Free The Shift Key by John Brunner Page A

far, not even they themselves had any clear idea of how it had arisen.
    In between, on stools at the bar, were people with no axe to grind one way or another, but problems of their own to broodabout. They included Tom Fidger, trying to live down the fact that he had driven his bus on the wrong side of the road; Roy Jacksett, who had sent people items they hadn’t ordered; Phil Flaken, whose wife Mary – so he said – was crying non-stop and making their home unlivable; and his old friend and neighbour Bill Blocket and Bill’s brother Jerry whom he’d asked along to show there were no hard feelings; and Moira O’Pheale, who was still extracting a succession of free drinks from men who wanted to find out
exactly
what Miss Knabbe had tried to do when she got into bed with her … not that they were learning much.
    Behind the bar, alert for trouble, hovered Colin Jeggs, the landlord, and his fat wife Rosie, who was long past the stage where one could call her merely plump. Now and then they conferred in quiet tones. So long, though, as they could keep the rate of drinking down, and the Vikes and Pecklow factions separated by a neutral zone … If only a few more uninvolved customers would show up!
    Colin brightened as the door swung wide and just the kind of folk he had been hoping for came in: Jenny, the young reporter, and the temporary doctor. He positively beamed as they sat down at the one remaining empty table in the dead centre of the room and lapsed into deep and private conversation.
    He’d taken the precaution of phoning Yvonne Book, to warn her that Joe might have his evening’s telly-watching interrupted, but with luck it wouldn’t happen after all.
    Pleasantly tired after his day’s work, Stick headed for the entrance to the Marriage. He was coming to like his job more and more, even though he got precious little money for it and still less thanks. People didn’t seem to realize what a chore it was on a windy afternoon to gather leaves into neat heaps around the green, then wheel them off by barrowloads to rot for compost. Someone had even asked him – yesterday? theday before? – why he didn’t pile them on a bonfire, and he’d had to spend half an hour explaining why the slow fire of nature was better for the land.
    It had done no good. Around here they still burned their stubble in the autumn, regardless of how many hedges caught alight, how many cars collided when their drivers were blinded by the drifting smoke …
    Time, though, for a jar in here, his usual evening pint of local cider. And he could afford to take a flagon home to Sheila, too, which they would share when the kids were safe in bed. He didn’t hold with giving children alcohol.
    Thinking of children: how
could
he have imagined that Hilary and Sam were boys? He must have dreamed it!
    ‘Evening all!’ he called as he walked in.
    And checked in mid-stride.
    Everybody seemed to have stopped talking simultaneously save for two people at a table in the middle of the room. He knew one by sight – the fair and pretty girl who worked for the local paper – but the man with her …? Oh, of course. The locum standing in for Dr Tripkin.
    Stick had his own opinions about modern medicine, but he believed in everybody doing their own thing. He wouldn’t hold that against the guy.
    ‘Usual, please, Colin!’ he said breezily.
    When the golden pint was handed to him, he looked around for somebody to chat with. But the ranks had closed. Backs were turned whichever way he looked, except at the doctor and reporter’s table, where there was the one remaining vacant chair.
    ‘Mind if I join you?’ he said.
    ‘Ah …!’
    ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to play gooseberry! I just want a chance to rest my legs while I sink this lot.’ He kicked the chair around and settled on it with a sigh of gratitude, adding as he gulped his drink, ‘Cheers …! I’m Stick, by the way. Itry to keep the village clean. You wouldn’t believe how much junk