A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  On its side, a small figure crept up, fell across the lower gun deck. The Bolo surged into motion, retracing its route across the artillery-scarred gardens.

  “He’s turned it.” Reynolds let his breath out with a shuddering sigh. “It’s headed out for open desert. It might get twenty miles before it finally runs out of steam.”

  The strange voice that was the Bolo’s came from the big panel before Mayfield:

  “Command . . . Unit LNE reports main power cells drained, secondary cells drained; now operating at .037 per cent efficiency, using Final Emergency Power. Request advice as to range to be covered before relief maintenance available.”

  “It’s a long way, Lenny . . .” Sanders’ voice was a bare whisper. “But I’m coming with you . . .”

  Then there was only the crackle of static. Ponderously, like a great mortally stricken animal, the Bolo moved through the ruins of the fallen roadway, heading for the open desert.

  “That damned machine,” the mayor said in a hoarse voice. “You’d almost think it was alive.”

  “You would at that,” Pete Reynolds said.

  THE PARTY

  William F. Nolan

  he couldn’t remember who invited him or how he got there; all he knew was that he was in the midst of one hell of a wingding

  ASHLAND FROWNED, trying to concentrate in the warm emptiness of the thickly carpeted lobby. Obviously, he had pressed the elevator button, because he was alone here and the elevator was blinking its way down to him, summoned from an upper floor. It arrived with an efficient hiss, the bronze doors clicked open, and he stepped in, thinking blackout. I had a mental blackout.

  First the double vision. Now this. It was getting worse. Just where the hell was he? Must be a party, he told himself. Sure. Someone he’d met, whose name was missing along with the rest of it, had invited him to a party. He had an apartment number in his head: 9E. That much he retained. A number—nothing else.

  On the way up, in the soundless cage of the elevator, David Ashland reviewed the day. The usual morning routine: work, then lunch with his new secretary. A swinger—but she liked her booze; put away three martinis to his two. Back to the office. More work. A drink in the afternoon with a writer. (“Beefeater. No rocks. Very dry.”) Dinner at the new Italian joint on West Forty-Eighth with Linda. Lovely Linda. Expensive girl. Lovely as hell, but expensive. More drinks, then—nothing. Blackout.

  The doc had warned him about the hard stuff, but what else can you do in New York? The pressures get to you, so you drink. Everybody drinks. And every night, somewhere in town, there’s a party, with contacts (and girls) to be made . . .

  The elevator stopped, opened its doors. Ashland stepped out, uncertainly, into the hall. The softly lit passageway was long, empty, silent. No, not silent. Ashland heard the familiar voice of a party: the shifting hive hum of cocktail conversation, dim, high laughter, the sharp chatter of ice against glass, a background wash of modern jazz . . . All quite familiar. And always the same.

  He walked to 9E. Featureless apartment door. White. Brass button housing. Gold numbers. No clues here. Sighing, he thumbed the buzzer and waited nervously.

  A smiling fat man with bad teeth opened the door. He was holding a half-filled drink in one hand. Ashland didn’t know him.

  “C’mon in fella,” he said. “Join the party.”

  Ashland squinted into blue-swirled tobacco smoke, adjusting his eyes to the dim interior. The rising-falling sea tide of voices seemed to envelop him.

  “Grab a drink, fella,” said the fat man. “Looks like you need one!”

  Ashland aimed for the bar in one corner of the crowded apartment. He did need a drink. Maybe a drink would clear his head, let him get this all straight. Thus far, he had not recognized any of the faces in the smoke-hazed room.

  At the self-service bar a thin, turkey-necked woman wearing paste jewelry was intently mixing a black Russian. “Got to be exceedingly careful with these,” she said to Ashland, eyes still on the mixture. “Too much vodka craps them up.”

  Ashland nodded. “The host arrived?” I’ll know him, I’m sure.

  “Due later—or sooner. Sooner—or later. You know, I once spilled three black Russians on the same man over a thirty-day period. First on the man’s sleeve, then on his back, then on his lap. Each time his suit was a sticky, gummy mess. My psychiatrist told me that I did it unconsciously, because of a neurotic hatred of this particular man. He looked like my father.”

