A Mind of Its Own

A MIND OF ITS OWN

BOB EBELING

Is It Madness To Believe That A Machine Can Do Its Own Thing?

FIVE ACRES of farmland at half its market value was no surprise to Jason Boyd. He'd heard of the three previous owners' deaths, and what people were saying. But the realtor assured him that most of these local folk were from the Old Country, and had brought their superstitions with them.

Three people died. Twice crumpled and torn bodies had been found in roadside ditches. The third was discovered at the bottom of a steep hill.

Coincidence. Nothing more! Jason was a writer with easy talent in judging fact from fiction. He desired this land for seclusion, an escape from bickering neighbors and the boisterous screams and chattering of local children.

This was perfect: 15 miles from

town, a snug one-bedroom cottage, with a barn, tool shed and all of the equipment found on the premises. There wasn't much of value in tools or equipment, but there was one thing that interested him.

In the shed was an old motorcycle; "Indian" the emblem read. It was rusted and covered with dust and the webwork of generations of diligent spiders. Cleaned and repaired, it would be a perfect vehicle for trips to town. But right now the problem is to settle in and get to work on that article; deadline is only a week off, Jason thought.

Eight frustrating hours passed and the writer had accomplished no more than one page of his contribution to the public. Strange sounds of the country are nerve-wracking to a newcomer, especially at night when there isn't a living soul within five miles. The windows and doors were closed, but the sounds had an uncanny ability to penetrate anything. Even when Jason put his fingers in his ears, the soul piercing noises could still be heard.

But most upsetting were the sounds of bending metal and moans of pain and Jason could endure it no longer. He was compelled to find the source, and silence it.

His investigation led him outside, and from the front porch, the noises were even more intense, clearly emanating from the tool shed.

Inside the shed, he no longer heard the agonizing sound. Everything was in its place. Perhaps it's the door, he thought, for he had moved it when he entered.

Turning to leave, his eyes flitted over the Indian motorcycle. Something was strange. The dust and dirt were gone, and the front fork, which before was bent, now was almost straight. Someone must have been in here working on it. "That's not possible!" Jason said aloud. He had been working by a window which looked out to the tool shed. If anyone had come this way, he surely would have been visible.

Stepping closer, he wiped his finger across the fresh looking red paint on the tank. It was clean. Then he noticed the cobwebs, lacing spokes of the rear wheel to the shed wall. It couldn't have been moved. He had seen the bike during the day. Coming into a dark building from the strong light must have distorted his vision. Now, at night, there was no sudden change of light. Sure, that must be it.

Since the noises had disturbed Jason, he couldn't sleep. So why not work on the Indian? He grabbed a rag and brushed cobwebs free of the machine.

What was that? A cat purring? There was no cat in here. The sound almost seemed to come from the motorcycle. Oh, boy! My imagination is getting out of hand, he told himself.

With growing enthusiasm he threw the rag down and reached for a crescent wrench. I'll bet a dollar to a dime there's no oil in the dampers. He unscrewed a cap nut and peered into the steel tube: it was bone dry.

Searching for oil, he rummaged through the boxes that lined the bench and floor. Nope. There was, however, some reclaimed oil he kept in the trunk of his always hungry automobile. Jason returned to the house to get his keys.

Strange, it felt as though something were holding him back as he left the shed. I guess it's just a little eagerness to see if I can get the bike to run. A short while later, as Jason administered his cut-rate oil to the empty stanchion, the wheel suddenly turned sharply and struck him on the shin! "Damn it!" he said. "Almost made me spill this stuff."

He was again attempting to fill the fork, when the front wheel gyrated violently left, then right. The can dropped to the floor. He hastily picked it up, managing to save half the contents. His next move was to straddle the front wheel and hold it tightly between his legs to prevent movement. Only then was he successful in filling the fork tube.

A terrible sound, as though someone were gagging, came from the fork. Out of the tube shot oil, covering Jason with ugly droplets. He swore, but the words were lost on the night air. That's enough! his mind screamed. He strode from the shed, and slammed the wooden door behind him.

Next morning, Jason reviewed his nighttime experience. He was content to curse himself for his inadequacy as a mechanic. The passage of years had separated him from dexterity in handling tools or filling forks with oil. I must remember to get some more oil in town today, and a couple gallons of gas, he thought, as he began his chores at the typewriter.

It was well after dark the following day, and Jason was pleased with the work done since morning. He had completed his writing and had been to town for various errands. He felt strangely glad to return to the shed. It's almost as though the cycle is welcoming me, he thought. All day, while forcing his attention to work, he had fought the urge to return there.

