The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  Plenty of time to go a hundred miles.

  If he just watched everything he did and said in the meantime and made no move or remark which a psychiatrist could interpret--

  He loafed and rested.

  And at five o'clock Friday afternoon it was all right, and he shook hands all the way round, and was a free man again. He'd promised to report to Doc Palmer regularly for a few weeks.

  But he was free.

  XVII

  Rain and darkness.

  A cold, unpleasant drizzle that started to find its way through his clothes and down the hack of his neck and into his shoes even as he stepped off the train onto the small wooden platform.

  But the station was there, and on the side of it was the sign that told him the name of the town. Charlie looked at it and grinned, and went into the station. There was a cheerful little coal stove in the middle of the room. He had time to get warmed up before he started. He held out his hands to the stove.

  Over at one side of the room, a grizzled head regarded him curiously through the ticket window. Charlie nodded at the head and the head nodded back.

  "Stavin' here a while, stranger?" the head asked.

  "Not exactly," said Charlie. "Anyway, I hope not. I mean--" Heck, after that whopper he'd told the psychiatrists back at the hospital, he shouldn't have any trouble lying to a ticket agent in a little country town. "I mean, I don't think so:"

  "Ain't no more trains out tonight, mister. Got a place to stay? If not, my wife sometimes takes in boarders for short spells."

  "Thanks," said Charlie. "I've made arrangements." He starred to add "I hope" and then realized that it would lead him further into discussion.

  He glanced at the clock and at his wrist watch and saw that both agreed that it was a quarter to twelve.

  "How big is this town?" he asked. "I don't mean population. I mean, how far out the turnpike is it to the township line? The border of town."

  "'Tain't big. Half a mile maybe, or a little better. You goin' out to th' Tollivers, maybe? They live just past and I heard tell he was sendin' to th' city for a ... nope, you don't look like a hired man."

  "Nope," said Charlie. "I'm not." He glanced at the clock again and started for the door. He said, "Well, be seeing you."

  "You gain' to--"

  But Charlie had already gone out the door and was starting down the street behind the railroad station. Into the darkness and the unknown and--Well, he could hardly tell the agent about his real destination, could he?

  There was the turnpike. After a block, the sidewalk ended and he had to walk along the edge of the road, sometimes ankle deep in mud. He was soaked through by now, but that didn't matter.

  It proved to be more than half a mile to the township line. A big sign there--an oddly big sign considering the size of the town--read:

  You Are Now Entering Haveen

  Charlie crossed the line and faced back. And waited, an eye on his wrist watch.

  At twelve-fifteen he'd have to step across. It was ten minutes after already. Two days, three hours, ten minutes after the box of lye had held a copper coin, which was two days, three hours, ten minutes after he'd walked into anesthesia in the door of a jewelry store, which was two days, three hours, ten minutes after--

  He watched the hands of his accurately set wrist watch, first the minute hand until twelve-fourteen. Then the second hand.

  And when it lacked a second of twelve-fifteen he put forth his foot and at the fatal moment he was stepping slowly across the line.

  Entering Haveen.

  XVIII

  And as with each of the others, there was no warning. But suddenly:

  It wasn't raining any more. There was bright light, although it didn't seem to come from a visible source. And the road beneath his feet wasn't muddy; it was smooth as glass and alabaster-white. The white-robed entity at the gate ahead stared at Charlie in astonishment.

  He said, "How did you get here? You aren't even--"

  "No," said Charlie. "I'm not even dead. But listen, I've got to see the . . . uh--Who's in charge of the printing?"

  "The Head Compositor, of course. But you can't--"

  "I've got to see him, then," said Charlie.

  "But the rules forbid--"

  "Look, it's important. Some typographical errors are going through. It's to your interests up here as well as to mine, that they be corrected, isn't it? Otherwise things can get into an awful mess."

  "Errors? Impossible. You're joking."

  "Then how," asked Charlie, reasonably, "did I get to Heaven without dying?"

  "But--"

  "You see I was supposed to be entering Haveen. There is an e-matrix that-"

  "Come."

  XIX

  It was quite pleasant and familiar, that office. Not a lot different from Charlie's own office at the Hayworth Printing Co. There was a rickety wooden desk, littered with papers, and behind it sat a small bald-headed Chief Compositor with printer's ink on his hands and a smear of it on his forehead. Past the closed door was a monster roar and clatter of typesetting machines and presses.

  "Sure," said Charlie. "They're supposed to be perfect, so perfect that you don't even need proofreaders. But maybe once out of infinity something can happen to perfection, can't it? Mathematically, once out of infinity anything can happen. Now look; there is a separate typesetting machine and operator for the records covering each person, isn't there?"

  The Head Compositor nodded. "Correct, although in a manner of, speaking the operator and the machine are one, in that the operator is a function of the machine and the machine a manifestation of the operator and both are extensions of the ego of the . . . but I guess that is a little too complicated for you to understand."

  "Yes, I--well, anyway, the channels that the matrices run in must be tremendous. On our Linotypes at the Hapworth Printing Co., an e-mat would make the circuit every sixty seconds or so, and if one was defective it would cause one mistake a minute, but up here- Well, is my calculation of fifty hours and ten minutes correct?"

