There's nothing peculiar about a load of
potatoes going to market—but we knew something
was wrong when the spuds suddenly came to life!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It started with a load of potatoes.
Joe Loftus and I were driving the big semi-trailer back from Montaukthat night after delivering a load of fishing gear to one of the bigresorts out there and wondering if we'd be able to pick up a truckloadof anything on the way back to increase the take when Joe spotted thissign.
It was one of those standard hand-painted Return Load signs, so wepulled in and I climbed down from the cab while Joe remained behind thewheel, ready to roll if they had nothing for us.
The sun was going down in a bank of heavy black clouds. I figured itmight rain before the trip was over. I went over to the door of thefarm house and knocked. Pretty soon I heard footsteps inside and a manchewing a mouthful of his supper opened the door for me. He needed ashave and he had tired, defeated eyes.
"What's the load, friend," I said. "I saw the sign."
"Potatoes." He named a price.
"Well," I said in surprise. "That's cheap."
"Tell you the truth, bub. They got blasted."
"Blasted? What do you mean?"
"Well, now, it's hard to say. Something fell and hit the storage barn."
"Fell?"
"Fell, bub. A bitty explosion. But nothing much. Maybe seventy percentof the load is good. The bad ones will be in sacks in the middle. Won'teven know it. What do you say?"
That season potatoes were going good in the wholesale markets aroundthe city. I figured Joe Loftus and I could clear a neat profit even ifthirty percent of the load was waste. So I agreed to the deal and forthe next hour or so used the muscles of my back along with Joe, thefarmer, and the farmer's two grown boys to load the sacks of potatoesinto the empty van of our big semi-trailer. When he had finished I paidoff the farmer and his wife gave us each a cup of coffee. Then Joe andI climbed into the cab and we rolled.
"Hear something?" Joe asked about half an hour later.
It was dark by then and traffic on the Montauk Highway was light."Potato sacks shifting around," I said. "We didn't pack 'em too good, Iguess."
The noise came again. Maybe it didn't really sound like sacks shiftingaround in the van. I don't know. I was in a hurry to get home. It hadbeen a long day.
I was driving. Joe squirmed around and peered through the rear windowof the cab but could see nothing. "Stop the truck," he said.
"What for?"
"'Cause I don't like that noise. Something's going on back there."
"Sure," I said, grinning, "our farmer's a shrewdie. His boys are backthere and they're eating up all the potatoes."
"Very funny. Just stop the damn truck."
I turned my head and looked at Joe's face. He was scared. Maybe hehad one of those premonitions you read about. I shrugged and found awidened stretch of road shoulder and pulled the big semi up. Joe hoppedout of the cab and went around back. After a while I heard the reardoors swing open. Then they closed again and Joe came back. I hadn'theard him stomping around inside the van or anything.
"Sacks shifting around like I said?" I asked.
Joe's face was white in the dash light. He shook his head.
"Harry," he said. That's my name. Harry. "Harry, we was tricked."
"What do you mean, tricked?" I was getting a little annoyed with Joe.He stood half i