by Gene Wolfe
At first he did not understand what she had said. He repeated, “Don’t you know?”
“I told you, it wasn’t in there. There’s just a diagram of the house, and there’s this room, the children’s room, the parlor and the bath. It said that door there”—she gestured with the spatula—“was the bath, and that’s right, because I went in there to get the water for the coffee. I stay here and look after things and you go out and work, that’s what it said. There was some stuff about what you do, but I skipped that and read about what I do.”
“You didn’t know anything when you woke up either,” he said.
“Just my name.”
“What’s your name?”
“Edna Forlesen. I’m your wife—that’s what it said.”
He walked around the small table on which she had arranged the cooking appliances, wanting to look at her. “You’re sort of pretty,” he said.
“You are sort of handsome,” his wife said. “Anyway you look tough and strong.” This made him walk over to the mirror on the dresser and try to look at himself. He did not know what he looked like, but the man in the mirror was not he. The image was older, fatter, meaner, more cunning, and stupider than he knew himself to be, and he raised his hands (the man in the mirror did likewise) to touch his features; they were what they should have been and he turned away. “That mirror’s no good,” he said.
“Can’t you see yourself? That means you’re a vampire.”
He laughed, and decided that that was the way he always laughed when his wife’s jokes weren’t funny. She said, “Want some coffee?” and he sat down.
She put a cup in front of him, and a pile of books. “This is the orientation,” she said. “You better read it—you don’t have much time.”
On top of the pile was a mimeographed sheet, and he picked that up first. It said—
Welcome to the planet Planet.
You have awakened completely ignorant of everything. Do not be disturbed by this. It is NORMAL. Under no circumstances ever allow yourself to become excited, confused, angry, or FEARFUL. While you possess these capacities, they are to be regarded as incapacities.
Anything you may have remembered upon awakening is false. The orientation books provided you contain information of inestimable value. Master it as soon as possible, BUT DO NOT BE LATE FOR WORK. If there are no orientation books where you are, go to the house on your right (from the street). DO NOT GO TO THE HOUSE ON YOUR LEFT.
If you cannot find any books live like everyone else.
The white paper under this paper is your JOB ASSIGNMENT. The yellow paper is your TABLE OF COMMONLY USED WAITS AND MEASURES. Read these first; they are more important than the books.
“Eat your egg,” his wife said. He tasted the egg. It was good but slightly oily, as though a drop of motor oil had found its way into the grease in which she had fried it. His Job Assignment read—
Forlosen, E.
(To his wife he said, “They got our name wrong.”)
Forlosen, E. You work at Model Pattern Products, 19000370 Plant Prkwy, Highland Industrial Park. Your duties are supervisory and managerial. When you arrive punch in on the S&M clock (beige) NOT the Labor clock (brown). The union is particular about this. Go to the Reconstruction and Advanced Research section. To arrive on time leave before 060.30.00.
The yellow paper was illegible save for the title and first line: There are 240 ours in each day.
“What time is it?” he asked his wife.
She glanced at her wrist. “Oh six oh ours. Didn’t they give you a watch?”
He looked at his own wrist—it was bare, of course. For a few moments Edna helped him search for one; but it seemed that none had been provided, and in the end he took hers, she saying that he would need it more than she. It was big for a woman’s watch, he thought, but very small for a man’s. “Try it,” she said, and he obediently studied the tiny screen. The words “The Time Is” were cast in the metal at its top; below them, glimmering and changing even as he looked: “060.07.43.” He took a sip of coffee and found the oily taste was there too.
The book at the top of the pile was a booklet really, about seven inches by four with the pages stapled in the middle. The title, printed in black on a blue cover of slightly heavier paper, was How to Drive.
