There on the revolving metal racks were the familiar rows of glossy little books, every one of which, judging from the covers, seemed to be about an abnormally well-developed girl. Turning the rack slowly I saw books by William Faulkner, Bernard Glemser, Agatha Christie, and Charles Einstein, which I'd read and liked. Then, down near the bottom of the rack my eye was caught by the words, "By Mark Twain." The cover showed an old side-wheeler steamboat, and the title was South From Cairo. A reprint fitted out with a new title, I thought, feeling annoyed; and I picked up the book to see just which of Mark Twain's it really was. I've read every book he wrote- Huckleberry Finn at least a dozen times since I discovered it when I was eleven years old.
But the text of this book was new to me. It seemed to be an account, told in the first person by a young man of twenty, of his application for a job on a Mississippi steamboat. And then, from the bottom of a page, a name leaped out at me. " 'Finn, sir,' I answered the captain," the text read, " 'but mostly they call me Huckleberry.'"
For a moment I just stood there in the drugstore with my mouth hanging open; then I turned the little book in my hands. On the back cover was a photograph of Mark Twain; the familiar shock of white hair, the mustache, that wise old face. But underneath this the brief familiar account of his life ended with saying that he had died in 1918 in Mill Valley, California. Mark Twain had lived eight years longer in this alternate world, and had written-well, I didn't yet know how many more books he had written in this wonderful world, but I knew I was going to find out. And my hand was trembling as I walked up to the cashier and gave her two bits for my priceless copy of South From Cairo.
I love reading in bed, and that night I read a good half of my new Mark Twain in bed with Vera, and then afterward-well, afterward she fixed me a nice cool Tom Collins. And oh, boy, this was the life all right.
In the weeks that followed-that lanky length of violet-eyed womanhood cuddled up beside me, singing softly through her nose-I read a new novel by Ernest Hemingway; the best yet, I think. I read a serious, wonderfully good novel by James Thurber, and something else I'd been hoping to find for years-the sequel to a marvelous book called Delilah, by Marcus Goodrich. In fact, I read some of the best reading since Gutenberg kicked things off-a good deal of it aloud to Vera, who enjoyed it as much as I did. I read Mistress Murder, a hilarious detective story by George S. Kaufman; The Queen Is Dead, by George Bernard Shaw; The Third Level, a collection of short stories by someone or other I never heard of, but not too bad; a wonderful novel by Alien Marple; a group of fine stories about the advertising business by Alfred Eichler; a terrific play by Orson Welles; and a whole new volume of Sherlock Holmes stories by A. Conan Doyle.
For four or five months, as Vera rather aptly remarked, I thought, it was like a second honeymoon. I did all the wonderful little things, she said, that I used to do on our honeymoon and before we were married; I even thought up some new ones. And then-all of a sudden one night- I wanted to go to a nightclub.
All of a sudden I wanted to get out of the house in the evening, and do something else for a change. Vera was astonished-wanted to know what was the matter with me, which is typical of a woman. If you don't react precisely the same way day after day after endless day, they think something must be wrong with you. They'll even insist on it. I didn't want any black-cherry ice cream for desert, I told Vera one night at dinner. Why not, she wanted to know- which is idiotic if you stop to think about it. I didn't want any because I didn't want any, that's all! But being a woman she had to have a reason; so I said, "Because I don't like it."
"But of course you like it," she said. "You always used to like it!"
You see what I mean? Anyway, we did go to this nightclub, but it wasn't much fun. Vera got sleepy, and we left, and were home before twelve. Then she wasn't sleepy, but I was. Couple nights later I came home from the office and was changing my clothes; she said something or other, and I didn't hear her and didn't answer, and we actually had a little argument. She wanted to know why I always looked at every coin in my pocket, like an idiot, every time I changed clothes. I explained quietly enough; told her about the ad I used to read as a kid and how I was still looking for a 1913 Liberty-head nickel worth thousands of dollars, which was the truth.
But it wasn't the whole truth. As I looked through the coins I'd collected in my pocket during the day-the Woodrow Wilson dimes, the Grover Cleveland pennies, the nickels with George Coopernagel's profile, and all the other familiar coins of the world I now lived in-I understood something that had puzzled me once.
