The Year's Best Science Fiction 10 - [Anthology] Read online

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  The Year’s Best

  Science Fiction 10

  Ed by Judith Merril

  Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  CONTENTS

  AUTOMATIC TIGER Kit Reed

  THE CARSON EFFECT Richard Wilson

  THE SHINING ONES Arthur C. Clarke

  PACIFIST Mack Reynolds

  THE NEW ENCYCLOPAEDIST Stephen Becker

  THE LEGEND OF JOE LEE John D. MacDonald

  GAS MASK James D. Houston

  A SINISTER METAMORPHOSIS Russell Baker

  SONNY Rick Raphael

  THE LAST SECRET WEAPON OF THE THIRD REICH Josef Nesvadba

  DESCENDING Thomas M. Disch

  DECADENCE Romain Gary

  BE OF GOOD CHEER Fritz Leiber

  IT COULD BE YOU Frank Roberts

  A BENEFACTOR OF HUMANITY James T. Farrell

  SYNCHROMOCRACY Hap Cawood

  THE SEARCH Bruce Simonds

  THE PIROKIN EFFECT Larry Eisenberg

  THE TWERLIK Jack Sharkey

  A ROSE FOR ECCLESIASTES Roger Zelazny

  THE TERMINAL BEACH J. G. Ballard

  PROBLEM CHILD Arthur Porges

  THE WONDERFUL DOG SUIT Donald Hall

  THE MATHENAUTS Norman Kagan

  FAMILY PORTRAIT Morgan Kent

  THE RED EGG Jose Maria Gironella

  THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING M. E. White

  A LIVING DOLL Robert Wallace

  TRAINING TALK David R. Bunch

  A MIRACLE TOO MANY Philip H. Smith and

  Alan E. Nourse

  THE LAST LONELY MAN John Brunner

  THE MAN WHO FOUND PROTEUS Robert Rohrer

  YACHID AND YECHIDA Isaac Basbevis Singer

  SUMMATION Judith Merril

  HONORABLE MENTIONS

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  AUTOMATIC TIGER

  Kit Reed

  He got the toy for his second cousin, Randolph, a knobby-kneed boy so rich he was still in short trousers at thirteen. Born poor, Benedict had no hope of inheriting his Uncle James’s money, but he spent too much for the toy anyway. He had shriveled under his uncle’s watery diamond eyes on two other weekend visits, shrinking in oppressive, dark-paneled rooms, and he wasn’t going back to Syosset unarmed. The expensive gift for Randolph, the old man’s grandson, should assure him at least some measure of respect. But there was more to it than that. He had felt a strange, almost feted feeling growing in him from the moment he first spotted the box, solitary and proud, in the dim window of a toy store not far from the river.

  It came in a medium-sized box with an orange-and-black, illustration and the Words “ROYAL BENGAL TIGER” in orange lettering across the top. According to the description on the package, it responded to commands which the child barked into a small microphone. Benedict had seen robots and monsters something like it on television that year. “Own It With Pride,” the box commanded. Edward Benedict, removed from toys more by income than by inclination, had no idea that the tiger cost ten times as much as any of its mechanical counterparts. Had he known, he probably wouldn’t have cared. It would impress the boy, and something about the baleful eyes on the box attracted him. It cost him a month’s salary and seemed cheap at the price. After all, he told himself, it had real fur.

  He wanted more than anything to open the box and touch the fur but the clerk was watching him icily so he fell back and let the man attack it with brown paper and twine. The clerk pushed the box into his arms before he could ask to have it delivered and he took it without question, because he hated scenes. He thought about the tiger all the way home on the bus. Like any man with a toy, he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist opening it to try it out.

  His hands were trembling as he set it in a corner of his living room.

