The Best of Margaret St. Clair

by Margaret St. Clair

  * * *

  June 12th. I have not made an entry in my diary for a long time. In the interval, I have had thirty-six interviews with prott.

  What emerges from these sessions, which are so painful and frustrating to me, so highly enjoyed by the prott?

  First, communication with them has become very much easier. It has become, in fact, too easy. I continually find their thoughts intruding on me at times when I cannot welcome them—when I am eating, writing up my notes, or trying to sleep. But the strain of communication is much less and I suppose that does constitute an advance.

  Second, out of the welter of material presented to me, I have at last succeeded in forming one fairly clear idea. That is that the main topic of the protts’ communication is a process that could be re presented verbally as—ing the—. I add at once that the blanks do not necessarily represent an obscenity. I have, in fact, no idea what they do represent.

  (The phrases that come into my mind in this connection are “kicking the bucket” and “belling the cat.” It may not be without significance that one of these phrases relates to death and the other to danger. Communication with prott is so unsatisfactory that one cannot afford to neglect any intimations that might clarify it. It is possible that—ing the—is something which is potentially dangerous to prott, but that’s only a guess. I could have it all wrong, and I probably do.) At any rate, my future course has become clear. From now on I will attempt, by every mental means at my disposal, to get the prott to specify what—ing the—is. There is no longer any fear of losing their co-operation. Even as I dictate these words to the playback, they are sending more material about—ing the—to me.

  * * *

  June 30. The time has gone very quickly, and yet ea ch individual moment has dragged. I have had fifty-two formal interviews with prott—they appear in crowds ranging from fifteen to forty or so—and countless informal ones. My photographic record shows that more than ninety per cent of those that have appeared have been of the luminous network kind.

  In all this communications, what have I learned? It gives me a sort of bitter satisfaction to say: “Nothing at all.”

  I am too chagrined to go on.

  * * *

  July 1. I don’t mean that I haven’t explored avenue after avenue. For instance, at one time it appeared that—ing the—had something to do with the intersections of the luminous network in prott of that sort. When I attempted to pursue this idea, I met with a cegative that seemed amused as well as indignant.

  They indicated that—ing the—was concerned with the whitish body surfaces, but when I picked up the theme, I got another negative signal. And so on. I must have attacked the problem from fifty different angles, but I had to give up on all of them.—ing the—, it would appear, is electrical, nonelectrical, solitary, dual, triple, communal, constant, never done at all. At one time I thought that it might apply to any pleasurable activity, but the prott signalled that I was all wrong. I broke that session off short.

  Outside of their baffling communications on the subject of—ing the—, I have learned almost nothing from the prott.

  (How sick I am of them and their inane, vacuous babbling! The phrases of our communication ring in my mind for hours afterward. They haunt me like a clinging odor or stubbornly lingering taste.) During one session, a prott (solid nucleus, I think, but I am not sure) informed me that they could live under a wide variety of conditions, provided there was a source of radiant energy not too remote. Besides that scrap of information, I have an impression that they are grateful to me for listening to them. Their feelings, I think, could be expressed in the words “understanding and sympathetic.”

  I don’t know why they think so, I’m sure. I would rather communicate with a swarm of dogfish, which are primitively telepathic, than listen to any more prott.

  I have had to punch another hole in my wristwatch strap to take up the slack. This makes the third one.

  * * *

  July 3rd. It is difficult for me to use the playback, the prott are sending so hard. I have scarcely a moment’s rest from their communications, all concerned with the same damned subject. But I have come to a resolve: I am going home.

  Yes, home. It may be that I have failed in my project, because of inner weaknesses. It may be that no man alive could have accomplished more. I don’t know. But I ache to get away from them and the flabby texture of their babbling minds. If only there were some way of shutting them off, of stopping my mental ears against them temporarily, I think I could stand it. But there isn’t.

  I’m going home. I’ve started putting course data in the computers.

  * * *

  July 4th. They say they are going back with me. It seems they like me so much, they don’t want to be without me. I will have to decide.

