by Fritz Leiber
Carr tried to look thoughtful. Marcia swept on, “Keaton has his plans all laid. He’s gone into it very carefully. He’s spotted some likely first clients—badly edited publications he knows it’ll be easy to improve. That way you’ll get a reputation right from the start. Once the circulation of those first publications begins to climb, watch the others flock to you! Even if you have to lose money to turn the trick, it will be worth it.”
Carr frowned. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Magazine and newspaper guys have their own ideas. They don’t put much trust in the judgment of outsiders.”
Marcia smiled with the faintest touch of pity. “Most publishers know that they can’t have editorial staffs that are the equal of Life or the Post, simply because they can’t pay the money. But they can have an editorial counseling service that’s that good, because dozens of other publishers will help to bear the expense.
Carr shrugged. “If we were as good as Life or the Post, why wouldn’t we start a magazine of our own?”
This time Marcia did not smile, although the suggestion of pity was if anything more marked. “Objections, again. Always objections. Next you’ll be telling me your interests don’t lie in that direction. The time isn’t right for new ventures.”
“Well,” he said, “I can see how all this applies to Keaton Fisher. He’s had experience on big magazines. But where do I shine in?”
“It’s obvious. Keaton’s no good at handling people. You’re an expert! This service won’t be purely an editorial matter. You’ll also be reshaping the office routine and personnel of publications.”
“I see,” he said slowly. “Well, I’ll think it over? I won’t be seeing him until Friday, you say.”
“What’s wrong?” She sat up straight. “Merely that there’s no question of thinking it over at all. You surely don’t compare your present job to Keaton’s proposition.”
He looked at her quickly, then looked away. “Well, Marcia, I don’t exactly like the idea of this counseling service.”
She smiled, almost encouragingly. “No?”
He sucked his lip. “Oh, it seems too much a part of the old con game. The old business of tailoring wordage, retailoring it, patching it up, cleaning and pressing it, putting it through the mangle over and over again. Too derivative. We wouldn’t even be editing the stuff. We’d be editing the editors. Selling them their own product.” He hurried on. “No, if I were to break away from General Employment, I’d want it to be for the sake of something more legitimate, more creative.”
She leaned back. Carr couldn’t recall her ever looking more the cool mistress of herself. Yet he knew she was displaying herself, tempting him deliberately. “Good,” she said. “Why don’t you?”
“What?”
“Do something creative. You were quite an actor in college, you’ve told me. Of course it may be a little late for that, though you never can tell. But there’s always writing, painting—all sorts of ways of blazoning your personality before the world.”
“Oh, Marcia!” For a moment he almost lost control of himself. Then with an effort he put down the hot hunger within him. “Look Marcia, the important thing is that we like each other and have good times together. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?” He moved closer to her, watched the rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed.
She didn’t respond.
“Well, isn’t it?” he asked after a moment. “Look, Marcia, I enjoy the time we have together better than anything else. The parties, the shows, the yacht club, all that. Your friends are wonderful. The Pendletons and the Mandevilles are grand people. Last Sunday on the lake was marvelous. There was a kind of glamour in every moment, as there always is when you’re around.” He slid his hand along the top of the couch, behind her shoulders. “It’s fun, don’t you see? The best fun in the world?”
“You can’t join in the pleasures of people like the Pendletons and the Mandevilles without joining in their enterprises too. In the long run you can’t command the sweets of life without commanding people and events.”
“Why not?” he asked with simulated lightness. “After all, I pay my own way.”
“As an extra man, yes,” she admitted without rancor. He was close enough to smell her hair. “But that isn’t the same thing at all. Don’t you see that you’ve got to get into the really big money? Why, with all your ability—”
“No, I don’t see,” he said. “All I can see is you. And I love you very much.” Smiling, he quickly put his arms around her and pulled her toward him.
She didn’t resist. She only thinned her lips and looked straight into his eyes. “No,” she said, “No.”
“Please, baby!”
He seized her. With avid roughness he caressed the pink flesh. His kisses fell hot on her throat, her shoulders. He felt the smooth silkiness of her skin, the pliant sweet curves of her filling his palms.
But she jerked back and stood up in one movement. A little of her drink spilled onto the couch and pooled there.
“So that’s it,” he said. “You tempt me. You entice me. You think I desire you, you’ll control me—I’ll do anything you say.”
“And if I have to do that to put some steel into your backbone,” she replied, “why shouldn’t I?”
Carr thought that Marcia had never looked so queenly or desirable. At the same time, he saw in a flash how the whole evening would go from here on. First he would beg her pardon. Then, to please her, he would pretend to become very interested in Keaton Fisher’s editorial counseling service. As the evening wore along, what with drinks and the hypnotic glitter of restaurant and nightclub, he actually would begin to get interested. And she would become coolly amorous when he took her home, and let him in, and give him his little reward for dancing to her tune.
Like some puppet. Like some damned puppet dangling on her strings.
