He is secretly referred to as “The Sex Maniac” because he maintains a harem of five hens. The Professor is a white rat who escaped from the Rutgers university laboratories after three years of intensive education. He believes that he is qualified for a Ph.D. and is considering doing his dissertation “On the Relevance of Hot Water to Science.”
George Washington Woodchuck is the peerless surveyor of Red Hill farm. He knows every inch of its forty acres and is the arbiter of all territorial disputes. The Senior Rabbit, who is occasionally called “The Scoutmaster,” is the mentor of morality and much alarmed by the freedom and excesses of the Red Hill young. “I will not,” he says, “permit Red Hill to become another Woodstock.” He also deplores modern music.
There are many other members of the Big Red Schoolhouse—deer, who have darling manners but are really awfully dumb. The intellectuals call them “The debutantes.” Moses Mole, who is virtually blind, as all moles are, is pestering the Professor to teach him astronomy. “But how can I teach you astronomy when you can’t even see the stars?” “I don’t want to be an observing astronomer. I want to be a mathematical astronomer like Einstein.” It looks as though the Professor will have to introduce a course in the New Math.
There are a Cardinal and a Brown Thrasher who have mean tempers and are always picking fights. The Cardinal is called “His Eminence,” of course, and the Brown Thrasher is nicknamed “Jack Johnson.” It’s true that Jack Johnson has a rotten disposition but he sings beautifully and conducts regular vocal classes. On the other hand the voice of His Eminence can only be called painful.
The Chaldean Chicken is a runaway from a battery down the road and she’s a real mixed-up girl. She’s a White Leghorn and had the misfortune at an early age to discover that Leghorn is a place in Italy. Consequently she speaks a gibberish which she believes is fluent Italian. “Ah, caro mio, come est? Benny, I hope. Grazie. And with meeyo is benny too.” She’s called the Chaldean because she’s spaced out on astrology, which infuriates the Professor. “Ah, caro mio, you will never be sympathetico with him. You are Gasitorius and he is Zapricorn.”
The cleverest members of the Big Red Schoolhouse are the crows who are witty and talkative and sound like an opening night party at a theatrical restaurant. Unfortunately they are not respected by the Establishment which regards them as “mere mummers” who are likely to try to borrow something (never returned) and who turn serious discussions into a minstrel show. It must be admitted that when two crows get together they begin to behave like end men in search of an Interlocutor, convulsing themselves with ancient gags.
“Which do you like, the old writers or the new writers?”
“My brother’s got that.”
“Got what?”
“Neuritis.”
Caw! Caw! Caw!
“How many children do you have?”
“I have five, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, friend. Don’t thank me.”
Caw! Caw! Caw!
It was on an evening in May when the light is long and the shadows even longer that the Chairman entered the Big Red Schoolhouse attended by his harem. Everyone was there and deeply involved in a discussion of a proposal by the Professor. It was that they should establish an Underground Railroad, something like the Abolitionists, to enable other escapees to reach freedom. Moe Mole, who is rather literal-minded, was pointing out that it would be extremely difficult for him to dig tunnels big enough to accommodate railroad cars. “I saw one once. They’re as big as houses.” Jack Johnson was needling His Eminence to give flying lessons to all refugees, regardless of race, creed or species. Two black crows were cawing it up. In short, it was a typical Red Barn gathering.
“I call this meeting to order with important news,” the Chairman said. “I say, Kaff Kaff, with vital intelligence. Flora, do sit down. Oh, sorry. Frances, do sit— Felicia? Oh, Phyllis. Yes. Quite. Kaff Kaff. Do sit down, Phyllis. This morning a Cadillac drove up the lane leading to Red Hill farm—”
“Two hundred and thirty-five-point-nine yards,” Geo. W. Woodchuck said, “bearing east-south-east. Latitude—”
“Yes, yes, my dear George. It was followed by a Volvo containing—”
“Which do you like, a Cadillac or a Volvo?”
