Platinum Pohl - The Collected Best Stories

by Frederik Pohl

  He shrugged defensively. “I want everybody to have a good time.”

  “Now, don’t talk that way. We agreed. The children and I are going to pay our own way all the rest of the day, and the subject is closed.” She proved the point by changing it. “Look,” she said, “there are those two foreigners who lost their tour group again.” She waved, and Mrs. Millay and Mr. Katsubishi came up diffidently.

  “If we’re not intruding?” said Mrs. Millay. “We never did find our tour guide, you see, but actually we’re getting on quite well without. But isn’t it hot! It’s never like this in Scotland.”

  Millicent fanned herself in agreement. “Do sit down, Mrs. Millay. Is that where you’re from, Scotland? And you Mr. Kat—, Kats—”

  “Katsubishi,” he smiled, with an abrupt deep bow. Then he wrinkled his face in concentration for a moment and managed to say: “I, too—Sukottaland.”

  Millicent tried not to look astonished, but evidently did not succeed. Mrs. Millay explained, “He’s from around Kyle of Lochalth, you know.” Since Millicent obviously didn’t know, she added, “That’s the Japanese colony in northern Scotland, near my own home. In fact, I teach English to Japanese schoolchildren there, since I know the language—my parents were missionaries in Honshu, you see. Didn’t you know about the colony?”

  Actually, Millicent and Randolph did know about the colony. Or, at least, they almost did, in the way that human beings exposed to forty channels of television and with nothing much to do with their time have heard of—without really knowing much about—almost every concept, phenomenon, event, and trend in human history. In just that way, they had heard of the United Kingdom’s pact with Japan, allowing large Japanese immigration into an enclave in the north of Scotland. The Japanese made the area bloom both agriculturally and economically. The United Kingdom got a useful injection of Japanese capital and energy, and the Japanese got rid of some of their surplus population without pain. “I wish we’d thought of that,” Millicent observed in some envy, but her husband shook his head.

  “Different countries, different ways,” he said patriotically, “and actually we’re doing rather well. I mean, just look at the Lottery Fair! That’s American ingenuity for you.” Observing that Mrs. Millay was whispering a rapid-fire translation into Mr. Katsubishi’s ear, he was encouraged to go on. “Other countries, you see, have their own way of handling their problems. Compulsory sterilization of all babies born in even-numbered years in India, as I’m sure you’re aware. The contraceptive drugs they put in the water supply in Mexico—and we don’t even talk of what they’re doing in, say, Bangladesh.” Mrs. Millay shuddered sympathetically as she translated, and the Japanese beamed and bowed, then spoke rapidly.

  “He says one can learn much,” Mrs. Millay translated, “from what foreign countries can do. Even America.”

  Millicent, glancing at the expression on her husband’s face, said brightly: “Well! Let’s not let this day go to waste. What shall we do next?” At once she got the same answers from the children: “Old cars!” “Animals!” “No,” whined Baby Louisa, “I wanna see the stiffs!”

  Mr. Katsubishi whispered something in staccato Japanese to Mrs. Millay, who turned hesitantly to Millicent Baxter. “One doesn’t wish to intrude,” she said, “but if you are in fact going to see the Hall of Life and Death as your daughter suggests…well, we don’t seem to be able to find the rest of our tour group, you see, and we would like to go there. After all, it is the theme center for the entire fair, as you might say—”

  “Why, of course,” said Millicent warmly, “we’d be real delighted to have the company of you and Mr. Kats—Kats—”

  “Katsubishi!” he supplied, bowing deeply and showing all of his teeth in a smile, and they all seven set off for the Hall of Life and Death, with little Louisa delightedly leading the way.

