Notions: Unlimited

by Robert Sheckley

  Notions Unlimited

  Robert Sheckley

  Contents

  Gray Flannel Armor

  The Leech

  Watchbird

  A Wind is Rising

  Morning After

  The Native Problem

  Feeding Time

  Paradise II

  Double Indemnity

  Holdout

  Dawn Invader

  The Language of Love

  GRAY FLANNEL ARMOR

  The means which Thomas Hanley selected to meet the girl who later became his wife is worthy of note, particularly by anthropologists, sociologists, and students of the bizarre. It serves, in its humble way, as an example of one of the more obscure mating customs of the late 20th century. And since this custom had an impact upon modern American industry, Hanley’s story has considerable importance.

  Thomas Hanley was a tall, slim young man, conservative in his tastes, moderate in his vices, and modest to a fault. His conversation with either sex was perfectly proper, even to the point of employing the verbal improprieties suitable to his age and station. He owned several gray flannel suits and many slim neckties with regimental stripes. You might think you could pick him out of a crowd because of his horn-rimmed glasses, but you would be wrong. That wasn’t Hanley. Hanley was the other one.

  Who would believe that, beneath this meek, self-effacing, industrious, conforming exterior beat a wildly romantic heart? Sadly enough, anyone would, for the disguise fooled only the disguised.

  Young men like Hanley, in their gray flannel armor and horn-rimmed visors, are today’s knights of chivalry. Millions of them roam the streets of our great cities, their footsteps firm and hurried, eyes front, voices lowered, dressed to the point of invisibility. Like actors or bewitched men, they live their somber lives, while within them the flame of romance burns and will not die.

  Hanley daydreamed continually and predictably of the swish and thud of swinging cutlasses, of great ships driving toward the sun under a press of sail, of a maiden’s eyes, dark and infinitely sad, peering at him from behind a gossamer veil. And, predictably still, he dreamed of more modern forms of romance.

  But romance is a commodity difficult to come by in the great cities. This fact was recognized only recently by our more enterprising businessmen. And one night, Hanley received a visit from an unusual sort of salesman.

  Hanley had returned to his one-room apartment after a harried Friday at the office. He loosened his tie and contemplated, with a certain melancholy, the long weekend ahead. He didn’t want to watch the boxing on television and he had seen all the neighborhood movies. Worst of all, the girls he knew were uninteresting and his chances of meeting others were practically nil.

  He sat in his armchair as the deep blue twilight spread over Manhattan, and speculated on where he might find an interesting girl, and what he would say if he found one, and—

  His doorbell rang.

  As a rule, only peddlers or solicitors for the Fireman’s Fund called on him unannounced. But tonight he could welcome even the momentary pleasure of turning down a peddler. So he opened the door and saw a short, dapper, flashily dressed little man beaming at him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hanley,” the little man said briskly. “I’m Joe Morris, a representative of the New York Romance Service, with its main office in the Empire State Building and branches in all the boroughs, Westchester, and New Jersey. We’re out to serve lonely people, Mr. Hanley, and that means you. Don’t deny it! Why else would you be sitting home on a Friday night? You’re lonely and it’s our business and our pleasure to serve you. A bright, sensitive, good-looking young fellow like yourself needs girls, nice girls, pleasant, pretty, understanding girls—”

  “Hold on,” Hanley said sternly. “If you run some sort of a fancy call girl bureau—”

  He stopped, for Joe Morris had turned livid. The salesman’s throat swelled with anger and he turned and started to leave.

  “Wait!” said Hanley. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll have you know, sir, I’m a family man,” Joe Morris said stiffly. “I have a wife and three children in the Bronx. If you think for a minute I’d associate myself with anything underhanded—”

  “I’m really sorry.” Hanley ushered Morris in and gave him the armchair.

  Mr. Morris immediately regained his brisk and jovial manner.

