by Robert Bloch
“You did no such thing,” the woman told him. She turned to the driver. “He must have lost it.”
“Sorry, lady.” The driver didn’t look sorry at all. “Nobody rides without a claim-check.”
“For heaven’s sake, we’re willing to pay—”
“I don’t make the rules, lady.”
The man turned to her. “Will you look in your goddamn purse—?”
Kenner turned his head away. He didn’t want to see, because he already knew what was in her goddamn purse. Keys, compact, lipstick, loose change, handkerchief, Kleenex, address book, pencil, sunglasses, charge-plates, perfume, mints, scraps of paper scribbled over with recipes and diet instructions, pills for indigestion, gum, a photo-wallet, emergency accessories for feminine hygiene, a pen, a shopping list, a checkbook, a mirror, a comb, eyebrow pencil, a St. Christopher medal, and an assortment of less useful items.
And, of course, the claim-check.
The driver looked at it, shook his head. “Sorry—this is for Lot Seven. You’re on the wrong bus.”
Kenner did his best not to listen. He knew it would take at least another three minutes now before the argument with the driver was settled. God knows how long it would take to settle the other argument, between husband and wife, once they were back on the curb with their baggage. Kenner’s conservative guess was twenty years, based on current life-expectancy tables.
“People,” the driver muttered, as he slid behind the wheel. The bus coughed its way into the traffic-lane, then halted immediately at the cross-walk. A mile of starts and stops, and then they were on an access road, jolting past repair-hangars and fuel storage tanks. Another turn and they arrived at the parking lot. The driver wheeled up to the entrance booth and waited while Kenner removed his bags. By the time Kenner gave the claim-check to the lot attendant the bus was on its way again. He paid the man an even twenty dollars.
The lot was huge—and filled. Kenner scanned it, jogging his memory to recall the pencilled-in notations on the claim-check he’d just surrendered. Section E, Row 4. That was it. And that would be—
“Down there.” The attendant waved to the left. “At the end.”
It seemed a good two blocks away, as Kenner now remembered. “Mind if I leave my things here?”
“You can put ’em in the shed over there,” the attendant told him. Sure enough, there was a roofed-over shelter at the far side of the fence. “But we’re not responsible,” the attendant called after him, as he trudged towards the shelter.
Kenner dumped his bags under the entrance, turned and made his way between rows of headlights and bumpers. Section E, Row 4. He got lost twice, but he found it on the third try. The keys in his hand were sticky with sweat.
The interior of the car itself was like an oven. Thank God for air-conditioning. Kenner tried to insert the trunk key into the ignition, realized his mistake, and used the other. Nothing happened.
He tried again. Still nothing.
Battery. Oh, no!
Oh, yes.
Kenner climbed out. He walked back to the cubicle at the parking-lot gate. The attendant glanced at him.
“What’s the trouble?”
Kenner told him. “Mind if I use your phone?”
The attendant shook his head. “Pay phone’s in the shed.”
Kenner went to the shed.
He fished in his pockets for a dime. It wasn’t there. He had no silver at all—or what passed for silver nowadays.
He went back to the attendant and got change for a dollar.
He went back to the phone booth and rifled through the Yellow Pages until he found the number of the Auto Club. The numbers, rather, for there were a dozen or more. Roadside Emergency Service, that was it.
He deposited, dialed, waited.
The recording came on. “. . . all of our lines are busy. Please wait until . . .”
Until hell freezes. Kenner wished it would, because the phone booth was hot. Very hot. He opened the door, holding the receiver in his hand, squinted across at the chromium forest of cars.
The recording repeated itself at regular intervals. The reflection of the sunlight on windshields and bumpers blinded Kenner. His head ached.
“. . . help you, please?”
It was a human voice, at last. Kenner blinked, then raised the receiver as he spoke into the mouthpiece. He flipped through his wallet to give his card number, told the anonymous listener his problem, gave his approximate location and a description of the car.
The voice said someone would be there in twenty minutes to a half-hour.
Kenner left the booth and waited in the shelter of the shed.
