by Isaac Asimov
She decided she had better follow the man since it seemed safer than trying to escape into the smoky terrain that stretched out on all sides. He led her into a seared building beside the imposing gate, and Mrs. Twiller found herself in a large room decorated sumptuously in vivid colors — scarlet, tangerine, and blood-red, among others. There was another fiery-looking individual seated behind a huge table which Mrs. Twiller took to be a reception desk, but when she headed toward it her guide said curtly, “Sit down,” and disappeared through a crimson door.
Mrs. Twiller chose a cherry-colored sofa and sat down heavily, jarring her poor old bones until they rattled. Despite its soft appearance, the sofa was hard as a rock — which was only logical, Mrs. Twiller thought, since on closer examination it turned out to be made of petrified lava. She settled herself as comfortably as she could and glanced at the man behind the desk; but he was occupied with some business of his own involving a large book into which he seemed to be burning notations. Since he seemed in no way hostile, she relaxed a little and let her gaze roam around the brilliant room.
Mercy, she thought, it was a nice place to see but she certainly wouldn’t want to live here. Not that it wasn’t beautiful, in its own fashion, with its startling colors and stunning art objects scattered casually about. But to Mrs. Twiller’s way of thinking it was overdone and even rather vulgar, as if the owner were trying to impress someone by displaying the valuable things he owned. Still, she caught her breath as she leaned closer to examine a small gold figurine of an imp which reposed on an obsidian table next to the sofa. There was also a ruby statue of indeterminate shape and a small vase studded with huge diamonds. She was admiring a solid platinum Mt. Vesuvius when a deep voice addressed her.
“Mrs. Twiller.”
She turned quickly to see an elegant dark-haired gentleman attired in a shiny-black cutaway coat with a copper-red vest and tie, and striped trousers. He wore a well-trimmed goatee and managed to look distinguished in spite of being a brilliant shade of red.
Mrs. Twiller gulped, then stiffened her back. “How do you know my name?” she asked, standing up and eyeing him belligerently.
“I make it my business to know the names of people like you,” he said, smiling sardonically.
Mrs. Twiller clutched her shopping bag in both arms, it being the only familiar object in this frightening situation. “What do you mean, people like me?” she demanded somewhat weakly.
The fiery-faced gentleman shrugged. “I hate to apply so harsh a term as thief to so lovely a lady. Shall we say pilferer?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs. Twiller whispered, her voice trembling. She let her left hand flutter to her throat in the gesture that never failed to make strong men turn squishy with concern and sentiment.
The red individual raised his hand. “Please, dear lady,” he said, “spare me that. I am well aware of your wiles and I also have a record of every item you have ever appropriated for your — ahem — worthy cause.”
Mention of her project gave Mrs. Twiller new courage. “Who would feed all those starving cats if I didn’t? I’m just trying to do a little good in the world the only way I know how.” She blinked her eyes and tried her best to squeeze out a tear or two.
The man in the cutaway, which had turned wine-red, strode to a window whose black shade he raised to reveal a landscape of fire and smoke. “Dear lady,” he said, “you seem to forget where you are. We are not concerned with the good you do. Quite the contrary!” He turned and pointed a slender finger at her. “You are running up a very bad record, Mrs. Twiller, and I have brought you down here this time just for a warning. Mend your ways or you may end up down here for good — or rather, I should say, for bad.”
“This time?” Mrs. Twiller was cheered. “You mean I’m not really here to stay?”
Her companion gave a short laugh and turned back to gaze out of the window at his domain. “I hope to frighten you enough so that we can burn our records on you, Mrs. Twiller. What would happen if we started taking in little old ladies like you down here? In a short time we’d have frilly curtains at our windows and sweet daffodils all around our fire pits.” He swung around. “This is a last warning, dear lady. No more stealing from department stores or you’ll wind up down here, and none of us would like that now, would we?”