  “No, Mr. Hanley,” he said, “the young ladies I refer to are not—ah—professionals. They are sweet, normal, romantically inclined young girls. But they are lonely. There are many lonely girls in our city, Mr. Hanley.”

  Somehow, Hanley had thought the condition applied only to men. “Are there?” he asked.

  “There are. The purpose of the New York Romance Service,” said Morris, “is to bring young people together under suitable circumstances.”

  “Hmm,” Hanley said. “I take it then you run a sort of—if you’ll pardon the expression—a sort of Friendship Club?”

  “Not at all! Nothing like it! My dear Mr. Hanley, have you ever attended a Friendship Club?”

  Hanley shook his head.

  “You should, sir,” said Morris. “Then you could really appreciate our Service. Friendship Clubs! Picture, if you will, a barren hall, one flight up in the cheaper Broadway area. At one end, five musicians in frayed tuxedos play, with a dreary lack of enthusiasm, the jittery songs of the day. Their thin music echoes disconsolately through the hall and blends with the screech of traffic outside. There is a row of chairs on either side of the hall, men on one side, women on the other. All are acutely embarrassed by their presence there.

  “They cling to a wretched nonchalance, nervously chain-smoking cigarettes and stamping out the butts on the floor. From time to time, some unfortunate gets up his courage to ask for a dance and, stiffly, he moves his partner around the floor, under the lewd and cynical eyes of the rest. The master of ceremonies, an overstuffed idiot with a fixed and ghastly smile, hurries around, trying to inject some life into the corpse of the evening. But to no avail.”

  Morris paused for breath. “That is the anachronism known as the Friendship Club—a strained, nervous, distasteful institution better suited to Victorian times than to our own. At the New York Romance Service, we have done what should have been done years ago. We have applied scientific precision and technological knowhow to a thorough study of the factors essential to a successful meeting between the sexes.”

  “What are those factors?” Hanley inquired.

  “The most vital ones,” said Morris, “are spontaneity and a sense of fatedness.”

  “Spontaneity and fate seem to be contradictory terms,” Hanley pointed out.

  “Of course. Romance, by its very nature, must be composed of contradictory elements. We have graphs to prove it.”

  “Then you sell romance?” Hanley asked dubiously.

  “The very article! The pure and pristine substance itself! Not sex, which is available to everyone. Not love—no way of guaranteeing permanency and therefore commercially impractical. We sell romance, Mr. Hanley, the missing ingredient in modern society, the spice of life, the vision of all the ages!”

  “That’s very interesting,” Hanley said. But he questioned the validity of Morris’ claims. The man might be a charlatan or he might be a visionary. Whatever he was, Hanley doubted whether he could sell romance. Not the real thing. Not the dark and fitful visions which haunted Hanley’s days and nights.

  He stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Morris. I’ll think over what you’ve said. Right now, I’m in rather a rush, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “But, sir! Surely you can’t afford to pass up romance!”

  “Sorry, but—”

  “Try our system for a few days, absolutely free of charge,�
� Mr. Morris said. “Here, put this in your lapel.” He handed Hanley something that looked like a small transistor radio with a tiny video eye.

  “What’s this?” Hanley asked.

  “A small transistor radio with a tiny video eye.”

  “What does it do?”

  “You’ll see. Just give it a try. We’re the country’s biggest firm specializing in romance, Mr. Hanley. We aim to stay that way by continuing to fill the needs of millions of sensitive young American men and women. Remember—romances sponsored by our firm are fated, spontaneous, esthetically satisfying, physically delightful, and morally justifiable.”

  And with that, Joe Morris shook Hanley’s hand and left.

  Hanley turned the tiny transistor radio in his hand. It had no buttons or dials. He fastened it to the lapel of his jacket. Nothing happened.

  He shrugged his shoulders, tightened his tie and went out for a walk.

  It was a clear, cool night. Like most nights in Hanley’s life, it was a perfect time for romance. Around him lay the city, infinite in its possibilities and rich in promise. But the city was devoid of fulfillment. He had walked these streets a thousand nights, with firm step, eyes front, ready for anything. And nothing had ever happened.