  The hall was a low, white marble structure across the greensward from the Cenotaph, happy picnicking families on the green gay pavilions all around, ice-cream vendors chanting along the roadways, and a circus parade—horses and a giraffe and even an elephant—winding along the main avenue with a band leading them, diddley-boom, diddley-boom, diddley-bang! bang! bang!—all noise, and color, and excitement. But as soon as they were within the hall they were in another world. The Hall of Life and Death was the only free exhibit at the fair—even the rest rooms were not free. The crowds that moved through the hall were huge. But they were also reverential. As you came in you found yourself in a great domed entrance pavilion, almost bare except for seventy-five raised platforms, each spotlighted from a concealed source, each surrounded by an air curtain of gentle drafts. At the time the Baxters came in more than sixty of the platforms were already occupied with silent, lifeless forms of those who had passed on at the fair that day. A sweet-faced child here, an elderly woman there; there, side by side, a young pair of newlyweds. Randolph Baxter looked for and found the tall, smiling black man who had died in the line before him. He was smiling no longer, but his face was in repose and almost joyous, it seemed. “He’s at peace now,” Millicent whispered, touching her husband’s arm, and he nodded. He didn’t want to speak out loud in this solemn hall, where the whisper of organ music was barely audible above the gentle hiss of chilled air curtains that wafted past every deceased. Hardly anyone in the great crowd spoke. The visitors lingered at each of the occupied biers; but then, as they moved toward the back of the chamber, they didn’t linger. Some didn’t even look, for every tourist at the fair could not help thinking, as he passed an empty platform, that before the fair closed that night it would be occupied…by someone.

  But the Rotunda of Those Who Have Gone Before was only the anteroom to the many inspiring displays the hall had to offer. Even the children were fascinated. Young Simon stood entranced before the great Timepiece of Living and Dying, watching the hands revolve swiftly to show how many were born and how many died in each minute, with the bottom line always showing a few more persons alive in every minute despite everything the government and the efforts of patriotic citizens could do—but he was more interested, really, in the mechanism of the thing than in the facts it displayed. Millicent Baxter and Mrs. Millay were really thrilled by the display of opulent caskets and cerements, and Ralph Baxter proud to point out to Mr. Katsubishi the working model of a crematorium, with all of its escaping gases trapped and converted into valuable organic feedstocks. And the girls, Emma and Louisa, stood hand in hand for a long time, shuddering happily as they gazed at the refrigerated display cases that showed a hideous four-month embryo next to the corpse of a fat, pretty two-year-old. Emma moved to put her arm around her mother and whispered, “Mommy, I’m so grateful you didn’t abort me.” And Millicent Baxter fought back a quick and tender tear.

  “I’d never let you die looking like that,” she assured her daughter, and they clung together for a long moment. But Randolph Baxter was becoming noticeably ill at ease. When they finally left the Hall of Life and Death, his wife took him aside and asked in concern, “Is something the matter, hon?”

  He shrugged irritably at the foreigners, who were talking together in fast, low-toned Japanese. “Just look at their faces,” he complained. And indeed both Mr. Katsubishi and Mrs. Millay’s expressions seemed to show more revulsion than respect.

  Millicent followed her husband’s eyes and sighed—there was a little annoyance in the sigh, too. “They’re not Americans,” she reminded her husband. “I guess they just don’t understand.” She smiled distantly at the foreign pair, and then looked around at her offspring. “Well, children, who wants to come with me to the washrooms, so we can get ready for the big fireworks?”

  They all did, even Randolph, but he felt a need stronger than the urging of his bladder. He remained behind with the foreigners. “Excuse me,” he said, somewhat formally, “but may I ask what you thought of the exhibit?”

  Mrs. Millay glanced at the Japanese. “Well, it was most interesting,” she said vaguely. “One doesn’t wish to criticize, of cours
e—” And she stopped there.

  “No, no, please go on,” Randolph encouraged.

  She said, “I must say it did seem odd to, well, glorify death in that way.”

  Randolph Baxter smiled, and tried to make it a forgiving smile, though he could feel that he was upset. He said, “Perhaps you miss the point of the Hall of Life and Death—in fact, of the whole Lottery Fair. You see, some of the greatest minds in America have worked on this problem of surplus population—think tanks and government agencies—why, three universities helped design this fair. Every bit of it is scientifically planned. To begin with, it’s absolutely free.”

  Mrs. Millay left off her rapid-fire, sotto voce Japanese translation to ask, “You mean, free as far as money is concerned?”

