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

He had been, then, in New York, and therefore North American, correspondent for an overseas wire service, European Press. A celebrated case at the time was that of Zeb Speed, a convicted killer who had spent a dozen years in the death house at Utah’s state prison while he prepared appeal after appeal based on his careful research in the prison library. Finally Speed’s resources appeared to be exhausted and the governor set the next day, a Friday, for Speed’s execution.

  But Speed spent Thursday addressing last-ditch appeals to the Vatican, the White House, to every senator and to each of the Supreme Court justices. There were new developments every hour. Grey was trying frantically to keep up with the story, swallowing aspirin and black coffee as he revised and re-topped, when Paris sent him a service message requesting a forward-looking story under Friday’s date.

  This request reached Grey at six p.m. He was in New York, covering the story from the machines of the American press services, making an occasional long-distance telephone call, and drawing on his knowledge of Utah’s death house, seen a year ago when he had covered a riot at the prison.

  He knew the kind of story Paris wanted: a simple, straightforward piece with “today” in the first sentence. It might read:

  SALT LAKE CITY, Feb. 4 (EP)—Zeb Speed, his last appeal denied, was due to choose whether he would die today by the hangman’s noose or by a squad of riflemen aiming at a tag pinned over his heart.

  Speed, part-Indian convicted killer of 12 whose claim that his trial was unconstitutional, bolstered by appeals researched in the prison library . . .

  That was what Euro wanted. The only trouble was that midnight, European time, being six p.m. New York time, was only four p.m. Utah time. There were Still eight hours of Thursday remaining for Zeb Speed. Anything Andy Grey wrote as a Friday story before midnight Utah time (eight a.m., Paris time) would be science fiction.

  Not being a writer in that genre, he sent Euro a service message which read: “Regret fast-breaking developments in Utah, where it only four p.m. make tomorrow-dated story out of question. Propose cabling spot developments, leaving rewrite desk do forward-throwing piece as feel warranted.”

  It was exactly this sense of caution which got Andrew Grey fired from his European Press job (Speed’s last appeal was denied and he was executed on Friday, choosing the firing squad) and hired by The New York Times.

  * * * *

  Now Andy Grey sat hunched over his portion of the Times’ national news desk, trying to write, as responsibly as he could, a story far more difficult. A copy boy dropped the latest fragment of the story in front of him. He already had more facts than he needed. There were bits and pieces from all over.

  * * * *

  When you hear the tone, it will be exactly 10:26 a.m., Eastern Standard Time.

  Douglas Roche tried to walk casually from the door of the bank to the waist-high tables where the deposit and withdrawal slips were kept.

  He’d never done anything like this before. He took a deep breath, wiped his sweating palms on the sides of his coat and picked up a pen. He printed on the back of a withdrawal slip: “Give me $10,000 in medium size bills. Don’t do anything crazy, this bottle is full of nitro.”

  Roche was thirty-four years old, married, with three kids. He had a job that paid him $127 a week before deductions. He also had a mortgage, a second mortgage, a car, a deepfreeze, a new TV, a power lawn mower, a revolving charge account with three-figure balance, new storm windows and a bill three months overdue at the high-priced grocery store that delivered and gave credit.

  He had two dollars and eighteen cents and a subway token in his pocket and his wife had just gone to the hospital to have an operation. They had let her in without payment in advance only because he promised to bring $200 at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. He didn’t have hospitalization; that had been one of the things he’d economized on. He’d also heard that surgeons charged up to a thousand dollars for a laminectomy. He hadn’t yet discussed fees with doctors. Oh, yes, there was the bookmaker. Roche owed him fifty bucks.

  Doug Roche was no bank robber. He was just a man driven to the wall. But now he was a bank robber.

  He got into the shortest line; only one person was ahead of him at the teller’s window. But the person was a woman with a wad of books and papers in her hand which she handed to the teller one by one: a deposit in the checking account; a payment on the personal loan; a deposit in the savings account; a money order to be cashed; a dollar in the Christmas Club. Finally she was finished.

  Doug Roche thought for the last time of walking away. But there was nowhere to walk to. He shoved the note across the counter and opened his fist to show the little bottle containing a colorless liquid. It was only water, of course.

  The teller looked up from the note and Roche made a small threatening motion with the bottle. At the same time he began to regret that he had demanded so much. Two thousand dollars would have got him out of his immediate troubles. Ten thousand might get him a bullet in the back from some hidden guard.

  But the teller said: “Sure. Don’t worry; I won’t do anything foolish.” He began taking bills out of the drawer and stuffing them in a big manila envelope. Roche saw the wrappers on the wads of bills: $1,000; $5,000; $3,000; $50,000.

  Almost hysterically, he said in a strangled voice: “That’s enough!”

  “One more,” the teller said, and shoved in a thin stack whose wrapper said $100,000.

  Roche tried to keep his voice steady as he said: “Okay. Don’t ring the alarm till I’m out the door or I throw the bottle right at you.

