by Unknown
The com connection was made. The alien businessman answered.
“It’s Miranda. I just want to know one thing. Can I bring my cat?”
Miranda didn’t know how far she was from Earth. She only knew it was farther than she could comprehend. The trip itself had taken less than a minute. With Sesmon at her side and Titty Kitty in a carrier under her arm, she waited for the transportal operators to fold space or do whatever it was they did. When directed to proceed, she stepped into a gleaming corridor. Across its surface resonated her own image, contorted, like something out of a funhouse mirror. There was no sound, not even that of her own footfalls. An ozone taste permeated the air. In what seemed like no time at all, she stepped out onto the surface of Epheme.
It wasn’t all that different from Earth, except that it had been cloudy and windy when she’d left, and when she arrived on Epheme it was sunny and warm. A good omen, she thought.
The buildings were on the small side, with a tendency towards peaked roofs, but she saw nothing so bizarre as to be startling. She was almost disappointed that the place wasn’t more alien. Sesmon had told her she’d feel a little lighter on Epheme, because of gravitational differences, but she didn’t notice it.
Miranda did notice all the looks coming her way as she and Sesmon boarded a monorail. She figured the Ephemerals didn’t have many Earth visitors, and that they must have an extremely polite society, because everyone treated her like royalty. At least until they arrived at Sesmon’s “cabaret.”
She didn’t need a translator to interpret the cold stares the other dancers gave her. Except for some ET she didn’t recognize, they were all Ephemerals. Apparently they didn’t care for the attention the new girl was getting.
But the jealous stares were forgotten that first night. Miranda was overwhelmed by the audience’s enthusiastic response. And what an audience it was. Sesmon’s place was a true theater, not at all like the dives she’d danced in. The seating faced the stage in a semicircle, rising tier after tier. She had no idea how many people the place held, but from the sound of the applause it was at least several hundred.
The Ephemerals applauded by slapping handheld fans against their open palms. It was a distinctive sound, diluted by the polite but ardent cries of approval that gushed from the sea of soft, azure faces. Whether those faces were male or female, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. She did wonder what they thought of her - why they seemed so fascinated. She didn’t understand the language, but the tone was clear. It was the first time in years that she’d felt so alive on stage. It was like being reborn.
Her finale was greeted by scores of tiny fans tossed on stage - the ultimate sign of Ephemeral admiration. She exited, breathless, holding her outfit against her naked body.
“They adore you,” said Sesmon, “as I told you they would.”
“Well, it’s nice to be adored again,” she replied. “It’s been a long time.”
The adoration didn’t fade. Indeed, it swelled upon a crest of acclaim Miranda could not fathom. She danced only three times a week, but each performance packed the house with an audience enthralled by her simplest steps. She was the star of every party, the headliner of every show. She found the homage exhilarating.
Everything was first-class. She had a luxurious home, the finest foods, even an exquisitely designed metamirror in her dressing room that shifted to a scenic Ephemeral landscape when she wasn’t using it. She’d had them insert a holograph of Nick that she’d brought with her into the metamirror’s program, then cried when she first saw his life-size image there on the wall. She wished he were with her, to share it all.
Between the parties and the performances, she remained alone. The Ephemerals were an introspective people for the most part. They kept to themselves, never venturing to disturb the celebrated Miranda with more than a quick greeting or polite bit of praise. She, in turn, was wary of violating local customs, of appearing too gregarious. It wasn’t long before she found herself isolated on a pedestal of prestige.
She thought learning the language of the Ephemerals might help, so Sesmon provided her with a tutor. She had demonstrated a knack for languages in school, but found the phonetic clicks and tweets of the Ephemeral tongue difficult to master. During one such lesson, she asked her tutor what it was her audiences kept shouting.
“Their verbalization takes several forms, Madam Miranda.” (She had told her tutor the “madam” was unnecessary, but his own etiquette seemed to require it.) “The most common accolades translate into your language as ‘Beautiful ancient one’ and ‘Furrowed goddess’.”
