Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4

by Vol 4 (v1. 2) (epub)

The smile of the Walrus did what a smile hasn't done for me in years—it melted my heart. I use the cornball phrase very much on purpose. When I saw his smile, I knew I could trust him; I felt in my marrow that he was gentle and sweet and had nothing but the best intentions. His resemblance to the Walrus in the poem ceased being vaguely chilling and became warmly comical. I loved him as I had loved the teddy bear of my childhood.

  "Oh, I say," he said, and his voice was an embarrassed boom. "I do hope we're not intruding!"

  "I daresay we are," squeaked the Carpenter, peeping out from behind his companion.

  "The, uhm, fact is," boomed the Walrus, "we didn't even notice you until just back then, you see."

  "We were talking, is what," said the Carpenter.

  They wept like anything to see

  Such quantities of sand …

  "About sand?" I asked.

  The Walrus looked at me with a startled air.

  "We were, actually, now you come to mention it."

  He lifted one huge foot and shook it so that a little trickle of sand spilled out of his shoe.

  "The stuff's impossible," he said. "Gets in your clothes, tracks up the carpet."

  "Ought to be swept away, it ought," said the Carpenter.

  "If seven maids with seven mops

  Swept it for half a year,

  Do you suppose," the Walrus said,

  "That they could get it clear?"

  "It's too much!" said Carl.

  "Yes, indeed," said the Walrus, eying the sand around him with vague disapproval, "altogether too much."

  Then he turned to us again, and we all basked in that smile.

  "Permit me to introduce my companion and myself," he said.

  "You'll have to excuse George," said the Carpenter, "as he's a bit of a stuffed shirt, don't you know?"

  "Be that as it may," said the Walrus, patting the Carpenter on the flat top of his paper hat, "this is Edward Farr, and I am George Tweedy, both at your service. We are, uhm, both a trifle drunk, I'm afraid."

  "We are, indeed. We are that."

  "As we have just come from a really delightful party, to which we shall soon return."

  "Once we've found the fuel, that is," said Farr, waving his saw in the air. By now he had found the courage to come out and face us directly.

  "Which brings me to the question," said Tweedy. "Have you seen any driftwood lying about the premises? We've been looking high and low, and we can't seem to find any of the blasted stuff."

  "Thought there'd be piles of it," said Farr, "but all there is is sand, don't you see?"

  "I would have sworn you were looking for oysters," said Carl.

  Again, Tweedy appeared startled.

  "O Oysters, come and walk with us!"

  The Walrus did beseech …

  "Oysters?" he asked. "Oh, no, we've got the oysters. All we lack is the means to cook 'em."

  " 'Course we could always use a few more," said Farr, looking at his companion.

  "I suppose we could, at that," said Tweedy thoughtfully.

  "I'm afraid we can't help you fellows with the driftwood problem," said Carl, "but you're more than welcome to a drink."

  There was something unfamiliar about the tone of Carl's voice that made my ears perk up. I turned to look at him, and then had difficulty covering up my astonishment.

  It was his eyes. For once, for the first time, they were really friendly.

  I'm not saying Carl had fishy eyes, blank eyes—not at all. On the surface, that is. On the surface, with his eyes, with his face, with the handling of his entire body, Carl was a master of animation and expression. From sympathetic, heartfelt warmth, all the way to icy rage, and on every stop in-between, Carl was completely convincing.

  But only on the surface. Once you got to know Carl, and it took a while, you realized that none of it was really happening. That was because Carl had died, or been killed, long ago. Possibly in childhood. Possibly he had been born dead. So, under the actor's warmth and rage, the eyes were always the eyes of a corpse.

  But now it was different. The friendliness here was genuine, I was sure of it. The smile of Tweedy, of the Walrus, had performed a miracle. Carl had risen from his tomb. I was in honest awe.

  "Delighted, old chap!" said Tweedy.