Cars began moving in and out of the lot with increasing frequency. The attendant kept busy in his cubicle. Sonic booms sounded overhead. Rush hour at the airport.
Kenner paced beside his luggage, eyeing the entrance for the truck with the AA insignia.
After forty minutes it arrived, and Kenner gave the driver his card, as requested. He guided the truck to his car. He climbed in, switched on the ignition, switched it on and waited while the courteous and efficient serviceman did things with a charger.
The battery revived and the engine roared into life. The serviceman assured him he had enough juice to get home on, but advised him to get a re-charge as soon as possible, because it could happen again, any time.
“And don’t use your air-conditioning.”
Great.
But what the hell, the important thing was that the car was running. And he was in it. He was going home.
The truck drove off. Kenner followed it, halted with motor running, picked up his bags and slung them into the back seat. It wasn’t until he’d moved out into the road that he realized he hadn’t called Barbara.
Okay, so she’d worry. He wasn’t about to stop again, not after what he’d been through.
Kenner turned left at the corner past the lot. The freeway was three lights down.
They were all red when he came to them, but that didn’t matter. He needed time to get over into the far lane. Yes—here was the sign. Freeway—North—Left Lane. And the arrow. Kenner followed the arrow as it turned green for the left turn—followed it almost into the side of a service truck whose driver was trying to beat the light from the other direction—then started up the on-ramp. Merging Traffic. Kenner blinked at the sign. His headache was worse.
He scanned the rear-view mirror, waiting for an opening, while the car behind him blatted its horn. Let it blat, Kenner told himself; not going to get killed because some joker wants to save thirty seconds. Everybody’s in such a goddamn hurry—
Hurrying, he slid into the flow of traffic, signaled left, saw his opportunity, moved across to the second lane, signaled again as he picked up speed, darted into the third lane, noted his flicker was still on, switched it off, accelerated to sixty-five, settled down to drive—and hit the brakes.
Something was happening up ahead. Cars were slowing to a crawl, and around a bend he could see an endless convergence halting to a full stop. Kenner glanced to his right, noted a sign. Road Construction Ahead. Oh, sure!
Three hours lost on the plane. Another hour and a half before he got out of the airport. And then the bus and the business with the battery. Six hours behind schedule, after a fourteen-hour flight. And now this.
He had to get off the freeway.
There was an exit up ahead on the right, just before the curve. But in this bumper-to-bumper crawl, with no one yielding an inch, it wouldn’t be easy to get over to the right lane. Kenner rolled down his window, breathing in exhaust-fumes, and started his maneuvering. Signaling. Edging. Traffic piled up behind him, drivers cursed him and hit their horns, his head was splitting, it took twenty minutes, but he made it. Made it to the off-ramp, Speed Limit 15 M.P.H., and joined the procession of like-minded drivers who were creeping down the ramp at five miles per hour, with frequent halts as the cars ahead of them halted at the stop light below.
Kenner was wringing wet by the time he
reached the street beyond the light, turning right into a tangle of rush-hour traffic. He knew vaguely where he was, realized that he was in for at least another hour of driving, Speed Limit 25 Miles, his head hurt, another red light, that car was cutting in, slow, remember to take a left on the arterial ahead, get into the lane, come on you bastard, move it, there, that’s better, okay, signal—what the hell, No Left Turn, of course he should have known, not in rush-hours, now what?
On to the next corner after the light changed, the fumes made his headache worse, now slow down, here it is, turn, down the block, School, slow to twenty-five, watch that truck backing out of the driveway, now left again, Christ, One Way—Do Not Enter, all right, keep going, next corner, turn here, wait—Yield Right Of Way—now—watch that kid crossing, where the hell did he come from—go—Slow—signal right—Pedestrian Crossing—turn.