“Furrowed goddess?”
“Yes. They refer to the lines that adorn the skin of your face and neck - the ripples of your flesh. We of Epheme pass from this plane of existence long before time can transform our appearance in such a way. It is rare for an Ephemeral to live long enough to show any signs of aging. Your body’s maturation presents a glorious vision we relish and respect. Age is beauty, and beauty age.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” said Miranda, staring out the window at the Ephemeral sunset. Despite the warmth of colors spreading across the sky, she felt a chill. “They love my wrinkles do they?”
“That seems to disturb you, Madam Miranda. I assure you that your performances are being exalted with the highest of praises.”
“I’m sure they are,” said Miranda with indifference.
She watched the billowing clouds. Something about their shape reminded her of Nick. She pictured him, full of life, leaning back in his wheelchair and laughing. Then again, maybe she was seeing what she wanted to see. She turned to her tutor with feigned exuberance and said, “Well shit, if they love my wrinkles, they must be crazy about my cellulite.”
Another sold-out performance, another triumph. Miranda swayed and gyrated and teased each night until the audience was poised on the precipice of a collective swoon. She couldn’t have been a bigger sensation. But the ovations didn’t energize her the way they had at first. Each one seemed less substantial than the last. She had gorged on success, and now it had become tasteless.
She had become known throughout Epheme’s artistic community as ‘the venerable Miranda.’ She continued to be a prime attraction. Center ring in the circus, she mused; a dancing bear, a celebrated freak in an ET freak show.
Miranda gazed into her intricately designed metamirror, with its edging of floral-inspired engravings, and saw the same, imperfect reflection she had seen in lesser looking glasses. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall—”
“Miranda,” said Sesmon, poking his head into her dressing room. “I want to speak with you about a special performance I am planning.” Seeing the look on her face, he asked with concern, “What is wrong, Miranda?”
“I’m not sure exactly. I’ve never had better audiences than I have here, but it doesn’t feel right. I go out on that stage and I just don’t feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“It. On Earth, I could excite the men I danced for. Shit, I haven’t had a single indecent proposal since I’ve been here. A girl needs that once in a while to make her feel wanted.”
“You are wanted. The people love you. They worship you.”
“Yes, but they don’t want me. Not the way human men want me. Not the way I need to be wanted.”
“You speak of a biological desire we do not share. But that does not mean we cannot see your beauty, Miranda. Can you not tell that everyone who watches you dance believes you are beautiful?”
“But you, your people, your idea of beauty is…” Frustration overcame her. She turned from Sesmon to compose herself. “I’m tired of being adored for my sagging tits and wrinkled butt. I don’t want to be worshipped because of my flaws, but in spite of them.”
“I am sorry, Miranda,” said the alien entrepreneur sincerely. “That is a desire I am unable to fulfill.”
“I know. It must sound silly to you. It’s just that I’ve been dependent on the way I look for so long…”
“Perhaps
the time has come for you to depend on what is inside, instead of what is outside.”
She turned back to look at the alien. “I’m not sure what’s there.”
“You will never be sure until you look and see.”
Miranda faced her metamirror, studied her reflection a moment, and then pressed the shift panel. Her image vanished, replaced by the holograph of Nick.
“Okay, that’s better. Slooowly turn now - yes. Perfect. Remember that now. It’s a beat, then the turn, slow as you can go,” Miranda demonstrated the move as she described it. “If you do it right, you’ll drop their tongues to the floor.
“Okay, everyone, that’s a wrap for now. See you tonight.”
A half-dozen girls scattered and Miranda sauntered back to the bar to begin the inventory she’d put off. She loved working with her girls on their routines - the business end she could take or leave. Usually she left it up to Nick. He kept the books and ran the karaoke nights, while she supervised the strippers. Business was good, and so were she and Nick.
