Should you never have heard her voice, the meaning of music has been denied you. Have you not enjoyed her laughter? Then your life remains unrealized.
Is it possible that exaggeration his crept into this account? No. That is not possible. All this fits in with the cold appraisal of men like Sam Pinta, Cyril Colbert, Willy Whitecastle, George Goshen, Roy Ronsard himself — and that of a hundred men who had gazed on her in amazement and delight since she came to town. All these men are of sound judgment in this field. And actually she was prettier than they admitted.
Too, Eva Ellery was but one of many. There was Jeannie who brought a sort of pleasant insanity to all who met her. Roberta who was a scarlet dream. Helen—high-voltage sunshine. Margaret—the divine clown. And it was high adventure just to meet Hildegarde. A man could go blind from looking at her.
“I can't understand how there can be so many beautiful young women in town this year,” said Roy. “It makes the whole world worthwhile. Can you let me have fifty dollars, Willy? I'm going to see Eva Ellery. When I first met her I thought that she was a hallucination. She's real enough, though. Do you know her?”
“Yes. A most remarkable young woman. She has a small daughter named Angela who really stops the clock. Roy, I have just twenty dollars left in the world and I'll split it with you. As you know, I'm going under, too. I don't know what I'll do after they take my business away from me. It's great to be alive, Roy.”
“Wonderful. I hate not having money to spend on Eva, but she's never demanding in that. In fact she's lent me money to smooth out things pertinent to the termination of my business. She's one of the most astute businesswomen I ever knew and has been able to persuade my creditors to go a little easy on me. I won't get out with my shirt. But, as she says, I may get out with my skin.”
There was a beautiful, cold, mean fog, and one remembered that there was a glorious sun (not seen for many days now) somewhere behind it. The world rang with cracked melody and everybody was in love with life. Everybody except Peggy Ronsard and wives like her who did not understand the higher things. Peggy had now become like a fog with no sun anywhere behind it. Roy realized, as he came home to her for a moment, that she was very drab.
“Well?” Peggy asked with undertones in her voice. Her voice did not have overtones like that of Eva. Only undertones.
“Well what? My—uh—love?” Roy asked.
“The business—what's the latest on it today? What have you come up with?”
“Oh, the business. I didn't bother to go by today. I guess it's lost.”
“You are going to lose it without a fight? You used not to be like that. Two weeks ago your auditing firm said that you had all sorts of unrealized assets and that you'd come out of this easily.”
“And two weeks later my auditing firm is also taking bankruptcy. Everybody's doing it now.”
“There wasn't anything wrong with that auditing firm till that Roberta woman joined it. And there wasn't anything wrong with your company till you started to listen to that Eva creature.”
“Is she not beautiful, Peggy?”
Peggy made a noise Roy understood as assent, but he had not been understanding his wife well lately.
“And there's another thing,” said Peggy dangerously. “You used to have a lot of the old goat in you and that's gone. A wife misses things like that. And your wolfish friends have all changed. Sam Pinta used to climb all over me like I was a trellis — and I couldn't sit down without Willy Whitecastle being on my lap. And Judy Pinta says that Sam has changed so much at home that life just isn't worth living anymore. You all used to be such loving men. What's happened to you?”
“Ah — I believe that our minds are now on a higher plane.”
“You didn't go for that higher plane jazz till that Eva woman came along. And that double-damned Roberta! But she does have two lovely little girls, I'll admit. And that Margaret, she's the one that's got Cyril Colbert and George Goshen where they're pushovers for anything now. She does have a beautiful daughter, though.”
“Have you noticed how many really beautiful women there are in town lately, Peggy?”
“Roy, I hope those aliens get every damned cucumber out of that patch! The monsters are bound to grab all the pretty women first. I hope they're a bunch of sadist alligators and do everything that the law disallows to those doll babies.”
“Peggy, I believe that the aliens (and we are told that they are already among us) will be a little more sophisticated than popular ideas anticipate.”
“I hope they're a bunch of Jack the Rippers. I believe I could go for Jack today. He'd certainly be a healthy contrast to what presently obtains.”
Peggy had put her tongue on the crux. For the beautiful young women, who seemed to be abundant in town that springtime, had an odd effect on the men who came under their influence. The goats among the men had become lambs and the wolves had turned into puppies. Jeannie was of such a striking appearance as to make a man almost cry out. But the turmoil that she raised in her gentlemen friends was of a cold sort, for all that the white flames seemed to leap up. She was Artemis herself and the men worshipped her on the higher plane. She was wonderful to look at and to talk to. But who would be so boorish as to touch?
The effect of Eva was similar — and of Roberta and of Helen (who had three little daughters as like her as three golden apples) and of Margaret and of Hildegarde. How could a man not ascend to the higher plane when such wonderful and awesome creatures as these abounded?
But the damage was done when the men carried this higher plane business home to their comparatively colorless wives. The men were no longer the ever-loving husbands that they should have been. The most intimate relations ceased to take place. If continued long this could have an effect on the statistics.
But daily affairs sometimes crept into the conversations of even those men who had ascended to the higher plane. “I was wondering,” Roy asked George Goshen, “when our businesses are all gone, who do they go to?”
