by Roger Elwood
But there had come another person and appearance into the dream sequence of this cruel Oganta now. This was the appearance of Helen Damalis herself. Oh, he dreamed of her! That was something. It was as if it made her real. What matter that she was only the secondary element in a shaggy form that was somewhat hermaphroditic and miscegenated? She was there. That was something.
George Oneiron projected his own split person onto his two subjects. It was all very brilliant in the tensions that it set up. George was making parades of his double self through the Oganta mediums. These were sculpted and directed dreams of himself and he loved them. Later viewers would love them also. They were good. They were excellent. But they weren't pure Oganta.
Margaret Mondo was wielding a small nation. To her own trio, two males and a female, she now added the boisterous, playful, trollish female of Christopher Bullock. And to herself she added Christopher: she'd always intended to do that. It might be that the development of the Oganta (Och, they did need development; it were catastrophe if they remained as they were for always) would come through these small but accreting nations of them. These were nuclei being created, some by the earthlings, some independent of them. The Oganta seemed the starkest individuals of any species anywhere, but it was only seeming. They began to accrete into these small nations now; and the personality was in the nations, not in the individuals. Happily this is not the case with many species: necessarily it was so with the Oganta. The small nation might be their new adult form.
The Oganta of Helen Damalis had broken all her bones and mangled her body almost beyond recognition. This pleased her: but it must not go as far as her extinction or all would be lost. She must hide, but she must maintain the relationship: so she must hide in the most obvious place of all. She attracted an empty Marsala Plasma and crept inside it. Then she merged it with the standing plasma globe, her Oganta’s crystal ball of record. He would see her there mingled with himself; but he’d not know that this was her alive, so he’d not extinguish her to her death.
Bonta Chrysalis had just now (and most unfortunately) succeeded in her own experiment. She had disenchanted her frog. She had produced her prince. He stood now in his pride and royalty: he was an adult in the old line and form; he was a Rogha.
He was very proud. He was very old (the Oganta showed no ageing, whatever their years, but all the considerable years of this one were apparent in his new Rogha form). He was a royal Rogha, one of the elites, of the excellent ones. He was imposing in a way that neither Oganta nor human could ever be. He was extraordinary, he was magnificent, he was proud with the pride of the older angels. He was isolated. He was finished.
He was ridiculous. He was silly.
“I’m sorry,” Bonta Chrysalis said lamely. She was still in bondage to her own state and youth. Chrysalis-dreams never accord with reality, but how could she have been so very wrong in this?
“Sorry?” the Rogha asked in regal voice. “You should be happy, small creature, in your limited way. You’ve been the instrument. You have restored me. Something has restored me. Now I have inherited to my rightful station, that of a natural and destined prince. I look around. I find that I am more than that. I see that it is very late in the day. All the kings are dead. Now I am the king.”
In poetic justice, the oafish and unsensing Oganta almost deserved such an adult form. But they had lost it. There is a Providence.
The times had come to their end. These seminars, these field trips, cannot last for ever. It was time for the five earthlings to return to earth.
The Oganta, the new, small, but accreting nation of them, threw a bash for the five young psychologs from earth. It was rowdy, of course. It was loud almost beyond bearing. It was vulgar, it was boisterous, it was cacophonous with the whanging and whining of the stringed hitturs. It was at a mountain inn, one of those gape-wall places. It was just at frost-bite, and a light snow was sifting. The five youngish earth-folk were dressed near as barely as the Oganta.
Crudity, gluttony, guzzling and gorging. Tromping on tables and on torsos. Slurping and toothing from the common caldrons. The ancient and mystic game of leap-frog, and the wrestling and rolling of bodies.
But it was not quite the same sort of bash as the Oganta had thrown for them at their coming. Niceties had appeared. A new element was there, an element that you could hardly pin down with your two feet; but there was a difference. Come back in a thousand years and you’d be able to see the difference clearly.
The bash bashed on. Margaret and Christopher went to gather up the various records, the crystal balls (now solid and stoney, yet with clouds still drifting in them) that held the dream pageants and complexes of the curious small Oganta nation, and of their own curious human selves as seen through Oganta eyes.
