Tales of Riverworld

by Philip José Farmer

  Barnes said, 'You don't think that, in the past, appendixes became diseased to indicate that the messages were ripe? And that if only doctors had known enough to look, they would have seen...?'

  'Tut, tut, my dear sir, don't say it. See The Word? The anaesthesia has not worn off yet. After all, life is not a science-fiction story with everything exhaustively, and exhaustingly, explained at the end. Even we medical men have our little mysteries.'

  'Then I was just plain sick, and that was all there was to it?'

  'Occam's razor, my dear sir. Cut until you have only the simplest explanation left, the bare bone, as it were. Excellent, that! Old Occam had to have been a physician to invent that beautiful philosophical tool.'

  Barnes looked at Miss Mbama as she walked away, swaying.

  'We have two kidneys. Why only one appendix?'

  MONOLOG

  Foreword

  * * *

  Here's a short horror tale about a strange birth. It appeared in 1973 in an anthology titled Demon Kind, the stories of which were about children with very strange talents and inclinations. The title of the book gave me an idea for a short story to be titled Demon Kine. Maybe I'll write it someday.

  m.

  * * *

  'She's sick of me being sick.

  'And I am sick. This thing is growing in me, eating me away. I can't tell her, but she can see it. She looks at its hump, at least, I think it's a hump. I can't look down and see if it is or not. But it's there. I see her looking at it.

  'No pain yet. When does cancer start hurting? And I won't be able to yell. I can tell her, but the words won't come out right. And if I try to yell, something happens. My throat closes up. But when the pain hits...

  'How can I be anything but sick? She doesn't like me when I'm healthy. I grew and grew and was big and strong. I went to school. I got good grades, very good. I was a great football player and trackman. Well, pretty good, anyway. But mother didn't like that.

  ' "Child, you're growing too fast, too big. Where's my baby boy? The little one I nursed with my own breasts. The little one I held in my arms until he went to sleep. The little one who sat on my lap while I sang to him until his little head nodded and he slept the sleep of angels. So sweet, so adorable, so soft-skinned, curly-headed, so sweet and loveable. Where is he?"

  'Well, Mother, I look out the window and see the same thing every day except for the coming and going of the seasons. The leaves grow out, Mother, they begin as soft buds, tender to the fingers. But the full-grown leaf is the purpose of the bud, Mother. It can't stay a bud forever. If it does, it dies. And the leaf comes out, and it does its work, and then summer comes and goes, is gone, and fall comes, and the leaf is its most beautiful when it dies. And then it falls, and it decays and it makes the soil more fertile. Or provides food and a home or a blanket for insects. Or for whatever.

  'Does the tree hate the leaf because it isn't a bud forever? No, it doesn't, Mother. So why do you hate me? Yes, you do, though you haven't got the guts to admit it. You've hated me ever since I left you. But I had to leave you because I had to go to school, Mother. I couldn't be a baby forever, and I had to go to kindergarten, finally, even if you did manage to delay that for a year. And then I knew, in the way that children know, mainly because adults are such lousy liars, that you were beginning to hate me. But it wasn't until I started first grade that I knew for sure. Your hatred got so terrible, it blazed behind your smile, your kisses, your voice. Always getting harder and harder, your voice, until it broke. It was too brittle to stay in one piece.

  'And it's, I mean, it was only when I was completely a baby, when I turned my back on growing up because – because I knew you loved me only then – it was only then that you loved me. But I couldn't stay a baby all the time, even to be loved by you. There was a world outside, and I wanted to be the equal of the boys and girls I was going to school with. To do that, Mother, I had to grow along with them. There was no other way to do it.

  'So I grew, and as I got bigger, Mother, you got smaller. In the physical sense, of course. Relatively speaking, of course. In one very large sense, you have never gotten any smaller than you were the day you bore me. No smaller, no change in you or me. Not in one sense. Our relationship, the fact that you are my mother and I'm your baby boy, that hasn't changed. That has stayed as it was that day, even though it wouldn't look like it to outsiders and often not to me.

  'But everything does change, Mother. Including that relationship. Even if a thing refuses to grow, it becomes bent, turned in, curved too too much, like a boar's tusk or a ram's horn. It turns and it drives into the flesh and then into the same bone from which it grew. The tusk, the horn come home, Mother, come home to die and perhaps, to kill.

  'But I'm not dying, Mother. Yes, I am, in one large sense. But not in another equally large sense. Does that make sense, Mother? And where are you, Mother? Ah, I see you now. You've just come out of church. Where, no doubt, as you look at Mother and Son, you pray – somewhere deep inside you – that you and I, too, shall be changeless wood or stone and the babe in your arms never grow larger. You pray that both of us will be motionless and unchanging like wood or stone.

  'I'm one way, Mother, you already have your wish. I am motionless as wood or stone, except for being able to blink my eyes and try to talk now and then. That's why you prop me up here by the window so I can see the street, its unchanging changing, and see you as you go to the store or to prayer.

  'Outside, motionless and unchanging. Inside, something happened almost a year ago, but I couldn't tell you about it. And if I had, what could I have said except call the doctor, Mother?

  'Things don't ever stop changing. Things go on and on, Mother, things deep down. Like trolls working away in the dark bowels of the mountain. In the mountain of my brain. No, of my soul. Of my body, also, Mother. What is the difference between my soul and my body? I don't know. One may be the other. I do know that, when one grows, the other grows. Sometimes.

  'And something in me grows and grows, Mother. I lie here, a living tomb, a coffin of myself. I waste away. I've heard you say so yourself. My arms and legs are thinning away. My eyes grow larger as my face sinks away. The bones are beginning to look out through the flesh. I've heard you say so yourself, Mother. Not in a hushed voice to a doctor in the next room. To my face as you smile.

  'But my belly grows and grows, and you've said so yourself. It's a tumour, a cancer eating my body as you, my beloved mother who doesn't love me, have eaten up my soul. It's only begun to hurt lately. I've tried to tell you it does, tried to tell you it hurts me sometimes.

  'When it's very late at night, and you are not snoring, and the traffic noises have died, I hear it grow, Mother. It makes little noises. It stirs, it rustles, it munches. The cancer is munching away at me, Mother.

  ' "Good!" you say!

  'You don't say? But you do say it with everything but words. If you watch this thing grow and don't call a doctor in, then it'll be too late when you do have to call him in, when you can't put it off any longer, can't blind and deafen yourself to what's going on in the unchangeable me. Too late.

  'But you'll be glad, won't you, Mother? Glad because the big, dirty, whiskery, tobacco-smelling, beer-smelling unchangeable that shouldn't have changed, but did change, has died. Yet, Mother, I'm not dirty, I don't smell like cigarettes or beer. Not any more. I can't smoke unless you hold the cigarette for me, which you won't do. And I can't drink beer unless you give it to me, which you won't. So I've gone through the withdrawal pains, Mother, without a word of complaint. Though sometimes, when you looked into my eyes, you must have known. But you didn't look long, did you, Mother? Those are bloodshot old man's eyes, not the clear blue-white eyes of a baby.

  'I'm not dirty or whiskery any more, though, am I? You bathe me every day. You don't neglect me in that way. And you shave me every day, too, and run your fingers over my face, and you smile. You remember when it was even softer, don't you?

  'You don't smile long, thoug
h. You can close your eyes and imagine I'm the baby boy, but you have to open your eyes, and then you hate me.

  'I hear the door slam downstairs, Mother. And now I hear the steps creak. You'll be coming up and asking me how I am. Knowing I can't speak except to babble like a baby. My words, so clear in my mind, come out all mixed up, chopped up, like a big salad bowl of unintelligibility. The babbling of an infant. But disgusting, because an infant babbles because he's learning to talk, and he will talk. But I babble because I've forgotten, and I will never remember.

  'And now I hear the hallboards creaking under your feet. I hear you humming the lullaby you say you used to sing to me when I was a baby. I think I hear it. The door is closed, and you don't hum loudly. Perhaps I've heard it so often that I hear it even when it's not audible.

  'And now, now, Mother, it moved, it moved! It's eaten so much of me away that it's slid into the eaten-away place! It's moved, Mother!

