“All right,” she said composedly. “We won’t be dogs in the manger. If love is a little thing and has to end, then let it end. Let all little things like love and honor and mercy and laughter end, if there’s a bigger design beyond.”
“But what’s bigger? What’s beyond? I’ve asked that for years. Never an answer. Never a clue.”
“Of course. If we’re too small to survive, how can we know? Move over.”
Then she is in bed with me, the tips of her body like frost while the rest of her is hot and evoking, and there is such a consuming burst of passion that for the first time I can forget myself, forget everything, abandon everything, and the last thing I think is: God damn the world. God damn the universe. God damn GGG-o-ddddddd
* * *
They Don’t Make Life Like They Used To
The girl driving the jeep was very fair and very Nordic. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but it was so long that it was more a mare’s tail. She wore sandals, a pair of soiled bluejeans, and nothing else. She was nicely tanned. As she turned the jeep off Fifth Avenue and drove bouncing up the steps of the library, her bosom danced enchantingly.
She parked in front of the library entrance, stepped out, and was about to enter when her attention was attracted by something across the street. She peered, hesitated, then glanced down at her jeans and made a face. She pulled off the pants and hurled them at the pigeons eternally cooing and courting on the library steps. As they clattered up in fright, she ran down to Fifth Avenue, crossed, and stopped before a shop window. There was a plum-colored wool dress on display. It had a high waist, a full skirt, and not too many moth holes. The price was $79.90.
The girl rummaged through old cars skewed on the avenue until she found a loose fender. She smashed the plate-glass shop door, carefully stepped across the splinters, entered, and sorted through the dusty dress racks. She was a big girl and had trouble fitting herself. Finally she abandoned the plum-colored wool and compromised on a dark tartan, size 12, $120 reduced to $99.90. She located a salesbook and pencil, blew the dust off, and carefully wrote: I.O.U. $99.90. Linda Nielsen.
She returned to the library and went through the main doors, which had taken her a week to batter in with a sledgehammer. She ran across the great hall, filthied with five years of droppings from the pigeons roosting there. As she ran, she clapped her arms over her head to shield her hair from stray shots. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered the Print Room. As always, she signed the register: Date—June 20, 1981. Name—Linda Nielson. Address—Central Park Model Boat Pond. Businessor Firm—Last Man on Earth.
She had had a long debate with herself about Business or Firm the last time she broke into the library.
Strictly speaking, she was the last woman on earth, but she had felt that if she wrote that it would seem chauvinistic; and “Last Person on Earth” sounded silly, like calling a drink a beverage.
She pulled portfolios out of racks and leafed through them. She knew exactly what she wanted; something warm with blue accents to fit a twenty-by-thirty frame for her bedroom. In a priceless collection of Hiroshige prints she found a lovely landscape. She filled out a slip, placed it carefully on the librarian’s desk, and left with the print.
Downstairs, she stopped off in the main circulation room, went to the back shelves, and selected two Italian grammars and an Italian dictionary. Then she backtracked through the main hall, went out to the jeep, and placed the books and print on the front seat alongside her companion, an exquisite Dresden china doll. She picked up a list that read:
Jap. print
Italian
20 x 30 pict. fr.
Lobster bisque
Brass polish
Detergent
Furn. polish
Wet mop
She crossed off the first two items, replaced the list on the dashboard, got into the jeep, and bounced down the library steps. She drove up Fifth Avenue, threading her way through crumbling wreckage. As she was passing the ruins of St. Patrick’s Cathedral at 50th Street, a man appeared from nowhere.
He stepped out of the rubble and, without looking left or right, started crossing the avenue just in front of her. She exclaimed, banged on the horn, which remained mute, and braked so sharply that the jeep slewed and slammed into the remains of a No. 3 bus. The man let out a squawk, jumped ten feet, and then stood frozen, staring at her.
“You crazy jaywalker,” she yelled. “Why don’t you look where you’re going? D’you think you own the whole city?”
He stared and stammered. He was a big man, with thick, grizzled hair, a red beard, and weathered skin.
He was wearing army fatigues, heavy ski boots, and had a bursting knapsack and blanket roll on his back. He carried a battered shotgun, and his pockets were crammed with odds and ends. He looked like a prospector.
“My God,” he whispered in a rusty voice. “Somebody at last. I knew it. I always knew I’d find someone.”
Then, as he noticed her long, fair hair, his face fell. “But a woman,” he muttered. “Just my goddamn lousy luck.”
“What are you, some kind of nut?” she demanded. “Don’t you know better than to cross against the lights?”
He looked around in bewilderment. “What lights?”
“So all right, there aren’t any lights, but couldn’t you look where you were going?”
“I’m sorry, lady. To tell the truth, I wasn’t expecting any traffic.”
“Just plain common sense,” she grumbled, backing the jeep off the bus.
“Hey, lady, wait a minute.”
“Yes?”
“Listen, you know anything about TV? Electronics, how they say …”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“No, this is straight. Honest.”
She snorted and tried to continue driving up Fifth Avenue, but he wouldn’t get out of the way.
