Lovers and Other Monsters

by Marvin Kaye (ed)

“As I understand it, starship sailors are always some kind of a nut, because who else would go off for twenty years at a time, even for money, even for any kind of money? All right, you’re a nut. So if you wake me up and won’t come out, won’t talk to me, there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “Now, I can see that even if you weren’t a little loopy to start with, this kind of life would tip you. Maybe you just want a little company? I can understand that. I might even cooperate and say no more about it.

  “On the other hand, maybe you’re trying to get your nerve up for something rough. Don’t know if you can, because they naturally screened you down fine before they gave you the job. But supposing. What happens then?

  “If you kill me, they catch you.

  “If you don’t kill me, then I tell them when we land, and they catch you.

  “I told you about my uncle. Right now his body is in the deep freeze somewhere on the dark side of Mercury, and they’ve got his brain keeping the navigation channels clear off Belem. Maybe you think that’s not so bad. Uncle Henry doesn’t like it a bit. He doesn’t have any company, bad as you that way, I guess, and he says his suction hoses are always sore. Of course he could always louse up on the job, but then they’d just put him some other place that wouldn’t be quite as nice—so what he does is grit his teeth, or I guess you should say his grinders, and get along the best he can. Ninety years! He’s only done six so far. I mean six when I left Earth, whatever that is now. You wouldn’t like that. So why not come out and talk?”

  Five or ten minutes later, after making faces and buttering another roll and flinging it furiously at the wall, where the disposal units sluiced it away, she said, “Damn you, then give me a book to read, anyway.”

  Dandish retreated from her and listened to the whisper of the ship for a few minutes, then activated the mechanisms of the revival crib. He had been a loser long enough to learn when to cut his losses. The girl sprang to her feet as the sides of the crib unfolded. Gentle tentacles reached out for her and deposited her in it, locking the webbing belt around her waist. “You damned fool!” she shouted, but Dandish did not answer. The anesthesia cone descended toward her struggling face, and she screamed, “Wait a minute! I never said I wouldn’t—” but what she never said she wouldn’t, she couldn’t say, because the cone cut her off. In a moment she was asleep. A plastic sack stretched itself around her, molding to her face, her body, her legs, even to the strayed towel around her hair, and the revival crib rolled silently to the freezing room. Dandish did not watch further. He knew what would happen, and besides, the timer reminded him to make his check. Temperatures, normal; fuel consumption, normal; course, normal; freezer room showed one new capsule en route to storage, otherwise normal. Good-bye, Silvie, said Dandish to himself, you were a pretty bad mistake.

  Conceivably later on, with another girl...

  But it had taken nine years for Dandish to wake Silvie, and he did not think he could do it again. He thought of her Uncle Henry running a dredge along the South Atlantic littoral. It could have been him. He had leaped at the opportunity to spend his sentence piloting a starship instead.

  He stared out at the ten million stars below with the optical receptors that were his eyes. He clawed helplessly at space with the radars that gave him touch. He wept a five-million-mile stream of ions behind him from his jets. He thought of the tons of helpless flesh in his hold, the bodies in which he could have delighted, if his own body had not been with Uncle Henry’s on coldside Mercury, the fears on which he could have fed, if he had been able to inspire fear. He would have sobbed, if he had had a voice to sob with.

  Marvin Kaye

  Happy Hour

  An unrepentant daytime drama fan, I have written about them twice before: in the Doubleday Crime Club novel The Soap Opera Slaughters and in my humorous fantasy The Amorous Umbrella. “Happy Hour” my third flirtation with the theme, is set on a world whose sole business is to produce soap operas. It first appeared in the British periodical Fantasy Tales.

  ON THE AFTERNOON that Lionel B. Horace returned home to an empty apartment for the thirty-eighth time, he put on a bright pink shirt, scarlet tie, blood-red leather leisure suit, contact lenses with crimson irises and a carrot-colored toupee. He shoehorned his feet into brick-orange polished pumps with plaid laces and splashed cinnamon essence on his checks, then, facing his bedroom mirror and sticking his tongue out at his fiery reflection, he said, “Mister Horace, you are a short fat ugly wimp, but now at least you are a short fat ugly interesting wimp.”

