Universe 10 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  The hell I’m not. First chance I get, I’m going to try it on with my other body. Because if I can’t accept ME, I can never accept any man. And I’d better find out sooner than later.

  * * * *

  They lunched at a motel restaurant just short of Portland; at the beginning of the afternoon they crossed the Washington border, somewhere along the bridge over the Columbia. Dr. Phipps had the wheel when, a little ahead of rush-hour traffic, they reached Seattle.

  The doctor insisted on driving to her apartment. Melanie gritted her teeth to keep from telling him easier routes—she knew the building and how to get there, because until a few months ago Phyllis Asaghian had lived in the second-floor front. But finally they arrived, and she congratulated him on his superb sense of direction. Actually, for one who did not know the city, he had done well enough.

  Her apartment was second-floor rear, overlooking Lake Union and the downtown area beyond. It had nine-foot ceilings and more than eight hundred square feet of floor space, including two baths and a guest room. In the living room a fireplace was set into the tinted glass wall that faced the lake. She had chosen simple decor—solid colors, and furniture without frills. Perhaps a little on the masculine side, she conceded—but damn it, it was the kind of thing she liked. She showed Phipps around the place, leaving her luggage in the bedroom to unpack later.

  She had no great desire to shop at the supermarket, but the doctor wanted to, so they went. The difficult part was trying to behave as though the experience were new; since the first few days as Melanie she had done no real acting but had merely kept cover. Now she settled for passive behavior, letting him take the lead. And eventually the ordeal ended. She was glad to get “home” again.

  Once the refrigerator was stocked—and a couple of items in the liquor cabinet, for Ed’s benefit—she said, “I’m too pooped to cook. Tell you what, I’ll take you out to dinner if you’ll drive. You pick the place—okay?”

  He nodded. “All right; that’s something else you haven’t done. I’ll be pleased to accept your hospitality.”

  He chose a seafood restaurant on the downtown waterfront. She knew a better one, but could not say so. Well, it would do.

  And it did. The restaurant situation demanded no acting; she relaxed and thoroughly enjoyed herself.

  Back at the apartment, watching the lights on the water—the downtown skyline reflected, boats moving in no apparent pattern, and the occasional light aircraft taking off or landing—they talked. Past reminiscences mingled with future speculations. Finally the doctor said, “Well, I suppose you’re as ready as can be managed in so short a time to live independently.”

  “I’ll be all right, really.”

  “Then I’ll call a cab and find a motel.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. I have a perfectly good guest room. And tomorrow I will cook breakfast. Then you can drive us to the airport and I’ll drive back here. I watched carefully this afternoon; I can find the way.” But he insisted on drawing the route for her, on a dog-eared city map from his suitcase, before she could go to bed in her own new, spacious bedroom.

  * * * *

  Carlain woke, thinking, Well, she’s here! Or rather, he amended, on the way—due to arrive in the afternoon.

  He felt good. During the past few weeks as Melanie slimmed down to beauty, he—as himself—had avoided thinking of the sexual implications. The situation was too much like a combination of cradle-robbing and incest. He was glad the problem had surfaced, and perhaps solved itself, during the Melanie phase. Somehow his lives had diverged, had become separate entities connected only by his continuing, alternating consciousness. Now it seemed to him that Melanie was a person in herself; even though her ego was his own, it felt different

  He had another worry. Subscribing to the ideal of full honesty in marriage, he was not in the habit of keeping secrets from Margaret. But for three months he had kept her ignorant of Melanie’s existence. And now push would come to shove. Not on the sexual aspect—by their agreement he had the same freedom she had. But how in the name of ten thousand blue pigs would he ever convince her that he and Melanie were the same person?

  He would have to try, was all. And certainly he could not have done so earlier, without Melanie present to speak for herself.

  He set the problem aside. He had another schematic to work out— and then to present and try to sell.

  He worked late at it.

  * * * *

  Melanie’s morning omelette came out lopsided, but Dr. Phipps made no complaint. He drove them to Sea-Tac Airport and stopped at “Passenger Load.” Before he could begin his good-byes she reached and hugged him, then kissed him thoroughly—in the way that Ed Carlain liked to be kissed. She was testing herself, testing her reactions to a man, and she passed.

  After a moment for catching breath he said, “I don’t know how you learned that—maybe there is more to instinct than I had thought. But, my dear child—don’t kiss a young man that way, if you intend matters to stop there.”

  She laughed, and thanked him “for everything,” waved good-bye, and moved over to the driver’s seat as he walked away. On the way home she kept the speed limit, exactly. When she entered her apartment she looked at her watch.

  Ten-forty. At eleven I will come here.

  At one minute after eleven, she opened the door to Ed Carlain.

