“It’s Flack, the Publicity Agent,” said the Guard.
Flack was a young man in a depressing suit who was accompanied by three attractive girls. From a distance, they inquired about J. G.’s health and then left. The afternoon editions of the newspapers had larger headlines which said: TV ACTRESS IDENTIFIES APE MAN AS ATTACKER and TORE clothes off says model. There were pictures of the TV Actress in bed, with a dotted line leading from the window to her bodice. There were larger pictures of the Model demonstrating how her clothing had been disarranged.
The late-afternoon editions had even larger headlines: ASSAULTED TWELVE TIMES IN HOUR SAYS MODEL. There were pictures of the Model, whose name was Wanda Axelrod, the Model’s roommate, the Model’s parents, a scratch on the Model’s knee and the Model’s High School Chemistry Teacher. There were no pictures of the Sergeant, or J. G., or the TV Actress.
That evening, right after supper, J. G. had another visitor. It was Pipola Ambush, the Grocer’s daughter. She came in carrying a bag of bananas, a bundle wrapped in brown paper and a large box. “I couldn’t get away before,” she said. “Pappa is watching me like a bloodhound. Did you really do—like they said to those girls in the paper?”
J. G. said he didn’t understand what she meant but, in any. case, he hadn’t done anything to any girls. He was sure.
“Urn,” said Miss Ambush. “When I read about it, I got so mad at Pappa I coulda killed him. Look, I brought you something.” She gave him the bananas and then opened the box. Inside was a chocolate cake.
J. G. said he certainly appreciated her thoughtfulness and ate the bananas.
“I baked it myself,” Miss Ambush said as J. G. started on the cake. “I like to cook and sew and stuff. I’m not like those dirty minded girls who make up all those things about you in the papers. Ya sure you didn’t do—you know, like they said—to them?”
Oh, no, honestly, he didn’t, J. G. said.
“Um,” she said. “It must be awful to have dirty minds like they have.”
She clucked her tongue and began unwrapping the bundle she had carried in. “I figured you’d be chilly here,” she said. “I brought you one of Pappa’s coats. It’s from his lodge outfit and he’ll never miss it, ‘cause they blackballed him outta the lodge for losin’ his temper.” She unfolded a long, black coat with gold buttons and gold piping on the lapels. She trotted around behind J. G. and held it up. “Try it on,”‘ she said. “It oughta fit, I let out the back as far as I could.”
J. G. said it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and that it fit him fine. He even managed to get one button buttoned.
“Gee,” said Miss Ambush, “you look swell.” She stood back and admired him. “Are you sure you never did any of those things like those dirty minded girls made up you did?”
J. G. said he was sure. Miss Ambush swallowed and then said brightly, “Well, I gotta hurry back now. Besides Pappa watching me, I gotta date with this boy friend who’s a handsome Surgeon and a Doctor and he’s gotta big Cadillac and is crazy for me and wants to make advances and put his arms around me ... and...” Suddenly Miss Ambush stopped and stared pathetically at J. G. The place where her chin should have been quivered, and two large tears formed in her eyes, and trickled down her thin cheeks.
J. G. became alarmed. He asked if something was wrong and if he could do anything to help.
Miss Ambush’s tiny mouth opened several times and finally she said, “I gotta go home,” and, clutching her purse tightly against herself with both hands, she left and walked rapidly down the corridor.
J. G. shook his head. He wondered if Miss Ambush was sick. He wondered if he had done anything to make her unhappy. He hoped not because she had truly been very kind to him, bringing him food and the beautiful coat. He rubbed his hand over the piping on the sleeve and thought how proud his wife, Lotus, would be to see him so dressed up.
The next morning J. G. had his third and last visitor. “It’s McKooly,” the Guard said. J. G. asked who McKooly was and the Guard looked at him curiously. “He does things for Mr. Onnatazio,” he said. He left the door unlocked and in a few minutes McKooly walked in and stood frowning at J. G.
McKooly was perhaps fifty years old, had straight dark hair, graying at the sides, heavy eyebrows, large, black eyes behind steel rimmed glasses, and his head barely came to J. G.’s shoulder. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. “All right,” he said, “what’s the big idea?”
J. G. shuffled his feet and said he didn’t have any idea— not even a little idea.
“You can get in big trouble using Mr. Onnatazio’s name around here,” he said. “Or anywhere else for that matter.” J. G. said there must be some misunderstanding. “You bet there is,” McKooly said, “I checked on you yesterday. No one in the Syndicate ever heard of you. You got no record.” McKooly suddenly thrust his forefinger at J. G. and said in a hard, flat voice, “What’s your angle, pal?” J. G. ducked away and crouched warily in the corner. McKooly started at him, then shrugged. “It strikes me,” he said, “that you’re a wee bit stupid.”
J. G. traced an invisible circle on the floor with his non-opposed thumb and admitted this was true. He said he was sorry he had such a small, stupid, useless brain; but, being a Gorilla, there was nothing he could do about it.
