Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no
satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and
now it had me fighting for my life in ...
THE LITTLE RED BAG
By JERRY SOHL
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle, folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.
I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see.
I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader.
Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to.
So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained.
It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me how they hurt.
Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing.
Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else.
I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything.
I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did.
Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe al