by Ira Levin
Pete and Kim would be all right; she had to believe that. They’d be all right till she got to the city and spoke to people, spoke to a lawyer, got them back from Walter. They were probably being cared for beautifully by Bobbie or Carol or Mary Ann Stavros – by the things that were called by those names, that is.
And Ruthanne had to be warned. Maybe they could go together – though Ruthanne had time yet.
She came to the end of the belt of trees, made sure no cars were coming, and ran across Winter Hill Drive. Snow-pillowed spruce trees lined the far side of it; she hurried along behind them, her arms folded across her chest, her hands in their thin gloves burrowed in her armpits.
Gwendolyn Lane, where Ruthanne lived, was somewhere near Short Ridge Hill, out past Bobbie’s; getting there would take almost an hour. More, probably, with the snow on the ground and the darkness. And she didn’t dare hitchhike because any car could be Walter, and she wouldn’t know till too late.
Not only Walter, she realized suddenly. They would all be out looking for her, cruising the roads with flashlights, spotlights. How could they let her get away and tell? Every man was a threat, every car a danger. She would have to make sure Ruthanne’s husband wasn’t there before she rang the bell; look through the windows.
Oh God, could she get away? None of the others had.
But maybe none of the others had tried. Bobbie hadn’t, Charmaine hadn’t. Maybe she was the first one to find out in time. If it was in time …
She left Winter Hill and hurried down Talcott Lane. Headlights flashed, and a car swung from a driveway ahead on the other side. She crouched beside a parked car and froze, and light swam under her and the car drove past. She stood and looked: the car was going slowly, and, sure enough, a spotlight beam lanced from it and slid a wobble of light over housefronts and lawns of snow.
She hurried down Talcott, past silent houses with Christmas-lighted windows and Christmas-light-trim-med doors. Her feet and legs were cold, but she was all right. At the end of Talcott was Old Norwood Road, and from there she would take either Chimney Road or Hunnicutt.
A dog barked nearby, barked ragingly; but the barking dropped behind her as she hurried on.
A black arm of tree branch lay on the trodden snow. She set her boot across it and broke off half of it, and hurried on, holding the cold wet strength of branch in her thin-gloved hand.
A flashlight gleamed in Pine Tree Lane. She ran between two houses, ran over snow toward a snow-dome of bush; huddled behind it panting, holding the branch tightly in her aching-cold hand.
She looked out – at the backs of houses, their windows alight. From the rooftop of one a stream of red sparks lofted and danced, dying among the stars.
The flashlight came swaying from between two houses, and she drew back behind the bush. She rubbed a stockinged knee, warmed the other in the crook of her elbow.
Wan light swept toward her over snow, and spots of light slid away over her skirt and gloved hand.
She waited, waited longer, and looked out. A dark man-shape went toward the houses, following a patch of lighted snow.
She waited till the man had gone, and rose and hurried toward the next street over. Hickory Lane? Switzer? She wasn’t sure which it was, but both of them led toward Short Ridge Road.
Her feet were numb, despite the boots’ fleece lining.
* * *
A light shone blindingly and she turned and ran. A light ahead swung toward her and she ran to the side, up a cleared driveway, past the side of a garage, and down a long slope of snow. She slipped and fell, clambered to her feet still holding the branch – the lights were bobbing toward her – and ran over level snow. A light swung toward her. She turned, toward snow with no hiding place, and turned, and stood where she was, panting. ‘Get away!’ she cried at the lights bobbing toward her, two on one side, one on the other. She raised the branch. ‘Get away!’
Flashlights bobbed toward her, and slowed and stopped, their radiance blinding. ‘Get away!’ she cried, and shielded her eyes.
The light lessened. ‘Put them out. We’re not going to hurt you, Mrs Eberhart.’ ‘Don’t be afraid. We’re Walter’s friends.’ The light went; she lowered her hand. ‘Your friends too. I’m Frank Roddenberry. You know me. Take it easy, no one’s going to hurt you.’
Shapes darker than the darkness stood before her. ‘Stay away,’ she said, raising the branch higher.
