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make it even easier, any horse whose
name includes the letters C, R, L. Perfectly simple.”
    “Tall corn?”
said the driver, a light in his eye. “You mean a horse named, like, Tall Corn?”
    “Absolutely,” said
Mr. Johnson. “Here’s your money.”
    “Tall Corn,” said
the driver. “Thank you, mister.”
    “Goodbye,” said
Mr. Johnson.
    He was on his
own corner and went straight up to his apartment. He let himself in and called “Hello?”
and Mrs. Johnson answered from the kitchen, “Hello, dear, aren’t you early?”
    “Took a taxi
home,” Mr. Johnson said. “I remembered the cheesecake, too. What’s for dinner?”
    Mrs. Johnson
came out of the kitchen and kissed him; she was a comfortable woman, and
smiling as Mr. Johnson smiled. “Hard day?” she asked.
    “Not very,” said
Mr. Johnson, hanging his coat in the closet. “How about you?
    “So-so,” she
said. She stood in the kitchen doorway while he settled into his easy chair and
took off his good shoes and took out the paper he had bought that morning. “Here
and there,” she said.
    “I didn’t do so
badly,” Mr. Johnson said. “Couple young people.”
    “Fine,” she
said. “I had a little nap this afternoon, took it easy most of the day. Went
into a department store this morning and accused the woman next to me of
shoplifting, and had the store detective pick her up. Sent three dogs to the
pound— you know, the usual thing. Oh, and listen,” she added, remembering.
    “What?” asked
Mr. Johnson.
    “Well,” she
said, “I got onto a bus and asked the driver for a transfer, and when he helped
someone else first I said that he was impertinent, and quarreled with him. And
then I said why wasn’t he in the army, and I said it loud enough for everyone
to hear, and I took his number and I turned in a complaint. Probably got him
fired.”
    “Fine,” said Mr.
Johnson. “But you do look tired. Want to change over tomorrow?”
    “I would like to,” she said. “I could
do with a change.”
    “Right,” said
Mr. Johnson. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Veal cutlet.”
    “Had it for
lunch,” said Mr. Johnson.
     
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A Touch of Strange - Theodore Sturgeon
     
    Theodore Sturgeon (1918-1985) published
a story in our first issue and a tale of his appeared posthumously in our
fiftieth anniversary issue. In between, about a dozen of his beautiful,
well-crafted tales about love, alienation, and syzygy graced our pages. For our
thirtieth anniversary, we surveyed our readers and Mr. Sturgeon’s “And Now the
News...” proved to be one of our most popular stories, but for this anthology,
I felt “A Touch of Strange” was a better fit.
     
    He
left his clothes in the car and slipped down to
the beach.
    Moonrise, she’d said.
    He glanced at
the eastern horizon and was informed of nothing. It was a night to drink the
very airglow, and the stars lay lightless like scattered talc on the
background.
    “Moonrise,” he
muttered.
    Easy enough for
her. Moonrise was something, in her cosmos, that one simply knew about. He’d
had to look it up. You don’t realize—certainly she’d never realize—how
hard it is, when you don’t know anything about it, to find out exactly what
time moonrise is supposed to be, at the dark of the moon. He still wasn’t
positive, so he’d come early, and would wait.
    He shuffled down
to the whispering water, finding it with ears and toes. “Woo.” Catch m’ death,
he thought. But it never occurred to him to keep her waiting. It wasn’t in
her to understand human frailties.
    He glanced once
again at the sky, then waded in and gave himself to the sea. It was chilly, but
by the time he had taken ten of the fine strong strokes which had first
attracted her, he felt wonderful. He thought, oh well, by the time I’ve learned
to breathe under water, it should be no trick at all to find moonrise without
an almanac.
    He struck out
silently for blackened and broken teeth