  They accepted their drinks with obvious pleasure, and we completed the introductions as they sat down to join us. I detected a strong smell of fish when Tweedy sat down beside me, but, oddly, I didn't find it offensive in the least. I was glad he'd chosen me to sit by. He turned and smiled at me, and my heart melted a little more.

  It soon turned out that the drinking we'd done before had only scratched the surface. Tweedy and Farr were magnificent boozers, and their gusto encouraged us all to follow suit.

  We drank absurd toasts and were delighted to discover that Tweedy was an incredible raconteur. His specialty was outrageous fantasy: wild tales involving incongruous objects, events, and characters. His invention was endless.

  "The time has come," the Walrus said,

  "To talk of many things:

  Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—

  Of cabbages—and kings—

  And why the sea is boiling hot—

  And whether pigs have wings."

  We laughed and drank, and drank and laughed, and I began to wonder why in hell I'd spent my life being such a gloomy, moody son of a bitch, been such a distrustful and suspicious bastard, when the whole secret of everything, the whole core secret, was simply to enjoy it, to take it as it came.

  I looked around and grinned, and I didn't care if it was a foolish grin. Everybody looked all right, everybody looked swell, everybody looked better than I'd ever seen them look before.

  Irene looked happy, honestly and truly happy. She, too, had found the secret. No more pills for Irene, I thought. Now that she knows the secret, now that she's met Tweedy, who's given her the secret, she'll have no more need of those goddamn pills.

  And I couldn't believe Horace and Mandie. They had their arms around each other, and their bodies were pressed close together, and they rocked as one being when they laughed at Tweedy's wonderful stories. No more nagging for Mandie, I thought, and no more cringing for Horace, now they've learned the secret.

  And then I looked at Carl, laughing and relaxed and absolutely free of care, absolutely unchilled, finally, at last, after years of—

  And then I looked at Carl again.

  And then I looked down at my drink, and then I looked at my knees, and then I looked out at the sea, sparkling, clean, remote and impersonal.

  And then I realized it had grown cold, quite cold, and that there wasn't a bird or a cloud in the sky.

  The sea was wet as wet could be,

  The sands were dry as dry.

  You could not see a cloud, because

  No cloud was in the sky:

  No birds were flying overhead—

  There were no birds to fly.

  That part of the poem was, after all, a perfect description of a lifeless earth. It sounded beautiful at first; it sounded benign. But then you read it again and you realized that Carroll was describing barrenness and desolation.

  Suddenly Carl's voice broke through and I heard him say:

  "Hey, that's a hell of an idea, Tweedy! By God, we'd love to! Wouldn't we, gang?"

  The others broke out in an affirmative chorus and they all started scrambling to their feet around me. I looked up at them, like someone who's been awakened from sleep in a strange place, and they grinned down at me like loons.

  "Come on, Phil!" cried Irene.

  Her eyes were bright and shining, but it wasn't with happiness. I could see that now.

  "It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

  "To play them such a trick …"

  I blinked my eyes and stared at them, one after the other.

  "Old Phil's had a little too much to drink!" cried Mandie, laughing. "Come on, old Phil! Come on and join the party!"

  "What party?" I asked.


  I couldn't seem to get located. Everything seemed disorientated and grotesque.

  "For Christ's sake, Phil," said Carl, "Tweedy and Farr, here, have invited us to join their party. There's no more drinks left, and they've got plenty!"

  I set my plastic cup down carefully on the sand. If they would just shut up for a moment, I thought, I might be able to get the fuzz out of my head.

  "Come along, sir!" boomed Tweedy jovially. "It's only a pleasant walk!"

  "O Oysters, come and walk with us!"

  The Walrus did beseech.

  "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk"

  Along the briny beach …"

  He was smiling at me, but the smile didn't work anymore.

  "You cannot do with more than four," I told him.

  "Uhm? What's that?"

  "We cannot do with more than four,

  To give a hand to each."

  "I said, 'You cannot do with more than four.'"

  "He's right, you know," said Farr, the Carpenter.

  "Well, uhm, then," said the Walrus, "if you feel you really can't come, old chap …"

  "What, in Christ's name, are you all talking about?" asked Mandie.