Mrs. Twiller’s courage had returned. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, running her hand over an emerald statuette of the god Pan. “It doesn’t seem to be that bad down here.”
“You’ve noticed my collection,” the scarlet man said, a note of pride creeping into his voice. “Of course there are compensations to this job or no one would want it, not even me. I can truthfully say that I own the most priceless objets d’art in existence.” He stopped and sighed. “The hell of it is, there’s really no challenge to getting them. All I have to do is wish for them and they’re mine.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” Mrs. Twiller clucked sympathetically. “Takes all the fun out of it if you can’t outsmart someone.”
“Yes, it does,” grumbled the fiery one.
Mrs. Twiller made a small cooing sound and patted his arm, which made him jerk it angrily away.
“Now cut that out!” he bellowed. “See what I mean? Get a sweet little old lady down here and within ten minutes she has me all soft and mushy. I won’t have it, do you hear?”
“Oh, mercy, yes,” Mrs. Twiller said, retreating a couple of steps. “I hear.”
The man’s eyes glowed crimson. “Swear, then, that you won’t take any more merchandise from any store up there.”
Mrs. Twiller swallowed. “I swear. Oh, my, yes.”
“Then go,” roared the Master of Hades. “And see that you don’t have reason to come back.”
Mrs. Twiller went, clutching her shopping bag and scuttling along toward the escalator as fast as she could. She had a moment of panic when she discovered that the escalator moved only down, but she did find a narrow, almost unused stairway which she ascended as quickly as she could; and she didn’t stop until she reached the department-store’s street floor.
“Missed the basement again,” she puffed, but decided against going back down. She was already late for her weekly appointment with Mr. Simpson. She could pick up the cat dishes somewhere else, although she did like to give this store her business.
As she hurried toward the door, a display of silver flatware caught her eye. It was always easy to slip a few pieces of flatware into her shopping bag. But after a moment’s hesitation she walked on past. After all, a promise was a promise. She would miss these shopping trips, though. There was something decidedly heady about seeing what she could get away with. But of course there would really be no need for any more forays. Oh, mercy, no, not with what she had in her shopping bag.
Just before entering the revolving door, Mrs. Twiller paused long enough to peep into her bag at the platinum Mt. Vesuvius, the ruby statue, the diamond-studded vase, and the emerald Pan. If she was any judge of value, her cats would be well taken care of for the rest of their combined nine lives.
Humming softly and a little breathlessly to herself, she closed her bag and hurried from the store. Mrs. Twiller had had a good trip.
Such a Lovely Day
by Penelope Wallace
Little Treddington is the prettiest village you could hope to see. It nestles in the Cotswolds and the guide books describe the Church of Saint Andrews as “a little gem,” as indeed it was.
I well remember the first time I saw the village. My late husband, the Reverend Charles Framley, drove me down to see his new parish. The departing vicar, Mr. Wyland, showed us the Church and pointed out all the tourist attractions. (I am afraid that he was rather a worldly man!) He also showed us the postcards and booklets which were on sale in the church porch, but I could see that poor Charles did not approve, and so could Mr. Wyland, for he very tactfully led us across to the Vicarage. He was a bachelor but I must say that he provided a splendid tea and the house and garden were quite beautifu
l.
I so looked forward to living in this beautiful place and moving from the rather depressing Manchester suburb where Charles had his present parish. The thought of seeing, everyday, green fields and those neat golden cottages instead of dirt-grained houses, sustained me during the drive back to Manchester. It would almost be like going home; for I had been born and brought up in the soft lands of Surrey and to me the North would always be “alien corn”.
That was ten years ago.
We moved to Little Treddington in the autumn and soon it was the Carol Service and Christmas and taking sherry with Lord and Lady Dawson at the Manor House; then Easter and Whitsun, and then every waking minute getting ready for the Church Fete. It was always held on the second Saturday in August and opened, of course, by Lady Dawson so it had to be between the time she returned from the Riviera and before they went to Scotland — Lord and Lady Dawson are both excellent shots. I remembered that the Vicar (Mr. Wyland that is, not my husband for he never made a joke!) had said Lady Dawson really chose that day to mark the last appearance of her second-day Royal Ascot hat! Fortunately, Charles did not hear.
