The Dark Side by Damon Knight (ed.) Page A

for cubes of sugar wrapped in cellophane.
    The sun had scarcely risen when Mike reached the hotel, but Greenberg had long been dressed and stood on the porch waiting impatiently. Mike was genuinely anxious for his friend. Greenberg staggered along toward the station, his eyes almost crossed with the pain of a terrific hangover.
    They stopped at a cafeteria for breakfast. Mike ordered orange juice, bacon and eggs, and coffee half-and-half. When he heard the order, Greenberg had to gag down a lump in his throat.
    “What’ll you have?” the counterman asked.
    Greenberg flushed. “Beer,” he said hoarsely. .
    “You kidding me?” Greenberg shook his head, Unable to speak. “Want anything with it? Cereal, pie, toast—”
    “Just beer.” And he forced himself to swallow it. “So help me,” he hissed at Mike, “another beer for breakfast will kill me!”
    “I know how it is,” Mike said around a mouthful of food.
    On the train they attempted to make plans. But they were faced by a phenomenon that neither had encountered before, and so they got nowhere. They walked glumly to the lake, fully aware that they would have to employ the empirical method of discarding tactics that did not work.
    “How about a boat?” Mike suggested.
    “It won’t stay in the water with me in it. And you can’t row it.”
    “Well, what’ll we do then?”
    Greenberg bit his lip and stared at the beautiful blue lake. There the gnome lived, so near to them. “Go through the woods along the shore, and holler like hell. I’ll go the opposite way. We’ll pass each other and meet at the boathouse. If the gnome comes up, yell for me.”
    “O.K.,” Mike said, not very confidently.
    The lake was quite large and they walked slowly around it, pausing often to get the proper stance for particularly emphatic shouts. But two hours later, when they stood opposite each other with the full diameter of the lake between them, Greenberg heard Mike’s hoarse voice: “Hey, gnome!”
    “Hey, gnome!” Greenberg yelled. “Come on up!”
    An hour later they crossed paths. They were tired, discouraged; and their throats burned; and only fishermen disturbed the lake’s surface.
    “The hell with this,” Mike said. “It ain’t doing any good. Let’s go back to the boathouse.”
    “What’ll we do?” Greenberg rasped. “I can’t give up!”
    They trudged back around the lake, shouting half-heartedly. At the boathouse, Greenberg had to admit that he was beaten. The boathouse owner marched threateningly toward them.
    “Why don’t you maniacs get away from here?” he barked. “What’s the idea of hollering and scaring away the fish? The guys are sore—”
    “We’re not going to holler any more,” Greenberg said. “It’s no use.”
    When they bought beer and Mike, on an impulse, hired a boat, the owner cooled off with amazing rapidity, and went off to unpack bait.
    “What did you get a boat for?” Greenberg asked. “I can’t ride in it.”
    “You’re not going to. You’re gonna walk.”
    “Around the lake again?” Greenberg cried.
    “Nope. Look, Mr. Greenberg. Maybe the gnome can’t hear us through all that water. Gnomes ain’t hardhearted. If he heard us and thought you were sorry, he’d take the curse off you in a jiffy.”
    “Maybe.” Greenberg was not convinced. “So where do I come in?”
    “The way I figure it, some way or other you push water away, but the water pushes you away just as hard. Anyhow, I hope so. If it does, you can walk on the lake.” As he spoke, Mike had been lifting large stones and dumping them on the bottom of the boat. “Give me a hand with these.”
    Any activity, however useless, was better than none, Greenberg felt. He helped Mike fill the boat until just the gunwhales were above water. Then Mike got in and shoved off.
    “Come on,” Mike said. “Try to walk on the water.”
    Greenberg hesitated. “Suppose I can’t?”
    “Nothing’ll happen to you. You can’t get wet, so you won’t