  'And now, and now, this must be the end. Oh, God, I said I wanted to die! I've said it so many years. Since I started to school. I've said it. If my mother doesn't love me, I'll die. I wished I could die. And now I am dying, and I'm scared.

  'Scared to death! That's a good one! It's getting dark, dark. I'm sliding away, too, like that thing that's sliding from one place to another in me. The cargo of death shifting in the hold as the ship starts to turn over... what am I talking about? I'm slipping down, down. This is really it? Death? Slipping down, down! Getting smaller, smaller?

  'At least... but I was wrong. I was going to say it doesn't hurt. But it's beginning to hurt. It's eating away. Clawing, too. Getting bigger. Or nearer. I'm getting closer, not it. But that's crazy. When two things approach, both get closer. It hurts. I'm glad I can't see. I'm glad it's dark. It's bad enough to hear it, but to see it...

  'No. I hear Mother. She's coming down the hall. Now she's at the door. And I can't talk, I can't say what I always wanted to say. Would she listen if I could say it? No. Would she understand if she did listen? Oh, Mother, don't let me die. Or if you do, please tell me, tell me...

  'There you are, Mother. Mother! You were trying to scream. But you couldn't. It froze in your throat, like it does in mine. You fell. Here I come, Mother. Down off the bed. Weak but able. Don't lie on the floor, Mother. Staring. Rigid. I'm the one that had the stroke.

  'No, I didn't have the stroke, not this. Mother! Here I come! My other self! I'm getting out all the way! I got out, Mother! I broke open when I clawed my way out, Mother. I was about to die in there, Mother! Darkness and pressure and wetness, Mother! There I was sliding together, hurting inside and outside. Oh, the terrible pain, Mother! And the fear, the fear, doubled-up, couldn't get out, my stomach ready to explode... What? What am I talking about? Mother! It's all sliding together, and I'm sliding away at the same time!

  'I didn't mean to scare you, Mommy. Ain't my fault I'm all bloody! Mommy! You kin put your loveycums in the tub now! Fwever, muwer. Fwever!

  'Your baby boy's back! Your little loveydumcum's here, muwer. Wash the bad old blood off me, muwer!

  'Blood! I can't help cwying, muwer!

  'There's a dead man on my beddy-bye, muwer, and things hanging out of him!'

  THE LEASER

  OF TWO EVILS

  Foreword

  * * *

  Every now and then, a word, a phrase, a picture or image will flash into my mind. I'll write them down with the hope that some day I can use them. There are some of these fragments that quickly grow to wholes, and I soon write stories based on them. Others may stay in the notebook for years before something pops up out of the unconscious and says, 'Here's what's been growing in the darkness. Take it and use your conscious and make a story out of it.'

  Of such was 'The Henry Miller Dawn Patrol' and of such is 'The Leaser of Two Evils.' Both had been just titles that I'd thought of, for no reason that I can determine, and both had been sitting in the darkness in my mind for at least twelve years, brooding, pacing the cell, feeling the walls and floors for a way to get to the light.

  Suddenly, they broke loose from their cell with a hell of a yell, like the young monk in the limerick, and they said, 'Let's get to work!'

  And we did. But though we had the go-ahead, we had to work very hard to get the two stories in just the right shape.

  On the other hand, some of these germinating ideas grew suddenly, full-blown, and all I had to do was to sit down at the machine and write. Well, that's almost all I had to do.

  There are still many ideas and titles that have been waiting in the notebook even longer and nothing has happened and perhaps never will.

  I am still waiting for something to result from the title, A Flock of Ducts. And nothing has yet come from The Erodynamics Engineer. Or Dwellers in the Pup Tense. Or Rule 42. This last, you'll remember, is to found in Alice in Wonderland. Rule 42 states that all persons more than a mile high must leave the courtroom. And then there's the germ of a story titled Two Blue Einsteins. Though I've striven with that a dozen times in the past fifteen years, I've been able to do nothing with it. But we'll see.

  t.l.o.t.e.

  * * *

  Detective-Lieutenant John Healey had had a bad day. That morning he'd raided a massage parlour and had caught in a compromising position a prominent politician, William 'Big' Pockets. It was difficult to say who was the most embarrassed, Pockets or the vice squad. The city council had been notified before the bust so that this very situation could be avoided. But Pockets had just returned from a vacation and so had not gotten the word.

