The Magazine of fantasy and science fiction : a 30-year retrospective

by Edward L Ferman

  "Listen," said the young men, trying to brush past him, "I'm late, and I don't have any time to listen. Here's a dime, now get going."

  "Thank you," said Mr. Johnson, pocketing the dime. "Look," he said, "what happens if you stop running?"

  "I'm late," said the young man, still trying to get past Mr. Johnson, who was unexpectedly clinging.

  "How much you make an hour?" Mr. Johnson demanded. "A communist, are you?" said the young man. "Now will you please let me "

  "No," said Mr. Johnson insistently, "how much?"

  "Dollar fifty," said the young man. "And now will you "

  "You like adventure?"

  The young man stared, and, staring, found himself caught and held by Mr. Johnson's genial smile; he almost smiled back and then repressed it and made an effort to tear away. "I got to hurry" he said.

  "Mystery? Like surprises? Unusual and exciting events?"

  "You selling something?"

  "Sure," said Mr. Johnson. "You want to take a chance?"

  The young man hesitated, looked longingly up the avenue toward what might have been his destination and then, when Mr. Johnson said, "I'll pay for it," with his own peculiar convincing emphasis, turned and said, "Well, okay. But I got to see it first, what I'm buying."

  Mr. Johnson, breathing hard, led the young man over to the side where the girl was standing; she had been watching with interest Mr. Johnson's capture of the young man and now, smiling timidly, she looked at Mr. Johnson as though prepared to be surprised at nothing.

  Mr. Johnson reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. "Here," he said, and handed a bill to the girl. "This about equals your day's pay."

  "But no," she said, surprised in spite of herself. "I mean, I couldn't."

  "Please do not interrupt," Mr. Johnson told her. "And here" he said to the young man, "this will take care of you" The young man accepted the bill dazedly, but said, "Probably counterfeit," to the young woman out of the side of his mouth. "Now," Mr. Johnson went on, disregarding the young man, "what is your name, miss?"

  "Kent," she said helplessly. "Mildred Kent."

  "Fine," said Mr. Johnson. "And you, sir?"

  "Arthur Adams," said the young man stiffly.

  "Splendid," said Mr. Johnson. "Now, Miss Kent, I would like you to meet Mr. Adams. Mr. Adams, Miss Kent."

  Miss Kent stared, wet her lips nervously, made a gesture as though she might run, and said, "How do you do?"

  Mr. Adams straightened his shoulders, scowled at Mr. Johnson, made a gesture as though he might run, and said, "How do you do?"

  "Now this" said Mr. Johnson, taking several bills from his wallet, "should be enough for the day for both of you. I would suggest, perhaps, Coney Island—although I personally am not fond of the place— or perhaps a nice lunch somewhere, and dancing, or a matinee, or even a movie, although take care to choose a really good one; there are so many bad movies these days. You might," he said, struck with an inspiration, "visit the Bronx Zoo, or the Planetarium. Anywhere, as a matter of fact," he concluded, "that you would like to go. Have a nice time."

  As he started to move away Arthur Adams, breaking from his dum-founded stare, said, "But see here, mister, you can't do this. Why—how do you know—I mean, we don't even know—I mean, how do you know we won't just take the money and not do what you said?"

  "You've taken the money," Mr. Johnson said. "You don't have to follow any of my suggestions. You may know something you prefer to do—perhaps a museum, or something."

  "But suppose I just run away with it and leave her here?"

  "I know you won't," said Mr. Johnson gently, "because you remembered to ask me that. Goodbye," he added, and went on.

  As he stepped up the street, conscious of the sun on his head and his good shoes, he heard from somewhere behind him the young man saying, "Look, you know you don't have to if you don't want to," and the girl saying. "But unless you don't want to . . ." Mr. Johnson smiled to himself and then thought that he had better hurry along; when he wanted to he could move very quickly, and before the young woman had gotten around to saying, "Well, I will if you will," Mr. Johnson was several blocks away and had already stopped twice, once to help a lady lift several large packages into a taxi and once to hand a peanut to a seagull. By this time he was in an area of large stores and many more people and he was buffeted constantly from either side by people hurrying and cross and late and sullen. Once he offered a peanut to a man who asked him for a dime, and once he offered a peanut to a bus driver who had stopped his bus at an intersection and had opened the window next to his seat and put out his head as though longing for fresh air and the comparative quiet of the traffic. The man wanting a dime took the peanut because Mr. Johnson had wrapped a dollar bill around it, but the bus driver took the peanut and asked ironically, "You want a transfer, Jack?"

