Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no
satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and
now it had me fighting for my life in ...
THE LITTLE RED BAG
By JERRY SOHL
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I made the discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle, folded and put it beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see the San Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So I returned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffed gray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seats before me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.
I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Now she had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle and calf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out a window where there was nothing to see.
I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, a togetherness-type-magazine reader.
Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing I should be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angeles for, and not wanting to.