Head throbbing. Keep Right. Wheel slippery with sweat. Islands. Slippery When Wet. Not the wheel, the street. This street. Wrong one. Should have turned right again at last light. This light now. Yellow. Can’t go on yellow. Wait. In wrong lane for turn anyway. Head. Get over. Lady in station-wagon won’t let me in, bitch, get in, that’s it, No Right Turn On Red, wait, made it, End Divided Road, too many cars, RR Crossing, slow down, can’t see, God it’s dark already, turn on lights, No Passing, headlights blinding, blind headache, Slow, left at next corner, get over, dammit let me, I signaled way back, Left Lane Must Turn Left, so okay that’s what I want to do goddamit, traffic, Three-Way Signal, and now—
Kenner was free and clear at last, smooth sailing along the highway, and the lights blink-blinded on and off inside his skull, all the no-nos; No Parking, No Smoking, Keep Off The Grass, Private—Keep Out, Absolutely No Stopping Any Time, No Loitering, Detour, Members Only, Print Name, Stop—Did You Enclose Statement With Payment?
Free and clear at last, and Give Full Name, Carrying Charge On All Amounts Not Paid By 10th, Sign Here, Has Any Application Been Refused (Explain), Closed All Day Saturday, Single Line Only, Littering Punishable By Fine, Danger, Flammable, Quiet—Hospital Zone, This Space Reserved For Employees Only, No Vacancy, No Credit, Adults Only, Shorts Not Permitted, Not Responsible For Any Theft, No Admittance, Identification Must Be Shown On Request, Post No Bills, Violators Will Be Prosecuted, Pay Full Amount, Have Correct Change Ready, Exit Only, No Through Street, No Visitors, For Official Use Only, Stop, Stop, STOP!
But the headache didn’t stop and the blinking didn’t stop and Kenner didn’t stop and the signs whirled and the car whirled and he was free and clear and the last message flickering on and off in Kenner’s skull was Do Not Fold, Spindle Or Mutilate. Then he hit the curve and the curb and the iron fence rails on which he was folded, spindled and mutilated beyond all recognition or redemption.
There were forms and papers and reports to fill out and a lot of bills to pay, but that was Barbara’s problem. She had to cope with the funeral home and the insurance and the lawsuit and the damages. A year and a half later she was still enmeshed in the rules, regulations and restrictions surrounding the final settlement of the estate.
By that time it didn’t matter to Kenner any more because there was no Kenner; the worms had already eaten him. The poor blind worms, crawling compulsively through all their lowly lives.
It must be awful, being a worm.
There’s no freedom . . .
CHAPTER 9
The room was light and airy. Graham could glance out of the window at the ocean, or gaze through the door down the long corridor beyond, and there was no sense of confinement—unless, of course, he attempted to open either the window or the door. The glass was quite immovable, and beyond it were the meshed screens.
Food came up at regular intervals through the wall servitor. The furnishings were more than comfortable. In a way, it was as pleasant here as in his own apartment.
When he’d recovered consciousness, he found a fresh supply of clothing laid out for him on the bed, and an ample wardrobe in the wall closet. Somebody had also seen fit to provide him with sigs, and during the second day of his enforced stay he began to indulge in smoking. He’d never tried them before, but of course he new what they were—oral-erotic tabagistic pacifiers, named in honor of Sigmund Freud, of course, who had smoked sigars in the olden, golden days.
At one time they had contained carcinogenic elements.
But the biggest novelty lurked in the cupboards, which Graham investigated thoroughly on the second evening of his captivity.
They were filled with books. Actual books, bound and printed by ancient processes; their pages yellowed and crumbling now, but still legible. Quite legible, in fact. Graham thus found one of his wildest fantasies come true—and without further ado, he settled down to an orgy of unbridled reading.
It was all pornography, of course, things he’d heard of vaguely but never seen and not quite believed in; filthy stuff by writers named Asimov and Heinlein and Clarke which had once been openly peddled under the guise of “science fiction.” Despite his initial qualms, Graham found the material quite interesting from the clinical standpoint. After all, hadn’t his own work—Space Opera—originally sprung from just such outmoded and obscene sources? That’s the way he’d always understood it.