  “Just to see if it works,” he muttered. “Then I’ll wrap it for Randolph.” He removed the brown paper and turned the box so the picture of the tiger was on top. Not wanting to rush things, he fixed his dinner and ate it facing the box. After he had cleared the table he sat at a distance, studying the tiger. As shadows gathered in the room something about the drawing seemed to compel him, to draw him to the verge of something important and hold him there, suspended, and he couldn’t help feeling that he and this tiger were something more than man and toy, gift and giver, and as the picture tiger regarded him, its look grew more and more imperative, so that he got up finally and went over to the box and cut the string.

  As the sides fell away he dropped his hands, disappointed at first by the empty-looking heap of fur. The fur had a ruggy look, and for a minute he wondered if the packers at the factory had made a mistake. Then, as he poked it with his toe he heard a click and the steel frame inside the fur sprang into place and he fell back, breathless, as the creature took shape.

  It was a full-sized tiger, made from a real tiger-skin skillfully fitted to a superstructure of tempered metal so carefully made that the beast looked no less real than the steely-limbed animals Benedict had seen at the city zoo. Its eyes were of amber, ingeniously lit from behind by small electric bulbs, and Benedict noted hysterically that its whiskers were made of stiff nylon filament. It stood motionless in an aura of jungle-bottom and power, waiting for him to find the microphone and issue a command. An independent mechanism inside it lashed the long, gold-and-black striped tail. It filled half the room.

  Awed, Benedict retreated to his couch and sat watching the tiger. Shadows deepened and soon the only light in the room came from the creature’s fierce amber eyes. It stood rooted in the corner of the room, tail lashing, looking at him yellowly. As he watched it his hands worked on the couch, flexing and relaxing, and he thought of himself on the couch, the microphone that would conduct his orders, the tiger in the corner waiting, the leashed potential that charged the room. He moved ever so slightly and his foot collided with something on the floor. He picked it up and inspected it. It was the microphone. Still he sat, watching the gorgeous beast in the light cast by its. own golden eyes. At last, in the dead stillness of late night or early morning, strangely happy, he brought the microphone to his lips and breathed into it tremulously.

  The tiger stirred.

  Slowly, Edward Benedict got to his feet. Then, calling on all his resources, he brought his voice into his throat.

  “Heel,” he said.

  And hugely, magnificently, the tiger moved into place.

  “Sit,” he said, leaning shakily against the door, not quite ready to believe.

  The tiger sat. Even sitting it was as tall as he, and even now, in repose, with glossy fur lying smooth and soft against the body, every line spoke of the coiled steel within.

  He breathed into the microphone again, marveling as the tiger lifted one paw. It held the paw to its chest, looking at him, and it was so immense, so strong, so responsive that Benedict, in a burst of confidence, said, “Let’s go for a walk” and opened the door. Avoiding the elevator he opened the fire door at the end of the corridor and started down the stairs, exulting as the tiger followed him silently, flowing like water over the dingy steps.

  “Shhhhhh.” Benedict paused at the door to the street and behind him the tiger stopped. He peered out. The street was so still, so unreal that he knew it must be three or four in the morning. “Follow me,” he whispered to the tiger, and stepped out into the darkness. They walked the dark sides of the streets, with the tiger ranging behind Benedict, disappearing into the shadows when it looked as if a car might pass too close. Finally they came to the park, and once they had traveled a few yards down one of the asphalt paths, the tiger began to stretch its legs like a horse in slow
motion, moving restlessly at Benedict’s heels. He looked at it and in a rush of sorrow realized that a part of it still belonged to the jungle, that it had been in its box too long and it wanted to run.

  “Go ahead,” he said congestedly, half-convinced he would never see it again.

  With a bound the cat was off, running so fast that it came upon the park’s small artificial lake before it realized it, spanned the water in a tremendous leap and disappeared into the bushes at the far side.

