by C. L. Moore
"You should have insisted on a divorce. Look—if you'd only been crippled by the explosion, she could have taken care of you. You'd have needed her. As it is, you're a self-sufficient, self-contained unit. She does a good job of pretending. I'll admit that. She tries not to think of you as a hopped-up helicopter. A gadget. A blob of wet cellular tissue. It must be tough on her. She remembers you as you used to be."
"She loves me."
"She pities you," Talman said relentlessly.
In the humming stillness the red telltale crept across the globe. Fern's tongue stole out and circled his lips. Lindquist stood quietly watching, his eyes narrowed.
"Yeah," Talman said, "face it. And look at the future. There are compensations. You'll get quite a bang out of meshing your gears. Eventually you'll even stop remembering you ever were human. You'll be happier then. For you can't hang on to it, Quent. It's going away. You can keep on pretending for a while, but in the end it won't matter any more. You'll be satisfied to be a gadget. You'll see beauty in a machine and not in Linda. Maybe that's happened already. Maybe Linda knows it's happened. You don't have to be honest with yourself yet, you know. You're immortal. But I wouldn't take that kind of immortality as a gift."
"Van—"
"I'm still Van. But you're a machine. Go ahead and kill us, if you want, and if you can do it. Then go back to Earth and, when you see Linda again, look at her face. Look at it when she doesn't know you're watching. You can do that easily. Rig up a photoelectric cell in a lamp or something."
"Van ... Van!"
Talman let his hands drop to his sides. "All right. Where are you?"
The silence grew, while an inaudible question hummed through the yellow vastness. The question, perhaps, in the mind of every Transplant. The question of—a price.
What price?
Utter loneliness, the sick knowledge that the old ties were snapping one by one, and that in place of living, warm humanity there would remain—a mental monster?
Yes, he had wondered—this Transplant who had been Bart Quentin. He had wondered, while the proud, tremendous machines that were his body stood ready to spring into vibrant life.
Am I changing? Am I still Bart Quentin?
Or do they—the humans—look on me as—How does Linda really feel about me now? Am I—
Am I—It?
"Go up on the balcony," Quentin said. His voice was curiously faded and dead.
-
Talman made a quick gesture. Fern and Lindquist sprang to life. They climbed, each to a ladder, on opposite sides of the room, but carefully, hitching their lines to each rung.
"Where is it?" Talman asked gently.
"The south wall—Use the celestial sphere for orientation. You can reach me—" The voice failed.
"Yes?"
Silence. Fern called down, "Has he passed out?"
"Quent!"
"Yes—About the center of the balcony. I'll tell you when you reach it."
"Easy," Fern warned Lindquist. He took a turn of his line about the balcony rail and edged forward, searching the wall with his eyes.
Talman used one arm to scrub his fogged face plate. Sweat was trickling down his face and flanks. The crawling yellow light, the humming stillness from machines that should be roaring thunderously, stung his nerves to unendurable tension.
"Here?" Fern called.
"Where is it, Quent?" Talman asked. "Where are you?"
"Van," Quentin said, a horrible, urgent agony in his tone. "You can't mean what you've been saying. You can't. This is ... I've got to know! I'm thinking of Linda!"
Talman shivered. He moistened his lips.
"You're a machine, Quent," he said steadily. "You're a gadget. You know I'd never have tried to kill you if you were still Bart Quentin."
And then, with shocking abruptness, Quentin laughed.
"Here it comes, Fern!" he shouted, and the echoes crashed and roared through the vaulted chamber. Fern clawed for the balcony rail.
That was a fatal mistake. The line hitching him to that rail proved a trap—because he didn't see the danger in time to unhook himself.
The ship jumped.
It was beautifully gauged. Fern was jerked toward the wall and halted by the line. Simultaneously the great celestial globe swung from its support, in a pendulum arc like the drive of a Gargantuan fly swatter. The impact snapped Fern's line instantly.
Vibration boomed through the walls.
Talman hung on to a pillar and kept his eyes on the globe. It swung back and forth in a diminishing arc as inertia overcame momentum. Liquid spattered and dripped from it.