“My father’s got that.”
“Got what?”
“A cadillac condition.”
Caw! Caw! Caw!
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please! This is serious. The Cadillac contained a real estate agent. The foreign vehicle contained a man, a woman and an extremely small child, sex as yet undetermined. It is my judgment, Kaff Kaff, I say, my measured opinion that our farm is being shown for sale.”
“May is a bad month for buying,” the Chaldean Chicken declared. “Importanto decisions should be reservato for the Sign of Jemimah.”
“The word is Gemini,” the Professor shouted. “The least you can do is get your superstitions straight.”
“You are a male chauvinist rat,” Miss Leghorn retorted, “And I am going to form a Chickens’ Lib.”
“Yes, yes, my dear. And I will be the first to contribute to your worthy cause. Never mind that look, Frances— Oh, Fifi? There is no need for a Pheasants’ Lib movement. You are already liberated. Kaff Kaff. Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are involved in, I say, we are committed to a struggle for the preservation of our property. We must not permit any strangers (I might almost call them squatters) to invade us. We must make the land as unattractive as possible, and this will demand sacrifices.”
“Name one that you’ll make,” the Professor demanded.
“I will name several. Ladies,” here the Chairman addressed himself to the does. “Please do not permit yourselves to be seen.The human animal is always enchanted by your beauty and glamour.”
The debutantes giggled prettily.
“My dear Scoutmaster,” the Chairman went on to the Senior Rabbit, “the same holds true for yourself and your entire troop. Please disappear until further notice. No more jamborees on the lawns. I, of course, will make a similar sacrifice. I shall conceal my blazing magnificence. Kaff Kaff.”
Moe Mole said, “I’m always concealed.”
“To be sure. To be sure. But Moses, would it be possible for you to tunnel all the grounds, raising those unsightly mounds? You will have to double your efforts but it would be most helpful.”
“I’ll get the brothers from Moles Anonymous to lend a hand.”
“Splendid. Splendid. Now, George W., I ask this as a special favor. Would you be kind enough to give up your invaluable surveying for the nonce, I say, Kaff Kaff, temporarily, and eat the daffodils?”
“I hate the taste.”
“I don’t blame him,” the Senior Rabbit said. “They’re disgusting.”
“But so appealing visually to the human eye. You don’t have to actually devour them, George; just cut them down and chew a little. I will do the same for the lilacs, under cover of darkness, of course, and my dear ladies will assist.”
Jack Johnson said, “What about me and His Eminence?”
“His Eminence will remain out of sight but will sing. You will remain in sight but will not sing.”
“I’m as pretty as that Jesuit.”
“Yeah? You want to prove it? Step outside.”
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Please! We are concerting an all-out attack. Now our members of Actors Equity will continue their customary depredations, concentrating on the apple, pear and peach trees.”
“We ought to eat the corn, too.”
“I’m not going to eat you, friend.”
Caw! Caw! Caw!
“Miss Leghorn will remain out of sight. There is nothing more appealing to the human animal than a chicken meditating on a summer day. Oh, and Jack, dear boy, will you try to dispossess the Mocking bird? There is nothing more appealing than a Mocking bird serenading on a summer night.”
“Why don’t he ever join up?”
“I have solicited him many times and he has always refuse
d.
I’m afraid he’ll refuse to be drafted now.”
“I’ll chase him all the way to Canada.”
“I shall continue to supervise the campaign from my command post in Freda’s—ah, Francie’s—ah, from my command post under the lilac bush. I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, we cannot fail. Meeting adjourned.”
They failed, of course. Those losers from the Big City took two looks at Red Hill farm and fell in love with it. They saw the miniature hog-backs that Moe Mole had dug and loved them.
“Moles have their rights,” the husband said. They saw George W. decimating the daffodils. “Woodchucks have their rights,” the wife said. “Next year we’ll plant enough for us and him.” The Kaff Kaff of the Chairman doing his best to destroy the lilacs put them in ecstasies. Flashing glimpses of the does and their fawns hiding in the woods enchanted them. “Do you think they’ll all let us live here with them?” the wife asked.