  On a busy corner Mr. Johnson encountered two young people—for one minute he thought they might be Mildred Kent and Arthur Adams —who were eagerly scanning a newspaper, their backs pressed against a storefront to avoid the people passing, their heads bent together. Mr.

  Johnson, whose curiosity was insatiable, leaned onto the storefront next to them and peeked over the man's shoulder; they were scanning the "Apartments Vacant" columns.

  Mr. Johnson remembered the street where the woman and her little boy were going to Vermont and he tapped the man on the shoulder and said amiably, "Try down on West Seventeen. About the middle of the block, people moved out this morning."

  "Say, what do you " said the man, and then, seeing Mr. Johnson clearly. "Well, thanks. Where did you say?"

  "West Seventeen," said Mr. Johnson. "About the middle of the block." He smiled again and said, "Good luck."

  "Thanks," said the man.

  "Thanks," said the girl, as they moved off.

  "Goodbye," said Mr. Johnson.

  He lunched alone in a pleasant restaurant, where the food was rich, and only Mr. Johnson's excellent digestion could encompass two of their whipped-cream-and-chocolate-and-rum-cake pastries for dessert. He had three cups of coffee, tipped the waiter largely, and went out into the street again into the wonderful sunlight, his shoes still comfortable and fresh on his feet. Outside he found a beggar staring into the windows of the restaurant he had left and, carefully looking through the money in his pocket, Mr. Johnson approached the beggar and pressed some coins and a couple of bills into his hand. "It's the price of the veal cutlet lunch plus tip," said Mr. Johnson. "Goodbye."

  After his lunch he rested; he walked into the nearest park and fed peanuts to the pigeons. It was late afternoon by the time he was ready to start back downtown, and he had refereed two checker games and watched a small boy and girl whose mother had fallen asleep and awakened with surprise and fear which turned to amusement when she saw Mr. Johnson. He had given away almost all of his candy, and had fed all the rest of his peanuts to the pigeons, and it was time to go home. Although the late afternoon sun was pleasant, and his shoes were still entirely comfortable, he decided to take a taxi downtown.

  He had a difficult time catching a taxi, because he gave up the first three or four empty ones to people who seemed to need them more; finally, however, he stood alone on the corner and—almost like netting a frisky fish—he hailed desperately until he succeeded in catching a cab which had been proceeding with haste uptown and seemed to draw in towards Mr. Johnson against its own will.

  "Mister," the cab driver said as Mr. Johnson climbed in, "I figured you was an omen, like. I wasn't going to pick you up at all."

  "Kind of you," said Mr. Johnson ambiguously.

  "If I'd of let you go it would of cost me ten bucks," said the driver.

  "Really?" said Mr. Johnson.

  "Yeah," said the driver. "Guy just got out of the cab, he turned around and give me ten bucks, said take this and bet it in a hurry on a horse named Vulcan, right away."

  "Vulcan?" said Mr. Johnson, horrified. "A fire sign on a Wednesday?"

  "What?" said the driver. "Anyway
, I said to myself if I got no fare between here and there I'd bet the ten, but if anyone looked like they needed the cab I'd take it as an omen and I'd take the ten home to the wife."

  "You were very right," said Mr. Johnson heartily. "This is Wednesday, you would have lost your money. Monday, yes, or even Saturday. But never never never a fire sign on a Wednesday. Sunday would have been good, now."

  "Vulcan don't run on Sunday," said the driver.

  "You wait till another day," said Mr. Johnson. "Down this street, please, driver. I'll get off on the next corner."

  "He told me Vulcan, though," said the driver.

  "I'll tell you," said Mr. Johnson, hesitating with the door of the cab half open. "You take that ten dollars and I'll give you another ten dollars to go with it, and you go right ahead and bet that money on any Thursday on any horse that has a name indicating ... let me see, Thursday . . . well, grain. Or any growing food."

  "Grain?" said the driver. "You mean a horse named, like, Wheat or something?"