Well, for once he wouldn’t. For once he’d break the pattern, no matter what it cost him. There were other places he could go tonight. She wasn’t his whole life, not quite.
He had backed a couple steps away from her.
She finished her drink. “I’m ready now,” she said smiling. “I’ll get my bag.”
As she moved toward the bedroom, he watched her. He swallowed hard. Yes, there were other places. He had to prove that.
When she was out of sight, he turned quickly and—the door was still ajar—walked rapidly and silently out of the room and down the hall.
Yes, he kept telling himself, other places.
Short of the elevator, he opened the door to the stairs. He hurried down the gray, squared spiral. Faster. Faster.
Atop his mood of painful desperation, he was aware of a sudden sense of freedom, even excitement. For it had just occurred to him what the other place was. He had just realized the meaning of a phrase he had read uncomprehendingly an hour before: “…the lion’s tail near the five sisters…”
Few people walk on the east side of Michigan Boulevard after dark. At such times the Art Institute looks very dead, with the automobile headlights and the colored glows from the busy side of the boulevard playing on its dark stone like archeologists’ flashlights. The two majestic bronze lions might well be guarding the portals of some monument of Roman antiquity. One wonders, though, whether the sculptor Keneys foresaw that the tail of the southernmost lion, conveniently horizontal, would always be kept polished bright by the casual elbows of art students and idlers, and now, the frightened girl.
She watched Carr mount the steps, without any active sign of recognition. He might be part of some dream she was having. A forbidding cold wind was whipping in from the lake and she had buttoned up her cardigan. She didn’t seem so frightened now, but very alone, as if she had nowhere in the world to go and was waiting for someone who would never come. Carr stopped a half dozen paces away.
She smiled and said, “Hello.”
Carr walked over to her. His first words surprised him. “I met your small dark man with glasses. He ran away.”
“Is he afraid of me?” Carr asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. Headlights swept across her gray eyes. At the moment they seemed as enigmatic as those of a sphinx. “I had some vague idea of introducing the two of you,” she said. “But now I’m not so sure. About any of us.” Her voice dropped. The wind blew some strands of her shoulder-length brown hair against her cheek. “I never really thought you’d come, you know. Leaving notes like that is just a stupid way I have of tempting fate. You weren’t supposed to guess. How did you know it was the south lion? I don’t think you even looked at the north one.”
Carr laughed. “Taft’s Great Lakes Fountain is an obsession of mine. I always try to figure out, from the way the bowls the five sisters are holding pour into each other, which sister is which lake. And of course the fountain is nearest the southern lion.”
“Did you walk down here tonight?” she asked.
“Yes. And now I have questions for you. Who are those people you warned me against? That big, blonde, for instance. Why did you let her strike you without doing anything? What sort of hold do they have on you?”
“I don’t want to talk about them.” Her voice was flat. “It’s something obscene and horrible and I don’t want to think about it at all.”
“Are they after the small dark man with glasses too?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not something you can do anything about. If you insist on talking about it, I don’t want to be with you.”
Carr waited. A chillier gust was blowing across the steps and the girl hugged herself.
“All right,” he said. “How about us getting a drink somewhere?”
“If you’ll let me pick the place.”
The last word made him think of Marcia. He quickly linked his arm through the girl’s and said, “Lead the way.”
At the bottom of the steps he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Jane.”
“Jane what?”
She shook her head.
“Mine’s Carr. Two r’s.”
They were half a block from the Art Institute when Carr asked, “What about your friend?”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of his coming now.”
They continued north. The wind and the gloom and the wide empty sidewalk seemed strange and lonely so close to the boulevard with its humming cars and its fringe of people and lights on the other side.
Jane’s arm tightened a little on Carr’s. “This is fun,” she said. “I mean—having a date.”
“I shouldn’t think you’d have any trouble,” he told her.
They were opposite the public library. She led them across the boulevard. It seemed to Carr that the loneliness had followed them, for as they walked past the massive dark façade of the library, they met only two people—a galloping, bleak-faced boy and a shiffling old man in a checked cap and shabby overcoat.
They squinted against blown grit. A sheet of newspaper flapped into their faces. Carr ripped it away and it swooped up into the air. They looked at each other and laughed. Carr took her hand and started across the next street, under the Elevated.
He felt a sharp tug, heard Jane cry, “Look out!” He jumped back out of the path of a dark automobile gliding along without lights.
“You should be more careful,” she said. “They can’t see us, you know.
“Yes,” Carr agreed. “The street’s awfully dark here.”
They walked on a short way. Jane suddenly turned down a cobbled alley chocked with fire escapes. A few steps more and Carr was startled to see the entrance to a little tavern. Steps led down to the sunken door.
The place was dimly lit and almost empty. None of the booths were occupied. At the bar two men were contemplating half-empty glasses of beer. In the shadows were smoky old advertisements and pictures. Carr recognized one—a large print of Custer’s Last Stand.
“What’ll you have?” he asked, heading for the bar.