George and Philip and Bonta came to them late in the day, bebashed and besotted, and the five earth psychologs were near packed for their return to earth.
“There is one missing,” Margaret said. “I wonder if it is worth picking up? Oh, I’ll do it. It’ll be inferior, but it’ll be different. Sometimes there are overlooked things to be found in artifacts that are inferior and different.”
“Which?” Bonta asked.
“The crystal ball of record of the singling Oganta,” Margaret said, “of the one unsociable Oganta who hated humans so much. But we persuaded him to let a recording ball accumulate on him. Oh, I bet it’s full of hate! I’ll get it.”
Margaret Mondo got the crystal ball of record of the Oganta who hated humans. It was small, but heavy and weird. It wasn’t entirely full of hate, not yet. There was one other slight element in it, not quite extinguished, outraged and terrified and squalling for attention.
"Margaret, get me out of here,” the stone screeched. I'm trapped in it, I tell you. I want to mend up my bones and go home to earth.”
"My, aren’t you an odd one,” Margaret exclaimed. "What a dirty little masterpiece! He made you out of scraps of Bonta and myself, so how could he have made you so ugly?”
"Margaret, it’s I, Helen Damalis! Get me out of here!”
"Why, how psychological of him! All the Oganta have an easy way with the lingos. He really named you that, did he, little hell heifer? Ah, what a shrilling little bad dream you are. One ugly clot of stone like this will show up the other globes in all their colorful beauty. Pack you away with the others, I will, and you’ll be the comedy piece of the collection.”
"Margaret, I’m Helen. Can’t you understand? Run your magic hands over my globe and get me out of here. I’m Helen, the sixth one of the party.”
"But we were always a party of five. Ah the look on you, it changes, it lowers, it explodes. There are stinking flames reeking about you, not dream clouds. More, dirty dream, more. Hate, hate, hate! Then I’ll freeze you forever in the stone in your dull hatred. Oh, what a perfect little deformity you are!”
"Margaret, I hate you,” the stone squalled, "I hate everybody. I’m alive, I tell you. I’m real. See me, hear me, smell me, get me out of here! I’m alive, I’m alive!”
"Yes, you’re a lively little abomination, but never really alive. The worlds couldn’t stand it if you were. More, uncreature, more, more if that’s possible. Bum, scream, hate! That’s it.”
Then Margaret Mondo packed the little misshapen nightmare stone away with all the intricate and interesting crystal balls.
Go see it in the Oganta Collection. Really, it’s the liveliest item of them all. Look at it there, wobble-eyed with horror and hatred, shrilling silently, pungent as brimstone, squalling against extinction, hating, outraged, absolutely petrified.
The Morning Rush or Happy Birthday Dear Leah
LEE SAYE
The pre-morning Rush Traffic report came on and Albert knew it was time to wake up. Not a bad morning, he thought, hearing the comforting rush and whish of cars going by on either side. He stretched before opening his eyes and had his good mood spoiled by cracking his knee on the dashboard. “Damn,” said Albert. It was his first word every morning
since buying the new VW. Never had he failed to hurt the same knee in the same manner.
“Not so loud, dear,” said Mary. “The kids are still asleep.” How could she look so fresh after putting in a full night at the wheel? Fresh, all right, thought Albert, but a little tense this morning.
“How come you’re still driving?” said Albert. “Hasn’t Leah taken the third shift since she got her Learner’s Permit?” Albert had already squirmed out of his pajamas and was trying to thrash his way into his trousers. Buying the VW had been a great economy move, but a family of four really needed more room. Albert allowed the thought of a van to pass through his mind to be displaced as a limousine with shades drawn ghosted by in the next lane.
“I let her sleep,” said Mary.
“Huh?” Albert came back to reality.
“I let Leah sleep because . . . because todays her birthday,” said Mary. “Besides, it was such a nice night I just drove on through. I wanted to do a little thinking anyway. It’s okay.”