  “Don’t worry,” the teller said again. Then he said: “God bless you.”

  Roche, perspiring, so nervous that he nearly dropped the manila envelope, turned and walked toward the door. It took all his determination not to run. He went out into the shopping crowds, turned a corner and walked fast. He went into a department store and out the exit on the far end and took the subway out to Queens. But nobody chased him.

  He got home and locked the door and pulled down the the shades. He put the manila envelope on the kitchen table and got a can of beer from the refrigerator and peeled it open. He took a big swig and lit a cigarette and counted his money.

  . . . two hundred and twenty-three thousand six hundred and fifty dollars. $223,650.

  By the time he had finished a second can of beer he had counted the money five times. It always came to the same amount. Just under a quarter of a million dollars. He felt numb.

  After a while he took a ten-dollar bill from one of the stacks and put the rest in a paper bag, which he hid under the sink among other paper bags containing potatoes and onions.

  He went out intending to buy a bottle of whiskey and get drunk. Instead he came back with a take-out order from a Chinese restaurant and ate his first full meal in days.

  Later he took out the money and counted it again. Minus the ten dollars, it came to $223,640. He began to laugh and couldn’t stop himself. For a long time he laughed hysterically, lying on the bed and muffling his face in the pillow.

  Finally he got up, washed, shaved and put on a clean shirt. He took $200, put the rest back under the sink and went to see his wife in the hospital.

  * * * *

  When you hear the tone, it will be exactly 2:17 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.

  Freida Barring—some of the older women in the office called her Theda Bara in fun, as she was anything but a glamor girl—went hesitantly to the head bookkeeper’s cubicle. She was nervous because the expense money she wanted to collect was a whole $3.65 and the man who’d authorized it had quit a month ago. He had forgotten to sign a petty-cash slip. It would be Freida’s word against the company’s.

  What happened was that the assistant sales manager, the man who’d quit, had asked her to take a cab downtown and pick up some papers he needed right away. He’d told her to have the cab wait and it had waited what seemed to Freida a long time.

  It was a complicated story to have to explain and she dreaded the ordeal she fa
ced with the head bookkeeper of Schlarf & Son, a man notoriously reluctant to part with a nickel.

  But today the head bookkeeper, a gray-haired man in his fifties, was almost jovial. “Ah, Miss Barring,” he said. “What can we do for you? Sit down, sit down.”

  Freida sat on the edge of the chair and said: “It’s about a petty-cash slip. I had to take a cab for Mr. Westfall— this was before he left—and it’s $3.65. That includes a 35-cent tip and I laid it out, but if you don’t think I should have tipped the driver, then it’s only $3.30. I mean Mr. Westfall didn’t specifically say to tip him and maybe Schlarf & Son don’t authorize—”

  The head bookkeeper held up a hand. “The tip is authorized, Miss Barring, of course. Here.” He opened a drawer and lifted the lid of a metal box filled with bills and change. “Three dollars and sixty-five cents even. Just sign this slip.”

  Freida signed and took the money. She got up to go, tremendously relieved. This was wonderful. Now she could pay the electric-light bill before next payday, by which time they would have shut off the electricity.

  “Don’t go, Miss Barring,” the head bookkeeper said. “There’s another little matter we can settle as long as you’re here.” He smiled in a sad-kind way which filled Freida with dread. Were they going to fire her for her audacity in demanding the cab fare? Had they found out about the half dozen boxes of paper clips she’d taken home to make that stupid mobile hanging from the ceiling of her kitchenette?

  But the head bookkeeper was saying: “. . . your pension plan. We find you’ve overpaid your share by $34 a year. And since you’ve been with Schlarf & Son a trifle over 12 years, we owe you $414.80. Plus interest, of course.”

  He began counting out the money in twenties and tens. It made quite a pile on the desk.

  “I hope you don’t mind taking it in cash, Miss Barring,” he said. “You see, our check-writing machine has broken down.”

  In a daze, Freida took the money and put it in her bag.

  “And now, Miss Barring, Mr. Schlarf has asked me if you’ll show that you forgive him by taking the rest of the day off.”

  Freida stammered: “But it’s only two-thirty . ..”

  “To be sure. But Mr. Schlarf thought you might have some shopping to do. A new hat, maybe. You have a beautiful day for it.”

  * * * *

  When you hear the tone, it will be exactly 3:49 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.

  Billy Boyce, aged six, was going shopping. He had saved up seventy-four cents to buy his mother a birthday present. His sister, aged fourteen, gave him twenty-six cents more, which made it an even dollar, and said she’d pay the sales tax.

  They were on Fifth Avenue and had walked past many fascinating windows. There was a five-and-ten around the corner.

  “Do I hafta go to the five-and-ten?” Billy asked. “Do I hafta?”

  “You’ve only got a dollar,” his big sister said. “Where do you want to go—to Tiffany’s?”

  “Sure, Tiffany’s,” Billy said. It sounded nice.