  * * *

  July 12th. It is dreadfully hard to think, for they are sending like mad.

  I am not so altruistic, so unselfish, that I would condemn myself to a lifetime of listening to prott if I could get out of it. But suppose I ignore the warnings of instinct, the dictates of conscience, and return to Earth, anyhow—what will be the result?

  The prott will go with me. I will not be rid of them. And I will have loosed a wave of prott on Earth.

  They want passionately to send about—ing the—. They have discovered that Earthmen are potential receptors. I have myself to blame for that. If I show them the way to Earth…

  The dilemma is inherently comic, I suppose. It is none the less real. Oh, it is possible that there is some way of destroying prott, and that the resources of Earth intelligence might discover it. Or, failing that, we might be able to work out a way of living with them. But the danger is too great; I dare not ask my planet to face it. I will stay here.

  The Ellis is a strong, comfortable ship. According to my calculations, there is enough air, water and food to last me the rest of my natural life. Power—since I am not going back—I have in abundance. I ought to get along all right.

  Except for the prott. When I think of them, my heart contracts with despair and revulsion. And yet—a scientist must be honest—it is not all despair. I feel a little sorry for them, a little flattered at their need for me. And I am not, even now, altogether hopeless. Perhaps some day—some day—I shall understand the prott.

  I am going to put this diary in a permaloy cylinder and jet it away from the ship with a signal rocket. I can soup up the rocket’s charge with power from the fuel tanks. I have tried it on the calculators, and I think the rocket can make it to the edge of the gravitational field of the Solar System.

  Goodbye, Earth. I am doing it for you. Remember me.

  * * *

  Fox put the last page of the manuscript down. “The poor bastard” he said.

  “Yeah, the poor bastard. Sitting out there in deep space, year after year, listening to those things bellyaching, and thinking what a savior he was.”

  “I can’t say I feel much sympathy for him, really. I suppose they followed the signal rocket back.”

  “Yeah. And then they increased. Oh, he fixed it, all right.”

  There was a depressed silence. Then Fox said, “I’d better go. Impatient.”

  “Mine, too.”

  They said goodbye to each other on the curb. Fox stood waiting, still not quite hopeless. But after a moment the hateful voice within his head began: “I want to tell you more about—ing the—.”

  1953. Galaxy

  NEW RITUAL

  The big white freezer purred away smoothly in the pantry. Marie Bates looked at it admiringly. It was really more company than Henry was, she thought—better-looking, more useful and it made soothing, companionable noises. She was ever so glad she had bought it. It had been a wonderful bargain.

  She opened the freezer and dropped in the package of apricots she had just processed. The rest of the ‘cots weren’t ready yet, but she couldn’t resist putting the new freezer to work at once. Frost was already forming on its side.

  She went back into the
kitchen and began scalding and blanching the other ‘cots. She ought to be ashamed of herself for feeling that way about Henry, she supposed. He was a good husband, a good provider, and he had a lot on his mind—the farm, his lodge work, the new ritual. But…

  Would he notice me, she thought suddenly, if I came out in the dining room with feathers in my hair, war paint on my face, and did a little war dance in my bloomers? She giggled at the picture. Wasn’t she silly? She did get the craziest ideas!

  She was putting the peeled and pitted apricots in the containers when Henry came in from the barn, where he had been pitching hay, for a drink of water. “Want to see my new freezer, Henry?” she asked brightly. “I got it at Fergus’ sale with the egg money. It was real cheap.” Sometimes she thought that if she just kept talking to Henry, he’d give in and start talking to her too. Even if he was a lot older than she was.

  “Uh? No, not now.” He pushed past her and started back to the barn. His short, stolid back retreated rapidly.

  He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t annoyed, he wasn’t anything. He just didn’t notice her. Marie stared after him with eyes that were beginning to smart. It was like living with a clam. Wasn’t there anything in the world he’d talk to her about? Not the farm or his lodge work or politics—she knew, she’d tried. Weren’t there any other subjects? Food?