  * * * *

  Ed ate a light breakfast, not hurrying. Eleven o’clock, he thought. His watch said nine-thirty. What will it be like, from this side?

  Time dragged, then speeded as he found unexpected things that needed doing before he could leave. Nervous, though he knew he would be on time, he drove fast, keeping an all-around scan for police cars.

  As he rang her doorbell his watch read eleven, exactly.

  She opened the door.

  * * * *

  Once inside, door closed again, the two embraced.

  ‘Was there ever such a meeting? It’s been forever.”

  “Three months, really, and a little over. But I know—it was hard to wait until I knew he was gone.”

  “Yes. Now stand back, let me look. You know? I think . . . from here, I’m better-looking.”

  “So are you.” Laughter. “We need new pronouns, don’t we? Funny, though—it does look different, seeing from outside.”

  “Yes. Do you want a drink now, or afterward?”

  “There’s no choice. It was after.”

  ‘Trapped action? Already?”

  “Not really. Or if it is, I did it myself.”

  A headshake. “I—it seems so idiotic, anything I say, knowing you already remember it.”

  “Not really, not in detail . . . until you actually say it. Or when I do, for that matter. We’ll get used to it. There’s a lot we’ll have to get used to.”

  “Of course. I think the hardest part for me will be always wondering what you know that I don’t, yet.”

  “True. But getting hooked into trapped action isn’t all that much fun, either—remember? Anyway, we may be able to switch it. I thought of a way, this morning, that might work.”

  “That could be a good thing. Neither of us can afford dominance.”

  “Because neither would put up with it for very long.”

  “No. Even now, I don’t feel especially submissive.”

  “I remember.” Undressed now, the two embraced.

  “How far are you ahead of me, do you know?”

  A pause. “About fifteen hours. Roughly half and half.”

  ‘That’s not too bad.” A laugh. “I’ll catch up.”

  “You always do.”

  “Except, not really.”

  But when the one’s remembrance met and blended with the other’s anticipation, it didn’t matter—not any of it.

  * * * *

  “Don’t get up yet. I want you this way as long as you can.”

  “Finest kind.”

  “I was good, wasn’t I? I could tell. And you . . . well, you remember how I feel, of
course.” A gusty, exuberant sigh. “Good for our ego—isn’t it, though?”

  He laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing much. Remembering how we sweat this so much, from your side. And—you recall, in the Army, what people were always telling each other to do?”

  She laughed too. “Yes. Little do they know. . . .”

  “That anyone really could.” Ed yawned. “I’m hungry; let’s fix up some lunch.”

  * * * *

  After eating they sat, talking. He had a beer. She tasted it, decided she did not like it, and had tea instead.

  She said, “Being together has more advantages than just the obvious. Remember when you first came in?” He nodded but raised his eyebrows. “And you know how I’d been worried, that maybe I couldn’t be heterosexual from this side. Well, the minute I saw you, smiling, I knew it was all right. Because I knew you knew.”

  “I knew that you knew that she knew that he knew—”

  “Stop it! Sometimes we have a disgusting sense of humor.”

  “Melanie.”

  “What?”

  “I was just trying it on for size. Melanie. We’ll have to call ourselves by our body names, in company. I was wondering about the psychological effects.”

  “Yes, I see. Ed. Ed, Ed, Ed. Ed is Melanie plus fifteen hours. Melanie is Ed minus fifteen hours. How old is Ann?”

  “You said something about our sense of humor?” He grinned. “All right—we’re two personalities, serially connected by the same consciousness, now interacting in the same time and place. But we’re becoming more different, aren’t we? Is that good or bad? And will using our names hurt or help us?”

  She frowned. “I think . . . the more different we get to be, the more we bring to each other. Let’s ride along for a while and see, shall we?” Then, “What about what you said at first—about maybe changing phases sometime, so I could be the one who knows what’s happened? I haven’t figured that out yet”

  “I know, because I didn’t either, until this morning. Of course I’m not sure it would work, but the idea is simple enough.” On a paper napkin he drew straight parallel-line segments, zigzag-connected by diagonal dotted lines. “This first solid line is me, living Day Number One. Then dot-dot-dot I zig over and wake up next morning as you. You live Day Two, go to sleep, and zag back to wake up for my Day Two. You see?”

  “Of course. And so?”

  “So.” He drew more lines. “Suppose you have one long day while I have two short ones. On Day Three, for instance, you sleep in, get up late, and stay up—well into Day Four—noon, maybe, before you sleep and I get my Day Three. I get up early, take a short day, sleep again, and wake up while you’re still awake from Day Three. Then—”

  “Yes—I think I see it”

  “Right. After I have Day Three, who am I when I wake? Do I sleep all the way ahead to your Day Four, or to mine, which is closer in time? If it’s mine, we’ve switched phases; you’ll be ahead of me, on the memory angle. If it doesn’t, what have we lost except a little sleep?”

