by C. L. Moore
Firmly he pressed the bell.
The room was changed. Mirrors still lined it, but not—not as he remembered. They were more than mirrors now.
He had no time to analyze the change, for a motion stirred before him.
"Clarissa—" he said. And then, in the one brief instant of awareness that remained to him, he knew at last how wrong he had been.
He had forgotten that four dimensions are not the outermost limits of conceivable scope. Cabell had unwittingly led him astray: there are dimensions in which a cube may have many more than six sides. Clarissa's dimension—Extensions are possible in dimensions not entirely connected with space—or rather, space is merely a medium through which these extensions may be made. And because humans live upon a three-dimensional planet, and because all planets in this continuum are three-dimensional, no psychic tesseract is possible—except by extensions.
That is, a collection of chromosomes and genes, arranged on earth and here conceived, cannot in themselves form the matrix for a superman. Nor can a battery give more than its destined voltage. But if there are three, six, a dozen batteries of similar size, and if they are connected in series—
Until they are connected, until the linkage is complete, each is an individual. Each has its limitations. There are gropings, guided fumblings through the dark, while those in charge seek to help the scattered organism in fulfilling itself. And therefore the human mind can comprehend the existence of a superbeing up to the point that the connection is made and the batteries become one unit, of enormous potential power.
On earth there was Clarissa and her nominal aunt—who could not be comprehended at all.
On a remote planet in Cygnae Taurus, there was a Clarissa too, but her name there was something like Ezandora, and her mentor was a remote and cryptic being who was accepted by the populace as a godling.
On Seven Million Folk Twenty Eight of Center Galaxy there was Jándav, who carried with her a small crystal through which her guidance came.
In atmospheres of oxygen and halogen, in lands ringed with the shaking blaze of crusted stars—beyond the power of our telescopes—beneath water, and in places of cold and darkness and void, the matrix repeated itself, and by the psychic and utterly unimaginable power and science of homo superior, the biological cycle of a race more than human ran and completed itself and began again. Not entirely spontaneously, at the same time, in many worlds, the pattern that was Clarissa was conceived and grew. The batteries strengthened.
Or to use Cabell's allegory, the Clarissa Pattern impinged one facet upon earth, but it was not one facet out of a possible six—but one out of a possible infinity of facets. Upon each face of that unimaginable geometric shape, a form of Clarissa moved and had independent being, and gradually developed. Learned and was taught. Reached out toward the center of the geometric shape that was—or one day would be—the complete Clarissa. One day, when the last mirror-facet sent inward to the center its matured reflection of the whole, when the many Clarissas, so to speak, clasped hands with themselves and fused into perfection.
Thus far we can follow. But not after the separate units become the complete and tremendous being toward which the immaturity of Clarissa on so many worlds was growing. After that, the destiny of homo superior has no common touching point with the understanding of homo sapiens. We knew them as children. And they passed. They put away childish things.
"Clarissa—" he said.
Then he paused, standing motionless in silence, looking across that dark threshold into that mirrory dimness, seeing—what he saw. It was dark on the landing. The staircases went up and down, shadowy and still. There was stasis here, and no movement anywhere in the quiet air. This was power beyond the need for expression of power.
He turned and went slowly down the stairs. The fear and pain and gnawing uneasiness that had troubled him for so long were gone now. Outside, on the curb, he lit a cigarette, hailed a taxi, and considered his next movements.
A cab swung in. Further along the street, the liquid, shining blackness of the East River glissaded smoothly down to the Sound. The rumble of an El train came from the other direction.
"Where to, sergeant?" the driver asked.
"Downtown," Lessing said. "Where's a good floorshow?"
He relaxed pleasantly on the cushions, his mind quite free from strain or worry now.
This time the memory block was complete. He would go on living out his cycle, complacent and happy as any human ever is, enjoying life to his capacity for enjoyment, using the toys of earth with profound satisfaction.
"Nightclub?" the driver said. "The new Cabana's good—"
Lessing nodded. "O.K. The Cabana." He leaned back, luxuriously inhaling smoke. It was the children's hour.
