by Clarke, Neil
But she did. She sat on the edge and let her dress ride high, proving if he dared look that she was indeed wearing underwear after all.
“This club you were going to…?”
“Yes, George?”
“What else happened there? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Jealousy sounded the same on every earth. But she did her best to deflect his emotions, laughing for a moment or two before quietly asking, “Did your Mary ever enjoy sex?”
Despite himself, George smiled.
“Well, I guess that’s something she and I have in common.”
“And you have me in common too,” he mentioned.
“Now we do, yes.”
Then this out-of-place man surprised her. He was stared at her bare knees and the breasts behind the sheer fabric. But the voice was in control, lucid and calm, when he inquired, “What about that tiny gun? The one you took out of your coat and put in your purse?”
“You saw that?”
“Yes.”
She laughed, thrilled by the unexpected.
Pulling open the satchel, she showed the weapon to her guest. “Every earth has its sterling qualities, and each has its bad features too. My home can seem a little harsh at times. Maybe you noticed the rough souls along Main Street. Crime and public drunkenness are the reasons why quite a few good citizens carry weapons wherever they go.”
“That’s terrible,” he muttered.
“I’ve never fired this gun at any person, by the way.”
“But would you?”
“Absolutely.”
“To kill?” he blubbered.
“On other earths, that’s what I am doing now. Shooting bad men and the worst women. And I’m glad to do it.”
“How can you think that?”
“Easily, George.” She passed the gun between her hands. “Remember when I told you that our richest citizens can travel from earth to earth? To a lesser degree, that freedom belongs to everyone, everywhere. It was the same on your home world too, although you didn’t understand it at the time.”
“I don’t understand it now,” he admitted.
“You are here, George. You are here because an angelic individual took the effort to duplicate you — cell for cell, experience for experience. Then your wingless benefactor set you down on a world where he believed that you would survive, or even thrive.” With her finger off the trigger, she tapped the pistol against her own temple. “Death is a matter of degree, George. This gun can’t go off, unless the twin safeties fail. But I guarantee you that right now, somebody exactly like me is shooting herself in the head. Her brains are raining all over you. Yet she doesn’t entirely die.”
“No?”
“Of course not.” She lowered the gun, nodding wistfully. “We have too many drinkers on this world, and with that comes a fairly high suicide rate. Which is only reasonable. Since we understand that anybody can escape this world at any time, just like you fled your home — leap off the bridge, hope for paradise, but remaining open-minded enough to accept a little less.”
George finally settled on edge of the bed, close enough to touch her but his hands primly folded on his long lap. “What are you telling me?” he asked. “That people kill themselves just to change worlds?”
“Is there a better reason than that?”
He thought hard about the possibilities. “This angel that saved me. He isn’t the only one, I take it.”
“They come from endless earths, some far more powerful than ours. There’s no way to count all of them.”
“And do they always save the dead?”
“Oh, they hardly ever do that,” she admitted. “It is a genuine one-in-a-trillion-trillion-trillion occurrence. But if an infinite number of Georges jump off the bridge, then even that one-in-almost-never incident is inevitable. In fact, that tiny unlikely fraction is itself an infinite number.”
He shook his head numbly.
She leaned back on her elbows. “Most of these benefactors…your angel, for instance…throw those that they’ve saved onto earths that feel comfortable with refugees like you. My world, for instance.”
“This happens often?”
“Not exactly often. But I know of half a dozen incidents this year, and that’s just in our district.”
George looked down at his cold wet socks.
“Unlike God,” she promised, “quantum magic is at work everywhere.”
“Do you understand all the science, Mary?”
She sat up again. “I’m a librarian, not a high-physics priestess.”
That pleased him. She watched his smile, and then at last she noticed that her guest was beginning to shiver.
“You’re cold, George.”
“I guess I am.”
“Take off those awful socks.”
He did as instructed. Then laughing amiably, he admitted, “There. Now you sound exactly like my wife.”
They were both laughing when something large suddenly moved beneath the big bed.
George felt the vibration, and alarmed, he stared at Mary.
“My cats,” she offered. “They’re usually shy around strangers.”
“But that felt…” He lifted his bare feet. “Big.”
“Kitties,” she sang. “Sweeties.”
Three long bodies crawled into the open, stretching while eyeing the newcomer from a safe distance.
“What kinds of cats are those?” George whispered.
“Rex is the miniature cougar,” she explained. “Hex is the snow leopard. And Missie is half pygmy tiger, half griffon.”
With awe in his voice, George said, “Shit.”
“I take that to mean you didn’t have cats like this on your earth?”
“Not close to this,” he agreed.
She sat back again, sinking into the mattress.
And again, this man surprised her. “You mentioned Mars.”
“I guess I did. Why?”
“On my earth, we thought that there could be some kind of simple life on that world.”
“You didn’t know for certain?”
He shook his head. “But a few minutes ago, you mentioned something about Martians. Are they real, or did you just make them up?”