Remember that your car is a gift. Although it belongs to you and you are absolutely responsible for its acts (whether driven by yourself or others, or not driven) and maintenance (pg 15), do not:
1. Deface its surface.
2. Interfere with the operation of its engine, or with the operation of any other part.
3. Alter it in such a way as to increase or diminish the noise of operation.
4. Drive it at speeds in excess of 40 miles/our.
5. Pick up hitchhikers.
6. Deposit a hitchhiker at any point other than a Highway Patrol Station.
7. Operate it while you are in an unfit condition. (To be determined by a duly constituted medical board.)
8. Fail to halt and render medical assistance to persons injured by you, your car, or others (provided third parties are not already providing such assistance).
9. Stop at any time or for any reason at any point not designated as a stopping position.
10. Wave or shout at other drivers.
11. Invade the privacy of other drivers—as by noticing or pretending to notice them or the occupants of their vehicles.
12. Fail to return it on demand.
13. Drive it to improper destinations.
He turned the page. The new page was a diagram of the control panel of an automobile, and he noted the positions of Windshield, Steering Wheel, Accelerator, Brake, Reversing Switch, Communicator, Beverage Dispenser, Urinal, Defecator, and Map Compartment. He asked Edna if they had a car, and she said she thought they did, and that it would be outside.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve just noticed that this place has windows.”
Edna said, “You’re always jumping up from the table. Finish your breakfast.”
Ignoring her, he parted the curtains. She said, “Two walls have windows and two don’t. I haven’t looked out of them.” Outside he saw sunshine on concrete; a small, yellow, somehow hunched-looking automobile; and a house.
“Yeah, we’ve got a car,” he said. “It’s parked right under the window.”
“Well, I wish you’d finish breakfast and get to work.”
“I want to look out of the other window.”
If the first window had been, as it appeared to be, at one side of the house, then the other should be at either the back or the front. He opened the curtains and saw a narrow, asthmatic brick courtyard. On the bricks stood three dead plants in terra cotta jars; the opposite side of the court, no more than fifteen feet off, was the wall of another house. There were two widely spaced windows in this wall, each closed with curtains; and as he watched (though his face was only at the window for an instant) a man pushed aside the curtains at the nearer window and looked at him. Forlesen stepped back and said to Edna: “I saw a man; he looked afraid. A bald man with a wide, fat face, and a gold tooth in front, and a mole over one eyebrow.” He went to the mirror again and studied himself.
“You don’t look like that,” his wife said.
“No, I don’t—that’s what bothers me. That was the first thing I thought of—that it would be myself, perhaps the way I’m going to look when I’m older. I’ve lost a lot of my hair now and I could lose the rest of it, in fact, I suppose I will. And I could break a tooth in front and get a gold one—”
“Maybe it wasn’t really a mole,” Edna said. “It could have been just a spot of dirt or something.”
“It could have been.” He had seated himself again, and as he spoke he speared a bite of egg with his fork. “I suppose it’s even possible that I could grow a mole I don’t have now, and I could put on weight. But that wasn’t me; those weren’t my features, not at any age.”
“Well, why should it be you?”
&n
bsp; “I just felt it should, somehow.”
“You’ve been reading that red book.” Edna’s voice was accusing.
“No, I haven’t even looked at it.” Curious, he pushed aside brown and purple pamphlets, fished the red book out of the pile, and looked at it. The cover was of leather and had been blind-tooled in a pattern of thin lines. Holding it at a slant to the light from the window, he decided he could discern, in the intricacies of the pattern, a group of men surrounding a winged being. “What is it?” he said.
“It’s supposed to tell you how to be good, and how to live—everything like that.”
He riffled the pages, and noted that the left side of the book—the back of each leaf—was printed in scarlet in a language he did not understand. The right side, printed in black, seemed by its arrangement on the page to be a translation.