  "He's hung up on that goddamn poem," said Carl. "Lewis Carroll's got the yellow bastard scared."

  "Don't be such a party pooper, Phil!" said Mandie.

  "To hell with him," said Carl. And he started off, and all the others followed him. Except Irene.

  "Are you sure you really don't want to come, Phil?" she asked.

  She looked frail and thin against the sunlight. I realized there really wasn't much of her, and that what there was had taken a terrible beating.

  "No," I said. "I don't. Are you sure you want to go?"

  "Of course I do, Phil."

  I thought of the pills.

  "I suppose you do," I said. "I suppose there's really no stopping you."

  "No, Phil, there isn't."

  And then she stooped and kissed me. Kissed me very gently, and I could feel the dry, chapped surface of her lips and the faint warmth of her breath.

  I stood.

  "I wish you'd stay," I said.

  "I can't," she said.

  And then she turned and ran after the others.

  I watched them growing smaller and smaller on the beach, following the Walrus and the Carpenter. I watched them come to where the beach curved around the bluff and watched them disappear behind the bluff.

  I looked up at the sky. Pure blue. Impersonal.

  "What do you think of this?" I asked it.

  Nothing. It hadn't even noticed.

  "Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,

  We can begin to feed."

  "But not on us!" the Oysters cried,

  Turning a little blue.

  "After such kindness, that would be

  A dismal thing to do!"

  A dismal thing to do.

  I began to run up the beach, toward the bluff. I stumbled now and then because I had had too much to drink. Far too much to drink. I heard small shells crack under my shoes, and the sand made whipping noises.

  I fell, heavily, and lay there gasping on the beach. My heart pounded in my chest. I was too old for this sort of footwork. I hadn't had any real exercise in years. I smoked too much and I drank too much. I did all the wrong things. I didn't do any of the right things.

  I pushed myself up a little and then I let myself down again. My heart was pounding hard enough to frighten me. I could feel it in my chest, frantically pumping, squeezing blood in and spurting blood out.

  Like an oyster pulsing in the sea.

  "Shall we be trotting home again?"

  My heart was like an oyster.

  I got up, fell up, and began to run again, weaving widely, my mouth open and the air burning my throat. I was coated with sweat, streaming with it, and it felt icy in the cold wind.

  "Shall we be trotting home again?"

  I rounded the bluff, and then I stopped and stood swaying, and then I dropped to my knees.

  The pure blue of the sky was unmarked by a single bird or cloud, and nothing stirred on the whole vast stretch of the beach.

  But answer came there none—

  And this was scarcely odd, because …

  Nothing stirred, but they were there. Irene and Mandie and Carl and Horace were there, and four others, too. Just around the bluff.

  "We cannot do with more than four …"

  But the Walrus and the Carpenter had taken two trips.

  I began to crawl toward them on my knees. My heart, my oyster heart, was pounding too hard to allow me to stand.

  The other four had had a picnic, too, very like our own. They, too, had plastic cups and plates, and they, too, had brought bottles. They had sat and waited for the return of the Walrus and the Carpenter.

  Irene was right in front of me. Her eyes were open and stared at, but did not see, the sky. The pure blue uncluttered sky. There were a few grains of sand in her left eye. Her face was almost clear of blood. There were only a few flecks of it on her lower chin. The spray from the huge wound in her chest seemed to have traveled mainly downward and to the right. I stretched out my arm and touched her hand.

  "Irene," I said.

  But answer came there none—

  And this was scarcely odd, because

  They'd eaten every one.

  I looked up at the others. Like Irene, they were, all of them, dead. The Walrus and the Carpenter had eaten the oysters and left the shell.

  The Carpenter never found any firewood, and so they'd eaten them raw. You can eat oysters raw if you want to.

  I said her name once more, just for the record, and then I stood and turned from them and walked to the bluff. I rounded the bluff and the beach stretched before me, vast, smooth, empty, and remote.

  Even as I ran upon it, away from them, it was remote.

