"Very beautiful. But I believe that you are facing a great disappointment, perhaps heartbreak, perhaps, who knows, even madness, much as I hate to use that unscientific term."
"I'll take the chance," Tom said. "I know I sound nuts, but where would we be if it weren't for nuts? Look at the man who invented the wheel, at Columbus, at James Watt, at the Wright brothers, at Pasteur, you name them."
"You can scarcely compare these pioneers of science with their passion for truth with you and your desire to marry a woman. But, as I have observed, she is strikingly beautiful. Still, that makes me exceedingly cautious. Why isn't she married? What's wrong with her?"
"For all I know, she may have been married a dozen times!" Tom said. "The point is, she isn't now! Maybe she's disappointed and she's sworn to wait until the right man comes along. Maybe …"
"There's no maybe about it, you're neurotic," Traurig said. "But I actually believe that it would be more dangerous for you not to go to Wednesday than it would be to go."
"Then you'll say yes!" Tom said, grabbing the doctor's hand and shaking it.
"Perhaps. I have some doubts."
The doctor had a faraway look. Tom laughed and released the hand and slapped the doctor on the shoulder. "Admit it! You were really struck by her! You'd have to be dead not to!"
"She's all right," the doctor said. "But you must think this over. If you do go there and she turns you down, you might go off the deep end, much as I hate to use such a poetical term."
"No, I won't. I wouldn't be a bit the worse off. Better off, in fact. I'll at least get to see her in the flesh."
Spring and summer zipped by. Then, a morning he would never forget, the letter of acceptance. With it, instructions on how to get to Wednesday. These were simple enough. He was to make sure that the technicians came to his stoner sometime during the day and readjusted the timer within the base. He could not figure out why he could not just stay out of the stoner and let Wednesday catch up to him, but by now he was past trying to fathom the bureaucratic mind.
He did not intend to tell anyone at the house, mainly because of Mabel. But Mabel found out from someone at the studio. She wept when she saw him at supper time, and she ran upstairs to her room. He felt badly, but he did not follow to console her.
That evening, his heart beating hard, he opened the door to his stoner. The others had found out by then; he had been unable to keep the business to himself. Actually, he was glad that he had told them. They seemed happy for him, and they brought in drinks and had many rounds of toasts. Finally, Mabel came downstairs, wiping her eyes, and she said she wished him luck, too. She had known that he was not really in love with her. But she did wish someone would fall in love with her just by looking inside her stoner.
When she found out that he had gone to see Doctor Traurig, she said, "He's a very influential man. Sol Voremwolf had him for his analyst. He says he's even got influence on other days. He edits the Psyche Crosscurrents, you know, one of the few periodicals read by other people."
Other, of course, meant those who lived in Wednesdays through Mondays.
Tom said he was glad he had gotten Traurig. Perhaps he had used his influence to get the Wednesday authorities to push through his request so swiftly. The walls between the worlds were seldom broken, but it was suspected that the very influential did it when they pleased.
Now, quivering, he stood before Jennie's cylinder again. The last time, he thought, that I'll see her stonered. Next time, she'll be warm, colorful, touchable flesh.
"Ave atque vale!" he said aloud. The others cheered. Mabel said, "How corny!" They thought he was addressing them, and perhaps he had included them.
He stepped inside the cylinder, closed the door, and pressed the button. He would keep his eyes open, so that …
And today was Wednesday. Though the view was exactly the same, it was like being on Mars.
He pushed open the door and stepped out. The seven people had faces he knew and names he had read on their plates. But he did not know them.
He started to say hello, and then he stopped.
Jennie Marlowe's cylinder was gone.
He seized the nearest man by the arm.
"Where's Jennie Marlowe?"
"Let go. You're hurting me. She's gone. To Tuesday."
"Tuesday! Tuesday?"
"Sure. She'd been trying to get out of here for a long time. She had something about this day being unlucky for her. She was unhappy, that's for sure. Just two days ago, she said her application had finally been accepted. Apparently, some Tuesday psycher had used his influence. He came down and saw her in her stoner and that was it, brother."