There was so much to be done for the Fete and so many little jealousies to be sorted out, but I do pride myself on being rather good with people, and really I felt I could take quite a lot of the credit when I looked around the Vicarage garden and saw so many happy faces behind the stalls and all the children — such a happy day for them — with their pennies and sixpences clutched in one hand while they threw coconuts or delved in the lucky dip, and Lady Dawson most beautifully dressed...
And then — quite without warning — down came the rain! I was sure that Lady Dawson’s hat was quite ruined, but she took it very well and we all ran as fast as we could into the Vicarage.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started and back we all went to the garden — except for Lady Dawson who had “called it a day” (as she put it) and driven home. Of course, it was rather muddy round the coconut shies and the bran in the lucky dip was a little squelchy and poor Mrs. Wills was very upset because young Millicent had left her “guess-the-weight cake” in the rain and all the icing colours had run! But there, I always say, “These little things are sent to try us.”
Poor Charles is not so philosophical and he was most upset, and the following year he started to worry about the weather long before the Fete. That year there was no rain and I thought all would be well, but it made no difference — sometimes it rained and sometimes it was fine — but every year for two weeks before our “D-Day” on the second Saturday in August, Charles would study the Weather Reports.
“Oh, I do hope it will be a fine day for the Fete,” he would say (so gloomily too), and then for the last week before the Great Day he would stand in the Vicarage doorway scanning the skies.
I remember once Dr. Brown (such an amusing man, but very irreligious I am afraid) asked him whether he was looking for rain clouds or a sign from the Almighty! My husband was not at all amused and when Dr. Brown went on, “The Devil sends sin and the Lord sends the weather and I should have thought He could have arranged one fine afternoon in return for all the work you do for Him,” poor Charles was really most upset.
“Charles,” I would say (I would never have called him Charley for I think these abbreviations are such a pity), “Charles, why do you worry so much about the weather? If it is wet we can always hold the Fete in the Village Hall.” But his answer was always the same.
“No, Maude,” he would say in his sad voice. “You know how that upsets Miss Gosling; she has such a job afterwards getting it ready for Sunday School the next morning.” And indeed it was true that on the one occasion when we did use the Hall, Miss Gosling complained for weeks!
Even after Miss Gosling died, quite suddenly, at the end of July three years ago, it was as if her ghost haunted him for he still insisted that the Fete be held out of doors.
Day after day he would open The Times and read the Weather Report (before he’d even cracked his boiled egg). Day after day he would “Tut Tut” and say, “Oh, I do hope it will be a fine day for the Fete.” Day after day he would scan the skies...
He died suddenly, last year — just four days before the Fete.
Dr. Brown was most surprised — but I cannot say that I was.
They tried to say that I was mad — wasn’t that silly of them! I am glad to say that they didn’t succeed. (And luckily no one found out about poor Mother.)
Because, you see, there was Miss Gosling too; at the time they thought she was what they call “natural causes”, but after my husband’s death they dug her up! (Such a distasteful practice, I feel.)
They said that my husband was well-insured; but that was not the reason at all, as you can imagine!
Today is such a lovely day for a Fete — or a hanging.
Matinee
by Ruth Wissmann
“It isn’t my fault I fell in love with you,” Carla said. She placed her elbow on the pillow, her chin in her hand and gazed at the man on the bed beside her. “I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to become involved like this. It just — happened.”
He smiled and rumpled her hair. “But you aren’t sorry,” he said. “I know you aren’t.”
She sighed, sat up and swung her legs from the side of the bed and, after a moment of quiet reflection, said, “No, I’m not sorry, Alan, but I’m not happy either.”