  Eunice, his sister, thought why not? She was going to be fifteen soon and in a few years she’d be eighteen and maybe by then somebody would have proposed. She’d never been to Tiffany’s or anywhere like it. It would be a good idea to see what they had, just in case. She could always tell the clerk that she was just humoring her little brother.

  “As a special favor to you, Billy,” Eunice said, “we’ll go to Tiffany’s. But don’t be disappointed if you don’t have enough money. They’re expensive in there.”

  “Okay,” Billy said, “but I got a whole dollar.”

  Such nice things they had! Rings and necklaces and brooches (Eunice called them broaches) and earrings and pendants and lockets and especially rings and necklaces.

  “I want that one for mommy,” Billy said, pointing to a glittering diamond necklace resting in a velvet box. There was a discreet price tag: $6,760 plus F. T.

  Eunice smiled at the clerk to show she was humoring her little brother. The clerk smiled back. “It is nice, isn’t it?” he said. “We’re having a special on that one today.”

  She could imagine. Even at 10% off it would be . . . 6,760 minus 676 equaled whatever it equaled, plus 10% back on for the federal tax.

  “Do you have anything a little . . . you know, not quite so gaudy?” she asked, to show him that it was a question of taste, not price.

  “This is, if I may say so, not gaudy,” the clerk said. “And if the young man really wants it for his mother...”

  “I want it,” Billy said. “I got a whole dollar.”

  The clerk smiled and Eunice was mortified.

  “That’s not quite enough,” the clerk said. “You see, there’s the ten percent federal tax and the four percent sales tax. I’m afraid this necklace comes to one dollar and fourteen cents.”

  “But I only got a dollar,” Billy said. Eunice was glaring at the clerk.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “the young man would care to have us spread the payments over three months—say forty cents down and forty cents a month for the next two months? That would include the credit charge.”

  “Don’t kid him, mister,” Eunice said. “He’s just a little boy.” She was so embarrassed. “Don’t you have a nice...sweater clasp or something?”

  “No, miss,” the clerk said, smiling. “We have nothing like that in my section. And I am anxious to make this sale. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay the federal tax myself. That leaves it at a dollar four. Do you have four cents you might lend him?”

  Eunice was a woman of the world, as she had often told herself. There are times when you must seize the opportunity or call the bluff. She took a nickel out of her pocket-book and put it on the counter. “There,” she said. “We’ll take it, Mr. Smarty Pants. Give him your dollar, Billy.”

  Billy dutifully took the crumpled bill out of his pocket and put it on the counter. “Could you wrap it up nice?” he asked.

  “It will be the nicest package you ever took home, Billy,” the clerk said.

  “My mother’s birthday’s tomorrow but we’re giving her her presents tonight,” Billy said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the clerk said. “That’s really the best way.”

  * * * *

  When you hear the tone, it will be exactly 4:03 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.

  Orion Newcastle, who had fought hard for his party’s top nomination and then, heartbreakingly, had seen it go to a much less capable man, hurried to the office of that man, now the President of the United States.

  Vice-President Newcastle, who had not attended the secret National Security Council meeting that morning, had no idea what the urgent summons to him could mean.

  Orion Newcastle had missed other N.S.C. meetings, sometimes by his own choice. After all, his role there was usually limited to telling a few stories to the early-comers before the President arrived and, later, replying, “Certainly, Mr. President” whenever the other man said “Don’t you agree, Orion?”

  Since the convention he had always agreed. After all, there was the President’s second term to be considered. Orion had no wish to be dumped, as Roosevelt had dumped Henry Wallace for Harry Truman. Orion sincerely hoped he bore no ill will toward the President. It certainly was his devout wish that the President should live to complete two full terms. But no one could read the future and man was mortal, as had been confirmed several times in Newcastle’s own lifetime. Thus it was wise not to jeopardize one’s position by thought or deed. And the Honorable Orion Newcastle, Vice-President of the United States, walked a little faster toward the President’s office.

  When he got there, he found not only the President but the Secretary of State, the Chief Justice, the Speaker of the House, the top leadership of both parties in Congress, the diplomatic correspondents of the Washington newspapers and the chief Washington correspondents of the nation’s other leading papers and of the world’s ‘press services.

  Orion knew all these men by their first names. They had drunk each
other’s liquor and told each other bawdy stories. One or two of them, he knew, were responsible for spreading the so-called Orion Stories which had become a national fad, and which held him up to ridicule because of the Down-East accent which he had never lost. But all of them, it seemed to him, were now looking at him with new, and in some cases unprecedented, respect. He could not imagine what was in their minds.

  So he said, grinning and broadening his accent slightly: “Well, Mr. President and gentlemen—Mr. President and other gentlemen, I should say—what solemn occasion is this?”

  But none of them laughed at his quip. The others looked to the President, who said finally, after gazing out the window and then at each of them in turn:

  “Gentlemen, in accordance with the provisions of the Constitution of the United States of America, I am resigning in favor of the Vice-President.”