“Well, you gotta be tired,” said Albert, pulling a blue bag from a slot under the dash, adjusting his trousers and slapping the bag into position. When he had finished he sealed the bag, shook it to activate the chemicals, and deposited it in the sump, “We’re low on these, you know.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “We should hit the Milano Station before time for the Noon Rush, and well draw supplies there. If you’re ready to take the wheel, I’ll get your breakfast.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Albert, and with practiced moves they exchanged seats, Albert unusually aware of her thighs as she slid over him into the shotgun seat. Albert adjusted the air flow, turned out the headlights and settled into his seat.
“Whew,” said Mary. “It feels good not to be driving. I guess I was tireder than I thought.” She adjusted her skirt and lifted a battered plastic foam container from under her knees and opened it. “Not much left but chicken salad on whole wheat and tuna on white. Which do you want?”
“Neither. Just give me some coffee if there is any. How did we run out of food so fast?”
“Leah’s birthday cake took up a lot of our ration when we passed the Berlin Station.” Did her voice catch when she said that? “We’ll have it early so it won’t count against us at Milano.” Mary took one of the vacuum bottles from inside her door panel, sloshed it to make it heat, and poured Albert a cup.
Albert smiled his thanks, marveled at his wife's good looks, and took the cup. The day was shaping up pretty well. The sun was a red sphere hanging up there above the horizon in the haze, and Albert saw it glint off the endless car tops as he crossed an overpass. He drank the coffee and felt it open his gullet and splash warmly into his stomach. The Traffic Directors chopper rushed by overhead, and Albert checked his watch and heard the radio click automatically on again.
"Prepare to power down for the Morning Rush,” said the Traffic Directors friendly voice. "Reduce speed to fifty kilometers per hour.”
Albert jockeyed the VW up to the standard one meter from the Dodge station wagon he had been following for a month, set the hand throttle and released the accelerator. Mary was leaning over the seat shaking Marc, who grunted, snarled, blinked, rubbed his eyes, and wordlessly began squirming out of his pajamas.
"Don’t wake up Leah,” said Mary to Marc, handing him a blue bag. "We have to get ready for her birthday party. We'll see if Patti can come over if they're in the area.”
"Aw,” growled Marc, obviously not up to a day of big sister sissy talk. He used the blue bag, sealed and shook it weakly, and handed it to Mary who dropped it into the sump.
"Reduce speed to twenty kilometers per hour,” said the radio, and Albert clicked the hand throttle down another notch. All over the 0700 time zone, which at the moment included parts of several continents, the motorcars slowed to a crawl.
Albert sat up with a start. In the tiny, grassy area between two intersecting expressways were three people! He had heard strange tales of land people all his life, and had even seen them from time to time, increasingly of late, in fact, but it always came as a surprise to see the scuzzy, unkempt vagabonds walking along the median or lounging about under a bridge, apparently unconcerned and obviously with no car to go to. And, thought Albert, strung out on all kinds of drugs, no doubt. Some were old, ragged, battered reprobates, but most were young and impertinent. Albert shook his head and gave silent thanks for an upbringing that had saved him from that. His father had been poor, but they had always had a decent car to live in, and anybody even mentioning the land people was asking for a clout.
"Look, Albert,” said Mary, looking beautiful, refreshing, nervous, and holding a birthday cake with eleven candles all alight.
"Oh, yeah,” said Albert. "Is she up?”
"She is now,” said Leah, looking sleepy-eyed from the rear seat. "Birthday cake for breakfast?”
"Good morning and happy birthday,” said Mary, handing the cake to Leah through the space between the seats. Leah blinked sleepily and looked at the cake in her lap. Mechanically she took the knife from her mess kit in her arm rest and started to cut.
"Blow out the candles first, dummy,” said Marc. Leah looked up as though coming awake for the second time, blew out the candles and handed the cake back over the seat.
"Leah,” said Mary, "we haven’t sung Happy Birthday and you haven’t made a wish or anything. ...”
"Mom,” said Leah, setting her jaw, "I don’t want any. . . .”