  Well, once he’d said a pot roast of hers was good, and once he’d mentioned an angel cake. And when they were first married, years ago, he’d said that his mother had baked wonderful blueberry pies. That was quite a lot of talk on one subject, for Henry.

  Blueberry pie. She went on filling the ‘cots into the polyethylene bags. Well, that wasn’t very helpful. Nobody in Ovid grew blueberries. The climate and the soil weren’t right for them, and there wasn’t moisture enough. She supposed there might be some canned blueberries in the store.

  She filled the bags and sealed the cartons. She wrote “Apricots” and the date on the outside. How much easier fixing the cartons had been than canning would have been! No steamy kitchen, scalded fingers, nasty cracked jars. And fresh fruit in the wintertime would be 100 percent better than canned. She wished Henry had let her talk about the freezer to him. Oh, well. She stacked the cartons on her forearm and went out to the pantry. She opened the deep freeze.

  She halted, surprised. She’d put in the package of apricots herself not more than an hour and a half ago. She’d written “Apricots” on the outside. The package itself, a tiny object in the vast white reaches of the freezer, was just the same as it had been. But now the word “Blueberries” was neatly printed on the cardboard side.

  Blueberries! What could have happened? Could she have written that herself by mistake? She was sure she hadn’t. She couldn’t! She hadn’t even been thinking of blueberries. But that was what the carton said.

  Cautiously Marie reached into the freezer and lifted the package out. It felt as hard as a rock. The contents must be frozen now. She stacked her load of cartons rather wobblingly on the edge of the freezer, and opened the package that said “Blueberries.”

  There were blueberries in it.

  She could see them plain as plain through the trans parent polyethylene wrapper. Blueberries! How on earth could they have got there?

  One of the as yet unfrozen cartons of apricots, falling from the edge of the freezer with a thump, startled her. She dumped them hastily into the freezing compartment, shut the lid, and went back to the kitchen with her blueberries. She tore off the polyethylene wrapper and pried one of the blueberries from the frozen mass. After a little hesitation, she tasted it.

  She’d had blueberries only once or twice before, but they’d had the same inky flavor as this one. They—Marie Bates hesitated no longer. She got out a mixing bowl, flour, salt, lard. She was going to make a pie.

  Henry ate two pieces of the pie at supper. Marie watched anxiously, while he chomped stolidly away. At last she couldn’t wait any longer. “How’s the pie, Henry?” she asked, brushing at the crumbs on the tablecloth.

  “Pie? Oh, O.K.” He ran his tongue around his teeth. He sucked heavily against his upper plate.

  She wanted to cry out, “But it’s blueberry! You said—It’s blueberry!” She didn’t. Silently she picked up the dishes and went out to the kitchen with them. She wasn’t going to cry over it, no, she wasn’t. She was fierce with herself. Those blueberries hadn’t cost her anything.

  About 8 o’clock that night Bertha, her sister-in-law, dropped in. Bertha wore size 44 dresses from Sears Roebuck, but she wasn’t very tall. Sometimes Marie liked her and sometimes she didn’t. Tonight Bertha was being nice.

  “Heard you got the freezer at Fergus’ sale, Marie,” she said after they had exchanged greetings. “Can I see it?”

  “Oh, sure.” Marie led her into the pantry and opened the freezer lid. She had a sudden stabbing fear, as it went up, that the freezer would be full of blueberries, but it wasn’t. Nothing but apricots.

  “It’s a beauty,” Bertha said appreciatively. “Nicest one I’ve ever seen. Listen, though, aren’t you afraid to use it? Maybe Fergus kept some of his poison chemicals in it. I’d be nervous about it.”

  “That’s silly,” Marie answered. “People in Ovid were always prejudiced against Fergus. I guess he wasn’t a very good inventor—I never heard of any of his inventions working or his making any money out of them—but he wouldn’t have kept poisons in a freezer. There wouldn’t have been any sense in it.”