The walls and the people and the stoners seemed to be distorted. Time was bending itself this way and that. He wasn't in Wednesday; he wasn't in Tuesday. He wasn't in any day. He was stuck inside himself at some crazy date that should never have existed.
"She can't do that!"
"Oh, no! She just did that!"
"But … you can't transfer more than once!"
"That's her problem."
It was his, too.
"I should never have brought him down to look at her!" Tom said. "The swine! The unethical swine!"
Tom Pym stood there for a long time, and then he went into the kitchen. It was the same environment, if you discounted the people. Later, he went to the studio and got a part in a situation play which was, really, just like all those in Tuesday. He watched the newscaster that night. The President of the U.S.A. had a different name and face, but the words of his speech could have been those of Tuesday's President. He was introduced to a secretary of a producer; her name wasn't Mabel, but it might as well have been.
The difference here was that Jennie was gone, and oh, what a world of difference it made to him.
The End
© 1971 by Philip José Farmer. Renewed 1999 by the author. Reprinted with permission of the agent. First publication, New Dimensions 1, edited by Robert Silverberg Doubleday, 1971.
Casablanca
Thomas M. Disch
In the morning the man with the red fez always brought them coffee and toast on a tray. He would ask them how it goes, and Mrs. Richmond, who had some French, would say it goes well. The hotel always served the same kind of jam, plum jam. That eventually became so tiresome that Mrs. Richmond went out and bought their own jar of strawberry jam, but in a little while that was just as tiresome as the plum jam. Then they alternated, having plum jam one day, and strawberry jam the next. They wouldn't have taken their breakfasts in the hotel at all, except for the money it saved.
When, on the morning of their second Wednesday at the Belmonte, they came down to the lobby, there was no mail for them at the desk. "You can't really expect them to think of us here," Mrs. Richmond said in a piqued tone, for it had been her expectation.
"I suppose not," Fred agreed.
"I think I'm sick again. It was that funny stew we had last night. Didn't I tell you? Why don't you go out and get the newspaper this morning?"
So Fred went, by himself, to the newsstand on the corner. It had neither the Times nor the Tribune. There weren't even the usual papers from London. Fred went to the magazine store nearby the Marhaba, the big luxury hotel. On the way someone tried to sell him a gold watch. It seemed to Fred that everyone in Morocco was trying to sell gold watches.
The magazine store still had copies of the Times from last week. Fred had read those papers already. "Where is today's Times?" he asked loudly, in English.
The middle-aged man behind the counter shook his head sadly, either because he didn't understand Fred's question or because he didn't know the answer. He asked Fred how it goes.
"Byen," said Fred, without conviction, "byen."
The local French newspaper, La Vigie Marocaine, had black, portentous headlines, which Fred could not decipher. Fred spoke "four languages: English, Irish, Scottish, and American." With only those languages, he insisted, one could be understood anywhere in the free world.
At ten o'clock, Bulova watch time, Fred found himself, as though by chance, outside his favorite ice-cream parlor. Usually, when he was with his wife, he wasn't able to indulge his sweet tooth, because Mrs. Richmond, who had a delicate stomach, distrusted Moroccan dairy products, unless boiled.
The waiter smiled and said, "Good morning, Mister Richmon." Foreigners were never able to pronounce his name right for some reason.
Fred said, "Good morning."
"How are you?"
"I'm just fine, thank you."
"Good, good," the waiter said. Nevertheless, he looked saddened. He seemed to want to say something to Fred, but his English was very limited.
It was amazing, to Fred, that he had had to come halfway around the world to discover the best damned ice-cream sundaes he'd ever tasted. Instead of going to bars, the young men of the town went to ice-cream parlors, like this, just as they had in Fred's youth, in Iowa, during Prohibition. It had something to do, here in Casablanca, with the Moslem religion.
A ragged shoeshine boy came in and asked to shine Fred's shoes, which were very well shined already. Fred looked out the plate-glass window to the travel agency across the street. The boy hissed monsieur, monsieur, until Fred would have been happy to kick him. The wisest policy was to ignore the beggars. They went away quicker if you just didn't look at them. The travel agency displayed a poster showing a pretty young blonde, rather like Doris Day, in a cowboy costume. It was a poster for Pan American airlines.