  As he hurried to the front door, he tried not to glance at the table in the entry alcove, but for the thirty-eighth time the corner of one of his (currently) Hell-hued eyes noticed the crumpled scrap of paper tossed upon the tabletop and for a few seconds he could not move. But it was almost 1800 hours and after some five anxious weeks of waiting for the A. P. to arrange his clearance, Lionel was damned if he’d miss one single mad moment of Happy Hour, so, squeezing his lids shut and twisting the knob hard enough to strangle it, Lionel plunged through the portal with a ragged sigh of relief, slammed the door and waddled into the nearest Flygate, which instantly redistributed him just outside Sound Stage A.

  ❖

  TIME: Thirty-four days earlier.

  PLACE: Sound Stage A.

  An actor rises from an armchair and as he does, his head goes completely out of frame. In the control booth, Vincent Michaels, the associate producer, punches another camera on-line and speaks into his microphone: “Tilt up, Lonny, damn it! Tilt! You’re cutting him off at the neck!”

  In the studio, Lionel B. Horace, C.S.C.,[1] guiltily readjusts till his actor’s face is again centered onscreen. “Retake, Vinnie?” he mutters nervously.

  “No,” says the A. P.’s voice in his headset, “we’ll go with it, but be in my office ten minutes after wrap.”

  ❖

  TIME: Ten minutes after wrap.

  PLACE: The office of the associate producer of Los Angeles Ladies, Number 1 show in the New Earth Network’s daytime ratings.

  Vincent R. Michaels, twenty-year veteran of interstellar soap opera production, is a legend in a business where job security is figured in six-month increments (the interval between supply-transport shuttles to and from Network Nova). Opinions in the TV industry vary as to the secret of his staying power—

  “Fay Farrah-Webber, Los Angeles Ladies’ Executive Producer, commented, ‘If I say Vinnie is remarkably unambitious, it sounds like he’s lazy, which he certainly is not. I mean that he isn’t the least bit interested in climbing the corporate ladder—the network offered him my job and he declined—he’s content to be exactly where he is, coordinating the show.’

  “But an anonymous source voiced a different opinion: ‘Don’t be fooled by Vinnie’s butter-won’t-melt act. He is the man at LA. Ladies and any camera director who ignores one of Vinnie’s “suggestions” will find her or himself riding the next shuttle off Nova.’

  “As for Michaels himself, he claims to be as dedicated to Los Angeles Ladies as a parish priest upholding vows of poverty and chastity. ‘There is no more Los Angeles and no more California,’ he said. ‘It’s my job to help people remember Wonderland.’”[2]

  Thirty-four days before Happy Hour, in Vincent Michaels’ office, Lionel B. Horace vows not to commit any more mistakes.

  “Lonny, how long have you been with us?”

  “Two years, Vinnie.”

  “So you’ve seen a lot of staff turnover.”

  Lionel shifts uncomfortably in his black leatherette chair. “Uh-huh. Every six months.”

  “You’re aware of unemployment statistics in your union. Yet you’ve goofed half a dozen times in the past four days.”

  “Then I’m history?”

  Michaels sighs. “Until this week, you were my best cameraperson. I’d rather not lose you. What’s wrong? Maybe I can fix it.”

  “The shuttle last week... Marie was on it.”

  Even as the A. P.’s eyebrows rise, his finger
s run an arpeggio on his computer keyboard, punching up the recent shuttle’s passenger list. He scans the readout, clears the screen, and smiles encouragingly at his employee. “You’re wrong, Lonny. She’s still here on Network Nova.”

  “She is?” The other leaps to his feet. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, but she wasn’t on the shuttle. Now if you promise to concentrate on your work, I promise I’ll find her for you.”

  Lionel’s face falls. “Even if she is still here, she won’t have anything more to do with me.”

  “Certainly not if you take that attitude. Lonny, you’ve got to think positive. Start feeling good about yourself—”

  “How can I? I’m a short fat ugly wimp.”

  The A. P. punches more keyboard buttons. “Lonny, how old are you?”

  “Forty-four. Why?”

  “Blood type?”

  “B Positive.”

  “Childhood diseases?”

  “The usual. Waxeritis. Trottertoe. A cold.”

  “Any hereditary disease tendencies?”

  “Diabetes. Vinnie, what are you doing?”

  Pressing Return, the A. P. pats Lionel’s shoulder. “My friend, we’re going to work on your CQ.”