The End
HOUSING PROBLEM
Charm - October 1944
with Henry Kuttner
(as by Henry Kuttner)
Jacqueline said it was a canary, but I contended that there were a couple of lovebirds in the covered cage. One canary could never make that much fuss. Besides, I liked to think of crusty old Mr. Henchard keeping lovebirds; it was so completely inappropriate. But whatever our roomer kept in that cage by his window, he shielded it—or them—jealously from prying eyes. All we had to go by were the noises.
And they weren't too simple to figure out. From under the cretonne cloth came shufflings, rustlings, occasional faint and inexplicable pops, and once or twice a tiny thump that made the whole hidden cage shake on its redwood pedestal-stand. Mr. Henchard must have known that we were curious. But all he said when Jackie remarked that birds were nice to have around, was "Claptrap! Leave that cage alone, d'ya hear?"
That made us a little mad. We're not snoopers, and after that brush-off, we coldly refused to even look at the shrouded cretonne shape. We didn't want to lose Mr. Henchard, either. Roomers were surprisingly hard to get. Our little house was on the coast highway; the town was a couple of dozen homes, a grocery, a liquor store, the post office and Terry's restaurant. That was about all. Every morning Jackie and I hopped the bus and rode in to the factory, an hour away. By the time we got home, we were pretty tired. We couldn't get any household help—war jobs paid a lot better—so we both pitched in and cleaned. As for cooking, we were Terry's best customers.
The wages were good, but before the war we'd run up too many debts, so we needed extra dough. And that's why we rented a room to Mr. Henchard. Off the beaten track with transportation difficult, and with the coast dimout every night, it wasn't too easy to get a roomer. Mr. Henchard looked like a natural. He was, we figured, too old to get into mischief.
One day he wandered in, paid a deposit; presently he showed up with a huge Gladstone and a square canvas grip with leather handles. He was a creaking little old man with a bristling tonsure of stiff hair and a face like Popeye's father, only more human. He wasn't sour; he was just crusty. I had a feeling he'd spent most of his life in furnished rooms, minding his own business and puffing innumerable cigarettes through a long black holder. But he wasn't one of those lonely old men you could safely feel sorry for—far from it! He wasn't poor and he was completely self-sufficient. We loved him. I called him grandpa once, in an outburst of affection, and my skin blistered at the resultant remarks.
Some people are born under lucky stars. Mr. Henchard was like that. He was always finding money in the street. The few times we shot craps or played poker, he made passes and held straights without even trying. No question of sharp dealing—he was just lucky.
I remember the time we were all going down the long wooden stairway that leads from the cliff-top to the beach. Mr. Henchard kicked at a pretty big rock that was on one of the steps. The stone bounced down a little way, and then went right through one of the treads. The wood was completely rotten. We felt fairly certain that if Mr. Henchard, who was leading, had stepped on that rotten section, the whole thing would have collapsed.
And then there was the time I was riding up with him in the bus. The motor stopp
ed a few minutes after we'd boarded the bus; the driver pulled over. A car was coming toward us along the highway and, as we stopped, one of its front tires blew out. It skidded into the ditch. If we hadn't stopped when we did, there would have been a head-on collision. Not a soul was hurt.
Mr. Henchard wasn't lonely; he went out by day, I think, and at night he sat in his room near the window most of the time. We knocked, of course, before coming in to clean, and sometimes he'd say, "Wait a minute." There'd be a hasty rustling and the sound of that cretonne cover going on his bird cage. We wondered what sort of bird he had, and theorized on the possibility of a phoenix. The creature never sang. It made noises. Soft, odd, not-always-birdlike noises. By the time we got home from work, Mr. Henchard was always in his room. He stayed there while we cleaned. On weekends, he never went out.
As for the cage .
One night Mr. Henchard came out, stuffing a cigarette into his holder, and looked us over.
"Mph," said Mr. Henchard. "Listen, I've got some property to 'tend to up north, and I'll be away for a week or so. I'll still pay the rent."
