The Best from Fantasy and Science Fiction Sixth Series

by Edited by Anthony Boucher

  The first shock over, she quickly found a furious strength to pick up the receiver. “What kind of horrible joke is this?” she said. “Who would do such a thing? What kind of person? Who is it? I said. Tell me who it is.”

  The voice became quieter suddenly, almost a murmur, and Madeline closed her eyes and succumbed to it. Slowly the tears slid down her cheeks and at last she held the phone against her breast and bent over it in caress until it gave a clicking sound and then the dial tone began like some huge insect caught against a windowpane.

  It would stop of course if she replaced it on the cradle and, what’s more, her mouth was open and she was aware of it. That was a good sign if she was aware of it, surely? After all, it was perhaps a very common thing. Anybody might have such an experience in a state of shock. Perfectly understandable. Funny, she couldn’t remember the doctor’s number. Well, was that a crime?

  She began to thumb through the pages of the address book. There it was. Now she must dial it carefully. Might as well get it right the first time. While she listened to the ringing, she tried to think what time it was and whether she couldn’t wait until morning.

  “Hello, hello,” she said. “Is this the exchange? I’m trying to reach Doctor Morse. Sorry to disturb him but . . . but it’s rather an emergency. What? Out? How long? Oh, I suppose so. Thirty minutes? All right. Yes, I’ll give you the number.”

  It was printed right there before her. All she had to do was read it off.

  But the footsteps. They couldn’t be anyone else’s. They couldn’t.

  She put down the phone and walked out of the room and down the hall and all the time she kept thinking: I’m not frightened at all, isn’t that strange? And then, tentatively, as she heard the door open, she called, “Tom? Tom, is that you?”

  At last he held her away from him and looked at her. “God, darling,” he said, “you look awful. Did you really have a wretched time of it?”

  “Well, naturally,” she said. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been so busy filling out the questionnaires I guess I haven’t thought.”

  “Questionnaires?”

  “Yes. That reminds me, Muffin. What county was your mother born in?”

  “Pasquotink. Why?”

  “I couldn’t remember,” he said. “I’ve been beating my brains out trying to remember. How do you spell it?”

  “Tom, stop. Wait a minute. What difference does it make how you spell Pasquotink?”

  “Of course. You don’t understand, do you, Muffin? Poor baby. Let’s sit down. I’ve got quite a lot to explain.”

  It tore her heart the way he looked, as though somehow he had done something naughty, and she went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Darling,” she said, “I ... I don’t mean to be indelicate or anything, but do the ... I mean, can you still drink coffee . . . and all that?”

  “Sure,” he said. “You make some, huh?”

  While she was in the kitchen she could hear him walking around the living room.

  “Any fruit in the house?” he called out to her.

  “On the coffee table,” she said. “Your uncle George sent it.”

  “How is the reactionary old bastard? Giving you a bad time?”

  She saw him reach for an apple and bite into it with great relish. This is silly, she thought. The dead don’t eat apples.

  “Your uncle is driving me mad,” she said. “That insufferable bore calls me every morning and every night. He’s disturbed about my being bitter.”

  “Are you bitter, Muffin?”

  “Oh well, at first, you know. I guess I got pretty hysterical. He kept telling me about all the young men who had died of heart attacks and I blew a fuse and said you hadn’t di-”

  “Died, darling. You’re not being indelicate. It’s all right. You said I hadn’t died of a heart attack. Yes?”

  “I said you had been worried and tormented to death by their goddamned security system and ... I don’t know. I probably was going to blow up the State Department with a bomb, or something. I don’t know what I said.”

  “Anyhow, it bothered Uncle George, I see. It’s his government and the worst his government could be responsible for is an unfortunate misunderstanding, if it takes every last nephew he’s got.”

  “You are the last nephew. He keeps telling me you’re all he had.”

  “The water’s boiling over, Muffin.”

  When she came back with the coffee and the cups on a tray, Tom was standing by the pile of sympathy notes. “What’s all this?” he said.

  “Just letters, darling. You know. From people.”

  “About me?” He sat down and began to go through them in the most natural way. “Well, what do you know?” he said. “Old Tony.”

  “I haven’t answered it yet. It’s so touching. How does it happen you never mentioned him, Tom?”

  “Tony? Didn’t I ever tell you about Tony?”

  “Tom, listen. I don’t know if you ever told me about Tony or not. That’s not what I want to hear about.”

  “Of course, Muffin. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m used to it already, you know, and ... I keep forgetting.”

  “Tom,” she said, “please help me.”

  Instantly he was beside her, holding her, stroking her hair.

  “This doesn’t happen to other people, does it, Tom? Why us?”

  “It’s because of the delay, Muffin.”

  “The delay?”

