The Best from Fantasy and Science Fiction Sixth Series

by Edited by Anthony Boucher

  “I see.”

  “Comes from knowing s.f.,” said Mr. Peterberry complacently. “Been a pleasure, Miss Hadstone.”

  ~ * ~

  She ordered a third cup of coffee and two eggs. She had slept wretchedly, overstimulated by the hysterical response of the Saturday-night audience and preyed on by the pervasive fear everyone had felt increasingly for the past month. If she were not neurotic about it she would certainly have taken a sleeping pill, but ever since Catherine . . .

  So this Sunday morning, instead of sleeping properly till noon and then reading Brooks Atkinson’s wonderful piece about her while she breakfasted in bed, she had gotten up at the ungodly hour of nine and gone to a drugstore counter for coffee. She had thought a walk in the spring air might refresh her; instead she had met Mr. Peterberry. Who only confused her more.

  Should she go back to the hotel and have the car brought over for a drive out Long Island or up in Westchester? It might be better to take a walk after all—tire herself out. No show tonight; bed at eight or nine at the latest; sleep the clock around. Escape.

  The street of brownstone houses converted into shops was so commonplace . . . too commonplace. Suppose she walked into . . . whatever the amnesiacs walked into? Mr. Peterberry’s warped something-or-other. I’m 41 years old, she thought, and I’m scared. Wanting to cry, Mama, Mama. Sanctuary.

  Silly, because sanctuary was for those who committed crimes and fled from vengeance to places of refuse. She had never done anything more heinous than drive sixty in a thirty-mile zone. And she had paid the fine. I’m losing my mind.

  Sanctuary was also converted brownstone, two of them this time, remodeled into the cool silence of the Church of the Former Rain, presumably with parsonage or synodal offices or welfare services—or all three—abovestairs. There were not more than a couple of dozen worshipers or idlers in the hard pews, gently sniffing the stale, old-linen-and-bleach smell. Someone was pummeling “Sheep May Safely Graze” on an untuned piano. Dear Johann Sebastian, thought Hesione, I bleed for you with every pounded key. Except for funerals I have not been in a house of worship twice in twenty-five years; if I had to break my routine I could at least have chosen something Episcopalian or Congregational or Unitarian. Let me correct you, Mr. Peterberry: it is not time-space that has been warped. Just me.

  “—sinners, all of us,” shouted the man, his volume much too great for the room and the number of his listeners. Nor was he placing his voice properly. Hesione had a nebulous idea that ministers were taught such things as part of their training. Maybe only those of the more conventional sects; the creed of the brownstone faithful probably considered such preparation insincerity.

  “—guilt, awful, unrepented guilt—”

  Sex, thought Hesione, swiftly glancing back over a singularly blameless life. They’re all mad on the subject except Shaw; if I could have played Lady Cicely sixty years ago . . .

  “—good stands alone, but evil begets evil. Oh, my friends, dear fellow sinners, I am a pitifully ignorant man with no pretensions to wordly learning. I know nothing of science; the jargon of physics or psychoanalysis is far over my head. But I know this, and I tell it to you so you may ponder it and heed: the catastrophes of the moment, the disaster and the fear of disasters which shake the world, and which science cannot explain, are the result of evil, of all the collective evil that has been done since Adam-”

  I suppose they would all turn around and stare if I slipped out now. Think I was trying to evade the collection. Why did I come in? Oh yes; I was scared. . . .

  “—like an iceberg, so deceptive, so majestic, so perilous, floating along apparently untroubled by the dashing waves, suddenly turning over and showing the hideous face of evil for all to see, generating a tremendous, unbelievable force. Oh my friends, I say to you, this is the world. The world of man, the world of sinners, the world of wickedness and guilt. It has been sailing along untroubled—seemingly untroubled— for century after century, but all the while the evil was accumulating, deed upon deed, sin upon sin, until at last in our day the weight has become too much to bear and the wicked world has turned turtle. What can right it again? Repentance, only repentance—”

  Repent in dust and hydrogen. Guilt. The jargon of psychoanalysis wasn’t over her head; practically all her friends had gone to the couch for absolution. Paul had for years—perhaps he was still going. She knew so little of Paul, even of what he felt and thought, yet their marriage was satisfactory to both of them; it had endured fifteen years on a basis of mutual respect. So unlike the first awful adventure with Maurice— she could not think of him as her husband and the father of her child—which had ended only when Catherine had . . .

  Maurice had been a truly wicked man—full of aggressions, the analysts would say. He had tried first to seduce her as he had Catherine; only when she had rebuffed him for months did he suggest marriage. And then, while she was still carrying Peggy, he had begun again with Catherine. Her own sister. And Catherine had taken too many sleeping pills. Even after twenty years the horror shook Hesione.

  Whatever was being played on the piano was unfamiliar to her. At any rate, having less vitality than Bach, it was more readily murdered. The collection plate, like an ancient warming pan without a lid, was thrust over her knees. She fumbled in her bag, dropped a dollar into the plate, and left.

  ~ * ~

  Between the time Hesione met Mr. Peterberry and the time she left the Church of the Former Rain, a jet fighter disappeared near Denver, 33 amnesiacs walked into other worlds, and 52 came back from excursions which had lasted from a few seconds to several days. While she rode in a taxi to Fifty-Seventh Street, a stratocruiser vanished; while she heard a piano recital by Haydn, Schubert, Weber, Berlioz, Brahms and Ravel, 4 planes were lost, 41 amnesiacs went, and 38 returned.

  As she reached her hotel another—But the anesthesia of repetition made the occurrences constantly less meaningful. It even dulled her fear into a fatalism; if there was a trap door to another space-time somewhere in the middle of the lobby, well, it was there.

  Lila was waiting in her room. “Thought you might need me, Miss Zioney. Want I should run you bath?”

  “Why are you so good to me, Lila? I didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow afternoon. Yes, please. Did you order yourself something?”

  Lila answered her questions, consecutively as she moved toward the bathroom and Hesione sank gratefully into the long chair. “You pays me well and you ain’t too hard to get along with. It don’t hurt me none to come downtown and see what you need. No’m, I don’t hold with devillin’ room service soon’s you back’s turned.”

  When she came out of the bathroom Hesione said, “Well, devil up room service now, will you? And for goodness sake get something to eat along with your martinis. And something nice for me. A pot of coffee and . . . and a steak, I think, and a fattening dessert. And lay out my nightgown, will you? I’m going to sleep and sleep.”

  Lila, in the long chair, had nearly finished her third martini, and Hesione, in bed, was toying with her pastry, when the phone rang. Lila rose, but Hesione picked up the receiver. “Mrs. Drummond? I have a person-to-person call from San Fernando, California.”

  Paul—since she was Miss Hadstone to everyone else in the world. Something was wrong—Peggy? Maybe Paul was just-“

  “Hello, Hezzy?”

  “Paul! What is it? Peggy . . .?”

  “Yes, but she’s all right now. Really Hezzy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sleeping pills. Esther Daniels, her room-“

  “Sleeping pills? Oh no, Paul.”

  “It could have been an accident. They don’t know yet-”

  “They? The police?”

  “No, no. The doctors. She’s at the Cedars. Completely out of danger. Believe me, Hezzy.”

  “Paul, does Esther Daniels know why?”

  “Look, I tell you it may have been pure accident. Anyway, no. She hasn’t the faintest idea what would have made Peggy do a th
ing like that. If she did. She called me right after she called the doctor. I got down to the Cedars ten minutes after they brought Peggy there.”

  “Thanks, Paul. Listen, I’m coming right home.”

  “Of course. Even if it was an accident she’ll want you. And if it wasn’t, she’ll want you still more.”

  Hesione was faintly embarrassed at her husband’s unaccustomed emotion. “I’ll fly,” she said. “Tonight.”

  “Yes. I’ll meet you at Burbank and run you right out to the hospital. Gaetano can’t squawk; Belle can carry on for a week.”

  “I’m sure Jules won’t make any trouble; I’ll call him right away. Did you see her?”

  “Peggy? No. But the doctor assured me she was absolutely out of danger.”

  “All right. I’ll wire what plane. See you in the morning.”

  “Goodnight then.”

  “Good—Oh Paul. I can’t!”

  “What? I don’t understand. Hello? Hello!”

  “Paul, I’m afraid. No, terrified. I can’t get on a plane. Not since this thing—with all of them disappearing.”

  “Yes, yes. You’re right. You mustn’t. I forgot. Now look Hezzy, everything will be all right. I’ll keep calling you, and as soon as Peggy’s up to it you can call her. She’s in room-”

  “No, I’ll come. I must come. Only not by air. I’ll drive.”

  “But that’s impossible. It takes so long.”

  “Not if Lila comes with me and we take turns. Will you help me drive to California, Lila? Peggy needs me.” She looked across the room. Lila was methodically packing a suitcase.

  “Ready when you are.”

  “I’ll phone you in . . . say four hours. That’d be eight, your time.”

  “Fine. But-”

  “Good-bye. I must hurry.”

  ~ * ~

  What could have made Puggy—in her stress she reverted to the old childish nickname she had used affectionately for her daughter until the girl had astonished her with raging tears, proclaiming she hated, hated, hated that awful name— what could have made Peggy do such a thing? Hesione, consciously loosening her grip on the wheel and then unconsciously tightening it, pressed just a little harder on the gas pedal. She was not—she took a small pride in never having been—a doting mother; she did not tell herself that Peggy was beautiful, popular, brilliant, talented, happy, with everything to live for. To Hesione’s detached eye Peggy was homely—rather pleasantly and sometimes even charmingly homely—and inclined to shyness and moods. She didn’t know if her daughter was popular; she suspected she wasn’t—except perhaps equivocally, as the daughter of a well-known actress—and she doubted she had any particular talents. But still...

  “Why would she do something like that?”

  “Man,” answered Lila succinctly. “Ain’t none of them worth it, but women go right on bothering with them anyway. Want me to take over now?”

  Hesione glanced at the clock. “I’ll stop at the next town and phone Paul. Then we’ll change. Men? I wouldn’t think Peggy . . .” She wouldn’t have thought Catherine was the type either. Peggy was the niece Catherine had not lived to see. What nonsense; heredity.