These other alternate worlds in which we also live intersect here and there-at a corner newsstand, for example, on Third Avenue in New York and at many another place, too, no doubt. And from these intersecting places every once in a while something from one of these worlds-a Woodrow Wilson dune, for example-will stray into another one. I'd found such a dime and when I happened to plank it down on the counter of that little newsstand, there at an intersection of the two alternate worlds, that dime bought a newspaper in the world it belonged in. And I walked off into that world with the New York Sun under my arm. I knew this now, and I'd known it long since. I understood it finally, but I didn't tell Vera. I simply told her I was looking for a 1913 Liberty-head nickel. I didn't tell her I was also looking for a Roosevelt dime.
I found one too. One night, finally, sure enough, there it lay in my palm; a dime with the profile of Franklin D. Roosevelt on its face. And when I slapped it down on the counter of the little newsstand next evening, there at the intersection of two alternate worlds, I was trembling. The man snatched up a paper, folding it as he handed it to me, and I tucked it under my arm and walked on for three or four steps, hardly daring to breathe. Then I opened the paper and looked at it. New York World-Telegram, the masthead read, and I began to run-all the way to Forty-fourth Street, then east to First Avenue and then up three flights of stairs.
I could hardly talk I was so out of breath when I burst into the apartment, but I managed to gasp out the only word that mattered. "Marion!" I said and grabbed her to me, almost choking her, because my arms hit the back of her head about where Vera's shoulders would have been. But she managed to talk, struggling to break loose, her voice sort of muffled against my coat.
"Al!" she said. "What in the world is the matter with you?"
For her, of course, I'd been here last night and every night for the months and years past. And of course, back in this world, I remembered it, too, but dimly, mistily. I stepped back now and looked down at the marvelous tiny size of Marion, at that wonderful, petite figure, at her exquisite and fragile blond beauty. "Nothing's the matter with me," I said, grinning down at her. "It's just that I've got a beautiful wife and was in a hurry to get home to her. Anything wrong with that?"
There wasn't; not a thing, and-well, it's been wonderful, my life with Marion, ever since. It's an exciting life; we're out three and four nights a week, I guess-dancing, the theater, visiting friends, going to night clubs, having dinner out, even bowling. It's the way things used to be, as Marion has aptly said. In fact, she remarked recently, it's like a second honeymoon, and she's wonderfully happy these days and so am I.
Oh, sometimes I'm a little tired at night lately. There are times after a tough day at Serv-Eez when I'd almost rather stay home and read a good book; it's been quite a while since I did. But I don't worry about that. Because the other night, about two-thirty in the morning, just back from The Mirimba, standing at my dresser looking through the coins in my pocket, I found it-another Woodrow Wilson dime. You come across them every once in a while, I've noticed, if you just keep your eyes open; Wilson dimes, Ulysses Grant quarters, Coopernagel nickels. And I've got my Wilson dime safely tucked away, and-well, I'm sure Vera, that lithe-limbed creature, will be mighty glad to see her husband suddenly acting his old self once again. I imagine it'll be like a third honeymoon. Just as-this time-it will be for Marion.
So there you are, brother, coin collecting can be profitable. And fun too! Wh
y don't you start-tonight!
* * * *
NO FIRE BURNS by Avram Davidson
from Playboy
The same Mr. Amis who was so “suspiciously ready” to attempt to analyze a nameless Jack Finney, says in the introductory chapter of his book that “science fiction” is hardly an appropriate name for the field any longer. Regretfully, I must agree with Mr. A. on this one point (without seeing the need for the emphasis on the first word). And I leap to agree, again, with his next statement:
“. . . the plea that politics and economics and psychology and anthropology and even ethics are really or nearly as much sciences as atomic physics, is chiefly valuable as an indication of a state of mind. . . .”
Frankly, I am not certain our agreement on this is fundamental; I don’t know what Mr. Amis meant, but what he said is very true. The fields of psychology, anthropology, sociology—yes, even ethics, hopefully—are now just at that burgeoning “state of mind” atomic physics was still passing through when science-fictionists began exploring its potential thirty years ago. As fine an example of the new “science fiction” as I know is this featured story from Playboy.