  “The delay in my clearance. You know how poor my memory is. I couldn’t remember where your mother was born and-”

  “Tom, are you telling me you have to be cleared for death?”

  “Sure, Muffin. Look, let’s sit down, huh? It’s not really so hard to accept. Don’t you remember when I was trying to get clearance before and every time I’d go to a new place to get a job we’d be so surprised that we had it to do all over again?”

  “Yes, and I’d say, just the way I’m going to say right now: but surely not here, too?”

  “That’s right. We were always surprised. Well, it’s just another step, you know. Just an extension of the same thing.”

  “Everything that comes in my mind to say, I’ve said before. I can remember not believing before. I can remember saying but it’s fantastic, just like I want to say it now.”

  “I know exactly how you feel,” he said. “That’s exactly how it was with me.”

  “But, Tom . . .”

  “Yes, Muffin?”

  “Tom, if you’re not . . . well, if you aren’t cleared for death, then you must be alive.”

  “Well, no, Muffin. Not exactly. You see, I’m in Uncertainty.”

  “You mean they’ve got a cold-storage room there, too?”

  “Sort of. Yeah, come to think of it, it’s quite a bit like that place in Connecticut. Remember? Guys sitting around waiting and beefing. Say, look there; it’s almost light. I’ve got to get out of here. Write that name down for me, will you?”

  “Why?”

  “Why? So I won’t forget it, that’s why.”

  “I mean why do you have to get out? What does it matter if it’s light or not?”

  “Because I might be seen.”

  “Well, what if you were?”

  “You don’t understand. You get seen, you get questions started, and that puts you back to the beginning again, because it all goes in your file.”

  “What do you care?”

  “Because I was already through the first six interviews before the IBM belched up that blank natal county, mother-in-law.”

  “Tom. Listen to me. What’s the hurry? Why would you want to hurry it? It’s death, isn’t it, after all?”

  He sat and looked at her for a long time. “I don’t know, Muffin,” he said. “I don’t know why everybody there wants it, but they all seem to.”

  “All?” she said. “There are lots of them?”

  “Sure. And they’re all impatient. I don’t know why. I never thought about it
. They just want to get it over with, I guess. Some of them blow their tops and they get a phony notice all of a sudden. Man, they’re so proud. They made it. They’re really dead. Those sorry bastards. They give everybody the big handshake, see, and they go through this door and it just leads back to the beginning again. Pretty soon they show up at the first desk again, very quiet-type fellows all of a sudden.”

  She had never really been crafty before and she was surprised how easily it came to her. She began to chatter about Ed and Evvie and about the sympathy notes, and all the time she was moving about the room, pulling the cords on the Venetian blinds, turning up the lights a little, silently flipping the night locks on the doors. Meanwhile, as she had hoped, Tom had got distracted by the sympathy notes.

  “Hey,” he said. “This one. Have you answered this one?”

  “Which one, darling?”

  “That sanctimonious hypocrite.”

  “Oh, him. No, I haven’t.”

  “Good. This is one I want to answer myself. The opportunity of a-”

  She had known the phone would ring as soon as Uncle George had had breakfast. He was so firm about believing one should get up out of bed and get the day started. Keep busy, that was the way.

  “Tom, dear,” she said, “would you mind? I know that’s Uncle George and I really can’t.”

  “Sure, honey,” he said absentmindedly. “I’ll get it.”

  She stuffed a napkin in her mouth, knowing exactly how it would be.

  “Hello? Uncle George? This is Tom. Hey, Uncle George? Are you there?”

  She turned her head away and tried to control herself when Tom walked back in the room.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “Must have got cut off. Say, is the coffee still hot?”

  “I’ll make some fresh. Why, what happened?”

  “There was a thud, sort of, and then—My God, I forgot.”

  “Did you, dear?”

  “This will cost me a thousand years in Uncertainty,” he said.

  “Well, was it worth it?” she asked.

  He turned to her in anger and then it began to sneak out of him, that reluctant, devilish laugh that he had. Suddenly they were both of them howling like fools.

  They had hold of something. Not that they knew what it was or understood it yet, but they were holding tight to it. They laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks and they fell down weakly on the couch and tumbled against one another like two rag dolls.

  “God,” Tom said. “I’m bushed. You know? I’m really beat.”

  “Of course you are, darling. Tell you what. Why don’t you lie down right here for a little nap? I’ll get a blanket for you.”

  When she came back he was lying on the couch and he mumbled sleepily while she took off his shoes. She put the blanket over him and hovered there a minute and then carefully tiptoed into the room where the telephone was. She had the tip of her tongue between her teeth while she eased the door shut so it would make no sound and then stealthily she dialed long distance.

