The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford and Other Classic Stories by Philip K. Dick Page B

went walking along the one main street of Cooper Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.
    He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, talking to the clerk. She was laughing, rocking back and forth.
    Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was drinking hot chocolate, with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as he slid into the seat beside her.
    “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Am I intruding?”
    “No.” She shook her head. Her eyes were large and dark. “Not at all.”
    The clerk came over. “What do you want?”
    Conger looked at the chocolate. “Same as she has.”
    Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She smiled at him. “By the way. You don’t know my name. Lora Hunt.”
    She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. “Conger is my name,” he murmured.
    “Conger? Is that your last or first name?”
    “Last or first?” He hesitated. “Last. Omar Conger.”
    “Omar?” She laughed. “That’s like the poet, Omar Khayyam.”
    “I don’t know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough—” He broke off. She was staring. He flushed. “Where I come from,” he finished.
    “The Church? Which church do you mean?”
    “The Church.” He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it gratefully. Lora was still watching him.
    “You’re an unusual person,” she said. “Bill didn’t like you, but he never likes anything different. He’s so—so prosaic. Don’t you think that when aperson gets older he should become—broadened in his outlook?”
    Conger nodded.
    “He says foreign people ought to stay where they belong, not come here. But you’re not so foreign. He means orientals; you know.”
    Conger nodded.
    The screen door opened behind them. Bill came into the room. He stared at them. “Well,” he said.
    Conger turned. “Hello.”
    “Well.” Bill sat down. “Hello, Lora.” He was looking at Conger. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
    Conger tensed. He could feel the hostility of the boy. “Something wrong with that?”
    “No. Nothing wrong with it.”
    There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. “Come on. Let’s go.”
    “Go?” She was astonished. “Why?”
    “Just go!” He grabbed her hand. “Come on! The car’s outside.”
    “Why, Bill Willet,” Lora said. “You’re jealous!”
    “Who is this guy?” Bill said. “Do you know anything about him? Look at him, his beard—”
    She flared. “So what? Just because he doesn’t drive a Packard and go to Cooper High!”
    Conger sized the boy up. He was big—big and strong. Probably he was part of some civil control organization.
    “Sorry,” Conger said. “I’ll go.”
    “What’s your business in town?” Bill asked. “What are you doing here? Why are you hanging around Lora?”
    Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. “No reason. I’ll see you later.”
    He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger’s fingers went to his belt. Half pressure, he whispered to himself. No more. Half pressure.
    He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.
    “My God—” Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn’t meant any of it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It would tingle.
    Tingle, and paralyze.
    He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man. Conger went on.
     
    As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.
    “Who is it?” a man’s voice came. Conger waited, tense.
    “Who is it?” the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A light flashed. Conger moved.
    “It’s me,”