Foster reached the welcome warm air at the top of the steps. Clumsily holding his burden in both arms, he kicked the door shut behind him.
"Hello." It was Connie, looking fragile and wanly pretty. She glanced at the oblong parcel in its gleaming foil sheath.
"It's my turn," said Foster.
"Why are you so cruel to me?" whispered Connie one night in the quiet despair of Foster's bed. The top of the girl's head was silk against his chin. Foster couldn't see her eyes in the half-light from the lunar skull squinting down the sky-shaft.
"Me, cruel?" Foster ran his fingers sleepily along Connie's flank and up across her stomach. Her ribs were painfully evident under his hand and the skin on her belly was taut, like a stretched, bloated drum-head. "I'm not cruel. I'm just—well, me. Like you said you were you the other night when you brought my supper."
"No," she said. "You're cruel when you bait me about the food. You're brutal about it and you enjoy my pain."
Foster was in an uncharacteristically good mood. "At least I'm faithful," he said. "Sorry, you'll take that as a barb." Foster shifted his body restlessly. "Do you mind? You're putting my arm to sleep."
Connie raised her head, and Foster moved his arm. Her chin tipped back and he saw a shine of tears on her cheek. The girl choked on some word, then pressed her face convulsively against Foster's chest. Foster stroked her hair mechanically, wondering when she'd ever let him sleep.
"Sorry," she finally said, voice muffled. "It's a mood. I suddenly remembered most of the things I promised myself not to think about ever again."
"Nebraska?" Foster said. "The plains and the golden wheat fields under the summer sun? Your family? Mother and father? Old boyfriends long dead now? Trees, lakes, birds, horses, planes, cities, television shows?"
"Damn you, yes!" From the short distance between them she struck out with her fist. The blow glanced lightly off his cheekbone, and Connie again began to cry. Foster continued to stroke her hair.
"I feel miserable," said Connie. "I want to leave."
"And go where?" Foster said placatingly. "Mardin and you and I might be the only people left anywhere. This may be the only shelter, and the vaults probably hold the last edible food in a hundred miles."
Her tears were wet on Foster's chest. "God!" she cried out in frustration and misery. "Why me?"
"Trite question," said Foster. "Maybe God likes you and the rest of us and that's why he picked us out to survive a while. Maybe he just overlooked us when he got the rest of the earth. Or maybe we're to provide the finale for the last great scene at the world's end."
Connie pushed away from Foster's embrace and struggled free of the tangled blankets. She stumbled into a dark corner of the bedroom beside the closet and huddled there, weeping. Foster rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
In a while the room became colder, and Connie returned to the warmth of Foster's bed.
She curled forlornly against the sleeping man. "Oh baby," she whispered, no one hearing except herself. "What's going to happen to us all?"
Connie dreamed:
The day Mardin walked past her as she sunned herself by the main entrance to the cryogenic complex. The sack over his shoulder was bulky and stippled with cabbage-lumps.
"Ho ho," he laughed, macabre Saint Nick.
She looked up. "What's that?"
"Heads," he said. "Gonna dump 'em."
Mardin walked away, laughing softly, and behind him remained the stench. Thick sweetness first, then
The smell. Similar, but—
The prairie stretched away to the horizon. The sod houses, board roofs chinked with mud, were dark chocolate against the green waving grass. The people worked at indistinct tasks, their exact actions obscure.
She was inside one of the sod houses and they were there, all the men and women. She saw her grandfather and father and many more whom she didn't know. They stood around the rough wooden furniture, and their talk buzzed in currents she could not understand.
The smell. Sweeter, more cloying.
The boy and the girl were twins, perhaps five years old, blue-eyed. Both smiled as the people closed about them and began to tear bits of flesh from their bodies.
Connie ate too, and it was from love, not hunger. She had wanted to have babies, and now she ate them. And then she was younger, as young as the two children, and the people closed in around her.
