Star Science Fiction 6 - [Anthology] Read online

  “Maybe she was really ill.”

  “With the kind of service you’ve got to put up with here, she said, I’d lose years playing nursemaid. Farewell to social life. Farewell to lectures and studies. And as sick and delicate as I am, she said. The allergies. Just shut up at home. That’s what you wanted, I know, she said. There was no way of stopping her.”

  “But if she was really sick ...”

  “She said, and how do you know it is your child? She said it out of sheer meanness. There was absolutely no reason for supposing that it was not my child. I guess she was much too selfish to plunge into the sea of trouble, to go through all the fluster and gripes it takes to have a lover.”

  “Couldn’t it be that she was too nice?”

  “Why are you trying to defend her?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I remember, I remember: She hustled in her dressing gown and kicked up the kind of smell nasty ladies have on them in the morning. You know. Mixed up perfumes and powders and greases and sleep and some coffee in it . . .”

  “You too go in for smells?”

  “Are you trying to be funny? It is strange. I never thought of that. Anyway, what would you have told her?”

  “I’d let her go to hell. I mean, I suppose, you should have comforted her, encouraged her, told her it would be a fine baby.”

  “Oh, come on now.”

  “What did you tell her then?”

  “I felt so disgusted by that time—hapless creature, I thought—so I merely said: You’re your own boss, darling. It’s your problem. You solve it.”

  “And she?”

  “I never saw anybody turning so green. I suppose she expected me to fall on my knees and beg her not to do it. But I simply didn’t feel like it.”

  “And so she got it fixed?”

  “I didn’t see her until after it was all over. She felt lousy and she hated me for it. I guess it was all my fault.”

  “What do you mean, your fault, if the same thing hap­pened to Will just about at the same time?”

  “Wasn’t it his fault? Didn’t he act simply beastly?”

  “How could it have been his fault, if it happened to you too?”

  “Whose fault is it then?”

  “I guess fault isn’t the right word here”

  “Well. Now you are getting nearer to where I want you to get. Because surely it was not your fault—”

  “Go on with your story.”

  “I am nearly at the end. We did not see much of each other after that. And we didn’t see anybody else. Only once I accepted an invitation for lunch, at the Wilcoxes at Winnetka. Martha said she was glad to go to the Wil­coxes. It was a Sunday, and so foggy you couldn’t see your own hand at an arm’s length, and we took the Outer Drive.”

  “You were living on the South Side?”

  “Yes. And just after the underpass at 53rd Street . .. a crazy car, passing another one in that fog. He came up against us, at full speed. I saw him coming when he was practically crashing into us. All three cars, smashed. Four people, badly cut up. Only Martha was dead.”

  “And you felt that you killed her.”

  “I certainly did. And I still don’t understand how. Look, it was she or I. if the car had swerved to the right—as it should—I would have been killed; she wounded. But it swerved to the left. God knows how. I think, when she saw what was going on, she herself grabbed the wheel and pushed it over. Or perhaps I did it, I really don’t know.”

  “Just like the fight between Will and me. And that mo­ment of indecision.”

  “Indecision on things long since decided.”

  “It was he or I. And I don’t know, still don’t know, how it was that it was he ...”

  “And his left side cut up and my right, in the process.”

  “That is the way it had to be. Wait a moment: Can you explain to me why?”

  “Karma. It all was there. Nothing to be done about it. And one half and one half made one.”

  “You know, I think it does something to your mind, the mere fact of having been born in the Orient.”

  “Sure does. Just look at Harry Luce.”

  * * * *

  “Thank you, Doctor Rosselli, Martha is getting much much better. And I am so glad that you think the material at our disposal is shaping up so promisingly.”

  “I think Mr. McDermott’s statement will be very useful. After all, he has known Martha for a long long time and seen her practically until the day of the ... accident.”

  “And the maid is ready to testify.”

  “That’ll be helpful too.”

  “I, myself, have prepared a little statement, avvocato. I don’t know whether it will be of any use to you. Just some thoughts I had on the whole thing—the way I see it. And so I put them down. Here, at any rate, avvocato, here it is.”

  * * * *

  TWIN’S WAIL

  You are trying Martha Egan Sailor for murder while everyone says she is such a good girl, but the more they talk about her and the more she talks about herself, the wronger her case gets, and she’s just a plain murderess.

  Why didn’t any one try me for murder? I killed Martha in a crash and took to the deed all the ingredients my brother used but plus one: the grace of God.

  If it is a grace to live. Cain lived, but Abel died. There was Cain in Will, much Cain, but some Abel, for he died. There was Abel in me, much able Abel, but some Cain; for I live.

