“You’re a rude and ignorant young man,” she snapped. From the corner of my eye I could see the professor involuntarily nodding agreement. “Every educated person knows that the lost wisdom of Lemuria was to be revived in the person of a beautiful priestess this year. According to the science of pyramidology--”
Beautiful priestess? Oh.
The professor and I stood by while she spouted an amazing compost of lost-continentism, the Ten Tribes, anti fluoridation, vegetarianism, homeopathic medicine, organic fanning, astrology, flying saucers, and the prose poem of Kahlil Gibran.
The professor said dubiously at last: “I suppose one must call her a sort of Cultural Diffusionist....” He was happier when he had her classified. He went on: “I think you know Miss Phoebe Bancroft. We wish you to present us to her as soon as possible.”
“Professor,” I complained, “we have a road map and we can find La Plume. And once we’ve found La Plume I don’t think it’ll be very hard to find Miss Phoebe.”
“I will be pleased to accompany you,” said the Duchess. “Though normally I frown on mechanical devices, I keep an automobile nearby in case in case of --well! Of all the rude!”
Believe it or not, she was speechless. Nothing in her rich store of gibberish and hate seemed to fit the situation. And fluoridation, organic farming, even Khalil Gibran were irrelevant in the face of us two each standing on one leg, thumbing our noses, and sticking out our tongues.
Undeniably the posture of defense was losing efficiency. It took longer to burn away the foolish glow....
“Professor,” I asked after we warily relaxed, “how many more of those can we take?”
He shrugged. “That is why a guide will be useful,” he said. “Madame, I believe you mentioned an automobile.”
“I know!” she said brightly. “It was asana yoga, wasn’t it? Postures, I mean?”
The professor sucked an invisible lemon. “No, madame,” he said cadaverously. “It was neither siddhasana nor padmasana. Yoga has been subsumed under Functional Epistemology, as has every other working philosophical system, Eastern and Western--but we waste time. The automobile?”
“You have to do that every so often, is that it?”
“We will leave it at that, madame. The automobile, please.”
“Come right along,” she said gaily. I didn’t look on her face. Madam Chairlady was about to spring a parliamentary coup. But I got my briefcase and followed.
The car was in a nearby barn. It was a handsome new Lincoln, and I was reasonably certain that our fair cicerone had stolen it. But then, we had stolen the Ford.
I loaded the briefcase in and took the wheel over her objections and we headed for La Plume, a dozen miles away. On the road she yelped: “Oh, Functional Epistemology and you’re Professor Lewten--”
“Yes, madame,” he wearily agreed.
“I’ve read your book, of course. So has Miss Bancroft; shell be so pleased to see you.”
“Then why, madame, did you order your subjects to murder us?”
“Well, Professor, of course I didn’t know who you were then, and it was rather shocking, seeing somebody in a car. I, ah, had the feeling that you were up to no good, especially when you mentioned dear Miss Bancroft. She, you know, is really responsible for the re-emergence of the New Lemuria.”
“Indeed?” said the professor. “You understand, then, about Leveled Personality Interflow?” He was beaming.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Leveled Personality Interflow!” he barked. “Chapter Nine!”
“Oh. In your book, of course. Well, as a matter of fact I skipped--”
“Another one.” muttered the professor, leaning back.
The Duchess chattered on: “Dear Miss Bancroft, of course, swears by your book. But you were asking no, it wasn’t what you said. I cast her horoscope and it turned out that she is the Twenty-seventh Pendragon!”
“Scheissdreck.” the professor mumbled, too discouraged to translate.
“So naturally, Professor, she incarnates Taliesin spiritually and,” a modest giggle, “you know who incarnates it materially. Which is only sensible, since I’m descended from the high priestesses of Mu. Little did I think when I was running the Wee Occult Book Shoppe in Carbondale!”
“Say,” said the professor. He made an effort. “Madame, tell me something. Do you never feel a certain thing, a sense of friendliness and intoxication and good will enveloping you quite suddenly?”
“Oh, that” she said scornfully. “Yes; every now and then. It doesn’t bother me. I just think of all the work I have to do. How I must stamp out the dreadful, soul-destroying advocates of meat eating, and chemical fertilizer, and fluoridation. How I must wage the good fight for occult science and crush the materialistic philosophers. How I must tear down our corrupt and self-seeking ministers and priests, our rotten laws and customs--”
“Lieber Gott.” the professor marveled as she went on. “With Norris it is spiders. With me it is rats and asphyxiation. But with this woman it is apparently everything in the Kosmos except her own revolting self!” She didn’t hear him; she was demanding that the voting age for women be lowered to sixteen and for men raised to thirty-five.
We plowed through flies and mosquitoes like smoke. The flies bred happily on dead cows and in sheep which unfortunately were still alive. There wasn’t oil cake for the cows in the New Lemuria. There wasn’t sheep-dip for the sheep. There weren’t state and county and township and village road crews constantly patrolling, unplugging sluices, clearing gutters, replacing rusted culverts, and so quite naturally the countryside was reverting to swampland. The mosquitoes loved it.