McKooly took a step forward and regarded J. G. with fresh interest. “A Gorilla?” he said softly. “A real Gorilla? You know you could be at that, though I’d of sworn you were Hibernian. Could it be, do you suppose, that you’re an Irish type of Ape?”
J. G. said no he was just a Gorilla type of Primate. McKooly’s attitude changed completely and he clucked sympathetically. “Imagine,” he said, “putting a dumb beast in a miserable jail. It’s a violation of your Civil Rights. You should be in a nice Zoo.” He threw his cigarette on the floor and stamped on it. “It’s a disgrace,” he said indignantly. “I’m going to see what I can do for you.”
For some reason, possibly because he had little liking for his own kind, possibly because he had no family, possibly because he was small, McKooly felt a deep and sincere affection for animals. He fed stray cats, adopted lost dogs, kept three white mice in his hotel room and put bread crumbs on his window sill for pigeons.
“I tell you what,” he said suddenly and J. G. sat up. He had been desperately hoping someone would tell him what.
“I’ll have Tort get you out of here as soon as I can get in touch with him,” McKooly said. He looked at his watch. “As soon as you get out you come and see me. Here’s the address.” He wrote “Hotel Van Dixon” and a street number on an envelope and gave it to J. G. “I’ll talk to Mr. Onnatazio,” he said, “and maybe you can go to work for him. He can always use someone your size.”
He opened his wallet and handed J. G. a five dollar bill. “This’ll keep you from starving to death in the meantime.” McKooly then shook hands, said once again that it was a disgrace the way J. G. was being treated and left.
J. G. looked at the five dollar bill suspiciously and then ate it. It had a pleasant green taste, but he didn’t think it would keep him from starving. Not for long anyway.
That afternoon J. G. was taken from his cell to a large, high ceilinged room with worn oak paneling. A sign on the high double doors said, “General Sessions Court. Judge Ponder presiding.” A dozen people were huddled on benches which faced a high desk, behind which sat a kindly looking man wearing a black robe.
Ponder, the Judge, was a kind man who took his responsibilities seriously and was even trusted to a limited degree in some sections of the Jungle. When J. G. was brought before him, he inspected him thoughtfully, called for the arresting officer’s report, read it and then asked J. G. to hold up his hand so he could see his thumb.
“Bailiff,” Ponder said, “in my opinion the officer’s original suspicions were correct. The defendant does indeed seem to be an anthropoid of the family Simiidae. To wit, a gorilla. An unusual specimen, to be sure, but certainly a gorilla.”
The bailiff stared, horrif
ied, at J. G. “Stand back, your honor!” he shouted. “I’ll get the riot squad. We’ll capture him!”
“Don’t be silly,” Ponder said. “He is in no need of capturing. He seems quite rational and, as he has been subjected to due process of law so far, he is, according to precedent, entitled to the full extent of that due process. Proceed with the case.”
“Against an ape, your honor?” the bailiff said.
“I have devoted my life to serving the principles of liberalism upon which our system of jurisprudence is founded,” Ponder said. “Am I to deny this creature, or any creature, the right to fair and equitable justice because he differs from us in race, creed or species? Would you have it said that I practiced discrimination?”
“Heaven forbid!” the bailiff said.
“In the eyes of the court, all defendants are equal,” Ponder said, “and this one may be more equal than most. Having a tiny gorilla brain, he no doubt needs help and advice rather than correction. How fortunate for him that I am a liberal judge. Proceed.”
The bailiff read the charge against J. G.
When he had finished, Ponder leaned forward and addressed J. G. in a sympathetic manner. “Primate, my boy,” he said, “you were arrested and placed in jail because you appropriated property belonging to someone else, to wit: bananas. There are laws against this.”
J. G. said he was sorry, but he had been very hungry.
“Motivation is considered by the court only if in so far as it assists in establishing guilt.”
J. G. rubbed his nose and respectfully asked if there were also laws against starving to death.
“Certainly not,” Ponder said, “unless the Party contemplating the action intends to perpetrate it in a public place, thereby blocking traffic. This constitutes a Nuisance. Ordinance 763, paragraph 4.”
J. G. said he would remember.
“You must understand,” Ponder continued, “that laws are made primarily for the protection of property rights. In your original aboriginal society, food grows plentifully for the picking and population is low. The reverse is true here. You have a built-on fur coat. We must wear clothing. We need many thing besides food and are forced to employ a complex system whereby a common medium of exchange is traded for goods and services. Some make overcoats, some build homes, others study medicine, tap telephones or repair stoves. All trade their specialized skills for food grown by the farmer, processed by the processor and distributed by the distributor. You must learn to fit yourself into this system. Utilize some specialized skill of your own and trade it for food.”
J. G. said he understood. He could trade his specialized skill as a banana stealer for food and shelter in the jail.
“Urn, that’s not exactly what I mean,” Ponder said. “You must learn to do something constructive, so that you can Get Ahead and Amount to Something.”