* * * *
Doctor Colles was a thin, pale man with receding hair. Mr. Melchior’s chauffeured car had picked him up at his stuffy little office, crowded with papers. He had begun to talk almost at once, and he was still at it now. While waiting for the traffic light to change and listening to Doctor Colles’ conversation, Mr. Melchior took a long green cigar from his case and lit it.
“A breakdown of function and structure,” said Colles. “An absolute lack of communication. Isn’t it so?” Mr. Taylor, a trim, blond young man, who looked like an ad for expensive shirts, listened carefully, said nothing. Melchior looked impressed—and uncomprehending. Colles took his arm just above the elbow, pressed it. “Look at that fellow over there,” he said. “The one in the brown suit—see? Now: can I communicate with him? Or can you? On any save the most primitive level? No. Impossible, I assure you. I’ve only to look at him to know.” The crowd flowed across the street. The men in the car watched the vanishing brown suit.
“We think of, let us say, world problems. He thinks of bowling. We discuss art and letters. He watches the dog acts on TV. We are concerned with our vanishing natural resources. He wonders if he can put a dollar-fifty cab bill on his swindle sheet. Am I correct?” The car moved forward. “What do you think?”
Mr. Melchior thought he agreed one hundred percent. Taylor smiled faintly. “Just the same,” Melchior said, “there has to be some way of reaching these type people, getting inside of them.”
Dr. Colles cleared his throat. “Psychology,” he began.
“Good!” said Melchior. “Good. Go ahead—Oh. Here we are. You’ll have to explain this to me when we’re inside, Doctor.”
They went up the steps of what appeared to be a small parochial school, but which was, in fact, a club—and not the sort at which members were fined for not using first names in addressing one another. The guests’ dining room was small and dark. “A brandy to begin with, Doctor?”
“I hold with the ancient grammarian,” Dr. Colles said, suddenly jovial. “It is better to decline six nouns than one drink. Ha Ha!”
Melchior rolled his eyes toward Taylor, who nodded. It was so ordered. “Would you believe it, Doctor,” said Melchior, after the second sip, “I never tasted brandy till I was twenty-five years old? Times change … Ah. Good. Here’s the menu. Anything you especially like.”
The food came. They ate slowly, with grave pleasure appropriate. “Times change,” Melchior repeated, presently. “Take, for example, business: When my business began to get too big for me to handle the paper work myself, I hired my brother-in-law’s cousin to keep the books. But that family-style operation is outmoded. So now I have my personnel manager, Mr. Taylor here, he’s a college man himself, help me select the top men from the accountants’ college for Melchior Enterprises. Taylor knows what the score is.”
Dr. Colles inquired the precise nature of these enterprises. His host said that they included importing, manufacturing and distributing.
“Well, that covers just about the whole range of commerce, doesn’t it? Except for credit.”
“We do that, too.”
Colles chuckled, but seeing his host react with faint surprise, coughed. “Now, about these tests,” he said. And he proceeded to talk about the tests with young Mr. Taylor, while Mr. Melchior listened, nodding. After a while the personnel manager said, “Well, that seems to be all right, then, about the standard tests. Now, Mr. Melchior would like to discuss with you the possibility of setting up another test, one which would have to be personally constructed.”
“Oh?” Dr. Colles raised his eyebrows. “A special test. Well.”
Melchior rubbed his thin lips with his napkin. “We got—” He paused. “We have certain problems concerned with personnel procurement—maybe disprocurement is the right word, huh, Taylor? And we think you might be just the man to deal with them.”
“Well, that’s very flattering. ‘Disprocurement’? Ha ha. And challenging, too. Go on, go on.”
· · · · ·
Joe Clock looked up from his lathe. It was that pest, Aberdeen, again. “Whaddaya want, Ab?” he asked. “Come on, come on—”
Ab smiled ingratiatingly. “Whaddaya want, for crysake?” Joe demanded.
The man looked around, nervously. “Uh. Look Joe, when you told me you needed that money couple weeks ago, you said you needed it so bad, I told you that I, uh, I, uh, could let you have it, sure, I mean, glad to help, I, uh—”
“Will ya quit needling me, for crysake? I told ya I’d pay it back.”
