by Fritz Leiber
To tell the truth, I felt a great deal of admiration for the Gang, because they could do alone what I was only doing with Helen’s love. They were enlarging their minds, becoming creative, working and playing hard—and doing it without my reward. Frankly, I don’t know how I could have managed it myself without Helen’s love. My admiration for Louis, Es, and Gene was touched with a kind of awe.
And we really were getting places. We had created a new mind-spot on the world, a sprouting-place for thought that wasn’t vain or self-conscious, but concerned wholly with its work and its delights. The Gang was forming itself into a kind of lens for viewing the world, outside and in.
Any group of people can make themselves into that sort of lens, if they really want to. But somehow they seldom get started. They don’t have the right inspiration.
We had Helen.
Always, but mostly in unspoken thoughts, we’d come back to the mystery of how she had managed it. She was mysterious, all right. We’d known her some six months now, and we were as much in the dark about her background as when we first met her. She wouldn’t tell anything even to me. She’d come from “places.” She was a “drifter.” She liked “people.” She told us all sorts of fascinating incidents, but whether she’d been mixed up in them herself or just heard them at Benny’s (she could have made a Trappist jabber) was uncertain.
We sometimes tried to get her to talk about her past. But she dodged our questions easily and we didn’t like to press them.
You don’t cross-examine Beauty.
You don’t demand that a Great Books discussion leader state his convictions.
You don’t probe a goddess about her past.
Yet this vagueness about Helen’s past caused us a certain uneasiness. She’d drifted to us. She might drift away.
If we hadn’t been so involved in our thought-sprouting, we’d have been worried. And if I hadn’t been so happy, and everything so smoothly perfect, I’d have done more than occasionally ask Helen to marry me and hear her answer, “Not now, Larry.”
Yes, she was mysterious.
And she had her eccentricities.
For one thing, she insisted on working at Benny’s although she could have had a dozen better jobs. Benny’s was her window on the main street of life, she said.
For another, she’d go off on long hikes in the country, even in the snowiest weather. I met her coming back from one and was worried, tried to be angry. But she only smiled.
Yet, when spring came round again and burgeoned into summer, she would never go swimming with us in our favorite coal pit.
The coal pits are a place where they once strip-mined for the stuff where it came to the surface. Long ago the huge holes were left to fill with water and their edges to grow green with grass and trees. They’re swell for swimming.
But Helen would never go to our favorite, which was one of the biggest and yet the least visited—and this year the water was unusually high. We changed to suit her, of course, but because the one she didn’t like happened to be near the farmhouse of last August’s “rural monster” scare, Louis joshed her.
“Maybe a monster haunts the pool,” he said. “Maybe it’s a being come from another world on a flying disk.”
He happened to say that on a lazy afternoon when we’d been swimming at the new coal pit and were drying on the edge, having cigarettes. Louis’ remark started us speculating about creatures from another world coming secretly to visit Earth—their problems, especially how they’d disguise themselves.
“Maybe they’d watch from a distance,” Gene said. “Television, supersensitive microphones.”
“Or clairvoyance, clairaudience,” Es chimed, being rather keen on para-psychology.
“But to really mingle with people…” Helen murmured. She was stretched on her back in white bra and trunks, looking deep into the ranks of marching clouds. Her olive skin tanned to an odd hue that went bewitchingly with her hair. With a sudden and frightening poignancy I was aware of the catlike perfection of her slim body.
“The creature might have some sort of elaborate plastic disguise,” Gene began doubtfully.
“It might have a human form to begin with,” I ventured. “You know, the idea that Earth folk are decayed interstellar colonists.”
“It might take possession of some person here,” Louis cut in. “Insinuate its mind or even itself into the human being.”
“Or it might grow itself a new body,” Helen murmured sleepily.
That was one of the half dozen positive statements she ever made.
Then we got to talking about the motives of such an alien being. Whether it would try to destroy men, or look on us as cattle, or study us, or amuse itself with us, or what not.
Here Helen joined in again, distant-eyed but smiling. “I know you’ve all laughed at the comic-book idea of some Martian monster lusting after beautiful white women. But has it ever occurred to you that a creature from outside might simply and honestly fall in love with you?”
That was another of Helen’s rare positive statements.
The idea was engaging and we tried to get Helen to expand it, but she wouldn’t. In fact, she was rather silent the rest of that day.
As the summer began to mount toward its crests of heat and growth, the mystery of Helen began to possess us more often—that, and a certain anxiety about her.
There was a feeling in the air, the sort of uneasiness that cats and dogs get when they are about to lose their owner.
Without exactly knowing it, without a definite word being said, we were afraid we might lose Helen.
Partly it was Helen’s own behavior. For once she showed a kind of restlessness, or rather preoccupation. At Benny’s she no longer took such an interest in “people.”
She seemed to be trying to solve some difficult personal problem, nerve herself to make some big decision.
Once she looked at us and said, “You know, I like you kids terribly.” Said it the way a person says it when he knows he may have to lose what he likes.
And then there was the business of the Stranger.