  I was quite a regular fellow, standing on my own two feet, with a regular career and a successful one; I thought that was my merit and a bit of luck. With a marriage that miscarried: I thought that was my fault and a bit of disgrace.

  It stopped there and made sense: a closed system of information.

  Will too was a typical fellow, standing on his own two feet, with a typical career that made sense absolute, and a marriage that failed and ended in violence, an old and self-sufficient story.

  Another closed system of information, and if you stop there, his murderess is a murderess.

  But extrapolate the facts and interpolate the systems, and differentiate and integrate, which is not enough: who knows how much to interpolate, to extegrate and com­munate to get the whole, complex, infiniplex truth to the nth potential. Somehow no value can be assigned to Guilt in these equations. It whittles down, infinitesimal.

  A wretched wrecked girl pulling a trigger is such a trivial factor in this factura. Incogent to think you’ll bring down the crushing structure of incognita by sawing away at that thin leg of my cognita cognate. Let her alone. Whatever her part of how do you call it, Guilt, in the context of her own closed system, she was certainly ex­piated. The fact is that what happened here had to happen and did happen because it happened another time far away. Our wills are tied through the ages across spaces, and what I did, or had done to, my right hand was but a reflex of what he did with, or had done to, his left. It always was like that between us and was all written down. (Exhibit A, attached.)

  That knocks out the girl, altogether, her only fault be­ing that her name is Martha. Calling all Marthas, suing all Marthas, if you wish.

  Blind chance has once more shown its foresight in permitting us to reason this out at Villa Igea, an insane asylum providing undoubtedly the most suitable setting for suchlike revelations. I am putting them down because, whereas it is of course possible that we are freaks of na­ture, half-men, conditioned by one another, it is, on the other hand, equally possible that our experience, though extreme, is yet more or less typical, and that men proud of their achievements or crushed by their guilt are equally presumptuous, for thinking they are free—they are not. With kindest regards, very sincerely yours.

  * * * *

  “Oh, Phil, dear, the news is a little bit too good.”

  “It never can be too good, Martha. Why, what did he say, Doctor Comedger?”

  “He said I was fine. General condition, excellent. Blood count, satisfactory. Weight, satisfactory. But, Phil, brace yourself for the good new
s ... “

  “Well, what could it be?”

  “Phil, it’s twins.”

  <>

  * * * *

  Tom Purdom wishes to teach us a few lessons in phylogenetics: Change is not always for the better. Progress does not always bring joy. These are harsh and iconoclastic rules, but Purdom has the evidence to prove them; he presents it in this story for the strong-stomached-

  THE HOLY GRAIL

  by Tom Purdom

  Morgan Valentine had a wife. She lay on the floor with blood running from her mouth.

  “You should see a psycher, Morgan.”

  “You talk too much.”

  Flesh bruises beautifully, he thought. And, sick with himself, he turned his back on her. All the way home from his coffee house he had watched the women on the street and his hands had sweated and squeezed the handles of his cycle. The sensual delight of revenge.

  “Teresa, you tell anybody else I have a second job and I never will get to a psycher. This time you only got what you deserve.”

  Her skirt rustled. In his mind he saw her curl against the wall. She was dark-eyed and frail.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He kept his back to her, afraid of the little thrill the sight of her blood would give him. He covered his face with his hands.

  “I wish I didn’t have to do this to you. You know I try not to do it to you.”

  “I understand. You’d better go to work, Morgan. It’s getting late.”

  “You’re so good.”

  “Please go, Morgan.”

  He threw his poncho over his head. At the door he stopped. “I’ll bring you something home. Is there anything special you’d like?”

  “You don’t have to bring me anything.”

  “I want to.”

  “Then you pick it out yourself.”

  He always felt calm after beating her. Soon he would feel guilty but now he didn’t have any emotions. He twisted two dials on the service panel and the elevator door opened. In the basement of the residential tower a selector picked out his cycle and put it in another elevator. When he got to the main door his cycle was waiting for him.

  “Good evening,” the door said. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  He got on his cycle and pedalled slowly through the Philadelphia streets. He hardly noticed the traffic. He wanted to be someplace where he wasn’t.

  I’m halfway there, he thought. In another two years I’ll have enough money saved to bribe a psycher’s assistant. If I don’t lose this job. If I don’t kill somebody first. I’m glad I have Teresa. She’s a saint. If it weren’t for her I would be attacking strange women. She’s kept me out of jail.

  He passed Teresa’s favorite coffee house, a big, noisy place that catered to the arty crowd. Teresa still thought she would have been a great painter if she hadn’t married him. He wouldn’t let her spend his money on art lessons. Well, she still wrote poetry and that seemed to satisfy her.

