There was a long pause after Mayo finished his story. Linda examined him keenly, trying to conceal the gleam in her eye. At last she asked with studied carelessness, “Where did he get the barometer?”
“Who? What?”
“Your friend, Gil. His antique barometer. Where did he get it?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Antiquing was another one of his hobbies.”
“And it looked like that clock?”
“Just like it.”
“French?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Bronze?”
“I guess so. Like your clock. Is that bronze?”
“Yes. Shaped like a sunburst?”
“No, just like yours.”
“That’s a sunburst. The same size?”
“Exactly.”
“Where was it?”
“Didn’t I tell you? In our house.”
“Where’s the house?”
“On Grant Street.”
“What number?”
“Three fifteen. Say, what is all this?”
“Nothing, Jim. Just curious. No offense. Now I think I’d better get our picnic things.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I took a walk by myself?”
She cocked an eye at him. “Don’t try driving alone. Garage mechanics are scarcer than TV repairmen.”
He grinned and disappeared; but after dinner the true purpose of his disappearance was revealed when he produced a sheaf of sheet music, placed it on the piano rack, and led Linda to the piano bench. She was delighted and touched.
“Jim, you angel! Wherever did you find it?”
“In the apartment house across the street. Fourth floor, rear. Name of Horowitz. They got a lot of records, too. Boy, I can tell you it was pretty spooky snooping around in the dark with only matches. You know something funny? The whole top of the house is full of glop.”
“Glop?”
“Yeah. Sort of white jelly, only it’s hard. Like clear concrete. Now look, see this note? It’s C. Middle C. It stands for this white key here. We better sit together. Move over …”
The lesson continued for two hours of painful concentration and left them both so exhausted that they tottered to their rooms with only perfunctory good nights.
“Jim,” Linda called.
“Yeah?” he yawned.
“Would you like one of my dolls for your bed?”
“Gee, no. Thanks a lot, Linda, but guys really ain’t interested in dolls.”
“I suppose not. Never mind. Tomorrow I’ll have something for you that really interests guys.”
· · · · ·
Mayo was awakened next morning by a rap on his door. He heaved up in bed and tried to open his eyes.
“Yeah? Who is it?” he called.
“It’s me. Linda. May I come in?”
He glanced around hastily. The room was neat. The hooked rug was clean. The precious candlewick bedspread was neatly folded on top of the dresser.
“Okay. Come on in.”
Linda entered, wearing a crisp seersucker dress. She sat down on the edge of the four-poster and gave Mayo a friendly pat. “Good morning,” she said. “Now listen. I’ll have to leave you alone for a few hours.
I’ve got things to do. There’s breakfast on the table, but I’ll be back in time for lunch. All right?”
“Sure.”
“You won’t be lonesome?”
“Where you going?”
“Tell you when I get back.” She reached out and tousled his head. “Be a good boy and don’t get into mischief. Oh, one other thing. Don’t go into my bedroom.”
“Why should I?”
“Just don’t anyway.”
She smiled and was gone. Moments later, Mayo heard the jeep start and drive off. He got up at once, went into Linda’s bedroom, and looked around. The room was neat, as ever. The bed was made, and her pet dolls were lovingly arranged on the coverlet. Then he saw it.
“Gee,” he breathed.
It was a model of a full-rigged clipper ship. The spars and rigging were intact, but the hull was peeling, and the sails were shredded. It stood before Linda’s closet, and alongside it was her sewing basket. She had already cut out a fresh set of white linen sails. Mayo knelt down before the model and touched it tenderly.
“I’ll paint her black with a gold line around her,” he murmured, “and I’ll name her the Linda N.”
He was so deeply moved that he hardly touched his breakfast. He bathed, dressed, took his shotgun and a handful of shells, and went out to wander through the park. He circled south, passed the playing fields, the decaying carousel, and the crumbling skating rink, and at last left the park and loafed down Seventh Avenue.
He turned east on 50th Street and spent a long time trying to decipher the tattered posters advertising the last performance at Radio City Music Hall. Then he turned south again. He was jolted to a halt by the sudden clash of steel. It sounded like giant sword blades in a titanic duel. A small herd of stunted horses burst out of a side street, terrified by the clangor. Their shoeless hooves thudded bluntly on the pavement.
The sound of steel stopped.
“That’s where that bluejay got it from,” Mayo muttered. “But what the hell is it?”
He drifted eastward to investigate, but forgot the mystery when he came to the diamond center. He was dazzled by the blue-white stones glittering in the showcases. The door of one jewel mart had sagged open, and Mayo tipped in. When he emerged, it was with a strand of genuine matched pearls which had cost him an I.O.U. worth a year’s rent on the Body Slam.
His tour took him to Madison Avenue, where he found himself before Abercrombie & Fitch. He went in to explore and came at last to the gun racks. There he lost all sense of time, and when he recovered his senses, he was walking up Fifth Avenue toward the boat pond. An Italian Cosmi automatic rifle was cradled in his arms, guilt was in his heart, and a sales slip in the store read: I.O.U. 1 Cosmi Rifle, $750.00. 6 Boxes Ammo. $18.00. James Mayo.