Helen had been talking quite a bit with a strange man, not at
Benny’s, but walking in the streets, which was unusual. We didn’t know who the Stranger was. We hadn’t actually seen him face to face. Just heard about him from Benny and glimpsed him once or twice. Yet he worried us.
Understand, our happiness went on, yet faintly veiling it was this new and ominous mist.
Then one night the mist took definite shape. It happened on an occasion of celebration. After a few days during which we’d sensed they’d been quarreling, Es and Gene had suddenly announced that they were getting married. On an immediate impulse we’d all gone to the Blue Moon.
We were having the third round of drinks, and kidding Es because she didn’t seem very enthusiastic, almost a bit grumpy—when he came in.
Even before he looked our way, before he drifted up to our table, we knew that this was the Stranger.
He was a rather slender man, fair haired like Helen. Otherwise he didn’t look like her, yet there was a sense of kinship. Perhaps it lay in his poise, his wholly casual manner.
As he came up, I could feel myself and the others getting tense, like dogs at the approach of the unknown.
The Stranger stopped by our table and stood looking at Helen as if he knew her. The four of us realized more than ever that we wanted Helen to be ours alone (and especially mine), that we hated to think of her having close ties with anyone else.
What got especially under my skin was the suggestion that there was some kinship between the Stranger and Helen, that behind his proud, remote-eyed face, he was talking to her with his mind.
Gene apparently took the Stranger for one of those unpleasant fellows who strut around bars looking for trouble—and proceeded to act as if he were one of those same fellows himself. He screwed his delicate features into a cheap frown and stood up as tall as he could, which wasn’t much. Such tough-guy behavior, always a sy
mptom of frustration and doubts of masculinity, had been foreign to Gene for some months. I felt a pulse of sadness—and almost winced when Gene opened the side of his mouth and began, “Now look here, Joe—”
But Helen laid her hand on his arm. She looked calmly at the
Stranger for a few more moments and then she said, “I won’t talk to you that way. You must speak English.”
If the Stranger was surprised, he didn’t show it. He smiled and said softly, with a faint foreign accent, “The ship sails at midnight, Helen.”
I got a queer feeling, for our city is two hundred miles from anything you’d call navigable waters.
For a moment I felt what you might call supernatural fear. The bar so tawdry and dim, the line of hunched neurotic shoulders, the plump dice-girl at one end and the tiny writhing television screen at the other. And against that background, Helen and the Stranger, light-haired, olive-skinned, with proud feline features, facing each other like duelists, on guard, opposed, yet sharing some secret knowledge. Like two aristocrats come to a dive to settle a quarrel-like that, and something more. As I say, it frightened me.
“Are you coming, Helen?” the Stranger asked.
And now I was really frightened. It was as if I’d realized for the first time just how terribly much Helen meant to all of us, and to me especially. Not just the loss of her, but the loss of things in me that only she could call into being. I could see the same fear in the faces of the others. A lost look in Gene’s eyes behind the fake gangster frown. Louis’ fingers relaxing from his glass and his chunky head turning toward the Stranger, slowly, with empty gaze, like the turret-guns of a battleship. Es starting to stub out her cigarette and then hesitating, her eyes on Helen—although in Es’s case I felt there was another emotion besides fear.
“Coming?” Helen echoed, like someone in a dream.
The Stranger waited. Helen’s reply had twisted the tension tighter. Now Es did stub out her cigarette with awkward haste, then quickly drew back her hand. I felt suddenly that this had been bound to happen, that Helen must have had her Me, her real life, before we had known her, and that the Stranger was part of it; that she had come to us mysteriously and now would leave us as mysteriously. Yes, I felt all of that, although in view of what had happened between Helen and me, I knew I shouldn’t have.
“Have you considered everything?” the Stranger asked finally.
“Yes,” Helen replied.
“You know that after tonight there’ll be no going back,” he continued as softly as ever. “You know that you’ll be marooned here forever, that you’ll have to spend the rest of your life among…” (he looked around at us as if searching for a word) “… among barbarians.”
Again Helen laid her hand on Gene’s arm, although her glance never left the Stranger’s face.
“What is the attraction, Helen?” the Stranger went on. “Have you really tried to analyze it? I know it might be fun for a month, or a year, or even five years. A kind of game, a renewal of youth. But when it’s over and you’re tired of the game, when you realize that you’re alone, completely alone, and that there’s no going back ever— Have you thought of that?”
“Yes, I have thought of all that,” Helen said, as quietly as the Stranger, but with a tremendous finality. “I won’t try to explain it to you, because with all your wisdom and cleverness I don’t think you’d quite understand. And I know I’m breaking promises—and more than promises. But I’m not going back. I’m here with my friends, my true and equal friends, and I’m not going back.”
And then it came, and I could tell it came to all of us—a great big lift, like a surge of silent music or a glow of invisible light. Helen had at last declared herself. After the faint equivocations and reservations of the spring and summer, she had put herself squarely on our side. We each of us knew that what she had said she meant wholly and forever. She was ours, ours more completely than ever before. Our quasi-goddess, our inspiration, our key to a widening future; the one who always understood, who could open doors in our imaginations and feelings that would otherwise have remained forever shut. She was our Helen now, ours and (as my mind persisted in adding exultingly) especially mine.