  “Um. Well, you be careful, Marie. Fergus did blow his whole house up and kill himself. That freezer was about the only thing that was left.—Are you going to the church supper tomorrow night.?”

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t got anything to wear. I’m ashamed of my old blue rayon dress.”

  “Um.” Bertha looked down at the linoleum. She moved one of her black kid oxfords as if she were embarrassed. “You know, Marie,” she said without looking up, “Henry—well, he’s funny in some ways. He doesn’t say much, does he? He didn’t, even when he was a kid. But he always liked pretty things. You know, Marie, I—I think Henry’d like it if you got a pretty new dress.”

  Bertha said good night. It was bedtime. Marie, upstairs, began to undress in the bathroom. She combed her hair, slipped into her nightgown. She decided to leave off her facial velvet cream tonight. She hesitated, and then touched her lips lightly with Venetian Rose lip pomade. Her lips did get so dry.

  Henry was already in bed. She slid in beside him. He turned off the light.

  For a moment there was silence. Then he turned on the light again. “Forgot to take out my teeth,” he said in explanation. There was a sucking noise and then a click as he dropped his plates into the glass of water beside the bed. Once more he turned off the light.

  Marie couldn’t get to sleep. She thought, “He doesn’t care about me, really. No matter what Bertha said.” And then in a flood of bitterness, at the final personal devaluation, “Men are supposed to be selfish. They’re supposed to think of just one thing. Henry—Henry never really wanted anything from me.”

  What was the use of thinking about it? He was her husband; she couldn’t make him over. She’d better try to get some sleep. She sighed and moved her feet.

  She rolled over. The position wasn’t comfortable. She thought about the freezer, the blueberries, her old dress, what Bertha had said. She could have got a new dress, only she’d spent all her money on the freezer. The mo re she thought, the wider awake she got. She wished Henry wouldn’t be so distant, she wished she had a pretty dress, she wished… Finally, a little before twelve, she got out of bed.

  Very softly she went to her closet. In the dark she fumbled over the three or four clothes hangers it contained. When she got the hanger with the blue rayon dress—she recognized it by the cotton lace around the neck—she drew it gently off the hanger. With the dress under one arm, she slipped out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

  When she got to the freezer she hesitated. What she had in mind seemed suddenly foolish.
In the light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, the white sides of the freezer looked coldly disapproving and impersonal. The idea she had about the freezer couldn’t possibly be right. She felt so ashamed of her foolishness that she almost turned around and went back.

  But… Well, it might be a silly idea, but there was nothing morally wrong about it. The worst that could happen would be that her dress might get a spot or two from the ice on the sides of the freezer. Suddenly resolute, she raised the lid and spread her old dress out full length on top of the packages of apricots.

  She turned the light out and tiptoed back up to the bedroom. Henry was still snoring; she hadn’t bothered him at all. She slipped between the sheets cautiously. In ten minutes or so, she was asleep.

  Marie didn’t get a chance to look inside the freezer next morning until after the breakfast dishes were done and Henry had gone out. While she dried the last plates and put the forks in the drawer she kept telling herself not to be silly, nothing would have happened to her old dress. The blueberries had been a—a coincidence, that was all. Miracles just don’t happen. She mustn’t be silly.

  But when she went out to the freezer, she was so weak with excitement that she could hardly lift the lid.

  There was a long pink box lying on top of the apricots. There was no name on the box.

  With fingers that trembled uncontrollably, Marie opened it. Inside there were sheets of carefully folded tissue paper. And under the tissue, carefully folded around more tissue, was a printed black and pink and gray silk dress.

  It was the prettiest dress Marie had ever seen. The silk was as delicate to the touch as a caress, the colors were soft and subtle and rich. The neck—a V neck—was a little low, maybe, but it was surrounded by rows and rows of elegant self-fabric faggoting. And yet it wasn’t too fancy a dress, or too elaborate, for her to wear.

  For a moment Marie stood motionless, breathing deeply. Then she took the box in both arms and ran upstairs with it to the bedroom, where the mirror was. She was so excited that she did not even remember to close the freezer lid.