  “The psychiatrist?”

  “No, the man I spilled the Russians on.” She held up the tall drink, sipped at it. “Ahhh . . . still too weak.”

  Ashland probed the room for a face he knew, but these people were all strangers.

  He turned to find the turkey-necked woman staring at him. “Nice apartment,” he said mechanically.

  “Stinks. I detest pseudo-Chinese decor in Manhattan brownstones.” She moved off, not looking back at Ashland.

  He mixed himself a straight Scotch, running his gaze around the apartment. The place was pretty wild: ivory tables with serpent legs; tall, figured screens with chain-mail warriors cavorting across them; heavy brocade drapes in stitched silver; lamps with jeweleyed dragons looped at the base. And, at the far end of the room, an immense bronze gong suspended between a pair of demonfaced swordsmen. Ashland studied the gong. A thing to wake the dead, he thought. Great for hangovers in the morning.

  “Just get here?” a girl asked him. She was red-haired, fullbreasted, in her late twenties. Attractive. Damned attractive. Ashland smiled warmly at her.

  “That’s right,” he said, “I just arrived.” He tasted the Scotch; it was flat, watery. “Whose place is this?”

  The girl peered at him above her cocktail glass. “Don’t you know who invited you?”

  Ashland was embarrassed. “Frankly, no. That’s why I—”

  “My name’s Viv. For Vivian. I drink. What do you do? Besides drink?”

  “I produce. I’m in television.”

  “Well, I’m in a dancing mood. Shall we?”

  “Nobody’s dancing,” protested Ashland. “We’d look—foolish.” The jazz suddenly seemed louder. Overhead speakers were sending out a thudding drum solo behind muted strings. The girl’s body rippled to the sounds.

  “Never be afraid to do anything foolish,” she told him. “That’s the secret of survival.” Her fingers beckoned him. “C’mon . . .”

  “No, really—not right now. Maybe later.”

  “Then I’ll dance alone.”

  She spun into the crowd, her long red dress whirling. The other partygoers ignored her. Ashland emptied the watery Scotch and fixed himself another. He loosened his tie, popping the collar button. Damn!

  “I train worms.”

  Ashland turned to a florid-faced little man with bulging, feverish eyes. “I heard you say you were in TV,” the little man said. “Ever use any trained worms on your show?”

  “No . . . no, I haven’t.”

  “I breed ’em, train ’em. I teach a worm to run a maze. Then I grind him up and feed him to a dumb, untrained worm. Know what happens? The dumb worm can run the maze! But only for twenty-four hours. Then he forgets—unless I keep him on a trained-worm diet. I defy you to tell me that isn’t fascinating!”

  “It is, indeed.” Ashland nodded and moved away from the bar. The feverish little man smiled after him, toasting his departure with a raised glass. Ashland found himself sweating.

  Who was his host? Who had invited him? He knew most of the Village crowd, but had spotted none of them here . . .

  A dark, doll-like girl asked him for a light. He fumbled out some matches.

  “Thanks,” she said, exhaling blue smoke into blue smoke. “Saw that worm guy talking to you. What a lousy bore he is! My exhusband had a pet snake named Baby and he fed it worms. That’s all they’re good for, unless you fish. Do you fish?”

  “I’ve done some fishing up in Canada.”

  “My ex-husband hated all sports. Except the
indoor variety.” She giggled. “Did you hear the one about the indoor hen and the outdoor rooster?”

  “Look, miss—”

  “Talia. But you can call me Jenny. Get it?” She doubled over, laughing hysterically, then swayed, dropping her cigarette. “Ooops! I’m sick. I better go lie down. My tum-tum feels awful.”

  She staggered from the party as Ashland crushed out her smoldering cigarette with the heel of his shoe. Stupid bitch!

  A sharp handclap startled him. In the middle of the room, a tall man in a green satin dinner jacket was demanding his attention. He clapped again. “You,” he shouted to Ashland. “Come here.”

  Ashland walked forward. The tall man asked him to remove his wristwatch. “I’ll read your past from it,” the man said. “I’m psychic. I’ll tell you about yourself.”