And we? We were the Gang again, happy, poised, wise as Heaven and clever as Hell, out to celebrate, having fun with whatever came along.
The whole scene had changed. The frightening aura around the Stranger had vanished completely. He was just another of those hundreds of odd people whom we met when we were with Helen.
He acted almost as if he were conscious of it. He smiled and said quickly, “Very well. I had a feeling you’d decide this way.” He started to move off. Then, “Oh, by the way, Helen—”
“Yes?”
“The others wanted me to say goodbye to you for them.”
“Tell them the same and the best of luck.”
The Stranger nodded and again started to turn away, when Helen added, “And you?”
The Stranger looked back.
“I’ll be seeing you once more before midnight,” he said lightly, and almost the next moment, it seemed, was out the door.
We all chuckled. I don’t know why. Partly from relief, I suppose, and partly—God help us!—hi triumph over the Stranger. One thing I’m sure of: three (and maybe even four) of us felt for a moment happier and more secure in our relationship to Helen than we ever had before. It was the peak. We were together. The Stranger had been vanquished, and all the queer unspoken threats he had brought with him. Helen had declared herself. The future stood open before us, full of creation and achievement, with Helen ready to lead us into it. For a moment everything was perfect. We were mankind, vibrantly alive, triumphantly progressing.
It was, as I say, perfect.
And only human beings know how to wreck perfection.
Only human beings are so vain, so greedy, each wanting everything for himself alone.
It was Gene who did it. Gene who couldn’t stand so much happiness and who had to destroy it, from what self-fear, what Puritanical self-torment, what death-wish I don’t know.
It was Gene, but it might have been any of us.
His face was flushed. He was smiling, grinning rather, in what I now realize was an oafish and over-bearing complacency. He put his hand on Helen’s arm in a way none of us had ever touched Helen before, and said, “That was great, dear.”
It wasn’t so much what he said as the naked possessiveness of the gesture. It was surely that gesture of ownership that made Es explode, that started her talking in a voice terribly bitter, but so low it was some moments before the rest of us realized what she was getting at.
When we did we were thunderstruck.
She was accusing Helen of having stolen Gene’s love.
It’s hard to make anyone understand the shock we felt. As if someone had accused a goddess of abominations.
Es lit another cigarette with shaking fingers, and finished up.
“I don’t want your pity, Helen. I don’t want Gene married off to me for the sake of appearances, like some half-discarded mistress. I like you, Helen, but not enough to let you take Gene away from me and then toss him back—or half toss him back. No, I draw the line at that.”
And she stopped as if her emotions had choked her.
As I said, the rest of us were thunderstruck. But not Gene. His face got redder still. He slugged down the rest of his drink and looked around at us, obviously getting ready to explode in turn.
Helen had listened to Es with a half smile and an unhappy half frown, shaking her head from time to time. Now she shot Gene a warning, imploring glance, but he disregarded it.
“No, Helen,” he said, “Es is right. I’m glad she spoke. It was a mistake for us ever to hide our feelings. It would have been a ten times worse mistake if I’d kept that crazy promise I made you to marry Es. You go too much by pity, Helen, and pity’s no use in managing an affair like this. I don’t want to hurt Es, but she’d better know right now that it’s another marriage we’re annou
ncing tonight.”
I sat there speechless. I just couldn’t realize that that drunken, red-faced poppinjay was claiming that Helen was his girl, his wife to be.
Es didn’t look at him. “You cheap little beast,” she whispered.
Gene went white at that, but he kept on smiling.
“Es may not forgive me for this,” he said harshly, “but I don’t think it’s me she’s jealous of. What gets under her skin is not so much losing me to Helen as losing Helen to me.”
Then I could find words.
But Louis was ahead of me.
He put his hand firmly on Gene’s shoulder.
“You’re drunk, Gene,” he said, “and you’re talking like a drunken fool. Helen’s my girl.”
They started up, both of them, Louis’s hand still on Gene’s shoulder.
Then, instead of hitting each other, they looked at me.
Because I had risen too.
“But…” I began, and faltered.
Without my saying it, they knew.
Louis’s hand dropped away from Gene.
All of us looked at Helen. A cold, terribly hurt, horribly disgusted look.
Helen blushed and looked down. Only much later did I realize it was related to the look she’d given the four of us that first night at Benny’s.
“… but I fell in love with all of you,” she said softly.
Then we did speak, or rather Gene spoke for us. I hate to admit it, but at the time I felt a hot throb of pleasure at all the unforgivable things he called Helen. I wanted to see the lash laid on, the stones thud.
Finally he called her some names that were a little worse.
Then Helen did the only impulsive thing I ever knew her to do.
She slapped Gene’s face. Once. Hard.
There are only two courses a person can take when he’s been rebuked by a goddess, even a fallen goddess. He can grovel and beg forgiveness. Or he can turn apostate and devil-worshipper.
Gene did the latter.
He walked out of the Blue Moon, blundering like a blind drunk.
That broke up the party, and Gus and the other bartender, who’d been about to interfere, returned relievedly to their jobs.