  “Yes, exactly. Of course, one takes a small chance at every ticket window, and in that sense there is a price for everything. A very carefully computed price, Mrs. Millay, for every hot dog, every show, every ride. To get into the fair in the first place, for instance, costs one decimill—that’s 1 percent of a .0001 probability of receiving a lethal injection from the ticket cuff. Now, that’s not much of a risk, is it?” he smiled. “And of course it’s absolutely painless, too. As you can see by just looking at the ones who have given their lives inside.”

  Mr. Katsubishi, listening intently to Mrs. Millay’s translation in his ear, pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. Mrs. Millay said brightly, “Well, we all have our own little national traits, don’t we?”

  “Now, really, Mrs. Millay,” said Randolph Baxter, smiling with an effort, “please try to understand. Everything is quite fair. Some things are practically free, like the park benches and the restrooms and so on; why, you could use some of them as much as a million times before, you know, your number would come up. Or you can get a first-class meal in the Cenotaph for just about a whole millipoint. But even that means you can do it a thousand times, on the average.”

  Mr. Katsubishi listened to the end of Mrs. Millay’s translation, and then struggled to get out a couple of English words. “Not—us,” he managed, pointing to himself and Mrs. Millay.

  “Certainly not,” Baxter agreed. “You’re foreign tourists. So you buy your tickets in your own countries for cash, and of course you don’t have to risk your lives. It wouldn’t help the American population problem much if you did, would it?” He smiled. “And your tour money helps pay the cost of the fair. But the important thing to remember is that the Lottery Fair is entirely voluntary. No one has to come. Of course,” he admitted, with a self-deprecatory grin, “I have to admit that I really like the job lotteries. I guess I’m just a gambler at heart, and when you’ve spent as much time on welfare as Mrs. Baxter and I have, those big jobs are just hard to resist! And they’re better here than at the regular city raffles.”

  Mrs. Millay cleared her throat. Good manners competed with obstinacy in her expression. “Really, Mr. Baxter,” she said, “Mr. Katsubishi and I understand that—heavens, we’ve had to do things in our own countries! We certainly don’t mean to criticize yours. What’s hard to understand, I suppose, is, actually, that fetus.” She searched his face with her eyes, looking for understanding. “It just seems strange. I mean, that you’d prefer to see a child born and then perhaps die in a lottery than to abort him ahead of time.”

  Mr. Baxter did his very best to maintain a pleasant expression, but knew he was failing. “It’s a difference in our national philosophies, I guess,” he said. “See, we don’t go in for your so-called ‘birth control’ here. No abortion. No contraception. We accept the gift of life when it is given. We believe that every human being, from the moment of conception on, has a right to a life—although,” he added, “not necessarily a long one.” He eyed the abashed foreigners sternly for a moment, then relented. “Well,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I wonder where my family can be? They’ll miss the fireworks if they don’t get back. I bet Mrs. Baxter’s gone and let the children pick out souvenirs—the little dickenses have been after us about them all day. Anyway, Mrs. Millay, Mr. Katsubishi, it’s been a real pleasure meeting the two of you and having this chance to exchange views—”

  But he broke off, suddenly alarmed by the expression on Mr. Katsubishi’s face as the man looked past him. “What’s the matter?” he demanded roughly.

  And then he turned, and did not need an answer. The answer was written on the strained, haggard, tearstreaked face of his wife as she ran despairingly toward him, carrying in her hands a plastic cap, a paperweight, and a helium-filled balloon in the shape of a pig’s head, but without Emma and without Simon and even without little Louisa.

  THE CELEBRATED NO-HIT INNING

  Good science fiction sometimes means giving in to guilty pleasures. And 1956’s “The Celebrated No-Hit Inning” is nothing if not a guilty pleasure. First of all, it is, as you might surmise from the title, about baseball. There are those who might tune out because of that, but they’d be missing out on a terrific story.

  Good science-fiction stories about baseball have to be good stories and good SF—and they have to make baseball sense. This story fulfills all those requirements.