J. G. said he meant no disrespect but Why?
“Because,” said Ponder, “that’s the Way Things Are.”
J. G. had been afraid this was Why.
“The subject is too large for your small brain,” Ponder told him. “Remember I am older and therefore wiser than you. Take my word for it. First you must learn to Make Something of Yourself. Then it will be easy for you to Amount to Something. Cultivate good manners. Be punctual. Keep your hair combed. Don’t criticize. Honesty is the best policy. Avoid evil companions. Step out into the hall. You’re shedding on the floor.”
J. G. stepped into the hall and Ponder called to him through the open door. “As this is your first offense, you are placed on thirty days’ probation. You are free to go. Get yourself an honest job. Crime does not pay.”
<
* * * *
CHIEF
by Henry Slesar
Henry Slesar, like several other new young writers, works at both mystery-suspense-psychological-thrillers and science-fantasy. In this vignette, he makes the jump from How Things Are to How They All Too Well May Be...
* * * *
Mboyna, chieftain of the Aolori tribe, showed no fear as the longboat approached the island. But it was more than the obligation of his rank which kept his face impassive; he alone of his tribesmen had seen white men before, when he was a child of the village half a century ago.
As the boat landed, one of the whites, a scholarly man with a short silver beard, came toward him, his hand raised in a gesture of friendship. His speech was halting, but he spoke in the tongue of Mboyna’s fathers. “We come in peace,” he said. “We have come a great distance to find you. I am Morgan, and these are my companions, Hendricks and Carew; we are men of science.”
“Then speak!” Mboyna said in a hostile growl, wishing to show no weakness before his tribe.
“There has been a great war,” Morgan said, looking uneasily at the warriors who crowded about their chief. “The white men beyond the waters have hurled great lightning at each other. They have poisoned the air, the sea and the flesh of men with their weapons. But it was our belief that there were outposts in the world which war had not touched with its deadly fingers. Your island is one of these, great chief, and we come to abide with you. But first, there is one thing we must do, and we beg your patience.”
From the store of supplies in their longboat, the white men removed strange metal boxes with tiny windows. They advanced hesitatingly toward the chief and his tribesmen, pointing the curious devices in their direction. Some of them cowered, others raised their spears in warning. “Do not fear,” Morgan said. “It is only a plaything of our science. See how they make no sound as their eyes scan you? But watch.” The white men pointed the boxes at themselves, and the devices began clicking frantically.
“Great magic,” the tribesmen whispered, their faces awed. “Great magic,” Mboyna repeated reverently, bowing before the white gods and the proof of their godhood, the clicking boxes. With deference, they guided the white men to their village, and after the appropriate ceremony, they were beheaded, cleaned and served at the evening meal.
For three days and nights, they celebrated their cleverness with dancing and bright fires; for now, they too were gods. The little boxes had begun to click magically for them, also.
<
* * * *
PSALM
by Lester del Rey
The AEC is my shepherd; I shall not live.
It maketh me to lie down in radiant pastures; it leadeth me beside deathly waters.
It destroyeth my bones; it leadeth me in the path of frightfulness, for its name’s
sake.
Yet, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will hear no evil; for
thou art with me; thy bomb and thy SAC, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a fable before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest
thy words with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely, strontium and fallout shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell
in the house of the AEC —but hardly forever.
<
* * * *
THE LARGE ANT
by Howard Fast
There is no need, at this late date, to introduce to anyone the author of “Citizen Tom Paine” and “Spartacus.” But for those of you who have not been aware that America’s foremost chronicler of historical rebellion has turned his hand to the literature of contemporary social and scientific revolution as well, I should note here that this and other Fast science-fantasies (mostly from F&SF) are now available in a Bantam Books collection, “Edge of Tomorrow.”
* * * *
There have been all kinds of notions and guesses as to how it would end. One held that sooner or later there would be too many people; another that we would do each other in, and the atom bomb made that a very good likelihood. All sorts of notions, except the simple fact that we were what we were. We could find a way to feed any number of people and perhaps even a way to avoid wiping each other out with the bomb; those things we are very good at, but we have never
been any good at changing ourselves or the way we behave.
I know. I am not a bad man or a cruel man; quite to the contrary, I am an ordinary, humane person, and I love my wife and my children and I get along with my neighbors. I am like a great many other men, and I do the things they would do and just as thoughtlessly. There it is in a nutshell.
I am also a writer, and I told Lieberman, the curator, and Fitzgerald, the government man, that I would like to write down the story. They shrugged their shoulders. “Go ahead,” they said, “because it won’t make one bit of difference.”
“You don’t think it would alarm people?”
“How can it alarm anyone when nobody will believe it?”
“If I could have a photograph or two.”
“Oh, no,” they said then. “No photographs.”
“What kind of sense does that make?” I asked them. “You are willing to let me write the story—why not the photographs so that people could believe me?”
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology] Page 15