“They’re real somewhere, George.”
He frowned.
Then she laughed, explaining, “Yes, my Mars is home to some very ancient life forms. Tiny golden aliens that drink nothing but peroxides. And my Venus is covered with airborne jungles and an ocean that doesn’t boil because of the enormous air pressure. And Sisyphus is covered with beautiful forests of living ice — ”
“What world’s that?”
“Between Mars and Jupiter,” she mentioned.
George blinked, took a big breath and burst out laughing.
That was when Mary told her blouse to fall open.
He stared at her, and the laughter stopped. But he was still smiling, looking shamelessly happy, begging her, “But first, Mary…would you please put your gun? Someplace safe. After everything I’ve been through, I don’t want even the tiniest chance of something going wrong now.”
About the Author
Robert Reed has had eleven novels published, starting with The Leeshore in 1987 and most recently with The Well of Stars in 2004. Since winning the first annual L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest in 1986 (under the pen name Robert Touzalin) and being a finalist for the John W. Campbell Award for best new writer in 1987, he has had 140 shorter works published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Eleven of those stories were published in his critically-acclaimed first collection, The Dragons of Springplace, in 1999. Twelve more stories appear in his second collection, The Cuckoo’s Boys [2005]. In addition to his success in the U.S., Reed has also been published in the U.K., Russia, Japan, Spain and in France, where a second (French-language) collection of nine of his shorter works, Chrysalide, was released in 2002. Bob has had stories appear in at least one of the annual “Year’s Best” anthologies in every year since 1
992. Bob has received nominations for both the Nebula Award (nominated and voted upon by genre authors) and the Hugo Award (nominated and voted upon by fans), as well as numerous other literary awards (see Awards). He won his first Hugo Award for the 2006 novella “A Billion Eves”.
“Episode 72”
by Don Webb
If the Senator from New York would do something about her mousey brown hair she could be a real looker, decided the Senator from Rhode Island. She was getting near the Paul Revere section of her speech, and the crowd would be applauding back home in Boise and Baton Rouge in a few hours. It was not for nothing that she was called the Queen of Television. He watched her at the podium; her presence almost made the large backdrop painting of President McCarthy vanish.
“…do not know the name of the little town my ancestor founded. It was Charleston, Massachusetts. But it was from that little town that Paul Revere made his ride. One if by land, two if by sea. Well we know they are coming by sea and we know that some of them are already here, fifth columnists in wait. Some have been easy to spot in the last decade. Some were even proud of their anti-American political views. We have chased them from film. We have chased them from television. We have chased them from the public schools. But the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. It has been questioned in this body if we are right to use their labor to further that vigilance. It has been asked if the Communist should be working in our defense plants especially now as missiles build up in Cuba. I say yes. I say that we should turn the forces of Communism against itself at all odds.
“Now there are those who have hinted that we do not treat our enemies within kindly. This is balderdash. We treat them a million times more kindly than freedom fighters are treated at the gulags in the Soviet Union. But I am not a woman of rhetoric. I am not a lady of speech giving. I will go to our largest facility, the plutonium bomb factory called Pantex in Amarillo, Texas this week. I am going with the Senate cameras rolling for the USABC, and I will show the world how well we treat those who would destroy us with their lies.
“I will maintain constant vigilance. As many of you know I am related to George Washington; two of my relatives have served as governors of Rhode Island. My family has long served this country and I will serve it as long as draw breathe.”
The speech over and the strong lights were extinguished. There was mild applause. She didn’t seem that great a performer live as she did televised. That was probably why she was unmarried. That and the hair.
Senator Ball’s aide helped her remove her make up back in the senator’s office.
“Senator, you were wonderful,” said Scarlet Vance. “The Senate still has higher ratings than the three commercial networks and that’s due to you.”
“Thank you Scarlet, but I know that’s not true. You know I took drama. Did you know Bette Davis was in my class? Bette Davis. I’ll never forget the day the director of the school told me to choose another profession, any other profession.”
“Is that why you went into politics Ma’m?”
“No that was because of my family. I looked at the state of women in politics. There wasn’t any. I knew I had a shot at it. I figured I had to be the first.”
“You’re a visionary.”
“No but I am brave.”
“Are you looking forward to the trip to Texas?”
“No. I am not looking forward to being in a bomb plant with a bunch of Communists. That would be low on my list of travel plans, but rumors abound that we are mistreating people and I need to stop that. There are responsibilities that come from being the Queen of Television. Did you find anything interesting to do out there?”
“Yes M’am. Two years ago a new restaurant opened on Route 66 called the Big Texan Steak House. They offer you a free 72 ounce steak dinner if you eat it in an hour.”
“A 72 ounce steak?”
“Well you have to eat the trimmings too. Shrimp cocktail, baked potato, salad and bread. “
“And you think I could do this?