The smell. She whimpered deep in her throat. The potty-smell …
One morning Foster and Connie were jarred from uneasy slumber by the clang of alarm gongs and the flash of red warning lights. Foster shook his head drowsily, irritated by the clamor, and flicked the switch of the lamp by the bed. Nothing happened. Only the intermittent crimson glare from the hallway lit the room. The man staggered from the bed and picked up his robe and slippers from a chair.
He found Mardin wild-eyed with agitation, fluttering his hands in front of the access hole to the power room. Above the sealed metal port was an obtrusive sign rapidly blinking "Automatic Systems Malfunction!" A cacophony of bells was ringing. As Foster approached from the hallway, a klaxon horn began to blare and the newly flashing sign—"Danger! Radiation Hazard!"—added to the carnival aspect of the power-room door.
"Hello, Mardin. What's the problem?"
"How the hell do I know?" The ex-file clerk's bony hands sawed the air. "I just got here. Something's wrong with the nuclear plant. We're not getting any electricity."
"No power?" Connie had approached unnoticed. "What are we going to do for lights? How are we going to cook?"
"I saw some candles in a desk," said Foster. "We'll use those at night. As for cooking, it looks like we'll just have to go outside and see if those dead trees'll burn."
A siren wailed in crescendo behind the bells and klaxon. The new sign flashed "CONDITION CRITICAL—PRIORITY REPAIRS AAA-1."
"Is it going to blow up?" asked Connie.
"Beats me," said Foster. "Too bad we're all ignorant tourists instead of technicians. Maybe we ought to go outside in case it blows. Come on, Mardin."
But Mardin stayed, seemingly hypnotized by the random patterns of light and sound, while Connie and Foster retreated along the access corridor and climbed the shaft to the observation level.
After five hours, Mardin climbed from the cryogenic complex into the outer world. Humming a tuneless song, he stumbled through the dust of the leached soil and found Connie and Foster making love in the shadow beneath a stand of dead pine.
"Hey! You can come back now. I don't think anything's going to blow up. The batteries must have run down or something—the alarms stopped. But we still don't have any electricity. Looks like we're going to have to rough it."
"Okay," said Foster, disengaging himself. "You two pick up some limbs—we cook out tonight."
"I haven't cooked over an open fire since I was a little girl," said Connie. "We went camping in Yellowstone Park once." Her voice sounded happy, and Foster smiled. Mardin continued to hum his tuneless song and walk around in abstracted circles.
"Hey!" called Connie, dropping her armload of branches. "Look, Foster!" She pointed toward a streak of white vapor that bisected the dusk. "It's a jet."
Foster squinted into the sunset. "I don't think so," he finally said and felt a twinge of guilt. "We didn't hear any sound of a plane. It's just a weird cloud formation."
But the three of them stared hungrily and hopefully into the west until long after the white streak had vanished.
"Uh oh," said Foster, holding his candle high.
"Something's strange," said Connie, crowding close behind him.
"It's the refrigeration units," said Mardin from the rear of the small procession. "The electricity to cool the nitrogen—it comes from the power room …"
"Came from there," corrected Foster.
The trio descended the concrete steps.
"Listen!" said Foster. He stood motionless. Out of the darkness sounded the drip-drip-drip of fluid splashing on cement. "You two light the other
candles."
The interior of the cryogenic vault became visible as Foster stepped from the stairwell into the room. The reflected candle flames danced eerily on the crinkled-foil capsules containing the hundreds of guilty dead.
"They're defrosting," said Mardin. "Like a big refrigerator when you pull the cord."
"I wonder how long they'll last," mused Foster, "before they spoil. Several days, maybe?"
"At least," agreed Mardin. "My wife left a roast out once when we took off for the weekend. It was a little moldy, but the dog ate it all right after we got back Sunday night."
Foster inexplicably wanted to giggle. Instead, he said, "What if we haul some of the bodies upstairs and put them outside? It's pretty cold out there."
"The nights are chilly," said Mardin, "but the days won't be. It's late June now—we've got most of the summer ahead."
The little group stood silent, watching the cryogenic capsules flicker with silver fire.