  The End

  Author's Note:

  I distrusted the Alice books from the start. My grown-ups tried to pretend they were children's books and that I should and would enjoy them, so they officially shuffled them in with the Oz and Pooh collection, but I knew better; I knew they were dangerous, and I opened them only rarely and gingerly.

  Of course Tenniel's Jabberwock leapt out at me from the start (as it has, I am sure, at many another innocent child), but there were many other horrors: the simultaneously fading and grinning cat; the impeccably cruel Duchess with her "little boy"; something about Bill the Lizard floating helplessly over the chimney; the crazed creatures at the Tea Party—the worst part of it was the thing that pervaded all those images and all the other images in the books (which I knew weren't about any "Wonderland" at all, but about the very world I was trying to grow up in, only seen from some terrifyingly sophisticated point of view); the weird convincingness of Carroll's horrible message that nothing, nothing soever, made any sense at all!

  If it hadn't been for brave, stolid Alice (bless her stout, young, British heart), herself a child, I don't think I could have survived those goddamn books.

  But there is no Alice in this story.

  © 1967 by Gahan Wilson. Originally published in Playboy Magazine, May 1967.

  Brown Robert

  Terry Carr

  Arthur Leacock shuffled quickly down the wooden hall of the small midwestern university where he had worked for thirty-two years and eight months, give or take maybe a week. His sleep-rumpled, peppery hair stuck out from under the old leather cap which he had worn for fully seventeen of those years, and his oft-resoled shoes were almost silent in the hallway, though its echoing properties were so good that Arthur had often fancied he could hear his own breathing whispered back to him from the walls.

  He turned right at the large waiting room in the middle of the building and went up the stairs to the second floor two at a time, grasping the handrail with large-knuckled hands to pull himself along. He did not look where he was going, but instead rested his eyes unseeingly on the stairs passing beneath him, his mouth dra
wn back into the heavy wrinkles of his cheeks.

  Robert Ernsohn, full-voiced Robert with brown soul, would already be in his office, of course. Wavy Robert, whose brow was noble as a mannequin's, always arrived half an hour before the time he set for Arthur. When Arthur arrived, he knew, Robert would be rechecking the figures he had pored carefully over till midnight—not because Robert did not trust his own abilities, but because it was his policy always to double-check his figures. Robert, naturally, would never give in to the danger of overconfidence, which might be called conceit; he always made sure that he had made no mistake. And then he always smiled.

  At the top of the stairs Arthur pushed through the door to the second floor and crossed to Robert's office. The door creaked twice behind him and then rested shut.

  Robert Ernsohn looked up from his pretentiously small desk in the corner by the window and pushed the papers aside. The red-orange sun, slipping silently from behind the roof of the building beyond the courtyard, cast lines of light through the venetian blinds across the desk. Brown-eyed, brown Robert smiled with innocent satyriasis and dropped his pencil in the pencil-glass.

  "I've checked it all four times," he said. "Short of going upstate to a computer that's all I can do. I hope it's right."

  Arthur watched his mouth as he spoke and then stepped into the cloakroom to hang up his overcoat. He found a cleaning rag and took it with him when he came out and went on across the office, five steps, into the laboratory. A small laboratory, cluttered and dirty. The floor was dirty, at any rate; the equipment was polished. But Arthur set to polishing it again, because this morning it would be used.

  There was a reclining couch in the midst of the cacophony of mechanical and electrical complexity. Arthur brushed off the couch, touching the leather softly with his fingertips, and then began carefully rubbing down the metal of the machine. He tested a few levers by hand and oiled one of them, humming to himself. But he noticed himself humming and stopped.

  The machine, the time machine, was ready for operation. It was clean and had been checked over for a week; all the parts which were doubtful had been replaced, and on a trial run yesterday it had performed perfectly. Robert's sweater—Robert's, of course, not Arthur's—had been sent two days into the future and had come back. It had been sent six months and then five years into the future, and it had still come back. But of course Arthur had never doubted that it would.