At last the shoeshine boy went away. Fred's face was flushed with stifled anger. His sparse white hair made the redness of the flesh seem all the brighter, like a winter sunset.
A grown man came into the ice-cream parlor with a bundle of newspapers, French newspapers. Despite his lack of French, Fred could understand the headlines. He bought a copy for twenty francs and went back to the hotel, leaving half the sundae uneaten.
The minute he was in the door, Mrs. Richmond cried out, "Isn't it terrible?" She had a copy of the paper already spread out on the bed. "It doesn't say anything about Cleveland."
Cleveland was where Nan, the Richmonds' married daughter, lived. There was no point in wondering about their own home. It was in Florida, within fifty miles of the Cape, and they'd always known that if there were a war it would be one of the first places to go.
"The dirty reds!" Fred said, flushing. His wife began to cry. "Goddamn them to hell. What did the newspaper say? How did it start?"
"Do you suppose," Mrs. Richmond asked, "that Billy and Midge could be at Grandma Holt's farm?"
Fred paged through La Vigie Marocaine helplessly, looking for pictures. Except for the big cutout of a mushroom cloud on the front page and a stock picture on the second of the president in a cowboy hat, there were no photos. He tried to read the lead story but it made no sense.
Mrs. Richmond rushed out of the room, crying aloud.
Fred wanted to tear the paper into ribbons. To calm himself he poured a shot from the pint of bourbon he kept in the dresser. Then he went out into the hall and called through the locked door to the W.C.: "Well, I'll bet we knocked hell out of them at least."
This was of no comfort to Mrs. Richmond.
Only the day before, Mrs. Richmond had written two letters—one to her granddaughter Midge, the other to Midge's mother, Nan. The letter to Midge read:
December 2
Dear Mademoiselle Holt,
Well, here we are in romantic Casablanca, where the old and the new come together. There are palm trees growing on the boulevard outside our hotel window and sometimes it seems that we never left Florida at all. In Marrakesh we bought presents for you and Billy, which you should get in time for Christmas if the mails are good. Wouldn't you like to know what's in those packages! But you'll just have to wait till Christmas! You should thank God every day, darling, that you live in America. If you could only see the poor Moroccan children, begging on the streets. They aren't able to go to school, and many of them don't even have shoes or warm clothes. And don't think it doesn't get cold here, even if it is Africa! You and Billy don't know how lucky you are!
On the train ride to Marrakesh we saw the farmers plowing their fields in December. Each plow has one donkey and one camel. That would probably be an interesting fact for you to tell your geography teacher in school.
Casablanca is wonderfully exciting, and I often wish that you and Billy were here to enjoy it with us. Someday, perhaps! Be good—remember it will be Christmas soon.
Your loving Grandmother,
"Grams"
The second letter, to Midge's mother, read as follows:
December 2. Mond. Afternoon
Dear Nan,
There's no use pretending any more with you! You saw it in my first letter—before I even knew my own feelings. Yes, Morocco has been a terrible disappointment. You wouldn't believe some of the things that have happened. For instance, it is almost impossible to mail a package out of this country! I will have to wait till we get to Spain, therefore, to send Billy and Midge their Xmas presents. Better not tell B & M that, however!
Marrakesh was terrible. Fred and I got lost in the native quarter, and we thought we'd never escape! The filth is unbelievable, but if I talk about that it will only make me ill. After our experience on "the wrong side of the tracks," I wouldn't leave our hotel. Fred got very angry, and we took the train back to Casablanca the same night. At least there are decent restaurants in Casablanca. You can get a very satisfactory French-type dinner for about $1.00.
After all this you won't believe me when I tell you that we're going to stay here two more weeks. That's when the next boat leaves for Spain. Two more weeks!!! Fred says, take an airplane, but you know me. And I'll be d——ed if I'll take a trip on the local railroad with all our luggage, which is the only other way.