  Reluctantly, Ashland removed his watch, handed it over. He didn’t find any of this amusing. The party was annoying him, irritating him.

  “I thank you most kindly, sir!” said the tall man, with elaborate stage courtesy. He placed the gold watch against his forehead and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The crowd noise did not slacken; no one seemed to be paying any attention to the psychic.

  “Ah. Your name is David. David Ashland. You are successful, a man of big business . . . a producer . . . and a bachelor. You are twenty-eight . . . young for a successful producer. One has to be something of a bastard to climb that fast. What about that, Mr. Ashland, are you something of a bastard?”

  Ashland flushed angrily.

  “You like women,” continued the tall man. “A lot. And you like to drink. A lot. Your doctor told you—”

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” Ashland said tightly, reaching for his watch. The man in green satin handed it over, grinned amiably, and melted back into the shifting crowd.

  I ought to get the hell out of here, Ashland told himself. Yet curiosity held him. When the host arrived, Ashland would piece this evening together; he’d know why he was here, at this particular party. He moved to a couch near the closed patio doors and sat down. He’d wait.

  A soft-faced man sat down next to him. The man looked pained. “I shouldn’t smoke these,” he said, holding up a long cigar. “Do you smoke cigars?”

  “No.”

  “I’m a salesman. Dover Insurance. Like the White Cliffs of, ya know. I’ve studied the problems involved in smoking. Can’t quit, though. When I do, the nerves shrivel up, stomach goes sour. I worry a lot—but we all worry, don’t we? I mean, my mother used to worry about the earth slowing down. She read somewhere that between 1680 and 1690 the earth lost twenty-seven hundredths of a second. She said that meant something.”

  Ashland sighed inwardly. What is it about cocktail parties that causes people you’ve never met to unleash their troubles?

  “You meet a lotta fruitcakes in my dodge,” said the pained-looking insurance salesman. “I sold a policy once to a guy who lived in the woodwork. Had a ratty little walk-up in the Bronx with a foldaway bed. Kind you push into the wall. He’d stay there—I mean, inside the wall—most of the time. His roommate would invite some friends in and if they made too much noise the guy inside the wall would pop out with his Thompson. BAM! The bed would come down and there he was with a Thompson submachine gun aimed at everybody. Real fruitcake.”

  “I knew a fellow who was twice that crazy.”

  Ashland looked up into a long, cadaverous face. The nose had been broken and improperly reset; it canted noticeably to the left. He folded his long, sharp-boned frame onto the couch next to Ashland. “This fellow believed in falling grandmothers,” he declared. “Lived in upper Michigan. ‘Watch out for falling grandmothers,’ he used to warn me. ‘They come down pretty heavy in this area. Most of ’em carry umbrellas and big packages and they come flapping down out of the sky by the thousands!’ This Michigan fellow swore he saw one hit a postman. ‘An awful thing to watch,’ he told me. ‘Knocked the poor soul flat. Crushed his skull like an egg.’ I recall he shuddered just telling me about it.”

  “Fruitcake,” said the salesman. “Like the guy I once knew who wrote on all his walls and ceilings. A creative writer, he called himself. Said he couldn’t write on paper, had to use a wall. Paper was too flimsy for him. He’d scrawl these long novels of his, a chapter in every room, with a big black crayon. Words all over the place. He’d fill up the house, then rent another one for his next book. I never read any of his houses, so I don’t know if he was any good.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Ashland. “I need a fresh drink.” He hurriedly mixed another Scotch at the bar. Around him, the party rolled on inexorably, without any visible core. What time was it, anyway? His watch had stopped.

  “Do you happen to know what time it is?” he asked a longhaired Oriental girl who was standing near the bar.

  “I’ve no idea,” she said. “None at all.” The girl fixed him with her eyes. “I’ve been watching you, and you seem horribly alone. Aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t I what?”

  “Horribly alone?”

  “I’m not with anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

  The girl withdrew a jeweled holder from her bag and fitted a cigarette in place. Ashland lit it for her.

  “I haven’t been really alone since I was in Milwaukee,” she told him. “I was about—God!—fifteen or something, and this creep wanted me to move in with him. My parents were both dead by then, so I was all alone.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Moved in with the creep. What else? I couldn’t make the being-alone scene. Later on, I killed him.”

