Universe 5 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  He’s tired from driving, she thought Good. “Strange how?”

  “Why, it’s fairly obvious how, at least to me. I guess a woman wouldn’t notice it, though.” Ellis chuckled.

  “Ellis, what are you talking about?”

  “He’s gay, is all.’

  “What?” An image of Kyle, smoothly strong and tall . .. the easy way he had lifted the tire, his relaxed form sitting beside her... “Gay? Kyle?’

  “Plain as can be,” Ellis said. He chuckled again. “I always wondered why anyone would care to play on that side of the fence. But seeing one as pretty as he is, I can almost understand—”

  “Ellis!” she shouted. “You quit talking like that!”

  For a moment he was silent. Then, “Why’s it bothering you, Sherry?”

  “What do you mean?” She didn’t like the tone of his voice. “It’s not bothering me. Now, go to sleep.”

  “Not right yet. I think I deserve an answer.

  “Ellis, go to sleep!”

  He said nothing else—the silence gathered and grew. Finally he reached over and turned the light out

  Gay. She thought of a night, not quite a year gone, when she had stayed at Lucy Ballentine’s house while Ellis and Lucy’s husband went moon-fishing. The two of them sleeping in the same bed, lying close together and touching...

  She waited until Ellis began snoring. Then she dressed and went out the door. She walked along the sidewalk, swearing softly as one bare foot came down on a piece of gravel. At his door she stubbed her toe against the cement porch. The pain made her sit down for a moment, holding her foot, tears squeezing out of her eyes.

  When she was able to stand, without thinking she knocked. Then she realized what she was doing, and before he could make it worse by saying “Come in,” (or “Stay out”? she wondered), she opened the door and stepped inside.

  Kyle was sitting up in the bed, the sheet pulled across him. “Hi,” she said. Quietly, almost shyly. And began to undress.

  She had put on her clothes for a reason, instead of just throwing a coat on. She watched Kyle as she undressed, trying to read his expression in the dim light. She had done this before, more than once—there had been a time when she had been paid to do it. Ordinarily she would move slow as chilled oil, tugging buttons loose on her blouse one by one; swaying slightly, sliding material over her shoulders and down her arms to let it drop on the floor. She would look through lashes at her audience, tongue against her lips, as she let her skirt fall. And following it, with just enough movement, would be her stockings, and the black napkin-lace of her panties.

  It was one of the things that kept Ellis in line, kept him chained to her. The sight of her preparations; the prelude to bed. But this time it was different—this time she hurried, fumbling buttons, tossing her blouse away, yanking her skirt down her hips, stepping quickly out of underwear. No tantalizing, no baiting this time. It would take too long.

  And then she stood beside the bed staring at him. Remembering the two times in her life when she had been satisfied by someone other than herself—once by John Frank, and once by Lucille Ballentine. The mingled feelings of desire and guilt...

  He was staring into her eyes, his gaze brown and deep. Feeling her thoughts, her desires; knowing, she thought, somehow. “Kyle,” she whispered. Then she turned the sheet back, let it flutter to the floor like a dying ghost.

  And saw:

  Skin clear and smooth, woman’s skin on a man’s body. The hairlessness of the chest, the darkening flesh.

  “You’re not—” she said.

  “I’m different. You said you could tell.” The voice was a man’s voice, and a woman’s voice, and neither.

  “You’re not human,” Sherry whispered.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?” And it didn’t, it didn’t; the rushing of her blood, the moistness . . . she still wanted him—

  As she watched, his skin grew darker, blacker. Above the erect penis were the lips of a vaginal slit.

  “No . . .” she whimpered just before he kissed her. His kiss was that of John Frank, firm against her mouth. And his hands were Lucy’s hands, the softest she had ever known.

  John Frank was in the county jail back home, for carnal knowledge of a white woman. And Lucy Ballentine had suffered a nervous breakdown in fear of lesbian tendencies.

  “No,” she said again as Kyle pulled her down to the bed. “No!” she screamed, and pushed both hands against the soft black shoulders. There was a moment of pain, and then she was grabbing her clothes and running out the door. Behind her, she could hear the sound of Kyle’s laughter...

  She was sobbing by the time she reached her room, screaming by the time Ellis had gotten out of bed, bewildered, demanding to know what was wrong. She told him what had happened, again and again, scratching at his chest to make sure he understood, until a sudden, intense pain against her cheek stopped the crying and the explaining. For an instant she did not know what had happened. Then she realized—he had slapped her.

  He had slapped her.

  “Ellis?” she murmured. A small sound, totally lost in her throat.

  “You goddamn bitch,” he said. “Sherry, you’ve done it now.”

  She sat quietly in a chair and watched him dress. He picked up the suitcases and carried them out to the truck—after a moment, realizing that she was alone, she followed him outside.

  The truck’s engine was running, and the headlights were on. Ellis slung the suitcases into the back.

