Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

didn’t proclaim itself sodium bicarbonate again⁠—there was just no lettering at all, only blue background. He turned it over several times.

Right there died his tentative plan of eventually sharing his secret with some friend who knew more than himself about motors (he hadn’t decided anyway who that would be). It would be just too silly to approach anyone he knew with a more-than-wild story and featureless blue box.

For a moment, he came very close to dropping the box between the wide-set bars of the street drain and pouring the pink gas back in the tank. It had hit him, in a way for the first time, just how crazy this all was, how jarringly implausible even on such hypotheses as practical jokes, secret product perhaps military, or mad inventor (except himself).

For how the devil should the stuff get into his bathroom disguised as bicarb? That circumstance seemed beyond imagination. Green flames⁠ ⁠… vanishing letters⁠ ⁠… “torque-twisters, translators”⁠ ⁠… a box that talked⁠ ⁠…

At that point, simple faith came to Ernie’s rescue: in the same bathroom, he had seen the green flame; it had burned his fingers.

Quickly he dipped up a little of the white powder on the edge of a fifty-cent piece, dumped it in the gas tank without quibbling as to quantity, rapped the coin on the edge of the opening, closed and pocketed the blue box, and picked up the spurting hose and jabbed it into the round hole.

His heart was pounding and his breath was coming fast. That had taken real effort. So he was slow in hearing the footsteps behind him.

His neighbor’s gate was open and Mr. Jones stood open-mouthed a few feet behind him, all ready for his day’s work as streetcar motorman and wearing the dark blue uniform that always made him look for a moment unpleasantly like a policeman.

Ernie swung the hose around, flipping his thumb over the end to make a spray, and nonchalantly began to water the little rectangle of lawn between sidewalk and curb.

The first things he watered were the bottoms of Mr. Jones’s pants legs.

Mr. Jones voiced no complaint. He backed off several steps, stared intently at Ernie, rather palely, it seemed to the latter. Then he turned and made off for the streetcar tracks at a very fast shuffle, shaking his feet a little now and then and glancing back several times over his shoulder without slowing down.

Ernie felt lightheaded. He decided there was enough water in the gas tank, capped it, and momentarily continued to water the lawn.

“Ernie! Come on in and have breakfast!”

He heeded his sister’s call, telling himself it would be a good idea “to give the stuff time to mix” before testing the engine.

He had divined her question and was ready with an answer.

“I’ve just found out that we’re supposed to water our lawns only before seven in the morning or after seven in the evenings. It’s the law.”

It was the day for their monthly drive out to Wheaton to visit Uncle Fabius. On the whole, Ernie was glad his sister was in the car when he turned the key in the starter⁠—it forced him to be calm and collected, though he didn’t feel exactly right about exposing her to the danger of being blown up without first explaining to her the risk. But the motor started right up and began purring powerfully. Ernie’s sister commented on it favorably.

Then she went on to ask, “Did you remember to buy gas yesterday?”

“No,” he said without thinking; then, realizing his mistake, quickly added, “I’ll buy some in Wheaton. There’s enough to get us there.”

“You didn’t think so yesterday,” she objected. “You said the tank was nearly empty.”

“I was wrong. Look, the gauge shows it’s half full.”

“But then how⁠ ⁠… Ernie, didn’t you once tell me the gauge doesn’t work?”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Look, there’s a station. Why don’t you buy gas now?”

“No, I’ll wait for Wheaton⁠—I know a place there I can get it cheaper,” he insisted, rather lamely, he feared.

His sister looked at him steadily. He settled his head between his shoulders and concentrated on driving. His feeling of excitement was spoiled, but a few minutes of silence brought it back. He thought of the blur of green flashes inside the purring motor. If the passing drivers only knew!

Uncle Fabius, retired perhaps a few years too early and opinionated, was a trial, but he did know something about the automobile industry. Ernie chose a moment when his sister was out of the room to ask if he’d ever heard of a white powder that would turn water into gasoline or some usable fuel.

“Who’s been getting at you?” Uncle Fabius demanded sharply, to Ernie’s surprise and embarrassment. “That’s one of the oldest swindles. They always tell this story about how this man had a white powder or something and demonstrated it once with a pail of water and then disappeared. You’re supposed to believe that Detroit or the big oil companies got rid of him. It’s just another of those malicious legends, concocted⁠—by Russia, I imagine⁠—to weaken your faith in American Industry, like the everlasting battery or the razor blade that never gets dull. You’re looking pale, Ernie⁠—don’t tell me you’ve already put money in this white powder? I suppose someone’s approached you with a proposition, though?”

With considerable difficulty, Ernie convinced his uncle that he had “just heard the story from a friend.”

“In that case,” Uncle Fabius opined, “you can be sure some fuel-powder swindler has been getting at him. When you see him⁠—and be sure to make that soon⁠—tell him from me that⁠—” and Uncle Fabius began an impassioned ninety-minute defense of big business, small business, prosperity, America, money, know-how, and a number of other institutions that defended pretty easily, so that the situation was wholly normal when Ernie’s sister returned.

As soon as the car pulled away from the curb on their way back to Chicago, she reminded him about the gas.

“Oh, I’ve already done that,” he assured her. “Made a special trip so I wouldn’t forget. It was while you were out of the