  For a dangerous minute, Healey had considered arresting him. Discretion had won over his outrage, but he'd hurt. Later, he'd raided an adult bookstore which had displayed his sister's complete works. He was certain his men didn't know she'd written these, but twice he turned suddenly and caught them grinning at him.

  That evening he'd attended the first meeting of a citizens' decency league, which he'd help found, though in an unofficial capacity. The first item on the agenda was the title of the new organisation. A woman had proposed the Association for Suppression of Sin. That seemed like a good idea until Healey had written out the initials.

  Red-faced, choking, he had pointed this out, and half the people had laughed themselves silly and half had booed. After the uproar subsided, the man suggested the Society for Preventing Evil and Rotten Morality. That was voted down during a terrible tumult. The third moron had proposed the League against Undesirable Sexual Transgressions, as if there could be any desirable. During the howls that followed, Healey caught on. The Warriors Against the Suppressors had sent saboteurs to make a mockery of the good people.

  Then a fourth person almost had his proposed title spelled out, Committee of Christian... before Healey shouted him down. Afterward, though, he couldn't help wondering what the final word was. When he got home, he'd go through the K section of the dictionary.

  As chairperson, Healey had ordered the infiltrators ejected. This was done with much screaming about freedom of speech, as if those filth-mongerers had the right to pollute the moral atmosphere. But T.W.A.T.S. had agents throughout the auditorium, and the meeting ended in fistfights. One citizen had an attack of nervous diarrhoea, though not fatal, and the cops had to be called.

  Healey burst into his own house as if he was raiding it with the authority of a search warrant. He strode into the back bedroom, yanked open the closet doors, and began ripping the dresses, skirts, and gowns from the hangers and the wigs from the boxes. That helped his red mood cool off a little, but he wasn't so angry he followed his original intention of scissoring them. What good would it do? His sister would just buy more clothes with her ill-gotten money.

  The rest of the evening was torture. He tried to watch TV, but the networks were still de-emphasising violence and stressing bra-less jigglers, their idea of sexual stimulation, and they were right. He shut the set off and paced back and forth. He couldn't even drink to raise his spirits. He abhorred all strong liquor, not to mention the weak. Nor could he take a
tranquilliser, though he badly needed one. No drugs except those prescribed by a doctor would pass his lips, and he wasn't going to tell a pill-pusher why he needed them.

  But the temptation to knock himself out with a strong sedative was almost overpowering. That would show the bitch. If he slept, she would, too. On the- other hand, when most of the drug wore off, she might wake up and still be uninhibited enough by it to do something crazy. Like dancing in the street with only her wig, bra, panties, and high heels on. He shuddered and went to bed. His last thought was that at least he wouldn't dream.

  He woke in the morning with the stereo blaring that detested rock. His mouth tasted as if it had been used for an ashtray. Which he hoped to God was all that it had been used for. His brain was a size-9 foot jammed into a size-6 shoe. Stale tobacco fumes hobnobbed with whiskey stink. His eyes were rotten onions. And, 'Oh, my God!', his anus was sore and dribbling stickiness.

  Quivering, his stomach twisting like a snake trying to bite its own tail, he shot out of bed and into the shower. Ten minutes later, physically clean but mentally still filthed, he went into the front room. It was a shambles, dirty glasses, an empty fifth, a forest-fire aftermath of butts and ashes. He'd have to clean up before the cleaning woman got here. After turning off the stereo, he ran back to the back bedroom. Horrified, he gazed at the rumpled sheets, spotted with what looked like poltergeist crap but wasn't.

  The kitchen table held her typewriter and carbons from a manuscript. At least she'd done some writing before the orgy. When it came to work, all Healeys were conscientious. Though in her case, the world'd be better off if she neglected it.

  Unable to eat breakfast, he read part of her new novel. Prude and Prejudice by Jane Austen-Healey. It was her usual filth, its only redeeming quality being, not social significance, but its potentiality for making money. Whatever her vices, a disdain for money was not among them. Thank God, at least she wasn't a Communist.