‘You don’t need that.’
‘We’re not going to hurt you.’
‘Then get away,’ she said.
‘Everyone’s out looking for you,’ Frank Rodden-berry’s voice said. ‘Walter’s worried.’
‘I’ll bet he is,’ she said.
They stood before her, four or five yards away; three men. ‘You shouldn’t be running around like this, no coat on,’ one of them said.
‘Get away,’ she said.
‘P-put it down,’ Frank said. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’
‘Mrs Eberhart, I was on the phone with Walter not five minutes ago.’ The man in the middle was speaking. ‘We know about this idea you’ve got. It’s wrong, Mrs Eberhart. Believe me, it’s just not so.’
‘Nobody’s making robots,’ Frank said.
‘You must think we’re a hell of a lot smarter than we really are,’ the man in the middle said. ‘Robots that can drive cars? And cook meals? And trim kids’ hair?’
‘And so real-looking that the kids wouldn’t notice?’ the third man said. He was short and wide.
‘You must think we’re a townful of geniuses,’ the man in the middle said. ‘Believe me, we’re not.’
‘You’re the men who put us on the moon,’ she said.
‘Who is?’ he said. ‘Not me. Frank, did you put anybody on the moon? Bernie?’
‘Not me,’ Frank said.
The short man laughed. ‘Not me, Wynn,’ he said. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘I think you’ve got us mixed up with a couple of other fellows,’ the man in the middle said. ‘Leonardo da Vinci and Albert Einstein, maybe.’
‘My gosh,’ the short man said, ‘we don’t want robots for wives. We want real women.’
‘Get away and let me go on,’ she said.
They stood there, darker than the darkness. ‘Joanna,’ Frank said, ‘if you were right and we could make robots that were so fantastic and lifelike, don’t you think we’d cash in on it somehow?’
‘That’s right,’ the man in the middle said. ‘We could all be rich with that kind of know-how.’
‘Maybe you’re going to,’ she said. ‘Maybe this is just the beginning.’
‘Oh my Lord,’ the man said, ‘you’ve got an answer for everything. You should have been the lawyer, not Walter.’
Frank and the short man laughed.
‘Come on, Joanna,’ Frank said, ‘p-put down that b-bat or whatever it is and—’
‘Get away and let me go on!’ she said.
‘We can’t do that,’ the man in the middle said. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia. Or get hit by a car.’
‘I’m going to a friend’s house,’ she said. ‘I’ll be inside in a few minutes. I’d be inside now if you hadn’t – oh Jesus …’ She lowered the branch and rubbed her arm; and rubbed her eyes and her forehead, shivering.
‘Will you let us prove to you that you’re wrong?’ the man in the middle said. ‘Then we’ll take you home, and you can get some help if you need it.’
She looked at his dark shape. ‘Prove to me?’ she said.
‘We’ll take you to the house, the Men’s Association house—’
‘Oh no.’
‘Now just a second; just hear me out please. We’ll take you to the house and you can check it over from stem to stern. I’m sure nobody’ll object, under the circumstances. And you’ll see there’s—’
‘I’m not setting foot in—’
‘You’ll see there’s no robot factory there,’ he said. ‘There’s a bar and a card room and a few other rooms, and that’s it. There�
��s a projector and some very X-rated movies; that’s our big secret.’
‘And the slot machines,’ the short man said.
‘Yes. We’ve got some slot machines.’
‘I wouldn’t set foot in there without an armed guard,’ she said. ‘Of women soldiers.’
‘We’ll clear everyone out,’ Frank said. ‘You’ll have the p-place all to yourself.’
‘I won’t go,’ she said.
‘Mrs Eberhart,’ the man in the middle said, ‘we’re trying to be as gentle about this as we know how, but there’s a limit to how long we’re going to stand here parleying.’
‘Wait a minute,’ the short man said, ‘I’ve got an idea. Suppose one of these women you think is a robot – suppose she was to cut herself on the finger, and bleed. Would that convince you she was a real person? Or would you say we made robots with blood under the skin?’
