boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

492 Anthony Boucher
has a lot of influence even though it’s hard to separate cause and effect. For instance,
do Chicagoans think that way because of the Tribune, or is there a Tribune because
Chicagoans are like that?”
From there on we got practically philosophical. He had a lot of strange ideas, that
old boy. Mostly about truth. How truth was relative, which there’s nothing new in
that idea, though he dressed it up fancy. And something about truth and spheres of
influence—how a newspaper, for instance, aimed at printing The Truth, which there
is no such thing as, but actually tried, if it was honest, to print the truth (lower case)
for its own sphere of influence. Outside the radius of its circulation, truth might,
for another editor, be something quite else again. And then he said, to himself like,
“I’d like to hear sometime how that wish came out,” which didn’t mean anything
but sort of ended that discussion.
It was then I brought up my own little problem, and that’s the only reason I’ve
bothered to write all this down, though there’s no telling what a crackpot blacksmith
like that meant.
It’s hard to get a clear picture of him in my mind now while I’m writing this.
He’s tall and thin and he has a great beak of a nose. But what I can’t remember is
does he have a beard? I’d almost swear he does, and still—
Anyway, I told him about Grover, naming no names, and asked him what he
thought of that set-up. He liked to speculate; OK, here was a nice ripe subject.
He thought a little and said, “Is it Grover?” I guess some detail in my description
of the plant and stuff tipped it off. I didn’t answer, but he went on: “Think over what
I’ve said, my boy. When you get to Grover and see what the situation is, remember
what we’ve talked about tonight. Then you’ll have your answer.”
This prating hasn’t any place in my diary. I know that. I feel like a dope writing it
down. But there’s a certain curious compulsion about it. Not so much because I feel
that this is going to help explain whatever is going on in Grover, but because I’ve got
this eerie sensation that that old man is like nothing else I’ve met in all my life.
It’s funny. I keep thinking of my Welsh grandmother and the stories she used to
tell me when I was so high. It’s twenty years since I’ve thought of those.
Grover, June 25.
Nothing to record today but long, tiresome driving over deserted highways. I
wonder what gas rationing has done to the sales of Burma Shave.
The roads were noticeably more populated as I got nearer Grover, even though
it was by then pretty late. Maybe they’ve abolished that rationing, too.
Too late to do any checking now; I’ll get to work tomorrow, with my usual
routine of dropping in at the local paper first to gather a picture.
Grover, June 26.
Two of the oddest things in my life with the FBI have happened today. One, the
minor one, is that I’ve somehow mislaid my diary, which is why this entry is written on
note paper. The other, and what has really got me worried, is that I’ve mislaid my job.
Just that. I haven’t the slightest idea why I am in Grover.
It’s a nice little town. Small and cozy and like a thousand others, only maybe
even more pleasant. It’s going great guns now, of course, reveling, like everyplace