  "It is," agreed the Head Compositor. "And since there is no way you could have found out that fact except--"

  "Exactly. And once every that often the defective e-matrix comes round and falls when the operator hits the e-key. Probably the ears of the mat are worn; anyway it falls through a long distributor front and falls too fast and lands ahead of its right place in the word, and a typographical error goes through. Like a week ago Sunday, I was supposed to pick up an angleworm, and--"

  "Wait."

  The Head Compositor pressed a buzzer and issued an order. A moment later, a heavy book was brought in and placed on his desk. Before the Head Compositor opened it, Charlie caught a glimpse of his own name on the cover.

  "You said at five-fifteen A.m.?"

  Charlie nodded. Pages turned.

  "I'll be--blessed!" said the Head Compositor. "Angleworm! It must have been something to see. Don't know I've ever heard of an angleworm before. And what was next?"

  "The e fell wrong in the word `hate'--I was going after a man who was beating a horse, and--Well, it came out `heat' instead of `hate.' The e dropped two characters early that time. And I got heat prostration and sunburn on a rainy day. That was eight twenty-five Tuesday, and then at eleven thirty-five Thursday-" Charlie grinned.

  "Yes?" prompted the Head Compositor.

  "Tael. A Chinese silver coin I was supposed to see in the museum. It came out `Teal' and because a teal is a duck, there was a wild duck fluttering around in an airtight showcase. One of the attendants got in trouble; I hope you'll fix that."

  The Head Compositor chuckled. "I shall," he said. "I'd like to have seen that duck. And the next time would have been two forty-five Saturday afternoon. What happened then?"

  "Lei instead of lie, sir. My golf ball was stymied behind a tree and it was supposed to be a poor lie-but it was a poor lei instead. Some wilted, mismatched flowers on a purple cord. And the next was the hardest for me to figure out, even when I had the
key. I had an appointment at the jewelry store at five fifty-five. But that was the fatal time. I got there at five fifty-five, but the e-matrix fell four characters out of place that time, clear back to the start of the word. Instead of getting there at five fifty-five, I got ether."

  "Tch, tch. That one was unfortunate. And next?"

  "The next was just the reverse, sir. In fact, it happened to save my life. I went temporarily insane and tried to kill myself by taking lye. But the bad e fell in lye and it came out ley, which is a small Rumanian copper coin. I've still got it, for a souvenir. In fact when I found out the name of the coin, I guessed the answer. It gave me the key to the others."

  * * *

  The Head Compositor chuckled again. "You've shown great resource," he said. "And your method of getting here to tell us about it--"

  "That was easy, sir. If I timed it so I'd be entering Haveen at the right instant, I had a double chance. If either of the two es in that word turned out to be bad one and fell--as it did--too early in the word, I'd be entering Heaven."

  "Decidedly ingenious. You may, incidentally, consider the errors corrected. We've taken care of all of them, while you talked; except the last one, of course. Otherwise, you wouldn't still be here. And the defective mat is removed from the channel."

  "You mean that as far as people down there know, none of those things ever--"

  "Exactly. A revised edition is now on the press, and nobody on Earth will have any recollection of any of those events. In a way of speaking, they no longer ever happened. I mean, they did, but now they didn't for all practical purposes. When we return you to Earth, you'll find the status there just what it would have been if the typographical errors had not occurred.

  "You mean, for instance, that Pete Johnson won't remember my having told him about the angelworrn, and there won't be any record at the hospital about my having been there? And--"

  "Exactly. The errors are corrected."

  "Whew!" said Charlie. "I'll be . . . I mean, well, I was supposed to have been married Wednesday afternoon, two days ago. Uh . . . will I be? I mean, was I? I mean--"

  The Head Compositor consulted another volume, and nodded. "Yes, at two o'clock Wednesday afternoon. To one Jane Pemberton. Now if we return you to Earth as of the time you left there-twelve-fifteen Saturday morning, you'll have been married two days and ten hours. You'll find yourself . . . let's see . . . spending your honeymoon in Miami. At that exact moment, you'll be in a taxicab en route--"

  "Yes, but--" Charlie gulped.

  "But what?" The Head Compositor looked surprised. "I certainly thought that was what you wanted, Wills. We owe you a big favor for having used such ingenuity in calling those typographical errors to our attention, but I thought that being married to Jane was what you wanted, and if you go back and find yourself--"

  "Yes, but--" said Charlie again. "But . . . I mean--Look, I'll have been married two days. I'll miss . . . I mean, couldn't I--"

  Suddenly the Head Compositor smiled.

  "How stupid of me," he said, "of course. Well, the time doesn't matter at all. We can drop you anywhere in the continuum. I can just as easily return you as of two o'clock Wednesday afternoon, at the moment of the ceremony. Or Wednesday morning, just before. Any time at all."

  "Well," said Charlie, hesitantly. "It isn't exactly that I'd miss the wedding ceremony. I mean, I don't like receptions and things like that, and 1'd have to sit through a long wedding dinner and listen to toasts and speeches and, well, I'd as soon have that part of it over with and ... well, I mean. I--"

  The Head Compositor laughed. He said, "Are you ready?"