They bought the farm at a high price ($1,000 an acre) with the help of a mortgage, moved in all their possessions and took up residence. Almost immediately there were hammerings and sawings inside the house and flutters of wash outside, hung on a line strung between a couple of oak trees.
They were a family of four. The head of the house was a Burmese cat, all tan and brown with golden eyes, who ruled with an imperious hand. Then there came the husband and wife, and a small boy aged two years who ruled the Burmese. The news of the cat rather disturbed the Big Red Schoolhouse which is not fond of predators. They are all vegetarians, and the Chaldean Chicken has formed an association called OFFO, which stands for Organic Foods For Oll. In the opinion of the Professor Miss Leghorn is ineducable.
“No, it’s nothing to worry about,” George W. assured the assembled. “She’s a right royalty.”
“Royalty?”
“I had a long talk with her through the screen door. She’s some kind of Burmese Princess, and if the Burmese were ever hunters it’s been bred out of her.”
“She says. Behind a door.”
“No. I helped her get it open and we had a real friendly time until the lady ran out and grabbed her and put her back in the house. She was mad.”
“Why?”
“Well, it seems that these Burmese types are very high class and they don’t let them out. They’re afraid she’ll catch hemophilia or something. The Princess is kind of lonely. We ought to do something for her.”
“Hemophilia is not contagious,” the Professor said. “It is a congenital characteristic transmitted through the female chromosome.”
“So, all right. Leukemia or something.”
“What about the family?”
“The Princess says they’re a little loose. The name is Dupree. He’s Constantine and she’s Constance, so they call each other Connie and the Princess never knows where she’s at.”
“And the kid?”
“He’s a boy and he’s got six names.”
“Six?”
“They call him after some kind of poem, which I think is a pretty rotten scene: James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George.”
“That’s four names,” the Professor objected.
“But mathematically speaking,” Moe Mole began, “it really counts up to—”
“All right. All right. Six. How old is he?”
“Two.”
“What does he do?”
“Not much. Just crawls around.”
“At two? Arrested. What does the father do?”
“He’s an editor.”
“What’s that?”
“You know those pieces of paper we see sometimes with print on them like; Tomato Ketchup, Net Wt. 32 Oz. or Pall Mall Famous Cigarettes—Wherever Particular People Congregate?”
“Whatever they mean. And?”
“The Princess says somebody has to be in charge of the print. That’s an editor.”
“What does she do?”
“Who?”
“The other Connie.”
“She pastes food on paper.”
“She what?”
“That’s what the Princess said.”
“Pastes food on paper?”
“The Princess says it tastes real good.”
“She is not pasting food on paper,” the Professor said. “She is making paintings.” He turned to Geo. Woodchuck. “In my opinion your friend, the Burmese Princess, is an ass.”
“She wants to meet you. Her Connie, the man, went to Rutgers, too.”
“Did he, now? Was he Phi Beta Kappa? No matter. Perhaps we can arrange something.”
“He doesn’t speak our language.”
“Too bad. Can he learn? How old is he?”
“Around thirty.”
The Professor shook his head. “A Senior Citizen. Too late.”
At this point one of the Endmen said, “A funny thing is happening on its way to the barn.”
They all stared at him.
“Something’s coming,” he explained.
They looked through the slit in the barn door. A curious creature, pink and naked, was crawling across the lawn in their direction.
“Where? Where?” Moe Mole asked.
“Bearing south-south-west,” George W. told him.
“What is it?”
“It’s a Monster!” Miss Leghorn cried.
The Monster crawled through the slit, stopped, rested and panted. Then he looked at the assembly. The assembly examined him.
“It’s James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George,” the Woodchuck said. “I saw him hugging the Princess.”
“Da,” the Monster said pleasantly.
“An obvious illiterate,” the Professor said peevishly. “It can’t speak. Let’s adjourn.”