She’d been lucky. She’d earned enough on Epheme for them to buy their own place. But she didn’t want her girls to have to depend on luck. She was always mothering them, reminding them to save their money - reminding them they wouldn’t be young forever. She, however, felt younger than she had in years. On special occasions, she’d even get up on stage and dance. Their clientele seemed to appreciate it when she did. But mostly she only danced at home now, for Nick.
Titty Kitty was pregnant with her second litter, Nick had become an entrepreneurial machine, energized with the purpose of making their nightclub a success, and Miranda … well, she couldn’t remember ever being happier.
THE SCOOP
BY MARTIN STOKES
The reporter moved his finger up to the doorbell, meaning to depress it. Then he thought better of it. He took a few steps back until he was in the shadow of the house. The gable carved a dark triangle in the patch of garden in which he was standing. The window in the centre of it, opaque and dirty, looked like a cataract eye. Atop this, a weathervane was thrown into silhouetted tenebrous relief by the sun behind.
It was close to six o’clock now. The light had begun its slow decline past dusk and was marching steadily into darkness. The shadows of the things around him – an overturned wheelbarrow with a bent axle; the long, dry and unkempt grass – were long and stark and somehow desperate.
The house seemed to create a distinct disquiet somewhere inside him that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint. The fact that there were no lights had something to do with it, surely. Each window was dark and blank and seemingly looked into nothing but gloom.
The disconcerting thread pulled taught somewhere inside him, and he tried to steel himself. It was just a house. The interviewee was just a man, nothing more sinister than that. And this was a story, just like many he had done in the past. He had to handle it in the same professional manner that he always did. Besides, if he didn’t get this, Kenneth would be pissed at him. Maybe even pissed enough to fire him, and that was certainly out of the question.
He was a tall man, and dressed with fastidious care. He smoothed his tie and made sure it was straight. He adjusted his fedora, its elongated shadow stretching up like a top hat. His hand travelled over the bulge in the pocket of his sports jacket, and he felt a little relieved. Kenneth had said that he was under no circumstances to bring any electronics into this man’s house. It had taken weeks to set up the interview, and the man had been quite adamant about this. Kenneth had been happy to agree, given what they had heard when the lead had first come in.
Edward Bunker had called from a payphone. His own telephone had blown out, he explained, during a phone call with his neighbour, confirming what he had suspected for years. Eddie had claimed his spark plugs had shot out one by one like champagne corks after he had almost begged the guy to help them change them (he’d been very reluctant). The man in question never left his house except to buy food, and when he was at home, Eddie had never seen one light flicker on, he claimed. He was clearly spooked. But no credible paper would take him seriously. The Daily, however, clung to tall, often ludicrous stories that dripped with subjective fascination rather than objective fact. The reporter had nodded when his senior editor and chief had told him about the interviewee’s insistence that no electronics be brought onto his property, but had planned to bring his trusty Sony tape recorder along anyway.
Just in case, he thought to himself, discretely depressing the record button. Just in case I can’t remember again.
He looked up at the house, and it stared back with twenty blank idiot eyes. He shook his head, told himself not to be a fool, and approached the house.
The door was old, lofty, tarnished. He rang the doorbell, listened for a sound, and heard nothing. Of course it wouldn’t work. That was why he was here. He cursed himself for his increasing forgetfulness and knocked on the door instead.
After what seemed like an age, he heard the creak of footsteps from inside. The door opened, and the reporter was looking at the face of Daniel Herzer. He was a man of perhaps fifty, but his face was already set into gaunt lines. The eyes peered out from sunken hollows like craters, and the flesh below them was dark and ashen.
Herzer smiled, and his mouth worked sardonically as it moved into this sweet parody. Every movement Herzer made seemed slow and pained and cruel.
“Welcome,” Herzer said. He did not seem to be in fine health at all. “Come in, come in. It’s very rarely I get visitors anymore. People seem to want to avoid me as though I might bite them. Yes, come in, please.”