  "Am I--Sure!"

  Click of train wheels over the rails, and the stars and moon bright above the observation platform of the speeding train.

  Jane in his arms. His wife, and it was Wednesday evening. Beautiful, gorgeous, sweet, loving, soft, kissable, lovable Jane--

  She snuggled closer to him, and he was whispering, "It's…it's eleven o'clock, darling. Shall we--"

  Their lips met, clung. Then, hand in hand, they walked through the swaying train. His hand turned the knob of the stateroom door and, as it swung slowly open, he picked her up to carry her across the threshold.

  HONEYMOON IN HELL

  CHAPTER ONE:

  TOO MANY FEMALES

  On September 16th in the year 1972, things were going along about the same as usual, only a little worse. The cold war that had been waxing and waning between the United States and the Eastern Alliance-Russia, Cuba, and their lesser satellites-was warmer than it had ever been. War, hot war, seemed not only inevitable but extremely imminent.

  The race for the Moon was an immediate cause. Each nation bad landed a few men on it and each claimed it. Each had found that rockets sent from Earth were inadequate to permit establishment of a permanent base upon the Moon, and that only establishment of a permanent base, in force, would determine possession. And so each nation (for convenience we'll call the Eastern Alliance a nation, although it was not exactly that) was engaged in rushing construction of a space station to be placed in an orbit around Earth.

  With such an intermediate step in space, reaching the Moon with large rockets would be practicable and construction of armed bases, heavily garrisoned, would be comparatively simple. Whoever got there first could not only claim possession, but could implement the claim. Military secrecy on both sides kept from the public just how near to completion each space base was, but it was generally-and correctly-believed that the issue would be determined within a year, two years at the outside.

  Neither nation could afford to let the other control the Moon. That much had become obvious even to those who were trying desperately to maintain peace.

  On September 17th, 1972, a statistician in the birth record department of New York City (his name was Wilbur Evans, but that doesn't matter) noticed that out of 813 births reported the previous day, 657 had been girls and only 156 boys.

  He knew that, statistically, this was practically impossible. In a small city where there are only, say, ten births a day, it is quite possible-and not at all alarming-that on any one given day, 90% or even 100%, of the births may be of the same sex. But out of so large a figure as 813, so high a ratio as 657 to 156 is alarming.

  Wilbur Evans went to his department chief and he, too, was interested and alarmed. Checks were made by telephone-first with nearby cities and, as the evidence mounted, with more and more distant ones.

  By the end of that day, the puzzled investigators-and there was quite a large group interested by then-knew that in every city checked, the same thing had happened. The births, all over the Western Hemisphere and in Europe, for that day had averaged about the same-three boys for every thirteen girls.

  Back-checking showed that the trend had started almost a week before, but with only a slight predominance of girls. For only a few days had the discrepancy been obvious. On the fifteenth, the ratio had been three boys to every five girls and on the sixteenth it had been four to fourteen.

  The newspapers got the story, of course, and kicked it around. The television comics had fun with it, if their audiences didn't. But four days later, on September 21st, only one child out of every eighty-seven born in the country was male. That wasn't funny. People and governments started to worry; biologists and laboratories who had already started to investigate the phenomenon made it their number one project. The television comics quit joking about it after one crack on the subject by the top comedian in the country drew 875,480 indignant letters and lost him his contract.

  On September 29th, out of a normal numbers of births in the United States, only forty-one were boys. Investigation proved that every one of these was a late, or delayed, birth. It became obvious that no male child had been conceived, during the latter part of December of the previous year, 1971. By this time, of course, it was known that the same condition prevailed everywhere-in the countries of the Eastern Alliance as well as in the United States, and in every other country and area of the worl
d-among the Eskimos, the Ubangi and the Indians of Tierra del Fuego.

  The strange phenomenon, whatever it was, affected human beings only, however. Births among animals, wild or domesticated, showed the usual ratio of the two sexes.

  Work on both space stations continued, but talk of war-and incidents tending to lead to war-diminished. The human race had something new, something less immediate, but in the long run far worse to worry about. Despite the apparent inevitability of war, few people thought that it would completely end the human race; a complete lack of male children definitely would. Very, very definitely.

  And for once something was happening that the United States could not blame on the Eastern Alliance, and vice versa. The Orient--China and India in particular-suffered more, perhaps, than the Occident, for in those countries male offspring are of supreme emotional importance to parents. There were riots in both China and India, very bloody ones, until the people realized that they didn't know whom or what they were rioting against and sank back into miserable passivity.

  In the more advanced countries, laboratories went on twenty-four-hour shifts, and anyone who knew a gene from a chromosome could command his weight in paper currency for looking-however futilely-through a microscope. Accredited biologists and geneticists became more important than presidents and dictators. But they accomplished no more than the cults which sprang up everywhere (though mostly in California) and which blamed what was happening on everything from a conspiracy of the Elders of Zion to (with unusually good sense) an invasion from space, and advocated everything from vegetarianism to (again with unusually good sense) a revival of phallic worship.