He didn't notice the shed was clean and that all traces of last night's errors had disappeared. Only the task held his mind. He punctured the can of 50-cent oil and poured it directly into the fork tube, that almost looked like a pair of lips pursed to say thanks. The cap was secured in place and the other removed with the same ease. Strangely there was no indication it had been parked more than a day. And Jason checked everything. Bolts and nuts appeared secure. Tires were well inflated.

He opened the fuel cap and added a gallon or so. He checked the oil tank. Okay. The oil was clean. "I might as well try and fire it up," he said aloud.

Jason threw his leg over the seat and looked about, just like a child on a new rocking horse. He tested the clutch lever: plenty of play, and not too stiff. Throttle turns easily, doesn't stick. Now where are the fuel taps?

His hand found them already open; then his eyes led to the ignition switch. But before he had actually touched it, the switch moved to the On position. Jason stared at the chrome toggle arm. Damn! His imagination was at it again.

Firmly he flicked the switch to Off. Before his fingers had even left the lever, it violently flew back to On. Now just a minute! This machine can't have a mind of its own.

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He tried again, but the switch seemed determined to stay at the On position. Jason acquiesced, "Very well, I'll start you up." He moved the choke lever and prepared to run the kick lever through. Before he had thrown his weight down, the choke had moved back to half open. He moved it again to full open, only to watch in awe as it slowly crept back to its halfway position. With all the effort he could gather, he held the choke fully open and kicked the starter violently downward.

A huge belch of fire raged through the intakes and carburetors. Gasoline sprayed his pants, and flames jumped eagerly at the evaporating fuel. Jason jumped off the bike, grasping dirt from the shed floor to smother the flames. The blaze died quickly without much groveling and his trousers were not badly scorched. But flash or not, it was downright frightening! Fortunately, only Jason's nerves were worse for the experience.

"I'll see that it won't happen again," he muttered, and stepped around to the kick starter. This time he let the choke remain at its own setting. With his left foot on the start lever, he ran it through swiftly. The engine rasped a few short explosions from the exhaust pipe, then caught with a steady, rhythmic exhaust note.

Blipping the throttle, Jason rocked the machine off the stand and punched the shift lever into low. He realized only at the last moment that the shed door had been closed. Now, independently, it opened as if to free an animal from its cage!

The Indian and Jason hurtled down the worn ruts into the darkness of a lonely country road. Now Jason was clinging with the strength of a man

suddenly stricken with unholy terror! He wasn't driving the thing! Yes, he had started it and put it in gear, but that's where his command ended. His notion had been to take it easy. But as soon as the shed door opened, the throttle had twisted entirely out of his grip. He hadn't made a move to shift, but the gearbox had emitted an audible "snick" as second gear was engaged. Jason desperately leaned to the left in an attempt to turn that direction, but the front end shook violently and entered the road to the right.

Second gear was mysteriously followed by third, then fourth.

"This thing does have a mind of its own!" Jason shouted to the wind that wiped tears from his eyes. New ones quickly formed with the strange sobs that shook his shoulders. His body was buffeted by the wind of an 80-mph headlong rush into darkness.

A stretch of at least seven miles gave him a chance to collect the fragments of what had once been a sane mind, and his thoughts reconstructed events of the last two days. The bent fork now was straight, a motorcycle once dirty now was clean. He recalled sounds of bending metal and almost human cries, the rejection of the reclaimed oil, and the fire. "My God, this is a living thing!" he sobbed.

Then the road curved toward the hill that overlooked the level farmland. His mind ran with desperation. "I can fight it! No machine can conquer man!"

The next series of curves were sharp cambered shelves. Jason's arms had tensed like rods of steel trying to override the front end's will, but to no avail. It turned the way it wished.

Jason surrendered only when he saw the road disappear under the wheels, as the Indian soared majestically into space from the highway's edge. Together, man and machine plunged downward into the black expanse. The flight ended abruptly as the motorcycle smashed into the earth, hurtling Jason into the ungiving soil. He felt a split second of pain as his neck snapped; then a rock smashed his skull into a jigsaw of fatal fissures.

Jason's last living perception was of the Indian disappearing into the night, its exhaust note laughing. He had pitted his human strength against another dimension.

The realtor hoped that little attention would be given the death of the fourth owner. Only today he had shown the property to a man who was amazed at the low price. He was an odd sort, who said he had noticed a dirty old motorcycle in the tool shed, and wondered if it went with the property.

The realtor had not known of the machine's existence, but quickly replied, "No, I'm going to take it home with me." He also liked to tinker with mechanical things.