  "Certainly," said Mr. Johnson. "Or, as a matter of fact, to make it even easier, any horse whose name includes the letters, C, R, L. Perfectly simple."

  "Tall corn?" said the driver, a light in his eye. "You mean a horse named, like, Tall Corn?"

  "Absolutely," said Mr. Johnson. "Here's your money."

  "Tall Corn," said the driver. "Thank you, mister."

  "Goodbye," said Mr. Johnson.

  He was on his own corner and went straight up to his apartment. He let himself in and called "Hello?" and Mrs. Johnson answered from the kitchen, "Hello, dear, aren't you early?"

  "Took a taxi home," Mr. Johnson said. "I remembered the cheesecake, too. What's for dinner?"

  Mrs. Johnson came out of the kitchen and kissed him; she was a comfortable woman, and smiling as Mr. Johnson smiled. "Hard day?" she asked.

  "Not very," said Mr. Johnson, hanging his coat in the closet. "How about you?"

  "So-so," she said. She stood in the kitchen doorway while he settled into his easy chair and took off his good shoes and took out the paper he had bought that morning. "Here and.there," she said.

  "I didn't do so badly," Mr. Johnson said. "Couple young people."

  "Fine," she said. "I had a little nap this afternoon, took it easy most of the day. Went into a department store this morning and accused the woman next to me of shoplifting, and had the store detective pick her up. Sent three dogs to the pound— you know, the usual thing. Oh, and listen," she added, remembering.

  "What?" asked Mr. Johnson.

  "Well," she said, "I got onto a bus and asked the driver for a transfer, and when he helped someone else first I said that he was impertinent, and quarreled with him. And then I said why wasn't he in the army, and I said it loud enough for everyone to hear, and I took his number and I turned in a complaint. Probably got him fired."

  "Fine," said Mr. Johnson. "But you do look tired. Want to change over tomorrow?"

  "I would like to," she said. "I could do with a change."

  "Right," said Mr. Johnson. "What's for dinner?"

  "Veal cutlet."

  "Had it for lunch," said Mr. Johnson.

  The Women Men Don't See

  James Tiptree, Jr.

  "James Tiptree, Jr." is a pen name for Alice Sheldon, a psychologist who started writing science fiction in the late 1960s. She has won several Nebula and Hugo awards in recent years and is considered one of the most innovative writers in the field. "The Women Men Don't See" a Nebula Award nominee, appeared in the December 1973 issue.

  I see her first while the Mexicana 727 is barreling down to Cozumel Island. I come out of the can and lurch into her seat, saying "Sorry," at a double female blur. The near blur nods quietly. The younger one in the window seat goes on looking out. I continue down the aisle, registering nothing. Zero. I never would have looked at them or thought of them again.

  Cozumel airport is the usual mix of panicky Yanks dressed for the sand pile and calm Mexicans dressed for lunch at the Presidente. I am a used-up Yank dressed for serious fishing; I extract my rods and duffel from the riot and hike across the field to find my charter pilot. One Captain Esteban has contracted to deliver me to the bonefish flats of Belise three hundred kilometers down the coast.

  Captain Esteban turns out to be four feet nine of mahogany Maya puro. He is also in a somber Maya snit. He tells me my Cessna is grounded somewhere and his Bonanza is booked to take a party to Chetumal.

  Well, Chetumal is south; can he take me along and go on to Belise after he drops them? Gloomily he concedes the possibility— if the other party permits, and if there are not too many equipajes.

  The Chetumal party approaches. It's the woman and her young companion—daughter?—neatly picking their way across the gravel and yucca apron. Their Ventura two-suiters, like themselves, are small, plain and neutral-colored. No problem. When the captain asks if I may ride along, the mother says mildly "Of course," without looking at me.

  I think that's when my inner tilt-detector sends up its first faint click. How come this woman has already looked me over carefully enough to accept on her plane? I disregard it. Paranoia hasn't been useful in my business for years, but the habit is hard to break.

  As we clamber into the Bonanza, I see the girl has what could be an attractive body if there was any spark at all. There isn't. Captain Esteban folds a serape to sit on so he can see over the cowling and runs a meticulous check-down. And then we're up and trundling over the turquoise Jello of the Caribbean into a stiff south wind.

