THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS
BY ANDREW FETLER
He heard children's voices, but there couldn't
be any children—not in that terrible place!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"In the middle of the night," the man said to the landlady over asoft-boiled egg and a slice of toast. "Right under my window." Heleaned forward. "You know how children talk to themselves?"
"Was it the same voice you heard the first two nights?" Mrs. Tiltonasked.
"I'm not sure now about the first night. Might have been another voicethat first night."
"And now it was a child?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Tilton rose to get the coffee. "Are you quite sure?"
"You don't think I'm imagining?"
"We have no children," she said.
"A neighbor's, no doubt."
"There isn't a child in the whole village, Mr. Coat."
"That's what puzzles me. Don't you think we ought to report it?"
"I'll get your coffee," she said, and went into the kitchen.
"I didn't actually see the child," he called to her. "But I'm sure Iheard the voice."
The woman brought the cup of coffee; she had poured it in the kitchen.The first two mornings, he remembered, she had set the coffee pot onthe table.
"Aren't you having any?" he asked.
"I had mine, thank you. Will you want anything else?"
He could see past her into the kitchen—the corner of a largewood-burning stove and a row of brass pots. The floor was flagstonedand a hand pump stood over a sink.
"Do you really grow your own strawberries?" he asked.
"Yes. Would you like some?"
"Very much."
Mrs. Tilton went to get the berries. She had forgotten to serve creamwith the coffee. The coffee had a bitter taste and a faint smell ofiodine. But he was not used to natural coffee. And without cream. Hetook another sip and slowly stretched his stiff legs. In the window hesaw lilac bushes in bloom.
"Picked this morning," Mrs. Tilton said, setting a bowl of strawberriesbefore him.
"Oh, thank you." He sniffed at the berries. "They smell of earth," hesaid, smiling at her.
"You might like a walk after breakfast," Mrs. Tilton suggested. "Thenyou can have a restful nap at noon."
"Good idea," he said. "Excuse me, but the coffee seems bitter."
Mrs. Tilton looked at the old man as if she did not understand.
"I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," he apologized, "but I take cream with mycoffee."
"I'm sorry, I forgot."
She brought a small cream pitcher.
The old man turned the pitcher in his hand. It was lopsided and made ofinferior clay "Do you make your own pottery, too?"
"Such as it is."
"Charming." He set down the pitcher and leaned back with a sigh. "Youknow, I pretended I did not want a rest, but I could hardly wait to seethe country again."
"You weren't born in the city?"
"I was born in a village no larger than this. Of course it's all gonenow, swallowed up by the city. But in those days it was an hour'sheliride from the city. I remember a thing or two."
Mrs. Tilton watched him drink the coffee.
"Not many people left who remember those days," he said. "Forinstance, did you know that unadjustables—they called them criminalsthen—were actually electrocuted? Strapped down to a horrible chair—"
"Don't you want the strawberries, Mr. Coat?"
He looked down a