He saw Lindquist's helmet appear over the rail. The man yelled, "Fern?"
There was no answer.
"Fern! Talman!"
"I'm here," Talman said.
"Where's—" Lindquist turned his head to stare at the wall. He screamed.
Obscene gibberish tumbled from his mouth. He yanked the blaster from his belt and aimed it at the maze of apparatus below.
"Lindquist!" Talman shouted. "Hold it!"
Lindquist didn't hear.
"I'll smash the ship," he screamed. "I'll—"
Talman drew his own blaster, steadied the muzzle against the pillar, and shot Lindquist in the head. He watched the body lean over the rail, topple, and crash down on the floor plates. Then he rolled over on his face and lay there, making sick, miserable sounds.
"Van," Quentin said.
Talman didn't answer.
"Van!"
"Yeah."
"Turn off the inductor."
Talman got up, walked unsteadily to the device, and ripped wires loose. He didn't bother to search for an easier method.
-
After a long while the ship grounded. The humming vibration of currents died. The dim, huge control chamber seemed oddly empty now.
"I've opened a port," Quentin said. "Denver's about fifty miles north. There's a highway four miles or so in the same direction."
Talman stood up, staring around. His face looked ravaged.
"You tricked us," he mumbled. "All along, you were playing us like fish. My psychology—"
"No," Quentin said. "You almost succeeded."
"What—"
"You don't think of me as a gadget, really. You pretended to, but a little matter of semantics saved me. When I realized what you'd said, I came to my senses."
"What I said?"
"Yeah. That you'd never have tried to kill me if I'd still been Bart Quentin."
Talman was struggling slowly out of his spacesuit. Fresh, clean air had already replaced the poison atmosphere of the ship. He shook his head dazedly.
"I don't see it."
Quentin's laughter rang out, filling the chamber with its warm, human vibrancy.
"A machine can be stopped or destroyed, Van," he said. "But it can't be—killed."
Talman didn't say anything. He was free of the bulky suit now, and he turned hesitantly toward a doorway. He looked back.
"The door's open," Quentin said.
"You're letting me go?"
"I told you in Quebec that you'd forget our friendship before I did. Better step it up, Van, while there's still time. Denver's probably sent out helicopters already."
Talman swept one questioning look around the vast chamber. Somewhere, perfectly camouflaged among those mighty machines, was a small metal cylinder, cradled and shielded in its hidden socket. Bart Quentin—
His throat felt dry. He swallowed, opened his mouth, and closed it again.
He turned on his heel and went out. The muffled sound of his footsteps faded.
Alone in the silent ship, Bart Quentin waited for the technicians who would refit his body for the Callisto flight.
The End
WHAT YOU NEED
Astounding Science Fiction - October 1945
with Henry Kuttner
(as by Lewis Padgett)
What you need may turn out to be a pair of scissors, or a hen's egg, or any of a number of re
markably uninteresting things—till you find why you need it more than anything else on Earth!
-
deeN uoY tahW evaH eW
That's what the sign said. Tim Carmichael, who worked for a trade paper that specialized in economics, and eked out a meager salary by selling sensational and untrue articles to the tabloids, failed to sense a story in the reversed sign. He thought it was a cheap publicity gag, something one seldom encounters on Park Avenue, where the shop fronts are noted for their classic dignity. And he was irritated.
He growled silently, walked on, then suddenly turned and came back. He wasn't quite strong enough to resist the temptation to unscramble the sentence, though his annoyance grew. He stood before the window, staring up, and said to himself, "We Have What You Need. Yeah?"
The sign was in prim, small letters on a black painted ribbon that stretched across a narrow glass pane. Below it was one of those curved, invisible-glass windows. Through the window Carmichael could see an expanse of white velvet, with a few objects carefully arranged there. A rusty nail, a snowshoe, and a diamond tiara. It looked like a Dali decor for Cartier's or Tiffany.
