiling at her.

"You might like a walk after breakfast," Mrs. Tilton suggested. "Then
you can have a restful nap at noon."

"Good idea," he said. "Excuse me, but the coffee seems bitter."

Mrs. Tilton looked at the old man as if she did not understand.

"I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," he apologized, "but I take cream with my
coffee."

"I'm sorry, I forgot."

She brought a small cream pitcher.

       *       *       *       *       *

The old man turned the pitcher in his hand. It was lopsided and made of
inferior clay "Do you make your own pottery, too?"

"Such as it is."

"Charming." He set down the pitcher and leaned back with a sigh. "You
know, I pretended I did not want a rest, but I could hardly wait to see
the country again."

"You weren't born in the city?"

"I was born in a village no larger than this. Of course it's all gone
now, swallowed up by the city. But in those days it was an hour's
heliride from the city. I remember a thing or two."

Mrs. Tilton watched him drink the coffee.

"Not many people left who remember those days," he said. "For
instance, did you know that unadjustables--they called them criminals
then--were actually electrocuted? Strapped down to a horrible chair--"

"Don't you want the strawberries, Mr. Coat?"

He looked down at the strawberries in the bowl. "Just imagine--" but he
forgot what he had wanted to say.

The woman went into the kitchen.

He had just finished drinking the coffee when he heard the child's
voice in the lane outside the window. The same voice. He crossed to the
window and looked out. The lane was empty.

"Mrs. Tilton!"

He heard no answer.

He went into the kitchen. The door to the garden stood open. He saw her
working in a vegetable patch.

"Pst ... pst!"

She looked up.

"Did you see the child?" he called. "It must have turned into the
garden."

Mrs. Tilton straightened herself, holding her back with both hands.
"The child?"

"The voice, I just heard it again."

"I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Coat."

He looked round the kitchen--the antique flagstones, the brass pots,
the stove, the hand pump. There was only one anachronism: on the wall
by the door, stuck behind a cluster of radishes, was a World Union
Telegram.

Out in the vegetable patch, he saw Mrs. Tilton was looking about for
something.

On an impulse he took down the telegram, and read:

    RECOAT IF VOICES PERSIST TO THIRD MORNING PROCEED EUTHANASIA
    SUGGEST USING COFFEE FORMULA TWO ADVISE OFFICE OF CHIEF PSYCH WMA

He stuck the telegram behind the radishes and looked out the door. Mrs.
Tilton was coming with a basket on her arm.

"You heard the child again, Mr. Coat?"

"Perhaps ... I was mistaken."

"Strange, I saw nobody." She put the basket on the kitchen table; it
was filled with peas. "Did you have enough coffee?"

He nodded.

"Aren't you feeling well?"

"I ... am fine. Yes."

The executioner looked as if she could not make up her mind about him.
Then she smiled. She brought out a wooden bowl, and sat down at the
table to shell the peas.

"Why don't you take your walk now? You'll enjoy our little market
place."

"Yes." Such a nice day, he thought, shuffling to the window. Spring.

       *       *       *       *       *

He had enjoyed the market yesterday until he had noticed that there
were no children about. No children at all. Only adult primitives and a
few well-trained functionaries like Mrs. Tilton.

In the sky in the window he saw a rocket cutting a thin line as it left
the atmosphere.

"I'll have your bed ready for your noon nap," she said.

He turned from the window. "Noon?"

"You'll want a nice restful nap then."

He had imagined the poisoned coffee would work faster. His heart
beating, he said, "Those are peas, aren't they?"

She nodded. Her hands were busy shelling. "I hung your cane on the coat
rack," she said.

"If you don't mind, Mrs. Tilton, I'd rather not go out today. I'd very
much like to try shelling peas for you."

"Why, of course. Pull up that chair, why don't you?"

Sitting down, he reached his trembling hands into the basket and came
up with a handful of the green wonders. Mrs. Tilton moved the basket
nearer him.

"After a while I'll go up to my room," he promised. "I feel a little
tired already."

"Certainly."

He split a shell and slid his thumb under the peas. They rolled into
his hand. He counted nine. He dropped them in the bowl, then put one in
his mouth and chewed. It had a sweet taste.

"Thank you, Mrs. Tilton."

"Not at all, Mr. Coat."