  “You what?”

  “Cut his throat.” She smiled delicately. “In self-defense, of course. He got mean on the bottle one Friday night and tried to knife me. I had witnesses.”

  Ashland took a long draw on his Scotch. A scowling fellow in shirt sleeves grabbed the girl’s elbow and steered her roughly away.

  “I used to know a girl who looked like that,” said a voice to Ashland’s right. The speaker was curly-haired, clean-featured, in his late thirties. “Greek belly dancer with a Jersey accent. Dark, like her, and kind of mysterious. She used to quote that line of Hemingway’s to Scott Fitzgerald—you know the one.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “One that goes, ‘We’re all bitched from the start.’ Bitter. A bitter line.”

  He put out his hand. Ashland shook it.

  “I’m Travers. I used to save America’s ass every week on CBS.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Terry Travers. The old Triple Trouble for Terry series on channel nine. Back in the late fifties. Had to step on a lotta toes to get that series.”

  “I think I recall the show. It was—”

  “Dung. That’s what it was. Cow dung. Horse dung. The worst. Terry Travers is not my real name, natch. Real one’s Abe Hockstatter. Can you imagine a guy named Abe Hockstatter saving America’s ass every week on CBS?”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  Hockstatter pulled a brown wallet from his coat, flipped it open. “There I am with one of my other rugs on,” he said, jabbing at a photo. “Been stone bald since high school. Baldies don’t make it in showbiz, so I have my rugs. Go ahead, tug at me.”

  Ashland blinked. The man inclined his head. “Pull at it. Go on—as a favor to me!”

  Ashland tugged at the fringe of Abe Hockstatter’s curly hairpiece.

  “Tight, huh? Really snug. Stays on the old dome.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  “They cost a fortune. I’ve got a wind-blown one for outdoor scenes. A stiff wind’ll lift a cheap one right off your scalp. Then I got a crew cut and a Western job with long sideburns. All kinds. Ten, twelve . . . all first-class.”

  “I’m certain I have seen you,” said Ashland. “I just don’t—”

  “S’awright. Believe me. Lotta people don’t know me since I quit the Terry thing. I booze like crazy now. You an’ me, we’re among the nation’s six million alcoholics.”
/>   Ashland glared at the actor. “Where do you get off linking me with—”

  “Cool it, cool it. So I spoke a little out of turn. Don’t be so touchy, chum.”

  “To hell with you!” snapped Ashland.

  The bald man with curly hair shrugged and drifted into the crowd.

  Ashland took another long pull at his Scotch. All these neurotic conversations . . . He felt exhausted, wrung dry, and the Scotch was lousy. No kick to it. The skin along the back of his neck felt tight, hot. A headache was coming on; he could always tell.

  A slim-figured, frosted blonde in black sequins sidled up to him. She exuded an aura of matrimonial wars fought and lost. Her orange lipstick was smeared, her cheeks alcohol-flushed behind flaking pancake make-up. “I have a theory about sleep,” she said. “Would you like to hear it?”

  Ashland did not reply.

  “My theory is that the world goes insane every night. When we sleep, our subconscious takes charge and we become victims to whatever it conjures up. Our conscious mind is totally blanked out. We lie there, helpless, while our subconscious flings us about. We fall off high buildings, or have to fight a giant ape, or we get buried in quicksand . . . We have absolutely no control. The mind whirls madly in the skull. Isn’t that an unsettling thing to consider?”

  “Listen,” said Ashland. “Where’s the host?”

  “He’ll get here.”

  Ashland put down his glass and turned away from her. A mounting wave of depression swept him toward the door. The room seemed to be solid with bodies, all talking, drinking, gesturing in the milk-thick smoke haze.

  “Potatoes have eyes,” said a voice to his left. “I really believe that.” The remark was punctuated by an ugly, frog-croaking laugh. “Today is tomorrow’s yesterday,” someone else said.

  A hot swarm of sound:

  “You can’t get prints off human skin.”

  “In China, the laborers make sixty-five dollars a year. How the hell can you live on sixty-five dollars a year?”