Ab smirked, weakly. “Yeah, but, uh, Joe, I told you then it was the, uh, rent money, so I’d, uh, I’d need it back in a week. And that was the truth, I mean … well, Joe, the, uh, the rent, I mean it was due a, a week ago, and I got to have it Joe. So—”
Joe turned back to his lathe. “You’ll get it. Tell ya landlord to keep his pants on, because I don’t have it now. So quit needling me.”
Ab started to protest, explain, plead, but Joe wasn’t paying any attention to him. Finally, with a helpless shrug he moved off, looking back over his shoulder with a puzzled expression, at the oblivious Joe Clock, who—after the other man was well out of sight—took a stroll down to the drinking fountain.
He was greeted there by a man with a wart between his eyes. “You get them new power tools for your cellar yet, that you were talking about?” the man asked.
Joe wiped his dripping mouth. “Yeah. Ordered ‘em two weeks ago and they finally came couple a days ago,” he said. “Beautiful stuff. Come on down and have a look some Sundy.”
The man with the wart between his eyes said, thanks, he might do that. “What was Aberdeen doing over at your machine just now?” he asked. “He look like he was gonna bust out crying.”
Joe frowned. “Who? Oh, Aberdeen. Aah, I dunno what he wanted.” He nodded, moved off. In the corner of his mind was a faint recollection of what Aberdeen wanted, but it was too much trouble to remember. Hell with ‘m.
· · · · ·
“Did you read in the papers, last month,” Mr. Melchior asked, over the fresh fruit cup, “about a fellow who worked for Atlantic Coast Canning—”
Dr. Colles said that he believed he did. “Shot the foreman and—”
“Not the foreman, no, but that’s the case. They were both in line to become foreman, but only one could get the job, so this man, Grubacher, he invited Kelly—that was his competitor—to take a ride back from work in his car; then he killed him. Might’ve gotten away with it, too, only they traced the gun.”
Atlantic Coast Canning, it seemed, was an affiliate of Melchior Enterprises, and the incident had disturbed Mr. Melchior a good deal. Dr. Colles was a psychologist; did he understand what would make a man, who had seemed perfectly normal—a good employee—a good husband—do something like that? There had to be something wrong with him, didn�
��t there? (“Obviously,” said Dr. C.) Well, they didn’t want a repetition of the Grubacher case. They wanted Dr. Colles to help them weed out people like that beforehand.
The psychologist smiled. Society as a whole, and not just Mr. Melchior, he pointed out, would be glad to find a way to do that. But his host waved his hand and shook his head, respectfully impatient.
“No, no, Doctor. Don’t be modest,” he said. “These tests which you and Mr. Taylor are going to set up for our personnel department—you said before that what’s wrong with our society is ‘lack of communication,’ yes? Well, these tests communicate, don’t they? They help weed out all kinds of unfit people, don’t they? But they don’t go far enough! A man who thinks he hears voices and tells people that spies from outer space are after him, well, you can tell right away there’s something wrong with him, and we tell him that we’ll keep his name on file; don’t call us, we’ll call you …”
But Grubacher hadn’t been that type. He didn’t have hallucinations, he didn’t mutter. In no way, either from his work record or his family life or from his friends, could the ordinary lay person have foreseen that he would kill a man in cold blood. When he was caught and his alibi broken down and—confronted with the ballistics test results—he confessed, he was asked (oh, most vain of all questions!) if he wasn’t sorry. Grubacher seemed a little surprised. He was sorry he was caught, sure. But for the act itself? A bit surprised, answering what he obviously considered a foolish question, the killer said, no … what was there to be sorry about? It was the only thing to do: Kelly stood in his way.
Dr. Colles tapped his glasses on the tablecloth. He nodded rapidly. “This fellow would seem to be obviously a psychopath,” he said. “An individual with an underdeveloped superego. They don’t go around muttering or bubbling their lips, they don’t often run amuck; generally speaking, they are calm—cool—and collected. They simply lack what we are accustomed to call conscience. To your man, his fellow-worker wasn’t a being with equal rights, he was simply an obstacle. The sensible thing was to remove him.”
The Year's Best Science Fiction 5 Page 3