  The coast on our right is the territory of Quintana Roo. If you haven't seen Yucatan, imagine the world's biggest absolutely flat green-grey rug. An empty-looking land. We pass the white ruin of Tulum and the gash of the road to Chichen Itza, a half-dozen coconut plantations, and then nothing but reef and low scrub jungle all the way to the horizon, just about the way the conquistadores saw it four centuries back.

  Long strings of cumulus are racing at us, shadowing the coast. I have gathered that part of our pilot's gloom concerns the weather. A cold front is dying on the henequen fields of Merida to west, and the south wind has piled up a string of coastal storms: what they call llovisnas. Esteban detours methodically around a couple of small thunderheads. The Bonanza jinks, and I look back with a vague notion of reassuring the women. They are calmly intent on what can be seen of Yucatan. Well, they were offered the copilot's view, but they turned it down. Too shy?

  Another llovisna puffs up ahead. Esteban takes the Bonanza upstairs, rising in his seat to sight his course. I relax for the first time in too long, savoring the latitudes between me and my desk, the week of fishing ahead. Our captain's classic Maya profile attracts my gaze: forehead sloping back from his predatory nose, lips and jaw stepping back below it. If his slant eyes had been any more crossed, he couldn't have made his license. That's a handsome combination, believe it or not. On the little Maya chicks in their minishifts with iridescent gloop on those cockeyes, it's also highly erotic. Nothing like the oriental doll thing; these people have stone bones. Captain Esteban's old grandmother could probably tow the Bonanza . . .

  I'm snapped awake by the cabin hitting my ear. Esteban is barking into his headset over a drurnming racket of hail; the windows are dark grey.

  One important noise is missing—the motor. I realize Est6ban is fighting a dead plane. Thirty-six hundred; we've lost two thousand feet!

  He slaps tank switches as the storm throws us around; I catch something about gasolina in a snarl that shows his big teeth. The Bonanza reels down. As he reaches for an overhead toggle, I see the fuel gauges are high. Maybe a clogged gravity feed line; I've heard of dirty gas down here. He drops the set. It's a million to one nobody can read us through the storm at this range anyway. Twenty-five hundred—going down.

  His electric feed pump seems to have cut in: the motor explodes— quits—explodes—and quits again for good. We are suddenly out of the bottom of the clouds. Below us is a long white line almost hidden by rain: The reef. But there isn't
any beach behind it, only a big meandering bay with a few mangrove flats—and it's coming up at us fast.

  This is going to be bad, I tell myself with great unoriginality. The women behind me haven't made a sound. I look back and see they're braced down with their coats by their heads. With a stalling speed around eighty, all this isn't much use, but I wedge myself in.

  Esteban yells some more into his set, flying a falling plane. He is doing one jesus job, too—as the water rushes up at us he dives into a hair-raising turn and hangs us into the wind—with a long pale ridge of sandbar in front of our nose.

  Where in hell he found it I never know. The Bonanza mushes down, and we belly-hit with a tremendous tearing crash—bounce—hit again —and everything slews wildly as we flat-spin into the mangroves at the end of the bar. Crash! Clang! The plane is wrapping itself into a mound of strangler fig with one wing up. The crashing quits with us all in one piece. And no fire. Fantastic.

  Captain Esteban prys open his door, which is now in the roof. Behind me a woman is repeating quietly, "Mother. Mother." I climb up the floor and find the girl trying to free herself from her mother's embrace. The woman's eyes are closed. Then she opens them and suddenly lets go, sane as soap. Esteban starts hauling them out. I grab the Bonanza's aid kit and scramble out after them into brilliant sun and wind. The storm that hit us is already vanishing up the coast.

  "Great landing, Captain."

  "Oh, yes! It was beautiful." The women are shaky, but no hysteria. Esteban is surveying the scenery with the expression his ancestors used on the Spaniards.

  If you've been in one of these things, you know the slow-motion inanity that goes on. Euphoria, first. We straggle down the fig tree and out onto the sandbar in the roaring hot wind, noting without alarm that there's nothing but miles of crystalline water on all sides. It's only a foot or so deep, and the bottom is the olive color of silt. The distant shore around us is all flat mangrove swamp, totally uninhabitable.