"Here,” said Albert, reaching behind his sunvisor and taking out a metal plate. "Here’s what my girl wants, I’ll bet. Her own Driver’s License, all official and everything. I radioed for it when we came through Los Angeles. They transmitted it to us that early to be effective on this date because your Learner’s record is so good, and it would have been six months before we passed another issue point.” He handed the license between the seats, but no hand took it.
"I don’t want a Driver’s License, Father,” said Leah.
“Reduce speed to five KPH,” said the radio, and Albert almost rammed the Dodge station wagon before he got the VW slowed, his hand still holding the metal license over the seat. Uncertainly, he withdrew his hand, held it shoulder high beside him and looked at Mary. They crept to the crest of a rise and twenty solid lanes of five kilometer-per-hour Traffic stretched endlessly ahead, with the Rome Cutoff intersecting directly ahead, then the U-9471, and farther on, the Trans-Eurasian Transport Way.
“What does she, uh, mean?” said Albert.
Between the great highways were tiny patches of artificial grass or concrete, sometimes only a few square centimeters, sometimes as much as maybe forty square meters. And all around were the millions and billions of smoke-belching, honking motorcars, creeping along at five kilometers per hour—the depth of the Morning Rush. Albert saw a land person on one of the concrete islands, propped on a parcel of some sort picking his nose. Unusual, thought Albert, to see only one. They usually traveled in packs, for to be alone in their world, Albert thought, was tantamount to death.
“I mean I don’t want a Driver’s License, Father,” said Leah so clearly that even a father could but comprehend. “I want to be a land person.”
“Marc, connect your headphones to School Hookup,” said Mary.
“Aw! I wanna hear this,” he whined. Mary glared, and Marc plugged into the console on the back of the front seat, as ordered.
“What?” roared Albert. “A land person? No daughter of mine is gonna be no bum!”
“Increase speed,” said the Traffic Director’s voice. “Morning Rush is over.” Albert caught a glimpse of the TD’s chopper heading back to its perch atop the police Bus several hundred kilometers ahead. There were few revolving blue lights along the way and no stopped vehicles. It had been a good Morning Rush.
"I'm eleven years old today, Daddy,” said Leah. *1 can do whatever I want to now, and what I want is to be a land person, not a car person.”
"Talk to your daughter, Mary,” said Albert, flipping the toggle marked
"legal” on the dash. "A. Gregg to Legal Unit. Advise as to legal status of eleven year old citizen.”
“Independent,” said the radio. "An eleven year old is of legal age.”
"See there,” said Leah.
"There's the Milano Station Matter Transmitter,” said Marc, obviously not on his studies. It was lucky he spotted it anyway.
"Lord,” said Mary, frantically tapping a telegraph key on her armrest. "I haven't even made a list. I'll just call for a standard order . . . the stuff we usually get. That'll have to hold us until Istanbul. Slow down Albert. We can't receive matter if we're out of line-of-sight.”
Albert noted that Leah's announcement had excited him so that his speed was up over 150 KPH, and he let up abruptly.
"Get some peanut butter,” whined Marc.
"Standby your gauges,” said Mary as she finished sending. From the Milano Station Transmitter the supplies necessary to sustain the Gregg family were converted to energy and beamed out to be reconstituted in the VW's storage tanks.
"Fuel, one-hundred,” said Albert, and Mary marked her pad.
"Food, one-hundred,” said Leah.
"And general, ninety-eight,” said Mary.
"What did they leave out?” said Marc.
"Nothing important, dear,” said Mary. "They backordered the underpants I ordered Leah. They'll be ready when we get to Istanbul.”
"Can you make it to Istanbul without your new drawers?” said Albert. "That’s the next supply station.”
"I'm not going through Istanbul, Father,” said Leah. "I am eleven years old; I want to be a land person; you can’t stop me, so stop the car and let me out.”
“Get her ,” said Albert. “ ‘Stop the car she says. I never stopped a car in my life.” Six lanes over a service chopper was changing a tire on a Fiat as it sped along at about fifty KPH.