It was past three o’clock when he got back to the boathouse. He eased in, trying to appear casual, hoping the extra gun he was carrying would go unnoticed. Linda was sitting on the piano bench with her back to him.
“Hi,” Mayo said nervously. “Sorry I’m late. I … I brought you a present. They’re real.” He pulled the pearls from his pocket and held them out. Then he saw she was crying.
“Hey, what’s the matter?”
She didn’t answer.
“You wasn’t scared I’d run out on you? I mean, well, all my gear is here. The car, too. You only had to look.”
She turned. “I hate you!” she cried.
He dropped the pearls and recoiled, startled by her vehemence. “What’s the matter?’
“You’re a lousy, rotten liar!”
“Who? Me?”
“I drove up to New Haven this morning.” Her voice trembled with passion. “There’s no house standing on Grant Street. It’s all wiped out. There’s no Station WNHA. The whole building’s gone.”
“No.”
“Yes. And I went to your restaurant. There’s no pile of TV sets out in the street. There’s only one set, over the bar. It’s rusted to pieces. The rest of the restaurant is a pigsty. You were living there all the time.
Alone. There was only one bed in back. It was lies! All lies!”
“Why would I lie about a thing like that?”
“You never shot any Gil Watkins.”
“I sure did. Both barrels. He had it coming.”
“And you haven’t got any TV set to repair.”
“Yes, I do.
“And even if it is repaired, there’s no station to broadcast.”
“Talk sense,” he said angrily. “Why would I shoot Gil if there wasn’t any broadcast?”
“If he’s dead, how can he broadcast?”
“See? And you just now said I didn’t shoot him.”
“Oh, you’re mad! You’re insane!” she sobbed. “You just described that barometer b
ecause you happened to be looking at my clock. And I believed your crazy lies. I had my heart set on a barometer to match my clock. I’ve been looking for years.” She ran to the wall arrangement and hammered her fist alongside the clock. “It belongs right here. Here. But you lied, you lunatic. There never was a barometer.”
“If there’s a lunatic around here, it’s you,” he shouted. “You’re so crazy to get this house decorated that nothing’s real for you anymore.”
She ran across the room, snatched up his old shotgun, and pointed it at him. “You get out of here. Right this minute. Get out or I’ll kill you. I never want to see you again.”
The shotgun kicked off in her hands, knocking her backward and spraying shot over Mayo’s head into a corner bracket. China shattered and clattered down. Linda’s face went white.
“Jim! My God, are you all right? I didn’t mean to … it just went off …”
He stepped forward, too furious to speak. Then, as he raised his hand to cuff her, the sound of distant reports come, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. Mayo froze.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
Linda nodded.
“That wasn’t any accident. It was a signal.”
Mayo grabbed the shotgun, ran outside, and fired the second barrel into the air. There was a pause. Then again came the distant explosions in a stately triplet, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. They had an odd, sucking sound, as though they were implosions rather than explosions. Far up the park, a canopy of frightened birds mounted into the sky.
“There’s somebody,” Mayo exulted. “By God, I told you I’d find somebody. Come on.”
They ran north, Mayo digging into his pockets for more shells to reload and signal again.
“I got to thank you for taking that shot at me, Linda.”
“I didn’t shoot at you,” she protested. “It was an accident.”
“The luckiest accident in the world. They could be passing through and never know about us. But what the hell kind of guns are they using? I never heard no shots like that before, and I heard ‘em all. Wait a minute.”
On the little piazza before the Wonderland monument, Mayo halted and raised the shotgun to fire. Then he slowly lowered it. He took a deep breath. In a harsh voice he said, “Turn around. We’re going back to the house.” He pulled her around and faced her south.
Linda stared at him. In an instant he had become transformed from a gentle teddy bear into a panther.
“Jim, what’s wrong?”
“I’m scared,” he growled. “I’m goddamn scared, and I don’t want you to be, too.” The triple salvo sounded again. “Don’t pay any attention,” he ordered. “We’re going back to the house. Come on!”
She refused to move. “But why? Why?”
“We don’t want any part of them. Take my word for it.”
“How do you know? You’ve got to tell me.”
“Christ! You won’t let it alone until you find out, huh? All right. You want the explanation for that bee smell, and them buildings falling down, and all the rest?” He turned Linda around with a hand on her neck and directed her gaze at the Wonderland monument. “Go ahead. Look.”
A consummate craftsman had removed the heads of Alice, the Mad Hatter, and the March Hare, and replaced them with towering mantis heads, all saber mandibles, antennae, and faceted eyes. They were of a burnished steel and gleamed with unspeakable ferocity. Linda let out a sick whimper and sagged against Mayo. The triple report signaled once more.
Mayo caught Linda, heaved her over his shoulder, and loped back toward the pond. She recovered consciousness in a moment and began to moan. “Shut up,” he growled. “Whining won’t help.” He set her on her feet before the boathouse. She was shaking but trying to control herself. “Did this place have shutters when you moved in? Where are they?”
“Stacked.” She had to squeeze the words out. “Behind the trellis.”
“I’ll put ‘em up. You fill buckets with water and stash ‘em in the kitchen. Go!”