"Well," said Foster finally. "Let's worry about tonight first." He bent over a foil-wrapped bundle and peered at the tag in the glow from his candle. "All right, Mardin. Grab Miss Kelly's feet and let's get her up to the kitchen."
Connie took the candles in her hands as the two men struggled with the rigid package. "Foster," she said in a low voice. "What are we going to do when they—when they all go bad?"
Foster smiled ambiguously. "Perhaps we'll live on love alone."
Mardin dreamed:
Briefly.
A three-lobed solid with sharp corners and no straight lines. It had been a greenish yellow at the beginning, but the red crept across in bands, like a television screen when the plane flies over. It was somehow important to him, but progressively less so as it reddened. And then finally the crimson was total.
One particularly lean day, Mardin attacked Connie in the kitchen. Neither Foster nor Connie ever knew Mardin's purpose—whether it was sex, food, both, or neither.
Foster was wandering the halls, leafing idly through an ancient book of Gahan Wilson cartoons he had found in the visitor's lounge. Then he heard the commotion in the kitchen. He investigated and found Connie, clothes shredded, sprawled on her back on the breakfast table while Mardin weakly battered her head against the formica surface. Foster watched for a moment, then picked up the useless electric carving knife from the counter. He slammed the heavy handle against the back of Mardin's head, stunning the ex-file clerk. Quickly, Foster wound the long vinyl electric cord around Mardin's neck and garroted him—then unwound some slack and drew the serrated blade across Mardin's jugular.
Connie moved weakly on top of the table. She gasped for air and moaned.
Foster slowly stood and put the electric carving knife in the dirty sink. He stepped to the table and looked down at the girl. Connie opened her eyes and looked back at him.
The final day came when the two survivors stood apart from each other. They watched without saying, almost as a tableau. Connie was at the top of the staircase to the observation level. Behind her was the pearl gray of early morning. The light from the open door made the girl's pale skin translucent; the outline of her form glowed—the rest of her body was in shadow. But she was smiling—Foster could see that; her teeth showed white. Her hands were together in front of her, and something gleamed there—a blade perhaps; or maybe a silver bracelet.
Foster settled back in his chair, hardly breathing, and looked up the steps at Connie. On the floor beside him was the electric carving knife, within grasp-if he wanted to reach it.
"Baby, where now?" The voice whispered from above him, soft. Connie started down the stairs and the perhaps-a-knife in her hands glittered again.
"Wait," said Foster. "Listen."
The girl stopped.
"I hear something," said Foster. "Something distant and coming closer. A buzzing like maybe a rescue helicopter."
"It's a hallucination," said Connie, again starting her descent.
"Perhaps."
"Or one of your rotten jokes."
Outside the building, blackened trunks of pine shivered in the dry wind.
The End
© 1971 by Coronet Communications, Inc. Originally published in Quark. Reprinted with permission of the author.
A Crowd of Shadows
Charles L. Grant
Of all the means of relaxation that I have devised for myself over the years, most required nothing more strenuous than driving an automobile, and not one of them had anything remotely to do with murder. Yet there it was, and now here I am—alone, though not always alone, and wondering, though not always puzzled. I'm neither in jail nor exile, asylum nor hospital. Starburst is where I am, and, unless I can straighten a few things out, Starburst is where I'm probably going to stay.
I had long ago come to the conclusion that every so often the world simply had to thumb its nose at me and wink obscenely as if it knew what the hell was making things tick and for spite wasn't about to let me in on the secret. When that happens, I succumb to the lure of Huck Finn's advice and light out for the territory: in my case, that turns out to be Starburst. Where the luncheonette is called The Luncheonette, the hotel is The Hotel, and so on in understated simplicity. Where the buildings, all of them, rise genteelly from well-kept lawns on full-acre lots, painted sunrise-new and no two the same shape or shade—a half-moon-fashioned community that prides itself on its seclusion and its ability to sponge out the world from transients like me. It's a place that not many can stand for too long, but it's a breather from every law that anyone ever thought of.
At least that's what I thought when I came down last May.