Of the nature of Death and the Dead we may enumerate twelve kinds. First there are those who become new gods, for whom new universes are born. Second those who praise. Third those who fight as soldiers in the unending war with evil. Fourth those who amuse themselves among flowers and sweet streams with sports. Fifth those who dwell in gardens of bliss, or are tortured. Sixth those who continue as in life. Seventh those who turn the wheel of the Universe. Eighth those who find in their graves their mothers’ wombs and in one life circle forever. Ninth ghosts. Tenth those born again as men in their grandsons’ time. Eleventh those who return as beasts or trees. And last those who sleep.
“Look at this,” he said, “this can’t be right.”
“I wish you’d hurry. You’re going to be late.”
He looked at the watch she had given him. It read 060.26.13, and he said, “I still have time. But look here—the black is supposed to say the same thing as the red, but look at how different they are: where it says, ‘And last those who sleep,’ there’s a whole paragraph opposite it; and across from, ‘Fourth those who amuse themselves …’ there are only two words.”
“You don’t want any more coffee, do you?”
He shook his head, laid down the red book, and picked up another; its title was Food Preparation in the Home. “That’s for me,” his wife said. “You wouldn’t be interested by that.”
Contents
Introduction—Three Meals a Day
Preparing Breakfast
Preparing Luncheon
Preparing Supper
Helpful Hints for Homemakers
He set the book down again, and as he did so its cheap plastic cover popped open to the last page. At the bottom of the Hints for Homemakers, he read: Remember that if he does not go you and your children will starve. He closed it and put the sugar bowl on top of it.
“I wish you’d get going,” his wife said.
He stood up. “I was just leaving. How do I get out?”
She pointed to one of the doors, and said, “That’s the parlor. You go straight through that, and there’s another door that goes outside.”
“And the car,” Forlesen said, more than half to himself, “will be around there under the window.” He slipped the blue How To Drive booklet into one of his pockets.
The parlor was smaller than the bedroom, but because it held no furniture as large as the bed or the table it seemed nearly empty. There was an uncomfortable-looking sofa against one wall, and two bowlegged chairs in corners; an umbrella stand and a dusty potted palm. The floor was covered by a dark, patterned rug, and the walls by flowered paper. Four strides took him across the room; he opened another, larger and heavier door and stepped outside. A moment after he had closed the door he heard the bolt snick behind him; he tried to open it again, and found, as he had expected, that he was locked out.
The house in which he seemed to have been born stood on a narrow street paved with asphalt. Only a two-foot concrete walkway separated it from the curb; there was no porch, and the doorway was at the same level as the walk, which had been stenciled at intervals of six feet or so with the words GO TO YOUR RIGHT—NOT TO YOUR LEFT. They were positioned in such a way as to be upside down to a person who had gone to the left. Forlesen went around the corner of his house instead and got into the yellow car—the instrument panel differed in several details from the one in the blue book. For a moment he considered rolling down the right window of the car to rap on the house window, but he felt sure that Edna would not come. He threw the reversing switch instead, wondering if he should not do something to bring the car to life first. It began to roll slowly backward at once; he guided it with the steering wheel, craning his neck to look over his shoulder.
The narrow street seemed deserted. He switched into Front and touched the accelerator pedal with his foot; the car inched forward, picking up speed only slowly even when he pushed the pedal to the floor. The street was lined with small brick houses much like the one he had left; their curtains were drawn, and small cars like his own but of various colors were parked beside the houses. Signs stood on metal poles cast into the asphalt of the road, spaced just sufficiently far apart that each was out of sight of the next. They were diamondshaped, with black letters on an orange ground, and each read HIDDEN DRIVES.
His communicator said: “If you do not know how to reach your destination, press the button and ask.”
He pressed the button and said, “I think I’m supposed to go to a place called Model Pattern Products.”
“Correct. Your destination is 19000370 Plant Parkway, Highland Industrial Park. Turn right at the next light.”