  The streets were full of cycles and people in colorful, eccentric clothes. People talking, people running here and there, people driven by deep, powerful forces of which they were aware but which they could not resist.

  Would there ever be enough psychers? His case was urgent and yet he couldn’t even get it diagnosed. After he killed someone they might get him a psycher, but he would probably spend twenty years in prison first.

  Oh, they graduated two hundred psychers every year. Every young man who liked money wanted to be a psycher. But it was a difficult profession, only a small minority had the latent talent and every cure took years. And there were two hundred million people in the country, every one hungry for psychic wholeness.

  Every psycher was the center of a ruthless competition. His services went to those who acquired power. To those who had money and influence.

  He cycled through the Carnival section and parked beside the Huxley Heaven. The early evening man looked bored and ready to leave.

  “How was your shift?” Morgan asked.

  “Dull. A lot of repeaters and casuals. No kills. I wish I had your shift. You’ve got a good two hours.”

  “I haven’t been doing too well lately, myself.”

  “It’s these Humanists and Aesthetes. And the religious people. Everybody’s down on us.”

  “Except the customers. It’s still a good living.”

  “I can’t complain. Enjoy yourself, Morgan.”

  “Pleasure.”

  He stood in the pastel booth.Happiness, the sign above him flickered. Happiness. In the center of the Carnival the giant Pinwheel flamed and soared. Crowds wandered from amusement to amusement while flashing lights and taped voices serenaded their subconscious minds. It was the age of leisure, the era of the four-hour working day. The crowds had come every night for seven years.

  He was a plump young man whose glasses made his eyes look metallic. He waited for his victims.

  A girl stopped at the booth.

  “Pleasure, Morgan.”

  “Pleasure, Laura.”

  She was small and full bodied and her skin was a lovely chocolate brown. And she lived only for the huxley. She came here three times a week at least. One of his first kills.

  She leaned against the booth and stared at the sky.

  “It’s a hot night. I’d like the huxley tonight.”

  “We have an empty room. It’s still early.”

  “I’ve run through my week’s pay.”

  “That’s too bad. When’s your next payday?”

  “On Thursday. Could you lend me the payment? I’ll pay you back on Thursday.”

  He thought. She had to come back again. She couldn’t stay away. And all the salesmen cooperated on debtors, so she couldn’t avoid paying by coming back during someone else’s shift. Except maybe Wilson’s. Wilson had seemed vaguely unfriendly lately.

  “I’ll lend it to you for a little interest.”

  She wiggled nervously. “You’re married, Morgan.”

  He whipped her with his eyes. She had once used expensive perfume but now she smelled of plain soap. The process of destruction had begun. Soon he and the huxley would own her.

  “I like variety,” he said. “Every healthy man likes variety.”

  “I’ve never done it for money or to get favors. That’s all wrong. I’ve only done it for fun.”

  “Don’t you think I’d be fun?”

  “Sure. But you understand me. You should do it just for fun.”

  He wouldn’t have to hurt her. The act itself would torture her.

  “I like you, Laura. I would enjoy you very much.”

  “I could give you extra money.”

  “I don’t need money. I need a nice healthy girl.”

  She stared at the sky.

  “Happiness,” he said. “Huxley happiness.”

  “Let me use the huxley? It’s been two days. This night makes my skin tingle.”

  “I’ll see you by the Pinwheel when I get off work.”

  “All right.”

  He led her inside and gave her the tranquilizing pill. She put the headset on herself. He twisted the dials on the wall. Her eyes closed. Electric impulses began to play directly on the pleasure centers of her brain. He watched her face relax into a smile. What was she seeing? Visions? Dreams? Or was she just experiencing the pure happiness the advertising promised?

  He had never tried the huxley himself. He didn’t dare. If he ever experienced that pure joy, that total release from all conflict, he would probably cease to pursue the vision he had of himself. The temptation had to be resisted. Every night the huxley crouched at his back, a huge, tiger-eating flower baited with the sweetness of joy.

  He left the brown plastic room and went back to the booth. A few minutes later a swagger boy leaned on the counter. He was tall and thin and he wore the standard uniform, an old fashioned tweed jacket and baggy slacks.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening.”

  After
two years in the booth, he knew the different types. Some were casuals. They could put on the huxley, enjoy it once and never come back. Others, like Laura, betrayed their deep anxieties and he knew from their first conversation that they would come back until they had no happiness but the huxley. Swagger boys were hard to judge. Sometimes their sleepy, superior manner concealed what he was hunting for; usually they just annoyed him and left.