  He passed apartment buildings and thought of the women behind the high, blank windows, looking down, seeing a lonely walker on the dark streets and wondering about him, thinking....

  “Nice to be on the roof of a building,” a voice said. “To look down on the city.”

  Hanley stopped short and whirled around. He was completely alone. It took him a moment to realize that the voice had come from the tiny transistor radio.

  “What?” Hanley asked.

  The radio was silent.

  Look down on the city, Hanley mused. The radio was suggesting he look down on the city. Yes, he thought, it would be nice.

  “Why not?” Hanley asked himself, and turned toward a building.

  “Not that one,” the radio whispered.

  Hanley obediently passed by the building and stopped in front of the next.

  “This one?” he queried.

  The radio didn’t answer. But Hanley caught the barest hint of an approving little grunt.

  Well, he thought, you had to hand it to the Romance Service. They seemed to know what they were doing. His movements were as nearly spontaneous as any guided movements could be.

  Entering the building, Hanley stepped into the self-service elevator and punched for the top floor. From there, he climbed a short flight of stairs to the roof. Once outside, he began walking toward the west side of the building.

  “Other side,” whispered the radio.

  Hanley turned and walked to the other side. There he looked out over the city, at the orderly rows of street lights, white and faintly haloed. Dotted here and there were the reds and greens of traffic lights, and the occasional colored blotch of an electric sign. His city stretched before him, infinite in its possibilities, rich in promise, devoid of fulfillment.

  Suddenly he became aware of another person on the roof, staring raptly at the spectacle of lights.

  “Excuse me,” said Hanley. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “You didn’t,” the person said, and Hanley realized he was talking to a woman.

  We are strangers, Hanley thought. A man and a woman who meet by accident—or fate—on a dark rooftop overlooking the city. He wondered how many dreams the Romance Service had analyzed, how many visions they had tabulated, to produce something as perfect as this.

  Glancing at the girl, he saw that she was young and lovely. Despite her outward composure, he sensed how the rightness of this meeting, the place, the time, the mood stirred her as it did him.

  He thought furiously, but could find nothing to say. No words came to him and the moment was drifting away.

  “The lights,” prompted his radio.

  “The lights are beautiful,” said Hanley, feeling foolish.

  “Yes,” murmured the girl. “Like a great carpet of stars, or spearpoints in the gloom.”

  “Like sentinels,” said Hanley, “keeping eternal vigil in the night.” He wasn’t sure if the idea was his or if he was parroting a barely perceptible voice from the radio.

  “I often come here,” said the girl.

  “I never come here,” Hanley said.

  “But tonight....”

  “Tonight I had to come. I knew I would find you.”

  Hanley felt that the Romance Service needed a better script writer. Such dialogue, in broad daylight, would be ridiculous. But now, on a high rooftop overlooking the city, with lights flashing below and the stars very close overhead, it was the most natural conversation in the world.

  “I do not encourage strangers,” said the girl, taking a step toward him. “But—”

  “I am no stranger,” Hanley said, moving toward her.

  The girl’s pale blonde hair glinted with starlight. Her lips parted. She looked at him, her features transfigured by the mood, the atmosphere, and the soft, flattering light.

  They stood face to face and Hanley could smell her faint perfume and the fragrance of her hair. His knees became weak and confusion reigned within him.

  “Take her in your arms,” the radio whispered.

  Automatonlike, Hanley held out his arms. The girl entered them with a little sigh. They kissed—simply, naturally, inevitably, and with a mounting and predictable passion.

  Then Hanley noticed the tiny jeweled transistor radio on the girl’s lapel. In spite of it, he had to admit that the meeting was not only spontaneous and fateful, but enormously pleasant as well.

  Dawn was touching the skyscrapers when Hanley returned to his apartment and tumbled, exhausted, into bed. He slept all day and awoke toward evening, ravenously hungry. He ate dinner in a neighborhood bar and considered the events of the previous night.