He was about to ask what was meant by the word light in this connotation, when he saw that he was approaching an intersection and that over it, like a ceiling fixture unaccompanied by any ceiling, was suspended a rapidly blinking light which emitted at intervals of perhaps a quarter second alternating flashes of red and green. He turned to the right; the changing colors gave an illusion of jerky motion, belied by the smooth hum of the tires. The flickering brought a sensation of nausea, and for a moment he shut his eyes against it; then felt the car nosing up, tilting under him. He opened his eyes and saw that the new street onto which he had turned was lifting beneath him, becoming, ahead, an air-borne ribbon of pavement that traced a thin streak through the sky. Already he was higher than the tops of the trees. The roofs of the houses—little tarpaper things like the lids of boxes—were dwindling below. He thought of Edna in one of those boxes (he found he could not tell which one) cooking a meal for herself, perhaps smoothing the bed in which the two of them had slept, and knew, with that sudden insight which stands in relation to reason as reason does to instinct, that she would spend ours, most of whatever day there was, looking out the parlor window at the empty street; he found that he both pitied and envied her, and stopped the car with some vague thought of returning home and devising some plan by which they could either stay there together or go together to wherever it was he was being sent. “Model Pattern Products,” he said aloud. What was that?
As though it were answering him the speaker said, “Why have you stopped? Do you require mechanical assistance?”
“Wait a minute, I’m not sure if I do or not.” He got out of the car and walked to the low rail at the edge of the road and looked down. Something, he felt sure, must be supporting the mass of concrete and steel upon which he stood, but he could not see what it was, only the houses and trees and the narrow asphalt streets below. The sunlight striking his face when he looked up again gave him an idea, and he hurried across the road and bent over the rail on the opposite side. There, as he had anticipated, the shadow of the road, long in the level morning sunshine, lay stretched across the roofs and streets. Under it, very closely spaced, were yet other shadows; but these were so broken by the irregular shapes upon which they were thrown by the sun that he could not be sure if they were the shadows of things actually straight, or if the casters of these shadows (whatever they might be) were themselves bowed, twisted, and deformed.
He was still studying them when the humming sound of wheels drew his attention back to the flying roadway upon which he stood. A
car, painted a metallic and yet peculiarly pleasing shade of blue, was speeding toward him. Unaccustomed to estimating the speeds of vehicles, he wondered for an instant whether or not he had time to recross the road and reach his own car again, and was torn between the fear of being run down if he tried and that of being pinned against the rail where he stood, should the blue car swerve too near. Then he realized that the blue car was slowing as it approached him—that he himself was, so to speak, its destination. Its door, he saw, was painted with a fantastic design, a mingling of fabulous beasts with plants and what appeared to be wholly abstract symbols.
A man was seated in the blue car, and as Forlesen watched he leaned across the seat toward him, rolling down the window. “Hey, bud, what are you doing outside your car?”
“I was looking over the railing,” Forlesen said. He indicated the sheer drop beside him. “I wanted to see how the road got up in the air like this.”
“Get back in.”
Forlesen was about to obey, when in a remote corner of his field of vision he detected a movement, a shifting in that spot of ground below toward which he had been looking a moment before, and thus toward which (as is the habit of vision) his gaze was still to some degree drawn. He swung around to look at it, and the man in the blue car said again, “Get back in your car, bud.” And then: “I’m telling you, you better get back.”
“Come here,” Forlesen said. “Look at this.” He heard the door of the other car open and assumed the driver was coming to join him then felt something—it might have been the handlebar of a bicycle against which he had accidentally backed—prodding him in the spine, just above his belt. He moved away from it with his attention still riveted on the shadows below, but it followed him. He turned and saw that the driver had, as he had supposed, left the blue car, and that he wore a loose, broad-sleeved blue shirt with a metal badge pinned to the fabric off-center. Also that he wore no trousers, his sexual organs being effectively concealed by the length of the shirt, and that from under the shirt six or more plastic tubes led back to the blue car, some of the color of straw and others of the dark red color of blood; and that he held a pistol, and that it had been the muzzle of this pistol which he (Forlesen) had felt a moment before pressing against his back. “Get in there,” the man from the blue car said a third time.