  “Do you want to try it?”

  “No hurry, I’d think. First we need to figure how to plan things, so we don’t get stuck with decisions neither of us made, like the time I had to go to Coos Bay because I had. I don’t like trapped action.”

  “Yes.” She shuddered. “I remember. That was . . . frightening.”

  They talked, planned, made notes. Obviously, only their meetings and communications were crucial; nothing each did separately could inflict determinism on the other. Neither mentioned the possibility of trying to change something that one had experienced and the other had not.

  He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly three. Time to call Margaret.”

  “Margaret? Why?”

  “To get her over here and tell her, of course.”

  “You’ve figured out a lot of things in the past fifteen hours, haven’t you? Tell me about this one.”

  “Another circular paradox, I’m afraid—more trapped action. You didn’t do any of it; I did it all myself. Yesterday—my yesterday, as you— I watched me call Margaret and she came here. So now on my today we go through the same motions.”

  “Ed! Maybe we’d better separate, not see each other anymore. This is too scary!”

  “Isn’t it just? But we’re not separating, Melanie—you know better than that.” He stared at her until she nodded, then said, “But maybe after today we shouldn’t be with or talk with any third party when we’re together. Or maybe the later personality—me, at present—must not make decisions without consulting the earlier one first.”

  “We’re messing with causation. That’s what scares me.”

  “I’m fifteen hours more scared than you are. I’ve had that much longer to worry about it.”

  “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

  “Because—same old reason—I hadn’t, so I couldn’t.” He shrugged. “Look, I have to call Margaret now. When she gets here, you do most of the talking.”

  He picked up the phone.

  * * * *

  Margaret, following Ed along the entrance hallway, did not bother to glance at the mirror she passed; she knew she looked well. Her dark hair was cropped sleek, the front brushed into brief bangs and the crown barely long enough to hold a slight wave. She dressed with understated elegance and ignored fads. Her face, like all of her, was lean and tanned; the full lips accented it. And she moved with grace.

  When she saw the girl she knew her own height and slimness made the other a giantess—a healthy, attractive giantess, but still . . . Margaret nodded. She could afford the age difference.

  She made the competitive assessment by instinct; she had no fear of losing Ed to any woman. But she was puzzled—why the need for a conference, just because this time he had picked a youngster? She accepted a daiquiri and sat where she could view the lake and the city beyond.

  “Lovely apartment, Miss Blake.” Margaret thought the decor rather stark for a young girl, but in its own way striking.

  “Thank you,” said Melanie. She looked at Ed, then back to Margaret. “I suppose ... I’d better explain. . . .”

  “What’s to explain? The way you and Ed look at each other, the picture is obvious. My only question is, what’s the problem? I’m sure he’s told you the terms of our marriage. Of course you are a little young for him”—why did the girl grin? Not a smile, a grin—’”but I don’t mind if you don’t. So what is it?”

  Ed spoke. “Margaret, it’s not what you think. Well, that too—but that’s not it. It’s . . . something you won’t believe, that we have to convince you of.”

  “Quintuplets?” seeing their faces change, she felt shame for the jape. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  Frowning, the girl leaned forward. She turned to Ed. “Damn it, I don’t know where to start!”

  “Tell her who you are—who we are.”

  Ed’s daughter? No—that didn’t fit what he’d said. She saw the girl’s confusion and felt pity. “All right—I’m listening; go ahead.” She smiled. “Melanie ... if Ed cares for you, believe me, I’m not your enemy.”

  The younger woman sat straight and breathed deeply. “Okay—here it is, ready or not. Except in body, there is no Melanie Blake. Until three months ago, she was a mindless vegetable.”

  “But—you’re here. I don’t understand.”

  “I—we don’t either. Listen—Ed Carlain went to sleep in a motel near Coos Bay, Oregon—and woke up in this body. And lived a day in it—a terrible day. The next time he woke he was back in the motel, himself again, and drove home to you. And then—”

  “Ed! That trip—when you came home and began drinking so hard?”

  “Yes. But let her finish.”

  “He—I—thought it had been a dream, maybe. But I woke as Melanie again, and then as Ed—and ever since, I live a day first as me and then the same day as him. But we’re both the same person; there’s only the one consciousness and memory between us.” She ma
de a lopsided smile. “Now you can call the men in the white coats.”

  “Or not,” said Ed.

  Margaret looked hard at her husband, then at the girl. They seemed not only serious but desperate, nothing at all like people pulling a practical joke. But, this . . . ?

  Slowly she said, “You’re right. I can’t believe it. But—” She shook her head. “I can think of no reason—and take my word, I’m trying to— why you’d tell me anything like this if it weren’t true.” She paused. “Or if at the very least you didn’t think it was true.”