  Yes, she thought. Let’s leave—leave now, before—

  The door to number fifteen was open. Sherry watched the woman walking across the gravel of the parking lot toward the truck, toward Ellis, who was busy tying down the luggage.

  “Ellis,” Sherry said.

  “Just shut up, okay?” He pulled a knot tight

  The woman stopped beside Ellis, leaned against the fender, smiled at him. “You going west?” she asked.

  The skin was whiter than it had been yesterday. The hair was lighter, and the eyes—were blue. Only the smile and the voice were the same.

  “Ellis!” Sherry screamed. But there would be no evidence under those clothes for any accusations she made against Kyle.

  He ignored her. “I am,” he replied.

  “I could use a ride.”

  “I’m sure my wife won’t mind,” Ellis said. “She’d better not, at any rate. Right, Sherry?”

  “You send her away,” she said desperately. “Ellis, you send her away this minute. You even think such thoughts as that, and I’ll—I’ll leave you! I’ll leave you this minute, I swear I will!”

  He would do as she said, like always. But that woman, that thing, was smiling at him, and one hand was touching him, stroking his arm.

  She remembered what that touch had been like.

  Ellis looked at her. His eyes were hard.

  “Leave, then,” he said. He pulled her suitcase loose, dropped it on the gravel.

  Sherry stood by the road watching the two red tail-lights disappear below the horizon. Just wait until he finds out, she thought. He’ll be back. When he learned what sort of creature it was, he’d get rid of it, leave it, kill it, and come back for her. He couldn’t throw her over like that, and not even ...

  Not even for another woman...

  After a long time of waiting, the eastern sky began to gray. She tried to ask the one other guest at the motel for a ride, but couldn’t seem to make him understand what had happened. Afterward, she picked up her suitcase and began to walk. For a while, she held her thumb out, hopefully. But the few cars that passed her did not stop.

  <>

  * * * *

  THE RUBBER BEND

  by Gene Wolfe

  Gene Wolfe, who wrote that remarkable book The Fifth Head of Cerberus, as well as outstanding shorter works such as “The Death of Dr. Island’ (Universe 3), appears now with a story much less weighty than these earlier ones . . . but in its distinctively Wolfean way it’s as far-out as anything
he’s written. You’ll recognize it easily as a parody of the Sherlock Holmes stories, but don’t be misled: far from a simple bit of fluff, it’s a complex and ingenious story that deals with one of the most puzzling questions in relativity: If all four space-time dimensions are equivalent, how is it that we perceive one so differently from the rest?

  * * * *

  It was a dark and stormy night—not actually night but late afternoon, and raining buckets. I share an apartment with March B. Street, the human consulting engineer-detective, and I recall that when I came home that afternoon, Street ventured some deduction to the effect that it must be raining, since the water was still streaming off me and onto the carpet, and I remarked that it was a nice day out for ducks, a little witticism I have often found to have a remarkably calming effect on my patients, though of course—I am a bio-mechanic, you see—its use is somewhat dependent on the weather; though I am over fifty, my seals are still tight and I think I may boast that you won’t find another robot my age with fewer rain leaks anywhere.

  Where was I? Oh, yes. It was on a dark and stormy afternoon in October that I was first introduced to the weird and sinister business which I, in these reports, have chosen to refer to as The Affair of the Rubber Bend.

  Street waited until I had dried myself off and was about to sit down with the paper, and then said sharply, “Westing!

  I confess I was so startled that for an instant I froze in a sort of half-crouch with my hips perhaps four inches above the seat of the scuffed old Morris chair next to Street’s antique telespectroscope; had I known at the time how significant that posture was to be, in the eldritch light of the disappearance of Prof. Louis Dodson and the haunting of—but perhaps I am in danger of anticipating my story.

  “Westing,” Street continued, “for goodness’ sake sit down. Hanging in the air like that, you look like a set of tin monkey bars flunking Darwin.”

  “It’s only natural,” I said, taking my seat, “for you humans to envy the somewhat greater coordination and superior muscular effectiveness we possess, but it is hardly necessary—”

  “Quite. I’m sorry I startled you. But I had been thinking, and I want to talk to you. You are, are you not, a member of the Peircian Society?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “You know perfectly well, Street, that on the first Monday of each odd-numbered month I absent myself from this apartment—good lord, have I missed a meeting?” I had risen again and was actually trying to recall what I had done with my umbrella when I caught the error. “No, you’re wrong for once, Street. This is October. October isn’t—November is, of course, but today’s Tuesday. Our meeting’s five days off yet.”

  “Six,” Street said dryly, “but I didn’t say you were late for the meeting; I simply asked if you were still a member. You are. Am I not correct in saying that the purpose of the society is to discuss—”

  In my eagerness I interrupted him. “To prove that the works signed ‘Damon Knight’ were actually written by the philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce, of course. And they were, Street. They were. It’s so obvious: Peirce, the otherwise unknown founder of Logical Positivism—”

  “Pragmatism,” Street said.