  “CQ?”

  “Your confidence quotient. On one condition... everything I’m about to tell you is top secret.”

  Mystified but interested, Lionel nods. And Vincent Michaels unfolds to his increasingly eager ears the forbidden wonders of Happy Hour.

  ❖

  TIME: Thirty-four days later; 17:53 hours.

  PLACE: An antechamber off Sound Stage A.

  Vinnie hadn’t exaggerated. Lionel’s bartender looked like all the blondes he’d ever wanted.

  “Ha-ahh, mah name is Tina,” she drawled in the southern accent that many Network Nova citizens affected in imitation of Lydia Winston, the popular Los Angeles Ladies actress who played Deena Lou Macon, “the southern-fried starlet from Georgia” (in the lingo of the press releases).

  “Ahm youah bahtendah,” Tina said. “Aah’ll see thatch’git anythin’ youah sweet li’l haht desa-ahs.” She flashed white-cornkernel teeth, then pretended to pout. “But if’n I doan’ appeal t’ y’all, y’ c’n pick anothah bahtendah.”

  “N-no, you’ll d-d-do just—jes’ fahn,” he stammered.

  Tina lightly brushed a cupped palm over his bared forearm. “Ah jes’ knew ah’s gonna lahk you!” Dimpling, she regarded his red leather suit. “Y’ shu-ah know how t’dress sexy! Heah—read this.” She handed him a plastic card.

  Lionel glanced at it. “I already know the rules. Vinnie filled me in—”

  “Hush up!” She touched soft fingertips to his lips. “Y’almos’ broke Rule Numbah Three!”

  Participants are strictly sworn to secrecy.

  During Happy Hour, you must not divulge your true shape or identity.

  Even if you think you recognize a disguised friend, never speak anyone’s real name.

  Despite inoculation, you must assume all risks resulting from consorting with offworlders.

  Violators of these rules will be deported.

  While he read, Tina drummed a complicated rhythm on her keyboard and copied the resultant readout for HORACE, LIONEL B., on the input pad of her ChemPak dispensary. The storage tanks “talked” to one another with a merry twinkle of lights, then the chute door rose. Tina reached in, took the waiting ampoule, affixed it to a hypodermic, rippled her fingers along Lionel’s flabby forearm and told him to clench. “Oooh, what a b-i-g fist! Naow this ain’ gonna be more’n a li’l sting....”

  As she plunged in the needle, music blared from Sound Stage A. Lionel turned eagerly toward the sound. “A live band?”

  “That’s th’ Nifty Aliens, but doan’ worry, hon, now you’re inoculated.” She pressed a cotton ball to the puncture for a few seconds, then affixed a bandage to the tiny wound. His head lolled against her breast.

  “Welcome to Happy Hour,” Tina said, without the slightest trace of accent.

  ❖

  TIME: 1800-1815 hours.

  PROGRAM: Orientation.

  Tina guided Lionel B. Horace into one of the small cubicles that ring the shell of Sound Stage A. “Heah’s wheah you become whoevah,” she told him.

  “Can’t I just be myself?”

  “An’ be recognized? Uh-uh. Thass a no-no!”

  “But I won’t know how to behave.”

  “You’ll manage jes’ fa-ahn. Now how should ah make y’ look?”

  “Tall. Slim. Handsome.”

  Tina squeezed him affectionately. “But youah already a chubby-cute li’l sweethaht!”

  Lionel blushed. “Thank you, but I want to look different.”

  She clucked reluctantly. “Okay, hon, it’s you-ah body. Step into th’ transformah.”

  Nervously, Lionel centered himself in the frame. Even though the manufacturers swore that they’d long since worked out all the bugs—an unfortunate phrasing for Holistic Matter Distributors, commonly called Flygates—everyone had heard horror stories of molecular distribution accidents. Commercially, HMDs were solely intended to be used as rapid transportation devices, reassembling objects and persons exactly as transmitted. Cosmetic redistribution was extremely risky, not to mention illegal. This was why Happy Hour participants were sworn to secrecy.

  As the Flygate warmed up, the lights flickered. From Sound Stage A, Lionel heard thrumming music, then all sound, sight and thought stopped and for several seconds he was beyond dead: the disassembled molecular components of his body filled the HMD’s collection chamber... and then the world came back in a bright new wash of harmony and hue.