  Alone, Benedict slumped on a bench, fingering the flat metal microphone. It was useless now, he was sure. He thought about the coming weekend, when he would have to appear at his uncle’s door empty-handed (“I had a toy for Randolph, Uncle James, but it got away. . . .”), about the money he had wasted (then, reflecting on the tiger, the moments they had spent together in his apartment, the vitality that had surged in the room just once for a change, he knew the money hadn’t been wasted). The tiger . . . Already burning to see it again, he picked up the microphone. Why should it come back when it was free again, and it had the whole park, the whole world to roam? Even now, despairing, he couldn’t keep himself from whispering the command.

  “Come back,” he said fervently. “Come back.” And then, “Please.”

  For a few seconds, there was nothing. Benedict strained at the darkness, trying to catch some rustle, some faint sound, but there was nothing until the great shadow was almost upon him, clearing the bench across the way in a low, flat leap and stopping, huge and silent, at his feet.

  Benedict’s voice shook. “You came back,” he said, touched.

  And the Royal Bengal Tiger, eyes glowing amber, white ruff gleaming in the pale light, put one paw on his knee.

  “You came,” Benedict said, and after a long pause he put a tentative hand on the tiger’s head. “I guess we’d better go home,” he muttered, noticing now that it was beginning to get light. “Come on—” he caught his breath at the familiarity “—Ben.”

  And he started for his rooms, almost running, rejoicing as the tiger sprang behind him in long, silken leaps.

  “We must sleep now,” he said to the tiger when they reached the apartment. Then, when he had Ben settled properly, curled nose to tail in a corner, he dialled his office and called in sick. Exhilarated, exhausted, he flung himself on the couch, not caring for once that his shoes were on the furniture, and slept.

  When he woke, it was almost time to leave for Syosset. In the corner, the tiger lay as he had left him, inert now, but still mysteriously alive, eyes glowing, tail lashing from time to time.

  “Hi,” Benedict said softly. “Hi, Ben,” he said, and then grinned as the tiger raised his head and looked at him. He had been thinking about how to get the tiger packed and ready to go, but as the great head lifted and the amber eyes glowed at him Benedict knew he would have to get something else for Randolph. This was his tiger. Moving proudly in the amber light, he began getting ready for his trip, throwing clean shirts and drawers into a suitcase, wrapping his toothbrush and razor in toilet paper and slipping them into the shoe pockets.

  “I have to go away, Ben,” he said when he was finished. “Wait, and I’ll be back Sunday night.”

  The tiger watched him intently, face framed by a silvery ruff. Benedict imagined he had hurt Ben’s feelings. “Tell you what, Ben,” he said to make him feel better, “I’ll take the microphone, and if I need you I’ll give you a call. Here’s what you do. First you go to Manhattan and take the Triboro Bridge . . .”

  The microphone fit flatly against his breast, and for reasons Benedict could not understand it changed his whole aspect.

  “Who needs a toy for Randolph?” He was already rehearsing several brave speeches he would make to Uncle James. “I have a tiger at home.”

  On the train, he beat out several people for a seat next to the window. Later, instead of taking a bus or cab to his uncle’s place, he found himself calling and asking that someone be sent to pick him up at the station.

  In his uncle’s dark-paneled study, he shook hands so briskly that he startled the old man. Randolph, knees roughened and burning pinkly, stood belligerently at one elbow.

  “I suppose you didn’t bring me anything,” he said, chin out.

  For a split second, Benedict faltered. Then the extra weight of the microphone in his pocket reminded him, “I have a tiger at home,” he murmured.

  “Huh? Wuzzat?” Randolph jabbed him in the ribs. “Come on, let’s have it.”

  With a subvocal growl, Benedict cuffed him on the ear.

  Randolph was the picture of respect from then on. It had been simple enough—Benedict just hadn’t thought of it before.

  Just before he left that Sunday night, his Uncle James pressed a sheaf of debentures into his hand.

  “You’re a fine young man, Edward,” the old man said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Fine young man.”

  Benedict grinned broadly. “Goodbye, Uncle James.” I have a tiger at home.