“Many of us have wondered that,” George told him. “They all seem to devolve upon anonymous recipients or upon corporations without apparent personnel. But somebody is gathering in the companies. One theory is that the aliens are doing it.”
“The aliens are among us, the authorities say, but nobody has seen them. They publish their program and their progress through intermediaries who honestly do not know the original effecters. The aliens still say that they will make obsolete one half of mankind and make servants of the other half.”
“Jeannie says — did you ever see her pretty little daughters? — that we see the aliens every day and do not recognize them for what they are. She says that likely the invasion of the aliens will have obtained its objective before we realize what that is. What's the news from the rest of the country and the world?”
“The same. All business is going to pot and everybody is happy. On paper, things were never more healthy. There's a lot of new backing from somewhere and all the businesses thrive as soon as they have shuffled off their old owners. The new owners — and nobody can find out who or what they are — must be happy with the way things are going. Still, I do not believe that anybody could be happier or more contented than I am. Can you let me have fifty cents, George? I just remembered that I haven't eaten today. Peggy has gone to work for what used to be my company, but she's a little slow to give me proper spending money. Come to think of it, Peggy has been acting peculiar lately.”
“I have only forty cents left in the world, Roy. Take the quarter. My wife has gone to work also, but I guess there will never be any work for us. Did you think we'd ever live to see the NO MALES WANTED signs on every hiring establishment in the country? Oh, well — if you're happy nothing else matters.”
“George, there's a humorous note that creeps into much of the world news lately. It seems that ours is not the only city with an unusual number of pretty young ladies this season. They've been reported in Teheran and Lvov, in Madras and Lima and Boston. Everywhere.�
��
“No! Pretty girls in Boston? You're kidding. This has certainly been an upside-down year when things like that can happen. But did you ever see a more beautiful summertime, Roy?”
“On my life I never did.”
The summer had been murky and the sun had not been seen for many months. But it was a beautiful murk. And when one is attuned to inner beauty the outer aspect of things does not matter. The main thing was that everyone was happy.
Oh, there were small misunderstandings. There was a wife — this was reported as happening in Cincinnati, but it may have happened in other places also — who one evening reached out and touched her husband's hand in a form of outmoded affection. Naturally the man withdrew his hand rudely, for it was clear that the wife had not yet ascended to his higher plane. In the morning he went away and did not return.
Many men were drifting away from their homes in those days. Most men, actually. However that old cohabitational arrangement had grown into being, it no longer had anything to recommend it. When one has consorted with the light itself, what can he find in a tallow candle?
Most of the men became destitute wanderers and loafers. They were happy with their inner illumination. Every morning the dead ones would be shoveled up by the women on the disposal trucks and carted away. And every one of those men died happy. That's what made it so nice. To anyone who had entered higher understanding death was only an interlude.
It was a beautiful autumn day. Roy Ronsard and Sam Pinta had just completed their fruitless rounds of what used to be called garbage cans but now had more elegant names. They were still hungry, but happily so for it was truly a beautiful autumn. The snow had come early, it is true, and great numbers of men had perished from it. But if one had a happy life, it was not a requisite for it to be a long life. Men lived little in the world now, dwelling mostly in thought. But sometimes they still talked to each other.
“It says here—” Roy Ronsard began to read a piece of old newspaper that had been used for wrapping bones — “that Professor Eimer, just before he died of malnutrition, gave as his opinion that the aliens among us cannot stand sunlight. He believed it was for this reason that they altered our atmosphere and made ours a gloomy world. Do you believe that, Sam?”
“Hardly. How could anybody call ours a gloomy world? I believe that we are well rid of that damned sun.”
“And it says that he believed that one of the weapons of the aliens was their intruding into men a general feeling of euphor— the rest of the paper is torn off.”
“Roy, I saw Margaret today. From a distance, of course. Naturally I could not approach such an incandescent creature in my present condition of poverty. But, Roy, do you realize how much we owe to those pretty girls? I really believe that we would have known nothing of the higher plane or the inner light if it had not been for them. How could they have been so pretty?”
“Sam, there is one thing about them that always puzzled me.”
“Everything about them puzzled me. What do you mean?”
“All of them have daughters, Sam. And none of them have husbands. Why did none of them have husbands? Or sons?”
“Never thought of it. It's been a glorious year, Roy. My only regret is that I will not live to see the winter that will surely be the climax to this radiant autumn. We have had so much — we cannot expect to have everything. Do you not just love deep snow over you?”
“It's like the blanket of heaven, Sam. When the last of us is gone — and it won't be too long now — do you think the girls will remember how much light they brought into our lives?”
The Pani Planet
I
“Is it broke?” asked Ieska the Pani story-teller too eagerly. “Is what broke?” Colonel Zornig turned angrily. “How did you get in here? We can't allow you here at such a time. Our guards are posted.”
“Is fun of ours to evade your guards,” said Ieska. “Is a hobble of ours. The man mechanism, is it broke?”
“Our companion and commander is dead,” said Colonel Zornig. “Do you understand the word?”