“Oh no, M’am. I think you would enjoy watching a cowboy from one of the local ranches try. I talked with one of the political officers in the region and he said it was quite amusing.”
“You know me so well.”
“There’s a link to your trip you know. When the prisoner of war village from World War II was taken down at Pantex, it was used to build the Big Texan.”
“Well that’s just plain homey.”
“M’am, you are really in favor of the Communists being used to build bombs, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am, Scarlett. Of course I am.”
Senator Ball had not liked the exotic appetizers. Jess Oppenheimer had taken the Senator to the Big Texan. Everyone likes the Big Texan. He got her what he always got the men: rattlesnakes and bull testicles. He had not explained to the lady from New York that “calf fries” were bull testicles. He thought everybody knew that. He sensed somehow that he was losing her.
“It’s a huge facility,” he was saying, “sixteen thousand acres.”
“Could I see Palo Duro Canyon while I’m here?”
“Well of course. It’s a lovely spot I take the wife and kids there every summer.”
“I am interested in a painter that learned her style there. Georgia O’Keefe. Ever heard of her?”
“She was declared a Sympathizer last year.”
Then there was awkward silence again as the Senator watched grease congeal on her bull’s testicle.
Outside the restaurant she looked at the Big Texan. A huge sign of a lanky legged cowboy. She knew she was looking at something eternal, something that would always be a symbol of America like a Burma Shave sign or the Statue of Liberty. None of her speeches, none of the fine words in the Senate had as much power as this. This was why she had never married. She had never found a man as beautiful as the Big Texan.
It was a strange year. In January, Pope John XXIII had excommunicated Fidel Castro. In May, the Israelis had hung Eichmann. Last month AT&T launched the first commercial satellite ever. President McCarthy had explained how each of these events showed that Communism was on the run. The Pope had excommunicated the Communist closest to our shores so God was on our side. The Israelis were cleaning up the last traces of WWII so we didn’t have to worry about history any more. AT&T had showed that Capitalism would take over space.
But she didn’t know sometimes. Maybe all these things would happen anyway. Maybe there is too much spin on history. Perhaps we are becoming a little like the folk in Khrushchev’s lands.
The Amarillo night air was warm and dry and was giving her strange thoughts. Almost all of the Free World’s helium comes from Amarillo; maybe that’s why she was thinking oddly.
Or maybe it was the Big Texan staring down at her.
Amarillo is known for its invention of barbed wire and Mother-In-Laws’ Day.
She went to the hotel.
The barracks smelled bad.
There were separate quarters for men and women, and one of the first things that the Senator discovered were that families had been split up. She had come here to prove that that rumor was unfounded. She knew that she would have to fib. She knew that even before she came; fibbing is part of politics. But she was unhappy.
“It is important, ” she told Karl, “That we do not film the barracks. This does not look like America. We will film inside the plant.”
“Happy workers making bombs?” asked Karl.
“Karl I know this isn’t your life work. It isn’t Dracula or Metropolis but it keeps you busy.”
“You’re wrong. This is Metropolis.“
Senator Ball was about to say something, some nice reminder to Karl that since he came from Czechoslovakia people were always looking him as a Sympathizer, when she saw him.
The Big Texan.
All right maybe it was not love at first sight, maybe it took five minutes.
He was swarthy and short. He had dark hair and eyes. He stood in the door of one of the barracks. He wore th
e same yellow jumpsuit that everyone else did. He was waiting for the whistle, for his shift to start. Then it hooted and he headed off toward one of the buildings. She followed along.
“Sir?” she said.
He did not stop.
“You. You with the dark hair.”
He stopped. Unlike most of the workers he did not turn his eyes to the ground. “Si?” he said.
“You’re one of the Cubans aren’t you?”
“Si.”
“What’s your name?
“Desiderio Alberto Arnaz y de Acha the Third.”
“That’s quite a name.”
“I have to go now lady. I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“It’s out of the question,” said Mr. Oppenheimer.
His office was large and clean. It radiated a good American vibe.
“I think it would be a great idea,” said Senator Ball. “I interview this man, this worker on camera and we can show how things here really are not so bad.”
“He’s not going to say that.”
“That’s the miracle of film. We edit what he says and make him look like he is saying all positive things. We can make him look like he has deeply reconsidered his stance on Communism and is ready to rejoin America.”
“You don’t understand, Senator Ball. We don’t know that this man ever was a Communist. All Cuban nationals just wound up here.”
“That’s what makes this a great idea. We can show that our camps have great conditions and that they reform inmates. We show that our system works.”
“Then what happens?”
“We let him go. Not unsupervised of course. I could take him back to New York with me. He could reestablish himself in whatever he did before he came here.”
“You want to play mother to a Sympathizer.”
“But he isn’t a Sympathizer. We would be showing our humane side. It would be a great response to people in Europe that are saying we keep political prisoners. I know politics. I know how people think, that’s why they sent me here.”
“I’ll have to call my superiors in Washington of course.”
