YOUNG MAN FROM ELSEWHEN
By SYLVIA JACOBS
One thing the old man was sure
of—there were far fewer things in
heaven and earth than were dreamt
of in his philosophy—till today.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A redcap was pushing a wheelchair through the station, under a ceiling so lofty that the place seemed empty, though hundreds of people were milling around, preparing to board the early trains. The old man in the wheelchair had a blanket over his knees, in spite of July heat in Los Angeles. Beside him walked a smartly dressed middle-aged woman, slimmed by diet and with her steel-gray hair looking as if she'd just stepped out of a beauty parlor. She kept up a steady stream of admonitions.
"Now, Papa," she was saying, "don't forget to take your medicine at lunchtime. Keep your chair out of the aisle—people have to walk there. And whatever you do, don't go to the club car for a drink—you know it's bad for your arthritis. The doctor said not more than three cigars a day. And if Edna isn't at the station to meet you, just wait, do you hear? It's a long drive from her house and she may be late."
"Hell's fire!" the old man protested. "I was taking trains before you were born! How my boy Will stands—"
He broke off to ogle a Mexican girl, a ripe sixteen, who was walking in the same direction, ahead of them.