“La Plume,” the Duchess announced gaily. “And that’s Miss Phoebe Bancroft’s little house right there. Just why did you wish to see her, Professor, by the way?”
“To complete her re-education...” the professor said in a tired voice.
Miss Phoebe’s house, and the few near it, were the only places we had seen in the Area which weren’t blighted by neglect. Miss Phoebe, of course, was able to tell the shambling zombies what to do in the way of truck gardening, lawn mowing and maintenance. The bugs weren’t too bad there.
“She’s probably resting, poor dear,” said the Duchess. I stopped the car and we got out The Duchess said something about Kleenex and got in again and rummaged through the glove compartment.
“Please, Professor,” I said, clutching my briefcase. “Play it the smart way. The way I told you.”
“Norris,” he said, “I realize that you have my best interests at heart. You’re a good boy, Norris and I like you n--”
“Watch it!” I yelled, and swung into the posture of defense. So did he.
Spiders. It wasn’t a good old world, not while there were loathsome spiders in it. Spiders.
And a bullet shot past my ear. The professor fell. I turned and saw the Duchess looking smug, about to shoot me too. I side-stepped and she missed; as I slapped the automatic out of her hand I thought confusedly that it was a near miracle, her hitting the professor at five paces even if he was a standing target. People don’t realize how hard it is to hit anything with a hand gun.
I suppose I was going to kill her or at least damage her badly when a new element intruded. A little old white-baked lady tottering down the neat gravel path from the house. She wore a nice pastel dress which surprised me; somehow I had always though of her in black.
“Bertha!” Miss Phoebe, rapped out “What have you done?”
The Duchess simpered. “That man there was going to harm you, Phoebe, dear. And this fellow is just as bad--”
Miss Phoebe said: “Nonsense. Nobody can harm me. Chapter Nine, Rule Seven. Bertha, I saw you shoot that gentleman. I’m very angry with you, Bertha. Very angry!”
The Duchess turned up her eyes and crumpled. I didn’t have to check; I was sure she was dead. Miss Phoebe was once again in Utter Harmony with Her Environment.
I went over and knelt beside the professor. He had a
hole in his stomach and was still breathing. There wasn’t much blood. I sat down and cried. For the professor. For the poor damned human race which at a mile per day would be gobbled up into apathy and idiocy. Good-by, Newton and Einstein, good-by steak dinners and Michelangelo and Tenzing Norkay; good-by Moses, Rodin, Kwan Yin, transistors, Boole and Steichen...
A redheaded man with an Adam’s apple was saying gently to Miss Phoebe: “It’s this rabbit, ma’am.” And indeed an enormous rabbit was loping up to him. “Every time I find a turnip or something he takes it away from me and he kicks and bites when I try to reason with him--” And indeed he took a piece of turnip from his pocket and the rabbit insolently pawed it from has hand and nibbled it triumphantly with one wise-guy eye cocked up at his victim. “He does that every time, Miss Phoebe,” the man said unhappily.
The little old lady said: “I’ll think of something, Henry. But let me take care of these people first.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry said. He reached out cautiously for his piece of turnip and the rabbit bit him and then went back to its nibbling.
“Young man,” Miss Phoebe said to me, “what’s wrong? You’re giving in to despair. You musn’t do that. Chapter Nine, Rule Three,”
I pulled myself together enough to say: “This is Professor Leuten. He’s dying.”
Her eyes widened. “The Professor Leuten?” I nodded. “Haw to Live on the Cosmic Expense Account?” I nodded.
“Oh dear! If only there were something I could do!”
Heal the dying? Apparently not. She didn’t think she could, so she couldn’t.
“Professor,” I said. “Professor.”
He opened his eyes and said something in German, then, hazily: “Woman shot me. Spoil her racket, you call it? Who is this?” He grimaced with pain.
“I’m Miss Phoebe Bancroft, Professor Leuten,” she breathed, leaning over him. “I’m so dreadfully sorry; I admire your wonderful book so much.”
His weary eyes turned to me. “So, Norris,” he said “No time to do it right. We do it your way. Help me up.”
I helped him to his feet, suffering, I think, almost as much as he did. The wound started to bleed more copiously.
“No!” Miss Phoebe exclaimed. “You should lie down.”
The professor leered. “Good idea, baby. You want to keep me company?”
“What’s that?” she snapped.
“You heard me, baby. Say, you got any liquor in your place?”
“Certainly not! Alcohol is inimical to the development of the higher functions of the mind. Chapter Nine--”
“Pfui on Chapter Nine, baby. I chust wrote that stuff for money.”
If Miss Phoebe hadn’t been in a state resembling surgical shock after hearing that, she would have seen the pain convulsing his face. “You mean... ?” she quavered, beginning to look her age for the first time.