  Best of all, you really can enjoy this chronicle of the great all-around player Boley even if you don’t know much about baseball. There is one thing to remember, however, when reading this intriguing tale: It says right off the bat, “This is a true story.”

  Well, it may or may not be true, because a lot of the action takes place in the future. No, it’s not true…yet! But if things keep going the way they have been going, it might not be too very long now…

  This is a true story, you have to remember. You have to keep that firmly in mind because, frankly, in some places it may not sound like a true story. Besides, it’s a true story about baseball players, and maybe the only one there is. So you have to treat it with respect.

  You know Boley, no doubt. It’s pretty hard not to know Boley, if you know anything at all about the National Game. He’s the one, for instance, who raised such a scream when the sportswriters voted him Rookie of the Year. “I never was a rookie,” he bellowed into three million television screens at the dinner. He’s the one who ripped up his contract when his manager called him, “The hittin’est pitcher I ever see.” Boley wouldn’t stand for that. “Four-eighteen against the best pitchers in the league,” he yelled, as the pieces of the contract went out the window. “Fogarty, I am the hittin’est hitter you ever see!”

  He’s the one they all said reminded them so much of Dizzy Dean at first. But did Diz win thirty-one games in his first year? Boley did; he’ll tell you so himself. But politely, and without bellowing…

  Somebody explained to Boley that even a truly great Hall-of-Fame pitcher really ought to show up for spring training. So, in his second year, he did. But he wasn’t convinced that he needed the training, so he didn’t bother much about appearing on the field.

  Manager Fogarty did some extensive swearing about that, but he did all of his swearing to his pitching coaches and not to Mr. Boleslaw. There had been six ripped-up contracts already that year, when Boley’s feelings got hurt about something, and the front office were very insistent that there shouldn’t be any more.

  There wasn’t much the poor pitching coaches could do, of course. They tried pleading with Boley. All he did was grin and ruffle their hair and say, “Don’t get all in an uproar.” He could ruffle their hair pretty easily, since he stood six inches taller than the tallest of them.

  “Boley,” said Pitching Coach Magill to him desperately, “you are going to get me into trouble with the manager. I need this job. We just had another little boy at our house, and they cost money to feed. Won’t you please do me a favor and come down to the field, just for a little while?”

  Boley had a kind of a soft heart. “Why, if that will make so much difference to you, Coach, I’ll do it. But I don’t feel much like pitching. We have got twelve exhibition games lined up with the Orioles on the way north, and if I pitch six of those that ought to be
all the warm-up I need.”

  “Three innings?” Magill haggled. “You know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important. The thing is, the owner’s uncle is watching today.”

  Boley pursed his lips. He shrugged. “One inning.”

  “Bless you, Boley!” cried the coach. “One inning it is!”

  Andy Andalusia was catching for the regulars when Boley turned up on the field. He turned white as a sheet. “Not the fast ball, Boley! Please, Boley,” he begged. “I only been catching a week and I have not hardened up yet.”

  Boleslaw turned the rosin bag around in his hands and looked around the field. There was action going on at all six diamonds, but the spectators, including the owner’s uncle, were watching the regulars.

  “I tell you what I’ll do,” said Boley thoughtfully. “Let’s see. For the first man, I pitch only curves. For the second man, the screwball. And for the third man—let’s see. Yes. For the third man, I pitch the sinker.”

  “Fine!” cried the catcher gratefully, and trotted back to home plate.

  “He’s a very spirited player,” the owner’s uncle commented to Manager Fogarty.

  “That he is,” said Fogarty, remembering how the pieces of the fifth contract had felt as they hit him on the side of the head.

  “He must be a morale problem for you, though. Doesn’t he upset the discipline of the rest of the team?”

  Fogarty looked at him, but he only said, “He win thirty-one games for us last year. If he had lost thirty-one he would have upset us a lot more.”

  The owner’s uncle nodded, but there was a look in his eye all the same. He watched without saying anything more, while Boley struck out the first man with three sizzling curves, right on schedule, and then turned around and yelled something at the outfield.

  “That crazy—By heaven,” shouted the manager, “he’s chasing them back into the dugout. I told that—”