“It’s one of those things, baby,” he said. “You’ll get over it — the worry, I mean. That’s what you’re referring to again. Right?” She nodded.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I look at Tom and get the most God-awful feeling that he knows about us.”
“I should hope not! Aw — he couldn’t.”
A frown shadowed her face. “I know. At least, I don’t see how...”
“We’ve been careful.” He spoke in a relaxed, contented tone of voice.
“Yes. Careful and foolish and selfish and—”
“Come on now. No self-contempt, please.”
Looking around the motel room, Carla said, “I’m always afraid someone I know will see me driving in here. I’ve even had nightmares about it — and about being followed, too.”
“Let’s hope you don’t talk in your sleep.” An amused smile played around his lips and eyes.
“Oh, lord! I should hope not. Alan, aren’t you ever worried about Lisa finding out about us?”
He laughed and shook his head. “She’d kill me, baby. I don’t let myself think about it. This is a chance we have to take, honey. But I believe that everything is chance. Life itself is a chance. What the hell! We can’t worry all the time about what might happen. It would spoil these afternoons for us — these matinees.”
“True.” She sounded uncertain as she stood up. Then, frowning at her wristwatch, “It’s getting late. We’d better shower and be on our way. I have to get home in time to cook dinner and...”
“Okay, my sweet. If you have to, you have to.”
It was Carla who opened the shower door. It was Alan who gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth before the scream really exploded. What they saw would be stabbing their minds for the rest of their lives.
The limp form lying there stared at them with sightless eyes, a bullet hole in its forehead. Here was a deathly white, bloody red shock dressed in black trousers and a gray shirt. Carla was not conscious of Alan’s closing the shower door, but he had. Yet she could still see the grotesque, gruesome body. There was no stopping the wave of hysteria that surged to the surface.
Above the torment wracking her mind she heard his words. “Please! My God! Someone will hear you! Be quiet!” He held her to him while his eyes circled the room quickly as if looking for an escape route where there was none. “Jesus!” he said with disbelief. “What’ll we do? What in hell are we going to do?”
She was shaking and crying, and he felt her skin turning cold and clammy. “Get dressed, Carla,” he said in a voice that had become tense and sharp. “We’ve got to get the h
ell out of here fast as we can.”
“I know,” she sobbed. “I know, I know!” When he released her, she found that her arms and legs seemed to have turned to water, her fingers to icicles. “It’s so awful! So ghastly! That... that man!” Her heart was thrashing inside her chest, her throat, her ears. Her face was without color. “Alan... I... I think I’m going to — faint.”
“Listen to me,” he said, gripping her shoulders in his cold hands. “This is no time to black out. We’ve got to run for it, and don’t panic. Just don’t panic.”
“Yes, but—” she stared at him with tortured eyes, “—shouldn’t we call the police — or someone?”
He looked at her incredulously as he reached for his clothes. “The police?” he said. “You’ve got to be crazy! I don’t think you realize the jam we’re in.”
“But, Alan — that man’s been murdered! He’s been shot in the head!”
“Oh, God!” He turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “I know you’re not overly bright, but — just get yourself dressed and hurry.” He paused and frowned at the shower door, his eyes dark with apprehension. “We’ve got to think,” he said as though speaking to himself. “Yeah — wait a minute. We...”
“We can think later,” she told him as she tried to brush at her tears and fumbled with the zipper of her skirt. “After we get away we can—”
He shook his head. “It’s not that simple. We can’t just leave here. We can’t just walk out and leave a dead body behind us to...”
She swallowed with effort and the horror of their predicament began to twist in her mind. “Alan!” she gasped. “We’ll be caught, won’t we? And it’ll all come out about us. The manager of this place will tell, and the police will come after us, and there’ll be questions, and Tom will find out, and then—”
“Shut up! I’ve got to think. I can’t think when you’re talking.”
“But Alan, I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to get mixed up in a murder. I don’t want Tom to—” Then the tears flowed again and she heard Alan speaking, and there was no sympathy in his words.