"Oh, well," Jackie said. "We can—"
"Claptrap," he growled. "It's my room. I'll keep it if I like. How about that, hey?"
We agreed, and he smoked half his cigarette in one gasp. "Mm-m. Well, look here, now. Always before I've had my own car. So I've taken my bird cage with me. This time I've got to travel on the bus, so I can't take it. You've been pretty nice—not peepers or pryers. You got sense. I'm going to leave my bird cage here, but don't you touch that cover!"
"The canary—" Jackie gulped. "It'll starve."
"Canary, hmm?" Mr. Henchard said, fixing her with a beady, wicked eye. "Never you mind. I left plenty o' food and water. You just keep your hands off. Clean my room when it needs it, if you want, but don't you dare touch the bird cage. What do you say?"
"Okay with us," I said.
"Well, you mind what I say," he snapped.
That next night, when we got home, Mr. Henchard was gone. We went into his room and there was a note pinned to the cretonne cover. It said, "Mind, now!" Inside the cage something went rustle-whirr. And then there was a faint pop.
"Hell with it," I said. "Want the shower first?"
"Yes," Jackie said.
Whirr-r went the cage. But it wasn't wings. Thump!
The next night I said, "Maybe he left enough food, but I bet the water's getting low."
"Eddie!" Jackie remarked.
"All right, I'm curious. But I don't like the idea of birds dying of thirst, either."
"Mr. Henchard said—"
"All right, again. Let's go down to Terry's and see what the lamb chop situation is."
The next night—Oh, well. We lifted the cretonne. I still think we were less curious than worried. Jackie said she once knew somebody who used to beat his canary.
"We'll find the poor beast cowering in chains," she remarked flicking her dust-cloth at the windowsill, behind the cage. I turned off the vacuum. Whish—trot-trot-trot went something under the cretonne.
"Yeah—" I said. "Listen, Jackie. Mr. Henchard's all right, but he's a crackpot. That bird or birds may be thirsty now. I'm going to take a look."
"No. Uh—yes. We both will, Eddie. We'll split the responsibility." I reached for the cover, and Jackie ducked under my arm and put her hand over mine.
Then we lifted a corner of the cloth. Something had been rustling around inside, but the instant we touched the cretonne, the sound stopped. I meant to take only one swift glance. My hand continued to lift the cover, though. I could see my arm moving and I couldn't stop it. I was too busy looking.
Inside the cage was a—well, a little house. It seemed complete in every detail. A tiny house painted white, with green shutters—ornamental, not meant to close—for the cottage was strictly modern. It was the sort of comfortable, well-built house you see all the time in the suburbs. The tiny windows had chintz curtains; they were lighted up, on the ground floor. The moment we lifted the cloth, each window suddenly blacked out. The lights didn't go off, but shades snapped down with an irritated jerk. It happened fast. Neither of us saw who or what pulled down those shades.
I let go of the cover and stepped back, pulling Jackie with me.
"A d-doll house, Eddie!"
"With dolls in it?"
I stared past her at the hooded cage. "Could you, maybe, do you think, perhaps, train a canary to pull down shades?"
"Oh, my! Eddie, listen."
Faint sounds were coming from the cage. Rustles, and an almost inaudible pop. Then a scraping.
I went over and took the cretonne cloth clear off. This time I was ready; I watched the windows. But the shades flicked down as I blinked.
Jackie touched my arm and pointed. On the sloping roof was a miniature brick chimney; a wisp of pale smoke was rising from it. The smoke kept coming up, but it was so thin I couldn't smell it.
"The c-canaries are c-cooking," Jackie gurgled.
We stood there for a while, expecting almost anything. If a little green man had popped out of the front door and offered us three wishes, we shouldn't have been much surprised. Only nothing happened.
There wasn't a sound, now, from the wee house in the bird cage.
And the blinds were down. I could see that the whole affair was a masterpiece of detail. The little front porch had a tiny mat on it. There was a doorbell, too.