  It had been wild, perfect, and wonderful, all of it—the meeting on the roof and, later, her warm and darkened apartment; and at last his departure at dawn, with her drowsy kiss still warm on his mouth. But despite all this, Hanley was disturbed.

  He couldn’t help feeling a little odd about a romantic meeting set up and sponsored by transistor radios, which cued lovers into the proper spontaneous yet fated responses. It was undoubtedly clever but something about it seemed wrong.

  He visualized a million young men in gray flannel suits and striped regimental ties, roaming the streets of the city in response to the barely heard commands of a million tiny radios. He pictured the radio operators at their central two-way videophone switchboard—earnest, hard-working people, doing their night’s work at romance, then buying a newspaper and taking a subway home to the husband or wife and kids.

  This was distasteful. But he had to admit that it was better than no romance at all. These were modern times. Even romance had to be put on a sound organizational basis or get lost in the shuffle.

  Besides, Hanley thought, was it really so strange? In medieval times, a witch gave a knight a charm, which led him to an enchanted lady. Today, a salesman gave a man a transistor radio, which did the same thing and probably a lot faster.

  Quite possibly, he thought, there has never been a truly spontaneous and fated romance. Perhaps the thing always requires a middleman.

  Hanley cast further thoughts out of his mind. He paid for his dinner and went out for a walk.

  This time, his firm and hurried steps led him into a poorer section of the city. Here garbage cans lined the sidewalks, and from the dirty tenement windows came the sound of a melancholy clarinet, and the shrill voices of women raised in argument. A cat, striped and agate-eyed, peered at him from an alleyway and darted out of sight.

  Hanley shivered, stopped, and decided to return to his own part of the city.

  “Why not walk on?” the radio urged him, speaking very softly, like a voice in his head.

  Hanley shivered again and walked on.

  The streets were deserted now and silent as a tomb. Hanley hurried pas
t gigantic windowless warehouses and shuttered stores. Some adventures, it seemed to him, were not worth the taking. This was hardly a suitable locale for romance. Maybe he should ignore the radio and return to the bright, well-ordered world he knew.

  He heard a sound of scuffling feet. Glancing down a narrow alley, he saw three wrestling figures. Two were men and the third, trying to break free, was a girl.

  Hanley’s reaction was instantaneous. He tensed to sprint away and find a policeman, preferably two or three. But the radio stopped him.

  “You can handle them,” the radio said.

  Like hell I can, Hanley thought. The newspapers were full of stories about men who thought they could handle muggers. They usually had plenty of time to brood over their fistic shortcomings in a hospital.

  But the radio urged him on. And touched by a sense of destiny, moved by the girl’s plaintive cries, Hanley removed his horn-rimmed glasses, put them in their case, put the case into a hip pocket, and plunged into the black maw of the alley.

  He ran full into a garbage can, knocked it over and reached the struggling group. The muggers hadn’t noticed him yet. Hanley seized one by the shoulder, turned him and lashed out with his right fist. The man staggered back against the wall. His friend released the girl and went for Hanley, who struck out with both hands and his right foot.

  The man went down, grumbling, “Take it easy, buddy.”

  Hanley turned back to the first mugger, who came at him like a wildcat. Surprisingly, the man’s entire fusillade of blows missed and Hanley knocked him down with a single well-placed left.

  The two men scrambled to their feet and fled. As they ran, Hanley could hear one complain to the other, “Ain’t this a hell of a way to make a living?”

  Ignoring this break in the script, Hanley turned to the girl.

  She leaned against him for support. “You came,” she breathed.

  “I had to,” said Hanley, in response to a barely audible radio voice.

  “I know,” she murmured.

  Hanley saw that she was young and lovely. Her black hair glinted with lamplight. Her lips parted. She looked at him, her features transfigured by the mood, the atmosphere, and the soft, flattering light.