“Please, lady,” he persisted. “I got a reason for asking. Do you know?”
“No.”
“Damn! I never get a break. Lady, excuse me, no offense, got any guys in this town?”
“There’s nobody but me. I’m the last man on earth.”
“That’s funny. I always thought I was.”
“So all right, I’m the last woman on earth.”
He shook his head. “There’s got to be other people; there just has to. Stands to reason. South, maybe you think? I’m down from New Haven, and I figured if I headed where the climate was like warmer, there’d be some guys I could ask something.”
“Ask what?”
“Aw, a woman wouldn’t understand. No offense.”
“Well, if you want to head south you’re going the wrong way.”
“That’s south, ain’t it?” he said, pointing down Fifth Avenue.
“Yes, but you’ll just come to a dead end. Manhattan’s an island. What you have to do is go uptown and cross the George Washington Bridge to Jersey.”
“Uptown? Which way is that?”
“Go straight up Fifth to Cathedral Parkway, then over to the West Side and up Riverside. You can’t miss it.”
He looked at her helplessly.
“Stranger in town?”
He nodded.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.”
She transferred the books and the china doll to the back seat, and he squeezed in alongside her. As she started the jeep she looked down at his worn ski boots.
“Hiking?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you drive? You can get a car working, and there’s plenty of gas and oil.”
“I don’t know how to drive,” he said despondently. “It’s the story of my life.”
He heaved a sigh, and that made his knapsack jolt massively against her shoulder. She examined him out of the corner of her eye. He had a powerful chest, a long, thick back, and strong legs. His hands were big and hard, and his neck was corded with muscles. She thought for a moment, then nodded to herself a
nd stopped the jeep.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Won’t it go?”
“What’s your name?”
“Mayo. Jim Mayo.”
“I’m Linda Nielsen.”
“Yeah. Nice meeting you. Why don’t it go?”
“Jim, I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“Oh?” He looked at her doubtfully. “I’ll be glad to listen, lady—I mean Linda, but I ought to tell you, I got something on my mind that’s going to keep me pretty busy for a long t …” His voice trailed off as he turned away from her intense gaze.
“Jim, if you’ll do something for me, I’ll do something for you.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Well, I get terribly lonesome, nights. It isn’t so bad during the day—there’s always a lot of chores to keep you busy—but at night it’s just awful.”
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered.
“I’ve got to do something about it.”
“But how do I come into this?” he asked nervously.
“Why don’t you stay in New York for a while? If you do, I’ll teach you how to drive and find you a car so you don’t have to hike south.”
“Say, that’s an idea. Is it hard, driving?”
“I could teach you in a couple of days.”
“I don’t learn things so quick.”
“All right, a couple of weeks, but think of how much time you’ll save in the long run.”
“Gee,” he said, “that sounds great.” Then he turned away again. “But what do I have to do for you?”
Her face lit up with excitement. “Jim, I want you to help me move a piano.”
“A piano? What piano?”
“A rosewood grand from Steinway’s on Fifty-seventh Street. I’m dying to have it in my place. The living room is just crying for it.”
“Oh, you mean you’re furnishing, huh?”
“Yes, but I want to play after dinner, too. You can’t listen to records all the time. I’ve got it all planned; books on how to play, and books on how to tune a piano … I’ve been able to figure everything except how to move the piano in.”
“Yeah, but … but there’s apartments all over this town with pianos in them,” he objected. “There must be hundreds, at least. Stands to reason. Why don’t you live in one of them?”
“Never! I love my place. I’ve spent five years decorating it, and it’s beautiful. Besides, there’s the problem of water.”
He nodded. “Water’s always a headache. How do you handle it?”
“I’m living in the house in Central Park where they used to keep the model yachts. It faces the boat pond.
It’s a darling place, and I’ve got it all fixed up. We could get the piano in together, Jim. It wouldn’t be hard.”
“Well, I don’t know, Lena …”
“Linda.”
“Excuse me, Linda. I—”
“You look strong enough. What’d you do, before?”
“I used to be a pro rassler.”
“There! I knew you were strong.”
“Oh, I’m not a rassler anymore. I became a bartender and went into the restaurant business. I opened The Body Slam up in New Haven. Maybe you heard of it?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was sort of famous with the sports crowd. What’d you do before?”
“I was a researcher for BBDO.”
“What’s that?”
“An advertising agency,” she explained impatiently. “We can talk about that later, if you’ll stick around.
And I’ll teach you how to drive, and we can move in the piano, and there’re a few other things that I—but that can wait. Afterward you can drive south.”
“Gee, Linda, I don’t know …”
She took Mayo’s hands. “Come on, Jim, be a sport. You can stay with me. I’m a wonderful cook, and I’ve got a lovely guest room …”
“What for? I mean, thinking you was the last man on earth.”
“That’s a silly question. A proper house has to have a guest room. You’ll love my place. I turned the lawns into a farm and gardens, and you can swim in the pond, and we’ll get you a new Jag … I know where there’s a beauty up on blocks.”
“I think I’d rather have a Caddy.”
“You can have anything you like. So what do you say, Jim? Is it a deal?”