“Is it going to be a siege?”
“We’ll talk later. Go!”
She filled buckets and then helped Mayo jam the last of the shutters into the window embrasures. “All right, inside,” he ordered. They went into the house and shut and barred the door. Faint shafts of the late afternoon sun filtered through the louvers of the shutters. Mayo began unpacking the cartridges for the Cosmi rifle. “You got any kind of gun?”
“A .22 revolver somewhere.”
“Ammo?”
“I think so.”
“Get it ready.”
“Is it going to be a siege?” she repeated.
“I don’t know. I don’t know who they are, or what they are, or where they come from. All I know is, we got to be prepared for the worst.”
The distant implosions sounded. Mayo looked up alertly, listening. Linda could make him out in the dimness now. His face looked carved. His chest gleamed with sweat. He exuded the musky odor of caged lions. Linda had an overpowering impulse to touch him. Mayo loaded the rifle, stood it alongside the shotgun, and began padding from shutter to shutter, peering out vigilantly, waiting with massive patience.
“Will they find us?” Linda asked.
“Maybe.”
“Could they be friendly?”
“Maybe.”
“Those heads looked so horrible.”
“Yeah.”
“Jim, I’m scared. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“How long before we know?”
“An hour, if they’re friendly; two or three, if they’re not.”
“W-why longer?”
“If they’re looking for trouble, they’ll be more cautious.”
“Jim, what do you really think?”
“About what?”
“Our chances.”
“You really want to know?”
“Please.”
“We’re dead.”
She began to sob. He shook her savagely. “Stop that. Go get your gun ready.”
She lurched across the living room, noticed the pearls Mayo had dropped, and picked them up. She was so dazed that she put them on automatically. Then she went into her darkened bedroom and pulled Mayo’s model yacht away from the closet door. She located the .22 in a hatbox on the closet floor and removed it along with a small carton of cartridges.
She realized that a dress was unsuited to this emergency. She got a turtleneck sweater, jodhpurs, and boots from the closet. Then she stripped naked to change. Just as she raised her arms to unclasp the pearls, Mayo entered, paced to the shuttered south window, and peered out. When he turned back from the window, he saw her.
He stopped short. She couldn’t move. Their eyes locked, and she began to tremble, trying to conceal herself with her arms. He stepped forward, stumbled on the model yacht, and kicked it out of the way.
The next instant he had taken possession of her body, and the pearls went flying, too. As she pulled him down on the bed, fiercely tearing the shirt from his back, her pet dolls also went into the discard heap along with the yacht, the pearls, and the rest of the world.
* * *
Time Is the Traitor
Introduction
I READ an interview with a top management executive in which he said he was no different from any other employee of the corporation; as a matter of fact, he did less work than most. What he was paid an enormous salary for was making decisions. And he added rather wryly that his decisions had no better than a fifty-fifty chance of being correct.
That stayed with me. I began to think about decision making, and since my habit is to look at characters from the Freudian point of view first—other points of view receive equal time later— I thought that decisions might well be an aspect of compulsion. My wife and I, who are quick and firm deciders, are often annoyed by the many hesitating, vacillating people we see in action. What’s the answer? The others are the normals and we’re the compelled. Fair enough. Good, at least for a story.
But are you born a compulsive or are you kicked into it by background and/or a traumatic experience?
Both, probably, but it’s better for a story to have a single shattering event bigger the decision compulsion, provided the event ties into the body of the story. I thought of an amusing couplet Manly Wade Wellman had written to the effect that if your girl is one girl in a million, there must be at least six like her in a city of any size. Good. It’ll work and lock in to give us a chase quality. It will also provide conflict, mystery and suspense.
And all this is a damned tissue of lies. I don’t coolly block a story in progressive steps like an attorney preparing a brief for the Supreme Court. I’m more like Zerah Colburn, the American idiot-savant, who could perform mathematical marvels mentally and recognize prime numbers at sight. He did it, but he didn’t know how he did it. I write stories, but as a rule I don’t know how I do it. There are occasional exceptions, but this isn’t one.
All I do know is that the ingredients mentioned above went into the stockpot along with a lot of others. I don’t know in what order. I don’t know why some were fished out a moment after they went in while others were permitted to remain and “marry.” This is why most authors agree that writing can’t be taught; it can be mastered only through trial and error, and the more errors the better. Youngsters have a lot of damned bad writing to get out of their systems before they can find their way.
The purpose of trial and error, imitations and experiments, constant slaving through uncertainty and despair is twofold: to acquire merciless self-discipline; to acquire conscious story pat-terns and reduce them to unconscious practice. I’ve often said that you become a writer when you think story, not about a story.
When a writer tells you how he wrote something, he’s usually second-guessing. He’s telling you what he figures may have happened, after the fact. He can’t report on what went on deep under the surface; the unconscious matrix which shapes the story, the unconscious editing, the unconscious revelation of his own character. All he can do is give you the things that went on consciously and gussy them up to make them sound logical and sensible. But writing isn’t logical and sensible. It’s an act of insane violence committed against yourself and the rest of the world ... at least it is with me.
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 54