“I can too speak,” James said in the creature tongue. “Why are you so mean to me?”
“My dear Monster,” the Professor apologized handsomely, “I had no idea. I beg you to forgive me.”
“Da,” James said.
“But of course,” the White Rat explained. “Science always finds the answer. He can speak to us but he can’t speak to his own kind.”
“Da,” James said.
“You’ve got to speak our language, buddy-boy,” Jack Johnson said.
“We think he’s cute in any language,” the debutantes tittered.
“Ladies,” the Monster said. “I thank you for the generous compliment. I am but a simple soul, but I am not impervious to flattery from such glorious females as you. In this hurly-burly world of conflict and confrontation it is a comfort for a lonely creature like myself to know that there are yet a few who are capable of relating and communicating.”
“His primitive eloquence goes to the heart,” said a fawn, batting her eyes at James.
“Where the hell did you get that fancy spiel?” one of the Endmen demanded.
“From my father’s editorials,” James grinned. “He reads them out loud to my mother.”
“Honest and modest,” the Scoutmaster said. “I approve of that.”
“Hey, Monster, what’s it like living with human types? Is it different?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never lived with anything else.”
“What about that Princess? The Burmese type.”
“Oh, she’s just a flirt. She’s viscerotonic; that is, she operates from instinctive rather than intellectual motivation.”
“Jeez!” Jack Johnson exclaimed.
“One of them editorials?” an Endman asked.
“Yes, sir. What I mean, ladies and gentlemen, is that this is the first chance I’ve ever had to carry on a rational conversation with anyone.”
“Don’t your parents talk to you?”
“Oh yes, but when I answer they don’t listen.”
“That’s because you talk Us and they talk Them.”
“You know,” the Professor said, “I believe this simplistic Monster may have some potential. I think I’ll take him on as one of my students in Arts & Science 1.”
“Here comes one of the t
wo Connies,” His Eminence warned.
“Right. Out, Monster. We’ll see you tomorrow. Push him through the door, somebody.”
James’ mother picked him up and started back to the house.
“Darling, you had a wonderful exploration. How nice that we don’t have to worry about cars. Did you discover anything?”
“As a matter of fact I did,” James answered. “There’s a brilliant sodality of birds and beasts in the Big Red Barn who made me welcome and have very kindly volunteered to begin my education. They’re all characters and most amusing. They call me Monster.”
Alas, he was speaking creature language which his mother couldn’t hear or understand. So he settled for “Da” in human, but he was extremely annoyed by his mother’s failure to hear him, and this is the terrible conflict of our true story.
And so the education of James Dupree began in and around the Big Red Schoolhouse.
“Music achieved its peak in the Baroque Era,” Jack Johnson said. “Telemann, Bach, Mozart. The greatest, the guy I dig the most, was Vivaldi. He had muscle. You understand? Right. Now what you have to keep in mind is that these cats made statements. And you have to realize that you just don’t listen to music; you have to make it, which means that you have to conduct a conversation with the artists. Right? You hear their statement and then you answer them back. You agree with them or you argue with them. That’s what it’s all about.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s all right. Now let’s hear you sound your A.”
“As we dig deeper and deeper,” Moe Mole said, “we find that, mathematically speaking, the temperature increases one degree Fahrenheit per foot. But the brothers from the north tell me that they strike a permafrost layer which is left over from the Glacial Epoch. This is very interesting. It means that the last glaciation is not yet finished in the mathematical sense. Have you ever seen an iceberg?”
“No, sir.”
“I would like to dig down to the bottom of an iceberg to check the temperature.”
“But wouldn’t it be cold, sir?”
“Cold? Cold? Pah! Cold is better than pep pills.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Let me see your hand,” Miss Leghorn said. “Benny. Benny. The line of life is strong. Ah, but the line of Venus, of amourismo, is broken in multo places. I’m afraid you will have an unhappy love life, caro mio.”
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 39