‘For God’s sake, Bernie,’ the man in the middle said, and Frank said, ‘You can’t – ask someone to cut herself just to—’
‘Will you let her answer the question, please? Well, Mrs Eberhart? Would that convince you? If she cut her finger and bled?’
‘Bernie …’
‘Just let her answer, damn it!’
Joanna stood staring, and nodded. ‘If she bled,’ she said, ‘I would – think she was – real …’
‘We’re not going to ask someone to cut herself. We’re going to go to—’
‘Bobbie would do it,’ she said. ‘If she’s really Bobbie. She’s my friend. Bobbie Markowe.’
‘On Fox Hollow Lane?’ the short man asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘It’s two minutes from here. Just think for a second, will you? We won’t have to go all the way in to the Centre; we won’t have to make Mrs Eberhart go somewhere she doesn’t want to …’
Nobody said anything.
‘I guess it’s – not a b-bad idea,’ Frank said. ‘We could speak to Mrs Markowe …’
‘She won’t bleed,’ Joanna said.
‘She will,’ the man in the middle said. ‘And when she does, you’ll know you’re wrong and you’ll let us take you home to Walter, without any arguments.’
‘If she does,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Frank, you run on ahead and see if she’s there and explain to her. I’m going to leave my flashlight on the ground here, Mrs Eberhart. Bernie and I’ll go a little ahead, and you pick it up and follow us, as far behind as makes you comfortable. But keep the light on us so we know you’re still there. I’m leaving my coat too; put it on. I can hear your teeth chattering.’
She was wrong, she knew it. She was wrong and frozen and wet and tired and hungry, and pulled eighteen ways by conflicting demands. Including to pee.
If they were killers, they’d have killed her then. The branch wouldn’t have stopped them, three men facing one woman.
She lifted the branch and looked at it, walking slowly, her feet aching. She let the branch fall. Her glove was wet and dirty, her fingers frozen. She flexed them, and tucked her hand into her other armpit. She held the long heavy flashlight as steadily as she could.
The men walked with small steps ahead of her. The short man wore a brown coat and a red leather cap; the taller man, a green shirt and tan pants tucked into brown boots. He had reddish-blond hair.
His sheepskin coat lay warm on her shoulders. Its smell was strong and good – of animals, of life.
Bobbie would bleed. It was coincidence that Dale Coba had worked on robots at Disneyland, that Claude Axhelm thought he was Henry Higgins, that Ike Mazzard drew his flattering sketches. Coincidence, that she had spun into – into madness. Yes, madness. (‘It’s not catastrophic,’ Dr Fancher said, smiling. ‘I’m sure I can help you.’)
Bobbie would bleed, and she would go home and get warm.
Home to Walter?
When had it begun, her distrust of him, the feeling of nothingness between them? Whose fault was it?
His face had grown fuller; why hadn’t she noticed it before today? Had she been too busy taking pictures, working in the darkroom?
She would call Dr Fancher on Monday, would go and lie on the brown leather couch; would cry a little maybe, and try to become happy.
The men waited at the corner of Fox Hollow Lane. She made herself walk faster.
Frank stood waiting in Bobbie’s bright doorway. The men talked with him, and turned to her as she came slowly up the walk.
Frank smiled. ‘She says sure,’ he said. ‘If it’ll make you feel b-better she’ll be glad to do it.’
She gave the flashlight to the green-shirted man. His face was broad and leathery, strong-looking. ‘We’ll wait out here,’ he said, lifting the coat from her shoulders.
She said, ‘She doesn’t have to …’
‘No, go on,’ he said. ‘You’ll only start wondering again later.
Frank came out onto the doorstep. ‘She’s in the kitchen,’ he said.
She went into the house. Its warmth surrounded her. Rock music blared and thumped from upstairs.
She went down the hallway, flexing her aching hands.
Bobbie stood waiting in the kitchen, in red slacks and an apron with a big daisy on it. ‘Hi, Joanna,’ she said, and smiled. Beautiful bosomy Bobbie. But not a robot.
‘Hi,’ she said. She held the doorjamb, and leaned to it and rested the side of her head against it.