Most cages have removable bottoms. This one didn't. Resin stains and dull gray metal showed where soldering had been done. The door was soldered shut, too. I could put my forefinger between the bars, but my thumb was too thick.
"It's a nice little cottage, isn't it?" Jackie said, her voice quavering. "They must be such little guys—"
"Guys?"
"Birds. Eddie, who lives in that house?"
"Well," I said. I took out my automatic pencil, gently inserted it between the bars of the cage, and poked at an open window, where the shade snapped up. From within the house something like the needle-beam of a miniature flashlight shot into my eye, blinding me with its brilliance. As I grunted and jerked back, I heard a window slam and the shade come down again.
"Did you see what happened?"
"No, your head was in the way. But—"
As we looked, the lights went out. Only the thin smoke curling from the chimney indicated that anything was going on.
"Mr. Henchard's a mad scientist," Jackie muttered. "He shrinks people."
"Not without an atom-smasher," I said. "Every mad scientist's got to have an atom-smasher to make artificial lightning."
I put my pencil between the bars again. I aimed carefully, pressed the point against the doorbell, and rang. A thin shrilling was heard.
The shade at one of the windows by the door was twitched aside hastily, and something probably looked at me. I don't know. I wasn't quick enough to see it. The shade fell back in place, and there was no more movement. I rang the bell till I got tired of it. Then I stopped.
"I could take the cage apart," I said.
"Oh no! Mr. Henchard—"
"Well," I said, "when he comes back, I'm going to ask him what the hell. He can't keep pixies. It isn't in the lease."
"He doesn't have a lease," Jackie countered.
I examined the little house in the bird cage. No sound, no movement. Smoke coming from the chimney.
After all, we had no right to break into the cage. Housebreaking? I had visions of a little green man with wings flourishing a night stick, arresting me for burglary. Did pixies have cops? What sort of crimes ...
I put the cover back on the cage. After a while, vague noises emerged. Scrape. Thump. Rustle, rustle, rustle. Pop. And an unbirdlike trilling that broke off short.
"Oh, my," Jackie said. "Let's go away quick."
We went right to bed. I dreamed of a horde of little green guys in Mack Sennett cop uniforms, dancing on a bilious rainbow and singing gaily.
The alarm clock woke me. I showered, shaved and dressed, thinking of the s
ame thing Jackie was thinking of. As we put on our coats, I met her eyes and said, "Shall we?"
"Yes. Oh, golly, Eddie! D-do you suppose they'll be leaving for work, too?"
"What sort of work?" I inquired angrily. "Painting buttercups?"
There wasn't a sound from beneath the cretonne when we tiptoed into Mr. Henchard's room. Morning sunlight blazed through the window. I jerked the cover off. There was the house. One of the blinds was up; all the rest were tightly firm. I put my head close to the cage and stared through the bars into the open window, where scraps of chintz curtains were blowing in the breeze.
I saw a great big eye looking back at me.
This time Jackie was certain I'd got my mortal wound. The breath went out of her with a whoosh as I caromed back, yelling about a horrible blood-shot eye that wasn't human. We clutched each other for a while and then I looked again.
"Oh," I said, rather faintly. "It's a mirror."
"A mirror?" she gasped.
"Yeah, a big one, on the opposite wall. That's all I can see. I can't get close enough to the window."
"Look on the porch," Jackie said.
I looked. There was a milk bottle standing by the door—you can guess the size of it. It was purple. Beside it was a folded postage stamp.
"Purple milk?" I said.
"From a purple cow. Or else the bottle's colored. Eddie, is that a newspaper?"
It was. I strained my eyes to read the headlines. EXTRA was splashed redly across the sheet, in huge letters nearly a sixteenth of an inch high. EXTRA—FOTZPA MOVES ON TUR! That was all we could make out.
I put the cretonne gently back over the cage. We went down to Terry's for breakfast while we waited for the bus.
When we rode home that night, we knew what our first job would be. We let ourselves into the house, discovered that Mr. Henchard hadn't come back yet, switched on the light in his room, and listened to the noise from the bird cage.