  Suppose Peggy had become involved as Catherine had? Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love. But women? She shrank a little in distaste; she was Lady Cicely for the fastidious moment, eternally vestal. But she was also Lady Macbeth: I know how tender ‘tis to love the babe that milks me—though to be accurate Peggy had been on formula almost from the first. She must be getting groggy with tiredness and worry, she decided; phone . . .

  It took so long to put the call through that, as she stood in the narrow booth, her knees trembled. Paul not home, called urgently to the hospital: Your stepdaughter, Dr. Drummond; perhaps you’d better—then suddenly Paul, “Hello? Hello?”

  The connection was bad, and the operator kept cutting in to ask for more quarters and dimes; she fumbled in her purse, listening to his encouragement; there was no use her calling the hospital; tomorrow. Peggy was much improved; don’t wear yourself out, Hezzy. . . .

  She slipped off her shoes and lay down on the back seat; Lila tucked the robe around her. Last night . . . last night was so far away. In Act One she played one of a trio with Captain Brassbound and Sir Howard; it wasn’t until Act Two that she got the long solo passages, and Act Three with its duets (Granville Barker said you were supposed to play Shaw like opera, pausing after each speech as though expecting an ovation for an aria). She had been so overstimulated after the curtain she couldn’t sleep; now she couldn’t sleep either.

  “Lila?”

  “Yes, Miss Zioney?”

  “If I’d brought her East with me . . . But there seemed so many good reasons—I don’t know. I asked her if she wanted to come. Talked it over carefully. It would have meant trying to make new friends, and Peggy—Besides, she didn’t seem to mind.”

  “She twenty, ain’t she?”

  “Yes. Almost twenty-one.”

  “You was twenty, did you expect you mamma to tell you what to do and what not?”

  “Mother was dead; there was only my older sister Catherine and me. Besides, I was married at nineteen.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “I’m not sure. You mean I have no more responsibility for Peggy after a certain age?”

  “Something like that. You does you job when they young, and that’s all you can. Try to sleep now, so’s you can drive come morning.”

  Do your job when they’re young, thought Hesione; I did. Puggy had everything. From pediatricians to progressive schooling. And it wasn’t always easy, what with Maurice at the beginning, and working at the Pasadena Playhouse afterward; and then just working. And Paul wasn’t making any money when we got married. I remember how I hesitated, wondering if it was fair to her. But just when does the time come when you are no longer responsible?”

  “ ‘I’ve had enough of your duty and Howard’s duty,’ “ she murmured.

  “What’s that, Miss Zioney?”

  “What? Oh. Nothing; from Act Three.”

  “You better go to sleep.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Should she have taken the plane after all, in spite of her terror? Suppose Peggy . . . Suppose she . . . got worse? Whatever the cause of her despondency (here Hesione brushed aside the consciousness she was accepting the theory there had been no accident), news that her mother’s plane had vanished would hardly lighten it. Duty? Actually, Lady Cicely was more duty-ridden than the other two; her duties were diffused where theirs were concentrated and poisonously ingrown. Everybody in the play lied to themselves; Cicely was a hateful, hard, cold, superficial bitch over whom Shaw had thrown a veil of sparkling words and generations of hardworking actresses had lent an appeal not inherent. The infantile or self-starting school of acting: identify yourself with the part. Thank heaven, next year she would play a real woman, Lady Macbeth ... I have given suck, and know how tender ‘tis . . .

  She woke with a start, moaning; wretched, chilled, with a cramp in her neck and a drugged desire for more sleep, much more sleep. She drew her knees closer, struggling to compress her body still farther into the fetal position and plunge back into unconsciousness through sheer will.

  ~ * ~

  “Zanesville, Ohia,” announced Lila. “You rested some?”

  Hesione groaned. “I’ll never be rested again.”

  “Breakfast’ll fix you up.”

  Hesione shuddered. “Food—uh! But I’ll call Paul—No, what time is it? Five—too early. I’ll call the hospital, though.”

  “And we need gas. And you going to have at least a cup of coffee.”

  “All right. See if you can find a filling station with a lunch counter.” she sat up and yawned. “I feel like a scarecrow. Last year’s scarecrow.”

  “You feel better directly. How’s that place look?” Without waiting for an answer, Lila drove up to the gas pump of an all-night lunchroom with a winking pink neon: truckeRs welcome. Hesione found he
r shoes, slipped on her coat, before opening the door to the chilly air. She hesitated when no attendant appeared, then shrugged. In the rest room she bathed her eyes and face in cold water, refusing to look at the grime; she’d been in dressing rooms where it was worse.

  “We’ll go to the counter and order, then I’ll telephone.” She heard self-consciousness in her voice and glanced quickly at Lila to see if she had noticed it. But people in small restaurants, particularly those in little towns, were sometimes rude to colored people. If Lila went in alone they might ignore her or even refuse to serve her.

  A knobby-faced man leaned across the counter’s varicose linoleum, chewing gum just briskly enough to show glimpses of a flashing gold tooth. “Can someone put gas and oil in our car while we eat?” Hesione asked, disliking him at sight.