It was a bit warm for the season, but not at all uncomfortable. Wednesday, and I was sitting on the grey sand beach that ribboned the virtually waveless bay they had christened Nova. The sun was pleasantly hot, the water cool, and the barest sign of a breeze drifted down from the misted mountains that enclosed the town. I had just dried myself off and was about to roll over onto my stomach to burn a little when a thin and angular boy about fifteen or so dashed in front of me, kicking up crests of sand and inadvertently coating me and my blanket as he pursued some invisible, swift quarry. I was going to protest when there was a sudden shout and he stumbled to a halt, turning around immediately, his arms dejectedly limp at his sides. Curious, I followed his gaze past me to a middle-aged couple huddled and bundled under a drab beach umbrella. The woman, hidden by bonnet, dark glasses, and a black, long-sleeved sweater, beckoned sharply. The boy waved in return and retraced his steps at a decidedly slower pace. As he passed me, looking neither left nor right, I only just happened to notice the tiny and blurred sequence of digits tattooed on the inside of his left forearm.
I'm sure my mouth must have opened in the classic gesture of surprise, but though I've seen them often enough in the city, for some reason I didn't expect to see an android in Starburst.
I continued to stare rather rudely until the boy reached the couple and flopped facedown on the sand beside them, his lightly tanned skin pale against the grey. The beach was quietly deserted, and the woman's voice carried quite easily. Though her words were indistinct, her tone was not: boy or android, the lad was in trouble. I supposed he was being told to stay close, paying for his minor act of rebellion.
I smiled to myself and lay back with my cupped hands serving as a pillow. Poor kid, I thought, all he wanted was a little fun. And then I had to smile at myself for thinking the boy human. It was a common mistake, though one I usually don't make, and I forgot about it soon enough as I dozed. And probably would never have thought of it again if I hadn't decided to indulge myself in a little fancy dining that evening.
Though my stays are irregular, they have been frequent enough to educate the hotel staff to my unexciting habits, and I had little difficulty in reserving my favorite table: a single affair by the dining room window overlooking the park, overlooking, in point of fact, most of the town, since the hotel was the only structure in Starburst taller than two stories, and it was only six. The unador
ned walls of the circular room were midnight green starred with white, a most relaxing, even seductive combination, and its patrons were always suitably subdued. I was just getting into my dessert when I noticed the boy from the beach enter with the couple I had assumed were his parents. They huddled with the maitre d' and were escorted to a table adjacent to my own. The boy was exceptionally polite, holding the chair for mother, shaking hands with father before sitting down himself. When he happened to glance my way, I smiled and nodded, but the gesture quickly turned to a frown when I heard someone mutter, "Goddamned humie."
The threesome were apparently ignoring the remark, but I was annoyed enough to scan the neighboring tables. Nothing. I was going to shrug it off to bad manners when suddenly an elderly man and his wife brusquely pushed back their chairs and left without any pretense of politeness. As they threaded between me and the boy, the old man hissed "robie" just loud enough. Perhaps I should have said something in return, or made overtures, gestures, something of an apology to the boy. But I didn't. Not a thing.
Instead, I ordered a large brandy and turned to watch the darkness outside the uncurtained window. And in the reflection of the room, I saw the boy glaring at his empty plate.
In spite of the ground that fact and fiction have covered in exploring the myriad possibilities of societies integrated with the sometimes too-human android, the reality seemed to have come as a surprise to most people. For some it was a pleasant one; androids were androids: pleasant company, tireless workers, expensive but economical. Their uses were legion, and their confusion with actual humans minimal. For others, however, and predictably, androids were androids: abominations, blasphemies, monsters, and all the horrid rest of it.
They had become, in fact, the newest minority that nearly everyone could look down upon if they were closed-minded enough. Ergo, the tattoos and serial numbers. For people not sensitive enough to detect the subtle differences, the markings served as some sort of self-gratifying justification, though for what I've never been able to figure out exactly. I have a friend in London who has replaced all his servants with androids and has come to love them almost as brothers and sisters. Then, too, there's another friend who speaks of them as he would of his pets.
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 Page 2