‘I’m sorry to hear you’re in such a state,’ Bobbie said.
‘Sorry to be in it,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind cutting my finger a little,’ Bobbie said, ‘if it’ll ease your mind for you.’ She walked to a counter. Walked smoothly, steadily, gracefully. Opened a drawer.
‘Bobbie …’ Joanna said. She closed her eyes, and opened them. ‘Are you really Bobbie?’ she asked.
‘Of course I am,’ Bobbie said, a knife in her hand. She went to the sink. ‘Come here,’ she said. ‘You can’t see from there.’
The rock music blared louder. ‘What’s going on upstairs?’ Joanna asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Bobbie said. ‘Dave has the boys up there. Come here. You can’t see.’
The knife was large, its blade pointed. ‘You’ll amputate your whole hand with that thing,’ Joanna said.
‘I’ll be careful,’ Bobbie said, smiling. ‘Come on.’ She beckoned, holding the large knife.
Joanna raised her head from the jamb, and took her hand from it. She went into the kitchen – so shining and immaculate, so un-Bobbie-like.
She stopped. The music is in case I scream, she thought. She isn’t going to cut her finger; she’s going to—
‘Come on,’ Bobbie said, standing by the sink, beckoning, holding the point-bladed knife.
Not catastrophic, Dr Fancher? Thinking they’re robots not women? Thinking Bobbie would kill me? Are you sure you can help me?
‘You don’t have to do it,’ she said to Bobbie.
‘It’ll ease your mind,’ Bobbie said.
‘I’m seeing a shrink after New Year’s,’ she said. ‘That’ll ease my mind. At least I hope it will.’
‘Come on,’ Bobbie said. ‘The men are waiting.’
Joanna went forward, toward Bobbie standing by the sink with the knife in her hand, so real-looking – skin, eyes, hair, hands, rising-falling aproned bosom – that she couldn’t be a robot, she simply couldn’t be, and that was all there was to it.
The men stood on the doorstep, blowing out steamy breath, their hands deep in their pockets. Frank hipped from side to side with the beat of the loud rock music.
Bernie said, ‘What’s taking so long?’
Wynn and Frank shrugged.
The rock music blared.
Wynn said, ‘I’m going to call Walter and tell him we found her.’ He went into the house. ‘Get Dave’s car keys!’ Frank called after him.
THREE
The market parking lot was pretty well filled, but she found a good place up near the front; and that
, plus the sun’s warmth and the moist sweet smell of the air when she got out of the car, made her feel less bothered about having to be shopping. A little less bothered, anyway.
Miss Austrian came limping and caning toward her from the market’s entrance, with a small paper bag in her hand and – she didn’t believe it – a friendly smile on her Queen-of-Hearts white face. For her? ‘Good morning, Mrs Hendry,’ Miss Austrian said.
What do you know, black is bearable. ‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘March is certainly going out like a lamb, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It seemed like it was going to be a two-headed lion.’
Miss Austrian stopped and stood looking at her. ‘You haven’t been in the library in months,’ she said. ‘I hope we haven’t lost you to television.’
‘Oh no, not me,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve been working.’
‘On another book?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let me know when it’s going to be published; we’ll order a copy.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be in soon. I’m almost done with it.’
‘Have a good day,’ Miss Austrian said, smiling and caning away.
‘Thanks. You too.’
Well, there was one sale.
Maybe she’d been hypersensitive. Maybe Miss Austrian was cold to whites too until they’d been there a few months.
She went through the market’s opening-by-themselves doors and found an empty cart. The aisles were the usual Saturday morning parade.
She went quickly, taking what she needed, maneuvering the cart in and out and around. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me, please.’ It still bugged her the way they shopped so languidly, gliding along as if they never sweated. How white could you get? Even filling their carts just so! She could shop the whole market in the time they did one aisle.
Joanna Eberhart came toward her, looking terrific in a tightly belted pale blue coat. She had a fine figure and was prettier than Ruthanne remembered, her dark hair gleaming in graceful drawn-back wings. She came along slowly, looking at the shelves.