“Sure. Lotta garbage. Sling fancy words and make money. What I go for is liquor and women. Women like you, baby.”
The goose did it.
Weeping, frightened, insulted and lost she tottered blindly up the neat path to her house. I eased the professor to the ground. He was biting almost through his lower lip.
I heard a new noise behind me. It was Henry, the redhead with the Adam’s apple. He was chewing his piece of turnip and had hold of the big rabbit by the hind legs. He was flailing it against a tree. Henry looked ferocious, savage, carnivorous and very, very dangerous to meddle with. In a word, human.
“Professor,” I breathed at his waxen face, “you’ve done it. It’s broken. Over. No more Plague Area.”
He muttered, his eyes closed: “I regret not doing it properly... but tell the people how I died, Norris. With dignity, without fear. Because of Functional Epistemology.”
I said through tears: “I’ll do more than tell them, Professor. The world will know about your heroism.”
“The world must know. We’ve got to make a book of this your authentic, authorized, fictional biography and as Hopedale’s west-coast agent I’ll see to the film sale--”
“Film?” he said drowsily. “Book...?”
“Yes. Your years of struggle, the little girl at home who kept faith in you when everybody scoffed, your burning mission to transform the world, and the climax here, now! as you give up your life for your philosophy.”
“What girl?” he asked weakly.
“There must have been someone, Professor. We’ll find someone.”
“You would,” he asked feebly, “document my expulsion from Germany by the Nazis?”
“Well, I don’t think so, Professor. The export market’s important, especially when it comes to selling film rights, and you don’t want to go offending people by raking up old memories. But don’t worry, Professor. The big thing is, the world will never forget you and what you’ve done.”
He opened his eyes and breathed: “You mean your version of what I’ve done. Ach, Norris, Norris! Never did I think there was a power on Earth which could force me to contravene the Principle of Permissive Evolution.” His voice became stronger. “But you, Norris, are that power.” He got to his feet, grunting. “Norris,” he said, “I hereby give you formal warning that any attempt to make a fictional biography or cinema film of my life will result in an immediate injunction being--you say slapped?--upon you, as well as suits for damages from libel, copyright infringement and invasion of privacy. I have had enough.”
“Professor,” I gasped. “You’re well!”
He grimaced. “I’m sick. Profoundly sick to my stomach at my contravention of the Principle of Permissive--”
His voice grew fainter. This was because he was rising slowly into the air. He leveled off at a hundred feet and called: “Send the royalty statements to my old address in Basle. And remember, Norris, I warned you--”
He zoomed eastward then at perhaps one hundred miles per hour. I think he was picking up speed when he vanished from sight.
I stood there for ten minutes or so and sighed and rubbed my eyes and wondered whether anything was worth while. I decided I’d read the professor’s book tomorrow without fail, unless something came up.
Then I took my briefcase and went up the walk and into Miss Phoebe’s house. (Henry had made a twig fire on the lawn and was roasting his rabbit; he glared at me most disobligingly and I skirted him with care.)
This was, after all, the pay-off; this was, after all, the reason why I had risked my life and sanity.
“Miss Phoebe,” I said to her taking it out of the briefcase, “I represent the Hopedale Press; this is one of our standard contracts. We’re very much interested in publishing the story of your life, with special emphasis on the events of the past few weeks. Naturally you’d have an experienced collaborator. I believe sales in the hundred thousands wouldn’t be too much to expect I would suggest as a title that’s right, you sign on that line there How to be Supreme Ruler of Everybody...”
<
* * * *
THE FAR LOOK
by Theodore L. Thomas
The true science-fiction story is a highly specialized form which very few writers can handle adequately. Most of what appears under the label is either space opera (essentially a transplanted Western or jungle or fight yarn) or—at the other extreme—just dramatized essay, minus action or credible characterization.
To be good science-fiction, a story must contain a rare blend of intellection and emotion; puzzle and plot must be integrally related in such a way that the human problem arises out of the idea-extrapolation, and the resolution of the one is impossible without the solution to the other.
Two further requirements for the good science-fiction writer: to be a good writer; and to have at least enough scientific background to avoid contradicting currently accepted “facts.”
Perhaps in part due to the training provided by his profession (the author is a patent attorney, who also writes highly entertaining articles about his own field under the pseudonym of Leonard Lockhard), Mr. Thomas’s story ac
hieves the same intense quality of realism that may be found in a Bonestell moonscape: the product of painstaking detail-work plus a thorough awareness of underlying structural realities, and an imagination that can visualize in technicolor.
* * * *
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man’s heart beat thick and quick,
Like a madman on a drum.
Oscar Wilde
Ballad of Reading Gaol
The ship appeared first as a dot low on the horizon. The television cameras immediately picked it up. At first the ship did not give the impression of motion; it seemed to hover motionless and swell in size. Then in a few seconds it passed the first television station, the screaming roar of its passage rocking the camera slightly.
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 2 - [Anthology] Page 5