But he could see why these sources had been outlawed. The writing was suggestive in the extreme; consciously permeated with inhibition, repression, compulsion and obvious symbolism. It was unmistakably a product of the unclean mental attitudes of the Twentieth Century, teeming with quaint, old-fashioned, but nevertheless dangerous notions. For example, the idea of space travel was completely perverted—these writers, while not minimizing the potential dangers, apparently did their best to make the idea sound attractive! They also speculated on time travel, and all from the standpoint of escapist fantasy. Some of the absurd attempts at prophecy, involving visions of a future peopled by “robots” and “cybernetics machines” were quite ludicrous in the light of actuality, but in other respects Graham could trace the genesis of many concepts practically paralleled in today’s Space Opera. The Bems were here, for example. Yes, as a technician, as a Talent, he had to admit the ancient pornographers deserved credit for their imaginative efforts. It was their viewpoint which was warped and dangerous.
Throughout everything seemed to run absurd fantasies of omnipotence. The “heroes” were supposedly brilliant or at least superior intellects who nevertheless reacted to stress in terms of physical aggression throughout the narratives. They kept coming back for more punishment repeatedly and even when exhausted they seemed capable of one last superhuman effort which resulted in ultimate triumph. It was a monstrous concept of humanity, but Graham found it oddly attractive in a way. That was the danger, of course: the temptation to identify with such atypicalities. Such a “hero” would never, for example, allow himself to become involved in Graham’s present predicament. He would have easily overcome that girl, Clare, and taken over the boat, sailed for some deserted island and escaped to—
Where?
That was the difference between pornography and reality; there was no escape afforded in the latter. No “underground” of rebels waiting to overthrow authority. No wonder “science fiction” had been repressed and repudiated, along with the rest of the old-fashioned “literature”; entirely too much of it dealt with fantasies of aggression directed against authority. And a great deal seemed to concern criticism of social attitudes and the social order. Of course, as Graham realized, most of the criticism had been perfectly justified; the point was that this form of writing could be employed by almost anyone as a weapon against any form of authority. Therein lay the real danger.
Why had he been allowed access to this material? This disturbed him.
The question remained unanswered. For five full days, Graham saw no one. There was nothing to do but read. And so he read. Day dimmed to darkness and darkness dwindled into dawn, but still he was alone. No figures appeared against the landscape beyond the window, no faces loomed in the corridor past the d
oorway. The longer he waited, the more apprehensive he became, and the more he took refuge from apprehension in the books. Perhaps that’s the way it had happened in the old days, when everybody read. They read because they were afraid, because they couldn’t stand the strain of waiting for the bombs to fall. But the ideas that brought the bombs were generated and nurtured by the concepts in the books, and the more they read the more they ripened to aggression and rebellion. It was a vicious cycle—no wonder the Psychos had outlawed all that pornographic trash! Now the world was clean and sane—
And they dumped the Socially Secured in the sea. Was that clean and sane?
Graham was still pondering the answer when Doc paid him a visit.
The Psycho appeared outside the door on the morning of the sixth day and gestured with his hand. The door slid open and the small man entered. Since the gesturing hand held a stunner, Graham made no effort to approach him.
Doc nodded down and smiled, but the lizard-tongue did not appear.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Confused,” Graham answered, truthfully. He glanced towards the cupboards. “Reading those books I found—”
“They were placed here for that purpose,” Doc said. “I hope you got a few ideas from them.”
“But I don’t understand. This is a Womb, isn’t it? I’m going to be laundered—”
“I was expecting the books to do the job,” Doc said. “I thought they might help in reorientation.”
“Pornography?”
“It used to be called fantasy,” Doc reminded him. “But under any label, it’s still the best approach to understanding current realities that I know.”
“What has an Insanatorium got to do with realities?”
“Not much, in Holywood or most of the other centers. But down here, we’ve learned to go our own way. The books have helped us immeasurably, I can assure you. So many of them dealt with tyrannies of the future, and possible rebellions against such tyrannies. No wonder they were banned, labelled pornographic. Anyone reading them would be bound to find certain parallels with the present situation. Didn’t you?”