"Jewelers?" Carmichael asked silently. "But why what you need?" He pictured millionaires miserably despondent for lack of a matched pearl necklace, heiresses weeping inconsolably because they needed a few star sapphires. The principle of luxury merchandising was to deal with the whipped cream of supply and demand; few people needed diamonds. They merely wanted them and could afford them.
"Or the place might sell jinni-flasks," Carmichael decided. "Or magic wands. Same principle as a Coney carny, though. A sucker trap. Bill the Whatzit outside and people will pay their dimes and flock in. For two cents—"
He was dyspeptic this morning, and generally disliked the world. Prospect of a scapegoat was attractive, and his press card gave him a certain advantage. He opened the door and walked into the shop.
It was Park Avenue, all right. There were no showcases or counters. It might be an art gallery, for a few good oils were displayed on the walls. An air of overpowering luxury, with the bleakness of an unlived-in place, struck Carmichael.
Through a curtain at the back came a very tall man with carefully-combed white hair, a ruddy, healthy face and sharp blue eyes. He might have been sixty. He wore expensive but careless tweeds, which somehow jarred with the decor.
"Good morning," the man said, with a quick glance at Carmichael's clothes. He seemed slightly surprised. "May I help you?"
"Maybe." Carmichael introduced himself and showed his press card.
"Oh? My name is Talley. Peter Talley."
"I saw your sign."
"Oh?"
"Our paper is always on the lookout for possible write-ups. I've never noticed your shop before—"
"I've been here for years," Talley said.
"This is an art gallery?"
"Well—no."
The door opened. A florid man came in and greeted Talley cordially. Carmichael, recognizing the client, felt his opinion of the shop swing rapidly upward. The florid man was a Name—a big one.
"It's a bit early, Mr. Talley," he said, "but I didn't want to delay. Have you had time to get ... what I needed?"
"Oh, yes. I have it. One moment." Talley hurried through the draperies and returned with a small, neatly-wrapped parcel which he gave to the florid man. The latter forked over a check—Carmichael caught a glimpse of the amount and gulped—and departed. His town car was at the curb outside.
Carmichael moved toward the door where he could watch. The florid man seemed anxious. His chauffeur waited stolidly as the parcel was unwrapped with hurried fingers.
"I'm not sure I'd want publicity, Mr. Carmichael," Talley said. "I've a select clientele—carefully chosen."
"Perhaps our weekly economic bulletins might interest you."
Talley tried not to laugh. "Oh, I don't think so. It really isn't in my line."
The florid man had finally unwrapped the parcel and taken out an egg. As far as Carmichael could see from his post near the door, it was merely an ordinary egg. But its possessor regarded it almost with awe. Had Earth's last hen died ten years before, the man could have been no more pleased. Something like deep relief showed on the Floridatanned face.
He said something to the chauffeur, and the car rolled smoothly forward and was gone.
-
"Are you in the dairy business?" Carmichael asked abruptly.
"No."
"Do you mind telling me what your business is?"
"I'm afraid I do, rather," Talley said.
Carmichael was beginning to scent a story. "Of course I could find out through the Better Business Bureau—"
"You couldn't."
"No? They might be interested in knowing why an egg is worth five thousand dollars to one of your customers."
Talley said, "My clientele is so small I must charge high fees. You ... ah ... know that a Chinese mandarin has been known to pay thousands of taels for eggs of proved antiquity."
"That guy wasn't a Chinese mandarin," Carmichael said.
"Oh, well. As I say, I don't welcome publicity—"
"I think you do. I was in the advertising game for a while. Spelling your sign backwards is an obvious baited hook."
"Then you're no psychologist," Talley said. "It's just that I can afford to indulge my whims. For five years I looked at that window every day and read the sign backward—from inside my shop. It annoyed me. You know how a word will begin to look funny if you keep staring on it? Any word. It turns into something in no human tongue. Well, I discovered I was getting a neurosis about that sign. It makes no sense backwards, but I kept finding myself trying to read sense into it. When I started to say 'Deen uoy tahw evah ew' to myself and looking for philological derivations, I called in a sign painter. People who are interested enough still drop in."