  Tina held onto his hand till the dizziness passed. Then, swiveling him round so he faced a full-length mirror, she invited him to inspect the new Lionel B. Horace: six feet two inches tall; impeccably layered hair with a curly comma dangling over one eye, a sardonic raked smile and a lean, trim athlete’s figure.

  He laughed delightedly. “That’s really me?”

  “Foah th’ nex’ fiftah-fahv minutes,” Tina nodded. She held the door open and followed Lionel into Sound Stage A.

  His first impressions were confused—a shimmering, sparkling pinwheel of flashing lights and music so loud it redictated his pulse rate, but as he scanned the scene, Lionel began to orient himself. Normally, Sound Stage A was an enormous oval ringed with individual Los Angeles Ladies sets—living rooms, sunporches, restaurants, a swimming pool, a hospital waiting room, etc.—its circular central space devoted to cameras and sound booms. But tonight its curved perimeter was compartmented according to activity: three semicircular cocktail bars (Tina took her place behind the nearest one); several gaming tables devoted to baccarat, roulette, backgammon and 4D Ultima; holographic interplay and elbow readings. Lionel was amazed that so much equipment could be moved in so fast in such a short time for such a short time. He wondered where all the program’s sets had been stored, ditto cameras and sound gear.

  The middle of the floor was filled with dancers twisting and gyrating round a raised central platform where the damnedest dance band Lionel ever set red eyes on was playing. The Nifty Aliens was a three-piece ensemble made up of a purple-and-gold pinstriped pseudomorph who simultaneously played two Kasiopro keyboards, a red-haired shaggy animal on drums, and a stunningly feminine fuchsia-skinned Lilithian who sang with one head and literally doubled on clarinet with the other.

  Lionel scanned the crowd on the dance floor, at the bars and at the gaming tables, his new height permitting him a giant’s-eye view of the scene, but he recognized no one. Disappointed, he took a seat at Tina’s bar, ordered a Larkspur Eradicator and stared at his new persona in the mirror. If I really looked like this, Marie never would have left me. He chugalugged his drink. As the potent liquor polluted his bloodstream, Lionel imagined that the lights flashing over the dance floor were bending into sinuous, sensual beams of color.

  Interesting, he admitted, but when am I going to start having fun?

 
❖

  TIME: 1816-1830 hours.

  PROGRAM: Diversion.

  Lionel ambled over to a vacant stool at the baccarat table. The four players sitting there had chosen predictable disguises: one looked like Orson Welles, the second resembled David Niven, the third was a double for Barry Nelson, while the sweaty fourth carbon-copied Peter Lorre. Lionel shoved a wad of quaint currency towards the banker, who swiftly riffle-counted the packet and clatterclicked a pile of casino chips in front of him. Lionel sorted them into three neat piles.

  “Bank of one million,” the officiary announced.

  “Banco,” Lionel said.

  Looking anxious and angry, Lorre slid cards onto the table.

  “Nine on the table,” said the officiary.

  Lionel turned over the King of Hearts and Jack of Spades.

  The officiary said, “Baccarat.”

  Lionel scooped up his winnings. Just then, something sharp prodded into his back and someone whispered into his ear, “This is a silent air gun. Keep playing till you lose.”

  “Bank of two million.”

  “Banco suivi.” Lionel counted out the appropriate chips, studied the cards Lorre slid him and asked for a third.

  “Six on the table.”

  Lionel turned over a three, a four and a two, collected his winnings, played the four-million bank, won again, accepted the eight-million wager—and at that moment the gun muzzle in his back wavered ever so slightly. Instantly, Lionel swiveled, knocking the weapon askew. A whoosh of pressured air; David Niven crumpled to the floor holding his side; still pivoting, Lionel trapped the trigger arm of Lorre’s henchman in a grip that snapped the man’s fingers and with the same swift motion he hurtled out of his chair, narrowly avoiding the bullet Lorre fired. Lionel hefted his Baretta and squeezed off a round. Lorre clutched at his heart as sudden blood stained his dinner jacket.

  Lionel returned to Tina’s bar. Happy Hour was certainly diverting, he thought, but it still hadn’t lived up to its name.

  ❖

  TIME: 1831-1845 hours.

  PROGRAM: Involvement.