“All right, Linda,” he muttered reluctantly. “You’ve a deal.”
It was indeed a lovely house with its pagoda roof of copper weathered to verdigris green, fieldstone walls, and deep recessed windows. The oval pond before it glittered blue in the soft June sunlight, and mallard ducks paddled and quacked busily. The sloping lawns that formed a bowl around the pond were terraced and cultivated. The house faced west, and Central Park stretched out beyond like an unkempt estate.
Mayo looked at the pond wistfully. “It ought to have boats.”
“The house was full of them when I moved in,” Linda said.
“I always wanted a model boat when I was a kid. Once I even—” Mayo broke off. A penetrating pounding sounded somewhere; an irregular sequence of heavy knocks that sounded like the dint of stones under water. It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. “What was that?” Mayo asked.
Linda shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. I think it’s the city falling apart. You’ll see buildings coming down every now and then. You get used to it.” Her enthusiasm rekindled. “Now come inside. I want to show you everything.”
She was bursting with pride and overflowing with decorating details that bewildered Mayo, but he was impressed by her Victorian living room. Empire bedroom, and country kitchen with a working kerosene cooking stove. The colonial guest room, with four-poster bed, hooked rug, and tole lamps, worried him.
“This is kind of girlie-girlie, huh?”
“Naturally, I’m a girl.”
“Yeah. Sure. I mean …” Mayo looked around doubtfully. “Well, a guy is used to stuff that ain’t so delicate. No offense.”
“Don’t worry, that bed’s strong enough. Now remember, Jim, no feet on the spread, and remove it at night. If your shoes are dirty, take them off before you come in. I got that rug from the museum, and I don’t want it messed up. Have you got a change of clothes?”
“Only what I got on.”
“We’ll have to get you new things tomorrow. What you’re wearing is so filthy it’s not worth laundering.”
“Listen,” he said desperately, “I think maybe I better camp out in the park.”
“Why on earth?”
“Well, I’m like more used to it than houses. But you don’t have to worry, Linda. I’ll be around in case you need me.”
“Why should I need you?”
“All you have to do is holler.”
“Nonsense,” Linda said firmly. “You’re my guest and you’re staying here. Now get cleaned up; I’m going to start dinner. Oh damn! I forgot to pick up the lobster bisque.”
She gave him a dinner cleverly contrived from canned goods and served on exquisite Fornasetti china with Danish silver flatware. It was a typical girl’s meal, and Mayo was still hungry when it was finished, but too polite to mention it. He was too tired to fabricate an excuse to go out and forage for something substantial. He lurched off to bed, remembering to remove his shoes but forgetting all about the spread.
He was awakened next morning by a loud honking and clattering of wings. He rolled out of bed and went to the windows just in time to see the mallards dispossessed from the pond by what appeared to be a red balloon. When he got his eyes working properly, he saw that it was a bathing cap. He wandered out to the pond, stretching and groaning. Linda yelled cheerfully and swam toward him. She heaved herself up out of the pond onto the curbing. The bathing cap was all that she wore. Mayo backed away from the splash and spatter.
“Good morning,” Linda said. “Sleep well?”
“Good morning,” Mayo said. “I don’t know. The bed put kinks in my back. Gee, that water must be cold. You’re all gooseflesh.
”
“No, it’s marvelous.” She pulled off the cap and shook her hair down. “Where’s that towel? Oh, here. Go on in, Jim. You’ll feel wonderful.”
“I don’t like it when it’s cold.”
“Don’t be a sissy.”
A crack of thunder split the quiet morning. Mayo looked up at the clear sky in astonishment. “What the hell was that?” he exclaimed.
“Watch,” Linda ordered.
“It sounded like a sonic boom.”
“There!” she cried, pointing west. “See?”
One of the West Side skyscrapers crumbled majestically, sinking into itself like a collapsible cup and raining masses of cornice and brick. The flayed girders twisted and contorted. Moments later they could hear the roar of the collapse.
“Man, that’s a sight,” Mayo muttered in awe.
“The decline and fall of the Empire City. You get used to it. Now take a dip, Jim. I’ll get you a towel.”
She ran into the house. He dropped his shorts and took off his socks but was still standing on the curb, unhappily dipping his toe into the water when she returned with a huge bath towel.
“It’s awful cold, Linda,” he complained.
“Didn’t you take cold showers when you were a wrestler?”
“Not me. Boiling hot.”
“Jim, if you just stand there, you’ll never go in. Look at you, you’re starting to shiver. Is that a tattoo around your waist?”
“What? Oh, yea. It’s a python, in five colors. It goes all the way around. See?” He revolved proudly.
“Got it when I was with the Army in Saigon back in ‘64. It’s a Oriental-type python. Elegant, huh?”
“Did it hurt?”
“To tell the truth, no. Some guys try to make out like it’s Chinese torture to get tattooed, but they’re just showin’ off. It itches more than anything else.”
“You were a soldier in ‘64?”
“That’s right.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty.”
“You’re thirty-seven now?”
“Thirty-six going on thirty-seven.”
“Then you’re prematurely gray?”
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 51