“Let’s wait a minute,” she said, steering him instead to the last booth, crowded in like an afterthought beside the swinging door to the kitchen, which was evidently not in use, since the little round window was dark. Neither the two drinkers nor the bartender looked up as they went past. The latter was a solemn and fat man, thoughtfully shaving the foam off a small glass of beer.
Jane looked at Carr across the splotched table. Color had come into her cheeks and she was smiling, as if what they were doing was very wonderful. He found himself thinking of his college days, when there had been hip-flasks and roadsters, and checks from home, and classes to cut.
“It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve gone past this alley a hundred times and never noticed this place.”
“Cities are like that,” she said. “You think you know them, when all you know are routes through them. You think that Joe’s Hamburgers and the Cleanspot Laundry and Reagan’s Mortuary and the woman who’s always dusting on the second floor, where the electric wires dip close to the window, are the whole show. One day you turn a corner the wrong way, and after a dozen steps find something you’ve never seen before.”
We’re even beginning to talk about life, thought Carr.
One of the beer-drinkers put two nickels in the jukebox. Low, anticipatory strains eddied out.
Carr looked toward the bar. “I wonder if there’s a waiter,” he said. “Maybe they don’t server at the tables now.”
“Who cares?” she said. “Let’s dance.”
“I don’t imagine it’s allowed,” he said. “They’d have to have another license.”
“Come on,” she said. He shrugged and followed her.
There wasn’t much space, but enough. With what struck Carr as a grave and laudable politeness, the beer-drinkers paid no attention to them, though one softly beat time with the bottom of his glass against his palm.
Jane danced badly, but after a while she got better. Somewhat solemnly they revolved in a modest circle. She was thin. He could feel ribs through the sweater. She said nothing until almost the end of the first number. Then, in a choked voice—
“It’s been so long since I’ve danced with anyone.”
“Not with your man with glasses?” he asked quickly.
She shook her head. “He’s too nervous, serious all the time. He can’t relax—not even pretend.”
The second record started. After a while her expression cleared. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I’ve got a theory about life,” she said dreamily.
Yes, thought Carr, it’s exactly like the old days. He put out of his head the momentary suspicion that she was playing with him—very tenderly, but still playing with him. Like a solemn and wide-eyed child telling a story to an adult.
“I think life has a rhythm,” she began, pausing now and then with the music, her phrases drifting. “It keeps changing with the time of day and year, but it’s always really the same. People feel it without knowing it, and it governs their lives.”
Another couple came in, took one of the front booths. The bartender wiped his hands on his apron, pushed up the wicket in the bar and walked over to them.
“I like your theory, Jane,” Carr said. “I like to drift and take things as they come. There’s someone who doesn’t want me to, who’d like to see me fight the current, build a boat—a heavy cruiser with depth charges. But I’d rather follow the rhythm.”
“Oh, but we’re not following the rhythm,” Jane said. “We’ve broken away from it.”
“Have we?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Is that what you mean this afternoon when you wondered if I was ‘awakened’?”
“Maybe.”
The music stopped. Carr dug in his pocket for more nickels to put in the jukeb
ox, but she shook her head. They slid back into their booth.
A telephone rang. The fat bartender carefully put down the tray of drinks he had mixed for the other couple, and went up front to answer it.
“Sure you don’t want to dance some more?” Carr asked.
“No, let’s just let things happen to us as they come.”
“A good idea,” Carr agreed, “provided you don’t push it too far. For instance, we did come here to get a drink.”
“Yes, we did,” Jane said. A rather impish expression came into her eyes. She glanced at the two drinks standing on the bar. “Those look good,” she said.
Carr nodded. “I wonder what you have to do to get them,” he remarked irritably.
“Walk up and take them?”
He looked at her. “Seriously?”
“Why not? We were here first. Serve them right.” Her eyes were still lively.
He grinned at her. “All right,” he said, getting up suddenly, “I will.”
She didn’t stop him, rather to his surprise. Much more so, there was no squawk when he boldly clutched the two glasses and returned with them to Jane.
She applauded soundlessly.
He bowed and set down the drinks with flourish. They sipped.
She smiled. “That’s another of my theories about life. You can get away with anything if you really want to. Other people can’t stop you, because of the rhythm. No matter what happens, they have to keep on dancing. They’re stuck. They can only interfere with you if interfering happens to fit the rhythm. Otherwise you’re safe.”
And rather true, thought Carr. Most people, himself included, went through life in fear and more or less controlled trembling, thinking that if they made the slightest move to assert themselves, they’d be jumped on. They fancied that everyone else was watching them, waiting for them to make a mistake. But actually the other people were as scared as you, or more so. And they rather liked you to make missteps and mistakes, because that eased their worried about themselves. There definitely was a sort of rhythm to life—or at least a counterpoint of opposed timidities. Take that bartender, who was busy with glasses and bottles again. He hadn’t even looked in their direction. He was probably embarrassed at having neglected to wait on them, and more relieved than annoyed at what Carr had done.