I've finished the one book I brought along, and now I have nothing to read but newspapers. They are printed up in Paris and have mostly the news from India and Angola, which I find too depressing, and the political news from Europe, which I can't ever keep up with. Who is Chancellor Zucker and what does he have to do with the war in India? I say, if people would just sit down and try to understand each other, most of the world's so-called problems would disappear. Well, that's my opinion, but I have to keep it to myself, or Fred gets an apoplexy. You know Fred! He says, drop a bomb on Red China and to H—— with it! Good old Fred!
I hope you and Dan are both fine and dan-dy, and I hope B & M are coming along in school. We were both excited to hear about Billy's A in geography. Fred says it's due to all the stories he's told Billy about our travels. Maybe he's right for once!
Love and kisses,
"Grams"
Fred had forgotten to mail these two letters yesterday afternoon, and now, after the news in the paper, it didn't seem worthwhile. The Holts, Nan and Dan and Billy and Midge, were all very probably dead.
"It's so strange," Mrs. Richmond observed at lunch at their restaurant. "I can't believe it really happened. Nothing has changed here. You'd think it would make more of a difference."
"Goddamned reds."
"Will you drink the rest of my wine? I'm too upset."
"What do you suppose we should do? Should we try and telephone to Nan?"
"Trans-Atlantic? Wouldn't a telegram do just as well?"
So, after lunch, they went to the telegraph office, which was in the main post office, and filled out a form. The message they finally agreed on was: IS EVERYONE WELL QUESTION WAS CLEVELAND HIT QUESTION RETURN REPLY REQUESTED. It cost eleven dollars to send off, one dollar a word. The post office wouldn't accept a traveler's check, so while Mrs. Richmond waited at the desk, Fred went across the street to the Bank of Morocco to cash it there.
The teller behind the grille looked at Fred's check doubtfully and asked to see his passport. He brought check and passport into an office at the back of the bank. Fred grew more and more peeved as the time wore on and nothing was done. He was accustomed to being treated with respect, at least. The teller
returned with a portly gentleman not much younger than Fred himself. He wore a striped suit with a flower in his buttonhole.
"Are you Mr. Richmon?" the older gentleman asked.
"Of course I am. Look at the picture in my passport."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Richmon, but we are not able to cash this check."
"What do you mean? I've cashed checks here before. Look, I've noted it down: on November 28, forty dollars; on December 1, twenty dollars."
The man shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Richmon, but we are not able to cash these checks."
"I'd like to see the manager."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Richmon, it is not possible for us to cash your checks. Thank you very much." He turned to go.
"I want to see the manager!" Everybody in the bank, the tellers and the other clients, was staring at Fred, who had turned quite red.
"I am the manager," said the man in the striped suit. "Good-bye, Mr. Richmon."
"These are American Express Travelers' Checks. They're good anywhere in the world!"
The manager returned to his office, and the teller began to wait on another customer. Fred returned to the post office.
"We'll have to return here later, darling," he explained to his wife. She didn't ask why, and he didn't want to tell her.
They bought food to bring back to the hotel, since Mrs. Richmond didn't feel up to dressing for dinner.
The manager of the hotel, a thin, nervous man who wore wire-framed spectacles, was waiting at the desk to see them. Wordlessly he presented them a bill for the room.
Fred protested angrily. "We're paid up. We're paid until the twelfth of this month. What are you trying to pull?"
The manager smiled. He had gold teeth. He explained, in imperfect English, that this was the bill.
"Nous sommes payée," Mrs. Richmond explained pleasantly. Then, in a diplomatic whisper to her husband, "Show him the receipt."
The manager examined the receipt. "Non, non, non," he said, shaking his head. He handed Fred, instead of his receipt, the new bill.
"I'll take that receipt back, thank you very much." The manager smiled and backed away from Fred. Fred acted without thinking. He grabbed the manager's wrist and pried the receipt out of his fingers. The manager shouted words at him in Arabic. Fred took the key for their room, 216, off its hook behind the desk. Then he took his wife by the elbow and led her up the stairs. The man with the red fez came running down the stairs to do the manager's bidding.
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 2 Page 55