  “Mamma?” she said at last. “No, I’m all right. No, I don’t care what time it is in Connecticut. Listen, Mamma. Would you do something for me absolutely and no questions asked? Mamma, do you promise? Well, promise. All right. I knew I could count on you. Now listen, Mamma. It’s a matter of life and . . . It’s important, Mamma. Now listen. No matter who asks you, you understand. No matter how many times. You were not born in Pasquotink County. Have you got it straight?”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  CHARLES L. FONTENAY

  Charles L. Fontenay has been in the newspaper business for twenty years and is now a rewrite man for the Nashville Tennessean. He is also a prize-winning painter, a champion chess player, a political ghost writer, a landscape gardener and a practitioner of Chinese cookery. Recently, to fill in his spare time, he has taken to writing science fiction, of which he’s been an enthusiast since his teens. His first story appeared a little over two years ago, and since then he’s been selling regularly, for reasons that you’ll find in this story, in which the account of one of man’s most disastrous landings on alien worlds becomes a legend rich in warmth and hope.

  THE SILK AND THE SONG

  Alan first saw the Star Tower when he was twelve years old. His young master, Blik, rode him into the city of Falklyn that day.

  Blik had to argue hard before he got permission to ride Alan, his favorite boy. Blik’s father, Wiln, wanted Blik to ride a man, because Wiln thought the long trip to the city might be too much for a boy as young as Alan.

  Blik had his way, though. Blik was rather spoiled, and when he began to whistle, his father gave in.

  “All right, the human is rather big for its age,” surrendered Wiln. “You may ride it if you promise not to run it. I don’t want you breaking the wind of any of my prize stock.”

  So Bilk strapped the bridle-helmet with the handgrips on Alan’s head and threw the saddle-chair on Alan’s shoulders. Wiln saddled up Robb, a husky man he often rode on long trips, and they were off to the city at an easy trot.

  The Star Tower was visible before they reached Falklyn. Alan could see its spire above the tops of the ttomot trees as soon as they emerged from the Blue Forest. Blik saw it at the same time. Holding onto the bridle-helmet with one four-fingered hand, Blik poked Alan and pointed.

  “Look, Alan, the Star Tower!” cried Blik. “They say humans once lived in the Star Tower.”

  “Blik, when will you grow up and stop talking to the humans?” chided his father. “I’m going to punish you severely one of these days.”

  Alan did not answer Blik, for it was forbidden for humans to talk in the Hussir language except in reply to direct questions. But he kept his eager eyes on the Star Tower and watched it loom taller and taller ahead of them, striking into the sky far above the buildings of the city. He quickened his pace, so that he began to pull ahead of Robb, and Robb had to caution him.

  Between the Blue Forest and Falklyn, they were still in wild country, where the land was eroded and there were no farms and fields. Little clumps of ttomot trees huddled here and there among the gullies and low hills, thickening back toward the Blue Forest behind them, thinning toward the northwest plain, beyond which lay the distant mountains.

  They rounded a curve in the dusty road, and Blik whistled in excitement from Alan’s shoulders. A figure stood on a little promontory overhanging the road ahead of them.

  At first Alan thought it was a tall, slender Hussir, for a short jacket partly concealed its nakedness. Then he saw it was a young human girl. No Hussir ever boasted that mop of tawny hair, that tailless posterior curve.

  “A Wild Human!” growled Wiln in astonishment. Alan shivered. It was rumored the Wild Humans killed Hussirs and ate other humans.

  The girl was looking away toward Falklyn. Wiln unslung his short bow and loosed an arrow at her.

  The bolt exploded the dust near her feet. With a toss of bright hair, she turned her head and saw them. Then she was gone like a deer.

  When they came up to where she had stood, there was a brightness in the bushes beside the road. It was a pair of the colorful trousers such as Hussirs wore, only trimmer, tangled inextricably in a thorny bush. Evidently the girl had been caught as she climbed up from the road, and had had to crawl out of them.

  “They’re getting too bold,” said Wiln angrily. “This close to civilization, in broad daylight!”

  ~ * ~

  Alan was astonished when they entered Falklyn. The streets and buildings were of stone. There was little stone on the other side of the Blue Forest, and Wiln Castle was built of polished wooden blocks. The smooth stone of Falklyn’s streets was hot under the double sun. It burned Alan’s feet, so that he hobbled a little and shook Blik up. Blik clouted him on the side of the head for it.

  There were so many strange new things to see in the city that they made Alan dizzy. Some of the buildings were as much as three stories high, and the windows of a few of the biggest were covered, not
with wooden shutters, but with bright, transparent stuff that Wiln told Blik was called “glaz.” Robb told Alan in the human language, which the Hussirs did not understand, that it was rumored humans themselves had invented this glaz and given it to their masters. Alan wondered how a human could invent anything, penned in open fields.