  “They are almost the same thing. Peirce, as I was saying, lived in Milford, Pennsylvania—a minute hamlet since buried under the damned waters of the Delaware—”

  “You don’t bury things under water.”

  “—thus conveniently destroying certain evidence the historical establishment did not want found. Note these points, Street: a village the size of Milford could hardly expect one such man in five hundred years; it had—this is what we are supposed to believe—two in less than fifty. Knight—”

  “Knight also lived in Milford?”

  “Yes, of course. Knight appeared shortly after Peirce— supposedly—died. Peirce, at the time of his supposed death, was being sorely hounded by his creditors. Peirce grew a thick beard, obviously to keep from being recognized later as Knight. Knight also grew a beard to prevent his being recognized as Peirce. Can’t you see, Street...” I paused.

  “You pause,” Street remarked. “Has something struck you?”

  “Indeed it has. You, Street, have become engrossed in this most fascinating of historical, scientific, and literary puzzles. You will apply your immense abilities to it, and in a short time we will know the truth.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I only apply those abilities you have flatteringly called immense to puzzles which hold out some possibility of remuneration, Westing. I merely wished to know if you were still a member of the Peircian Society. You are, and I am content.”

  “But surely—”

  “There is a favor I would like you to do for me—it may be rather an inconvenience for you.”

  “Anything, Street. You know that”

  “Then I want you to live for a few days with a friend of mine—be his houseguest. It shouldn’t interfere with your practice, and I’ll set up a gadget to relay your calls.”

  “I could go to a hotel—”

  “I’m not trying to get rid of you, Westing; it’s your presence there I want—not your absence here.’

  “Street, does this have something to do with—”

  “The Peircian Society? No, not at present; in fact, Westing, I wish you’d forget I ever mentioned that. Put it completely out of your mind. A friend of mine—his name is Noel Wide, by the way—wishes to have a good bio-mechanic near at hand in the evenings. Ordinarily he calls a neighbor of his, but the fellow is on vacation at the moment. He asked if I could suggest someone, and I told him I’d try to persuade you to fill in. If you are willing to go, I want you there tonight”

  “Tonight?”

  “At once. Collect your medical bag and emergency self-maintenance kit and be on your way.”

  “Street, you’re not telling me everything.”

  “I am telling you everything it’s politic to tell you at the moment, and it’s important that you don’t miss dinner at Wide’s. If you are sincere in wanting to go, go now. Here—while you’ve been jabbering I’ve written out the address for you.”

  “Dinner? Street, you know it isn’t necessary—we robots don’t—”

  Something in his look stopped me. I collected the accoutrements he had suggested and took my departure; but as I left I noted that Street, now calm again, had picked up the book that lay beside his chair, and as I read the title an indescribable thrill shot through me. It was A for Anything.

  * * * *

  The address to which Street had dispatched me proved to be an old brownstone in a neighborhood that held a thousand others. It had once had, I observed as I plodded toward it through the downpour, a sort of greenhouse or conservatory on its roof, but this was now broken and neglected, and its shattered panes and rusted ironwork, dripping rain, looked as dejected as I felt. At my knock the door, which was on a chain-guard, was opened by a robot younger (or as Street would say, “newer”) than myself. I asked if he was Mr. Wide.

  He grinned mechanically, and without offering to unchain the door, replied, “He lives here, but I’m Arch St Louis—you want in?” I observed that he sported a good deal of chrome-and-copper trim, arranged in a manner that led me to think better of his bank account than of his taste. In answer to his question I said, “Please,” and when he continued immobile I added, “As you see, I’m standing in the wet—I’m Dr. Westing.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  In a moment he had opened the door and shown me in. “Here,” he said, “I’ll get you some red-rags to wipe yourself off with. Don’t take the cold reception to heart, Doc; we have unpleasant company from time to time.”

  I stifled the impulse to remark that birds of a feather assemble in groups, and asked instead if it would be possible for me to see Mr. Wide, my host

  St. Louis glanced at his watch. “Five minutes, he’s down in the plant rooms. He’ll be up at six.”

  “The plant rooms?”

  “In
the basement. He grows mushrooms. Come on into the office.”

  I followed him down a short corridor and entered a large and beautifully appointed chamber fitted out as something between an office and a parlor. A small desk near the door I deduced to be his; at the other side of the room stood a much larger desk with a scattering of unopened correspondence on its top, and behind it an immense chair. I walked over to examine the chair, but my awed perusal of its capacious dimensions was interrupted by the labored sighing of an elevator; I turned in time to see a pair of cleverly disguised doors slide back, revealing the most bulky robot I have ever beheld. He was carrying a small basket of tastefully arranged fungi, and holding this with both hands so as (at least, so it seemed to me) to have an excuse to avoid shaking hands with me, he marched across the room to the larger desk, and seating himself in that gargantuan chair, placed the basket squarely before him.