Short Fiction

scorched trees, Mr. Milton doubled up and screamed.

“Captain!”

Mr. Goeblin struck his forehead. “I told you, I told you we shouldn’t have drunk that wine! Didn’t I tell you?”

“It was the wine⁠—and we all drank it. He did it, he poisoned us!”

“Follow me!” cried Mr. Greypoole, making a hurried gesture and breaking into a run. “Faster!”

They stumbled hypnotically through the park, over the Mandarin-bridges to the rock.

“Tell them, Captain, tell them to climb the ladder.”

“Go on up, men.”

“But we’re poisoned, sir!”

“Hurry! There’s⁠—an antidote in the ship.”

The crew climbed into the ship.

“Captain,” invited Mr. Greypoole.

Captain Webber ascended jerkily. When he reached the open lock, he turned. His eyes swept over the hills and fields and mountains, over the rivers and houses and still people. He coughed and pulled himself into the rocket.

Mr. Greypoole followed.

“You don’t dislike this ship, do you⁠—that is, the surroundings are not offensive?”

“No; we don’t dislike the ship.”

“I am glad of that⁠—if only I had been allowed more latitude! But everything functions so well here; no real choice in the matter, actually. No more than the Sealing Film. And they would leave me with these human emotions! I see, of course, why the communications system doesn’t work, why my calendar is out of commission. Kind of Mr. Waldmeyer to arrange for them to stop when his worst fears finally materialized. Are the men all seated? No, no, they mustn’t writhe about the floor like that. Get them to their stations⁠—no, to the stations they would most prefer. And hurry!”

Captain Webber ordered Mr. Chitterwick to the galley, Mr. Goeblin to the engineering chair, Mr. Friden to the navigator’s room.⁠ ⁠…

“Sir, what’s going to happen? Where’s the antidote?”

Mr. Milton to the pilot’s chair.⁠ ⁠…

“The pain will last only another moment or so⁠—it’s unfortunately part of the Eternifier,” said Mr. Greypoole. “There, all in order? Good, good. Now, Captain, I see understanding in your face; that pleases me more than I can say. My position is so difficult! But you can see, when a machine is geared to its job⁠—which is to retain permanence on Happy Glades⁠—well, a machine is a machine. Where shall we put you?”

Captain Webber leaned on the arm of the little man and walked to the open lock.

“You do understand?” asked Mr. Greypoole.

Captain Webber’s head nodded halfway down, then stopped; and his eyes froze forever upon the City.

“A pity.⁠ ⁠…”

The little man with the thin hair walked about the cabins and rooms, straightening, dusting; he climbed down the ladder, shook his head and started down the path to the wooden house.

When he had washed all the empty glasses and replaced them, he sat down in the large leather chair and adjusted himself into the most comfortable position.

His eyes stared in waxen contentment at the homely interior, with its lavender wallpaper, needlepoint tapestries and tidy arrangement.

He did not move.

Traumerei

At the sound, Henry Ritchie’s hand jerked. Most of the martini sloshed out over his robe. He jumped up, swabbing furiously at the spots. “Goddam it!”

“Hank!” His wife slammed her book together.

“Well, what do you expect? That confounded buzzer⁠—”

“⁠—is a perfectly natural normal buzzer. You’re just terribly upset, dear.”

“No,” Mr. Ritchie said, “I am not ‘just terribly upset, dear’⁠—for seven years I’ve been listening to that banshee’s wail every time somebody wants in. Well, I’m through. Either it goes⁠—”

“All right, all right,” Mrs. Ritchie said. “You don’t have to make a production out of it.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

Mr. Ritchie sighed ponderously, glared at his wife, set what was left of the martini down on a table and went to the door. He slipped the chain.

“Be this the marster of ’arfway ’ouse?”

Mr. Ritchie opened the door. “Max⁠—what the devil are you doing up at this hour?”

A large man, well built, in his forties, walked in, smiling. “I could ask you the same question,” he said, flinging his hat and scarf in the direction of a chair, “but I’m far too thoughtful.”

They went back into the living room. Mrs. Ritchie looked up, frowned. “Oh, swell,” she said. “Dandy. All we need now is a bridge four.”

“Ruth’s just terribly upset,” Mr. Ritchie said.

“Well,” the large man said, “it’s nice to see unanimity in this house for once anyway. Hi, Ruth.” He walked over to the bar and found the martini mix and drained the jar’s contents into a glass. Then he drained the glass.

“Hey, take it easy!”

Max Kaplan turned to face his hosts. He looked quite a bit older than usual: the grin wasn’t boyish now. “Dear folkses,” he said, “when I die, I don’t want to see any full bottles around.”

“Oh, ha-ha, that’s just so very deliriously funny,” Mrs. Ritchie said. She was massaging her temples.

“I am glad to see her ladyship amused.” Kaplan followed Mr. Ritchie’s gaze. “Hickory dickory dock, the mice looked at the clock.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Oop, sorry.” The big man mixed up a new batch silently, then refilled the three glasses. He sat down. The clock’s tick, a deep sharp bass sound, got louder and louder in the room. Kaplan rested his head on the couch arm. “Less than an hour,” he said. “Not even an hour⁠—”

“I knew it.” Mrs. Ritchie stood up. “I knew it the minute you walked in. We’re not nervous enough, oh, no, now we’ve got to listen to the great city editor and his news behind the news.”

“Very well!” Kaplan rose shakily. He was drunk; it showed now. “If I’m not welcome here, then I shall go elsewhere to breathe my last.”

“Never mind,” Mrs. Ritchie said. “Sit down. I’ve had a stomach full of this wake. If you two insist on sitting up until X-hour like a couple of ghouls, well, that’s your business. I’m going to bed. And to sleep.”

“What a woman,” Kaplan muttered, polishing off the martini. “Nerves of chilled steel.”

Mrs. Ritchie looked at her husband for a moment. Then she said, “Good night, dear,” and started for the door.

“See you in the morning,” Mr. Ritchie said. “Get a good sleep.”

Then Max Kaplan giggled. “Yeah, a real good sleep.”

Mrs. Ritchie left the room.

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