“Sure. It is broke like I said. Haven't you parts to fix it?”
“There are no parts that would avail. One dies completely.”
“Bad design. Give it to me. Maybe I can fix it.”
“No. Your presence here at this time becomes grotesque, Ieska. I've even ordered the other men away. I wish to be alone with my friend encased there. I ask you once more to leave, or I'll have you put out in a pretty rough manner.”
“What you do with it now if you don't try to fix it?”
“We will bury our commander General Raddle with simple rites and a great sense of loss.”
“Bust the verb, Buster! What is bury?”
“Must I explain to a bug? We have placed our dead companion in this rough box, and will set it in the ground. And we will cover him up with the plain dirt of this planet and so leave him forever.”
“And will that fix it? How?”
“Of course it will not fix it—him—General Raddle. He is dead. Clear out now, Ieska. I'm feeling pretty pent up, what with the death of my commander. I've a mean streak in me, and it's due to come out.”
“Give the thing to me if you're just going to hole it in the ground. If I can't fix it maybe I can use some of the parts for something else. I always did want to see how one of you things was put together.”
“I'll try once more to explain it to you, Ieska. This is our companion who has died. We cannot give him to you. We must bury him in the ground, and we feel great sorrow at his death. Do you understand sorrow?”
“I understand selfish, man Colonel. You are like the dog in the mangle in your own proverb. The thing is broke and you cannot fix it. You will hole it in the ground to no purpose, but you will not give it to me. I could have fun fooling around with one of your broke things. I think I know something I could make out of it. We will see what your selfish does for you!”
And Ieska the Pani story-teller and interpreter left in a mood that was perhaps anger.
There were very contradictory accounts of the Pani people and of Pani planet. The place would seem an unusual find, but it had been visited before by both humans and others, and had not been permanently claimed. The promise of it had never been fulfilled. And whatever explanation you might make of the Pani people might not be valid in the next moment. They were like quicksilver, the way they were stupid, and then they were astute. They had done nothing with their world. They were the most primitive people imaginable.
Were the Pani really intelligent creatures? It was still debated, but opinion had about decided that they were. After all, there was Ieska. In his own way he was surely intelligent, and he owned himself the most stupid of the Pani. Doctor Mobley had once asked how he happened to become the Pani story-teller and interpreter.
“Was nothing else for me to be,” said Ieska. “I am too pot-bellied to be a tree-climber, too short-winded to be a hunter, too weak to be a porter, too untalented to be a mime, too stupid to be a farmer. What other trades are there? Believe me, men things, I feel shame of my low position. But what can I do?”
“Did you not find our language difficult?” Doctor Mobley had asked him. “We find yours impossible.”
“No. Yours is little child-people talk. Nothing but sounds to it. Anybody can make sounds. You should know the way some things talk: odor talk, skin temperature code talk, magnetic fluctuation talk, light bear stuff talk, mental image stuff talk. Yours is easiest of all. Nothing but noise. Anybody can make noise.”
Yes, Ieska was intelligent in his way, and he was a Pani. But the Pani had not progressed beyond the stone age—or the volcanic glass age—in their artifacts. Damn the Pani creatures. A good man was dead, and who thinks about bugs or beasts at such a time? General Raddle was dead, and no expedition had ever had a finer leader.
He had been, for one thing, a master strategist. The test of a great strategist is that his last move shall be the correct one. Sometimes it seemed that every move tha
t General Raddle made was the wrong one. But his last move in a campaign was always the right one, and it made all the previous moves not only right but inevitable. He had a devious mind that went directly to the point—but a point never understood till later. How he had pulled them out, time and again, when everything seemed lost!
Who would lead them now? Colonel Zornig would try. The colonel was a good man but now he had a sinking feeling that, in dealing with the baffling Pani people, every move he made might be the right one until he came to that final move. But what if that last move were wrong and made every previous move wrong? His doubts fed his fury when Ieska broke in on his brooding again—for the guards could never keep that creature out.
“What if we steal it out of the hole in the ground, man Colonel?” Ieska asked suddenly. “What if we are able to fix it after all? I know it can be done, for your own man mechanisms have done it. You have the legend of Zombies who were broke and fixed again. Where is smoke is fires. Your say-word, not mine.”
“Zombies, dammit! Zombies are only a superstition, Ieska,” said Colonel Zornig with more patience than he felt. “Intelligent people do not believe in such. Do you understand superstition, Ieska?”
“More than that, I understand superstition about superstitions. The one who says he is not superstitious, Colonel, he is your patsy. Wait and be educated, man Colonel.”
They buried General Raddle. They gathered around the new grave, Colonel Zornig, Major-Doctor Mobley, Majors Wister, Mountain, Crowell, Crocker, Dutton: all the good friends. They spoke good words about the dead general, and they meant them. They laid him there in his grave, and they put an all-hours guard around it.
Colonel Zornig was in command, and he handled things rapidly and well. This was not a routine assignment, whatever it seemed. The men of the previous expedition had all died. There were traces of other expeditions by other species. But there had been no permanent settlement and no maintained claim. Something had the habit of happening to visitors to Pani planet.
The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty Page 47
