Robert Sheckley - Fishing Season

They had been living in the housing project only a week, and this was their first invitation. They arrived on the dot of eight-thirty. The Carmichaels were obviously prepared for them, for the porch light was on, the front door partially open, and the living-room a blaze of light.

'Do I look all right?' Phyllis asked at the door. 'Seams straight, hair curly?'

'You're a vision in a red hat,' her husband assured her. 'Just don't spoil the effect by leading aces.' She made a small face at him and rang the doorbell. Soft chimes sounded inside.

Mallen straightened his tie while they waited. He pulled out his breast handkerchief a microscopic fraction farther.

'They must be making gin in the subcellar,' he told his wife. 'Shall I ring again?'

'No - wait a moment' They waited, and he rang again. Again the chimes sounded.

'That's very strange,' Phyllis said a few minutes later. 'It was tonight, wasn't it?' Her husband nodded. The Carmichaels had left their windows open to the warm spring weather. Through the Venetian blinds they could see a table set for Bridge, chairs drawn up, candy dishes out, everything in readiness. But no one answered the door.

'Could they have stepped out?' Phyllis Mallen asked. Her husband walked quickly across the lawn to the driveway.

'Their car's in.' He came back and pushed the front door open farther.

'Jimmy - don't go in.'

'I'm not.' He put his head in the door. 'Hello!' Anybody home?'

Silence in the house.

'Hello!' he shouted, and listened intently. He could hear Friday-night noises next door - people talking, laughing. A car passed in the street. He listened. A board creaked somewhere in the house, then silence again.

'They wouldn't go away and leave their house open like this,' he told Phyllis. 'Something might have happened.' He stepped inside. She followed, but stood uncertainly in the living-room while he went into the kitchen. She heard him open the cellar door, call out, 'Anyone home!' And close it again. He came back to the living-room, frowned and went upstairs.

In a little while Mallen came down with a puzzled expression on his face. 'There's no one there,' he said.

'Let's get out of here.' Phyllis said, suddenly nervous in the bright, empty house. They debated leaving a note, decided against it and started down the walk.

'Shouldn't we close the front door?' Jim Mallen asked, stopping.

'What good will it do? All the windows are open.'

'Still' He went back and closed it. They walked home slowly, looking back over their shoulders at the house. Mallen half expected the Carmichaels to come running after them, shouting, 'Surprise!'

But the house remained silent.

Their home was only a block away, a brick bungalow just like two hundred others in the development. Inside, Mr Carter was making artificial trout flies on the cardtable. Working slowly and surely, his deft fingers guided the coloured threads with loving care. He was so intent on his work that he didn't hear the Mallens enter.

'We're home, Dad,* Phyllis said.

'Ah,' Mr Carter murmured. 'Look at this beauty.' He held up a finished fly. It was an almost exact replica of a hornet. The hook was cleverly concealed by overhanging yellow and black threads.

'The Carmichaels were out - we think,' Mallen said, hanging up his jacket.

'I'm going to try Old Creek in the morning,' Mr Carter said. 'Something tells me the elusive trout may be there.' Mallen grinned to himself. It was difficult talking with Phyllis' father. Nowadays he never discussed anything except fishing. The old man had retired from a highly successful business on his seventieth birthday to devote himself wholeheartedly to his favourite sport.

Now, nearing eighty, Mr Carter looked wonderful. It was amazing, Mallen thought. His skin was rosy, his eyes clear and untroubled, his pure white hair neatly combed back. He was in full possession of his senses, too - as long as you talked about fishing.

'Let;s have a snack,' Phyllis said. Regretfully she took off the red hat, smoothed out the veil and put it down on a coffee table. Mr Carter added another thread to his trout fly, examined it closely, then put it down and followed them into the kitchen.

While Phyllis made coffee, Mallen told the old man what had happened. Mr Carter's answer was typical.

'Try some fishing tomorrow and get it off your mind. Fishing, Jim, is more than a sport. Fishing is a way of life, and a philosophy as well. I like to find a quiet pool and sit on the banks of it. I figure, if there's fish anywhere, they might as well be there.'

Phyllis smiled, watching Jim twist uncomfortably on his chair. There was no stopping her father once he got started. And anything would start him.

'Consider,' Mr Carter went on, 'a young executive. Someone like yourself, Jim - dashing through a hall. Common enough? But at the end of the last long corridor is a trout stream. Consider a politician. You certainly see enough of them in Albany. Briefcase in hand, worried'

'That's strange,' Phyllis said, stopping her father in mid-flight. She was holding an unopened bottle of milk in her hand.

'Look.' Their milk came from Stannerton Dairies. The green label on this bottle read: 'Stanneron Daries'.

'And look.' She pointed. Under that, it read: 'lisensed by the neW yoRk Bord of healthh'. It looked like a clumsy imitation of the legitimate label.

'Where did you get this?' Mallen asked.

'Why, I suppose from Mr Elger's store. Could it be an advertising stunt?'

'I despise the man who would fish with a worm,' Mr Carter intoned gravely. 'A fly - a fly is a work of art. But the man who'd use a worm would rob orphans and burn churches.'

'Don't drink it,' Mallen said. 'Let's look over the rest of the food.'

There were three more counterfeited items. A candy bar which purported to be a Mello-Bite had an orange label instead of the familiar crimson. There was a jar of Amerri-can ChEEse, almost a third larger than the usual jars of that brand, and a bottle of SPArkling Watr.

'That's very odd,' Mallen said, rubbing his jaw.

'I always throw the little ones back,' Mr Carter said. 'It's not sporting to keep them, and that's part of a fisherman's code. Let them grow, let them ripen, let them gain experience. It's the old, crafty ones I want, the ones who skulk under logs, who dart away at the first sight of the angler. Those are the lads who put up a fight!'

'I'm going to take this stuff back to Elger,' Mallen said, putting the items into a paper bag. 'If you see anything else like it, save it.'

'Old Creek is the place,' Mr Carter said. 'That's where they hide out.'

Saturday morning was bright and beautiful. Mr Carter ate an early breakfast and left for Old Creek, stepping lightly as a boy, his battered fly-decked hat set at a jaunty angle.

Jim Mallen finished coffee and went over to the Carmichael house.

The car was still in the garage. The windows were still open, the Bridge table set, and every light was on, exactly as it had been the night before. It reminded Mallen of a story he had read once about a ship under full sail, with everything in order - but not a soul on board.

'I wonder if there's anyone we can call?' Phyllis asked when he returned home. 'I'm sure there's something wrong.'

'Sure. But who?' They were strangers in the project. They had a nodding acquaintance with three or four families, but no idea who might know the Carmichaels.

The problem was settled by the ringing of the telephone.

'If it's anyone from around here,' Jim said as Phyllis answered it, 'ask them.'

'Hello?'

'Hello. I don't believe you know me. I'm Marian Carpenter, from down the block. I was just wondering - has my husband dropped over there?' The metallic telephone voice managed to convey worry, fear.