  Almost before his apartment door closed behind him he had taken out the microphone. He called the tiger to his feet and embraced the massive head. Then he stepped back. The tiger seemed bigger, glossier somehow, and every hair vibrated with a life of its own. Ben’s ruff was like snow. Benedict had begun to change too, and he spent a long, reflective moment in front of the mirror, studying hair that seemed to crackle with life, a jaw that jutted ever so slightly now.

  Later, when it was safe to go out, they went to the park. Benedict sat on a bench and watched his tiger run, delighting in the creature’s springy grace. Ben’s forays were shorter this time, and he kept returning to the bench to rest his chin on Benedict’s knee.

  In the first glimmer of the morning, Ben raced away once more, taking the ground in flat, racing bounds. He veered suddenly and headed for the lake in full knowledge that it was there, a shadowed streak, clearing the water in a leap that made Benedict come to his feet with a shout of joy.

  “Ben!”

  The tiger made a second splendid leap and came back to him. When Ben touched his master’s knee this time Benedict threw away his coat, yelling, and wheeled and ran with him. Benedict sprinted beside the tiger, careering down flat walks, drinking in the night. They were coursing down the last straight walk to the gate when a slight, feminine figure appeared suddenly in the path in front of them, hands outflung in fear, and as they slowed she turned to run and threw something all in the same motion, mouth open in a scream that couldn’t find voice. Something squashy hit Ben on the nose, and he shook his head and backed off. Benedict picked it up. It was a pocketbook.

  “Hey, you forgot your . . .” He started after her, but as he remembered he’d have to explain the tiger, his voice trailed off and he stopped, shoulders drooping helplessly, until Ben nudged him. “Hey, Ben,” he said, wondering. “We scared her.”

  He straightened his shoulders, grinning. “How about that.” Then, with a new bravado he opened the purse, counted out several bills. “We’ll make it look like a robbery. Then the cops’ll never believe her story about a tiger.” He placed the purse out in the open, where she would see it, and then absently pocketed the bills, making a mental note to pay the woman back some day. “Come Ben,” he said softly, “Let’s go home.”

  Spent, Benedict slept the morning through, head resting on the tiger’s silken shoulder. Ben kept watch, amber eyes unblinking, the whipping of his tail the only motion in the silent room.

  He woke well after noon, alarmed at first because he was four hours late for work. Then he caught the tiger’s eye and laughed. I have a tiger. He stretched luxuriously, yawning, and ate a slow breakfast and took his time about getting dressed. He found the debentures his uncle had given him on the dresser, figured them up and found they would realize a sizable sum.

  For some days he was content to be lazy, spending afternoons in movies and evenings in restaurants and bars, and twice he even went to the track. The rest of the time he sat and watched the tiger. As the days passe
d he went to better and better restaurants, surprised to find that head-waiters bowed deferentially and fashionable women watched him with interest—all, he was sure, because he had a tiger at home. There came a day when he was tired of commanding waiters alone, restless in his new assurance, compelled to find out how far it would take him. He had spent the last of the proceeds from the debentures and (with a guilty twinge) the money he’d taken from the woman in the park. He began reading the business section of The Times with purpose, and one day he copied down an address and picked up the microphone.

  “Wish me luck, Ben,” he whispered, and went out.

  He was back an hour later, still shaking his head, bemused. “Ben, you should have seen me. He’d never even heard of me—but he begged me to take the job—I had him cornered—I was a tiger—” he flushed modestly “—meet the second vice-president of the Pettigrew Works.”

  The tiger’s eyes flickered and grew bright.

  That Friday, Benedict brought home his first paycheck, and early the next morning it was Benedict who led the way to the park. He ran with the tiger until his eyes were swimming from the wind, and he ran with the tiger the next morning and every morning after that, and as they ran he grew in assurance. “I have a tiger at home,” he would tell himself in time of crisis, and then he would forge on to the next thing. He carried the microphone like a talisman, secure in the knowledge that he could whisper in it at any time, and call the tiger to his side. He was named a first vice-president in a matter of days.