“Thank you,” the reporter said. “I understand that—”
“Please, let me take your coat,” Herzer interrupted.
The reporter hesitated. “No, uh…” He struggled briefly with an excuse. “I’m a little cold,” he finished lamely.
Herzer withdrew the hand he had extended and said nothing. He let the door swing shut and led the reporter down a narrow hall into a small kitchen. There was a smell, as of leaves that have drifted in a dark and dank place and begun to rot. Goosby wrinkled his nose in distaste but did not mention it. A bar of dying dusk light filtered through onto the wooden floor. Motes of dust danced and swirled in it. On the left were a small, round, weathered-looking table, and three rickety chairs. Herzer sat down and gestured for the reporter to do the same.
“I’m sorry,” Herzer said. “But I can’t quite remember your name.”
The reporter loosened his tie slightly. “Jamie,” he said, trying out a smile. “Jamie Goosby.”
“Ah, it is my mistake. The letter your people mailed to me has been lost somewhere in this dark trap.” He gestured with a sweeping arm at his house. “And I have not been able to find it since.”
He smiled, and Goosby felt chills build up in a frigid column on his spine. Herzer’s teeth were black and yellow stumps. Goosby’s hand went instinctively to where the recorder rested over his heart. It brought little comfort in this house of hooded shadows. There was something about this man that unnerved Goosby, but it kept evading his evaluation. Maybe it would come later. That sometimes happened since the accident. Memories sporadically jumped out at him like a horror movie surprise, memories which seemingly had no anchor or relevance, but which came in whimsical succession without fail. There was something stirring in the crevice of his mind now … something…
“Do you have a pen and paper?” Herzer said. “I have plenty here. I cannot use an electric word processor, to type letters to my sister in Austria, and mechanical ones are so hard to find these days. If I do send something, I have to write it by hand. The writing part I do not mind, but for the message to reach her takes weeks, and by then it seems outdated and inane. I do what I can to keep in contact, although I imagine it won’t matter much longer.” His smile faded, mercifully hiding those rotted remains behind his parchment lips. He grunted reflectively and went on. “So yes, if you need paper, I have more than enough for you to use.”
“I broug
ht my own. Thank you, though,” Goosby said quickly.
He took from the bag he had slung over one shoulder a small book and a blue Bic ballpoint. Kenneth always insisted that he use a fountain pen, but the fountain wasn’t the best tool for interviews. Kenneth was adamant that they keep up the ‘image’ of The Daily, even if it meant using second-rate tools at the expense of a good story. But he wasn’t here now. Kenneth and his imperious way of handling things - pedantic, pointless. Damn him.
Herzer sat with his hands in his lap, looking out the window. The light was just a faint line on the horizon now, the sky losing its faded, rose petal pink. A frown creased Herzer’s brow, and Goosby didn’t fail to notice it.
Dilapidated house, wasted man. Goosby was careful to conceal the shorthand scribbles at the edge of his page. Looking around, he noticed for the first time the extent of the disarray.
The kitchen was a ruin. A dusty electric stove sat in the corner. One of the plates had come loose, exposing the tangle of wires beneath it. A clock above the door had stopped at 4:19 and looked as though it had been that way for a while. The microwave oven was a dirty and broken thing, with white cracks growing on the surface of the Plexiglas covering. It certainly looked as if nothing had worked here for years. Sources say Herzer immigrated here six years ago. Barely leaves the house, Goosby noted.
Herzer suddenly snapped back, as if waking from a dream. “What are you writing there, Mr Goosby?”
The reporter casually dropped a hand over his writing. “Just a few notes. You live in quite a … gloomy house, Mr Herzer. It must be hard.”
Herzer’s face softened and became wistful. “Yes.”
Unbeknownst to the man around whom nothing seemed to work, the wheels of the tape recorder wound on, silently and implacably.
“What… What…”
The question! Just ask the question!