"Not many," Carmichael said shrewdly. "This is Park Avenue. And you've got the place fixed up too expensively. Nobody in the low-income brackets—or the middle brackets—would come in here. So you run an upper-bracket business."
"Well," Talley said, "yes, I do."
"And you won't tell me what it is?"
"I'd rather not."
"I can find out, you know. It might be dope, pornography, high-class fencing—"
"Very likely," Mr. Talley said smoothly. "I buy stolen jewels, conceal them in eggs, and sell them to my customers. Or perhaps that egg was loaded with microscopic French postcards. Good morning, Mr. Carmichael."
"Good morning," Carmichael said, and went out. He was overdue at the office, but annoyance was the stronger motivation. He played sleuth for a while, keeping an eye on Talley's shop, and the results were thoroughly satisfactory—to a certain extent. He learned everything but why.
-
Late in the afternoon, he sought out Mr. Talley again.
"Wait a minute," he said, at sight of the proprietor's discouraging face. "For all you know, I may be a customer."
Talley laughed.
"Well, why not?" Carmichael compressed his lips. "How do you know the size of my bank account? Or maybe you've got a restricted clientele?"
"No. But—"
Carmichael said quickly, "I've been doing some investigating. I've been noticing your customers. In fact, following them. And finding out what they buy from you."
Talley's face changed. "Indeed?"
"Indeed. They're all in a hurry to unwrap their little bundles. So that gave me my chance to find out. I missed a few, but—I saw enough to apply a couple of rules of logic, Mr. Talley. Item: your customers don't know what they're buying from you. It's a sort of grab bag. A couple of times they were plenty surprised. The man who opened his parcel and found an old newspaper clipping. What about the sunglasses? And the revolver? Probably illegal, by the way—no license. And the diamond—it must have been paste, it was so big."
"M-mm," Mr. Talley said.
"I'm no smart apple, but I can smell a screwy setup. Most of your clients are big shots, in
one way or another. And why didn't any of 'em pay you, like the first man—the guy who came in when I was here this morning."
"It's chiefly a credit business," Talley said. "I've my ethics. I have to, for my own conscience. It's responsibility. You see, I sell ... my goods ... with a guarantee. Payment is made only if the product proves satisfactory."
"So. An egg. Sunglasses. A pair of asbestos gloves—I think they were. A newspaper clipping. A gun and a diamond. How do you take inventory?"
Talley said nothing.
Carmichael grinned. "You've an errand boy. You send him out and he comes back with bundles. Maybe he goes to a grocery on Madison and buys an egg. Or a pawnshop on Sixth for a revolver. Or—well, anyhow, I told you I'd find out what your business is."
"And have you?" Talley asked.
" 'We have what you need,' " Carmichael said. "But how do you know?"
"You're jumping to conclusions."
"I've got a headache—I didn't have sunglasses!—and I don't believe in magic. Listen, Mr. Talley. I'm fed up to the eyebrows and 'way beyond on queer little shops that sell peculiar things. I know too much about 'em—I've written about 'em. A guy walks along the street and sees a funny sort of store and the proprietor won't serve him—he sells only to pixies—or else he does sell him a magic charm with a double edge. Well—pfui!"
"Mph," Talley said.
" 'Mph' as much as you like. But you can't get away from logic. Either you've got a sound, sensible racket here, or else it's one of those funny, magic-shops setups—and I don't believe that. For it isn't logical."
"Why not?"
"Because of economics," Carmichael said flatly. "Grant the idea that you've got certain mysterious powers—let's say you can make telepathic gadgets. All right. Why the devil would you start a business so you could sell the gadgets so you could make money so you could live? You'd simply put on one of your gadgets, read a stockbroker's mind, and buy the right stocks. That's the intrinsic fallacy in these crazy-shop things—if you've got enough stuff on the ball to be able to stock and run such a shop, you wouldn't need a business in the first place. Why go round Robin Hood's barn?"
Talley said nothing.
Carmichael smiled crookedly. " 'I often wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell,' " he quoted. "Well—what do you buy? I know what you sell—eggs and sunglasses."