Spider Legs

by Piers Anthony

  Elmo walked down the hallway to a coffee machine, his massive arms swinging back and forth, his eyes sandy, his bones aching. His feet were still clad in elasticized hospital slippers and they made a scraping sound. His large shoulders slumped. He walked like a slug on the cold white linoleum floor.

  It seemed that this end of the hospital held a startling array of patients with strange ailments. As he passed by each room he read from explanatory cards taped to the doors. In one room was a boy with Prader-Willi syndrome. He was a short, fat, and snail-like individual whose compulsive eating had caused his parents to put a lock on the refrigerator. The syndrome had a distinct genetic cause: the boy had two chromosomes 15 from his mother, instead of one from each parent.

  “What is this wing of the hospital?” Elmo whispered to himself as his depression deepened like a twilight sky. The only sounds he heard were the soft groans of the wind at the hospital windows and the loud tapping of the rain against the glass of the skylights.

  In the next room was a girl with Angelman syndrome caused by two chromosomes 15 from her father. Her head was small, like a softball; her teeth were spaced inches apart; her movements were clumsy. Occasionally she laughed uncontrollably for no apparent reason. The man sharing her room seemed equally unusual. He suffered from osteogenesis imperfecta which caused an abnormality of his collagen—the main structural protein of the skin and bones. The famous painter Toulouse-Lautrec also had this disease which had made his bones fragile and stunted his growth. Elmo had to remind himself that each of these patients was more than a clinical specimen but a distinct individual loved by someone. Just as his mother was.

  In fact, these people made Elmo himself seem relatively normal. All he had to worry about was keeping his mouth closed so as to conceal the length of his teeth, and keep his hands curled, and he could pass without much disturbance. Of course that wouldn't work the moment he got close to a normal woman, especially a girl like Lisa.

  “It's hopeless, you dope,” he muttered. “Turn it off.” Yes, sure—as he might turn off his breathing. He might as well have stepped into a bullet, as into that smile of hers, unguarded. He had taken his injury, and might as well let himself dream until he recovered.

  As he passed by Room P16 he heard a funny sound, and Elmo could not help but peek inside. In the room was a policeman talking to a man in bed. The dark-haired man kept repeating the words, “It was a spider. It was a spider.” Each time he repeated the four words, his voice rose in pitch and intensity. As Elmo listened, a soft ripple of goose flesh traveled up his arms. He poked his head farther into the room just as a 200-pound hawk-faced policewoman approached him. Her name tag said, “Ms. Phat.” She was certainly a contrast to that tall, lean Ms. Sheppard who had been at the meeting. Policewomen, like policemen, came in all types.

  “Can we help you?” the policewoman said to Elmo in a voice as cold as her eyes. Both the policeman and the dark-haired patient turned and watched Ms. Phat and Elmo.

  “Did he say spider?” Elmo asked.

  “What's it to you?”

  “I'm helping Captain Falow on a case involving what we believe to be a large sea spider,” Elmo said. He saw the policeman raise his eyebrows.

  “We found him naked on an iceberg,” the policeman said. “He was covered with scratches and blood. Said he was attacked by a giant spider and that he was looking for his wife. Name's Garth James.”

  James! That was Lisa's last name. This was her brother! Suddenly this tragedy was considerably more personal than it had been. Lisa must really be broken up.

  Elmo looked over to the man on the bed. He recognized him from photos he had developed from the camera found on the schooner. Never in his life had Elmo felt so confused and scared. The entire sea spider business was beyond his ability to assimilate. But he had to be sure. “Were you from the schooner Phantom?”

  The man in the bed seemed to be drowning in a dark sea of madness. He turned his head toward Elmo and began to scream. He raised a bandaged arm with no hand above his head and started to point it to Elmo. He continued to yell.

  The policeman stood up and pressed the buzzer to summon a nurse. An orderly in gray-green fatigues sprinted from the far end of the hospital corridor and into the room of the screaming man.

  “It's—out—there,” Garth chanted. Then he began to thrash around and then jumped out of the bed with the speed of a jackrabbit.

  Ms. Phat blocked the only exit from the room with her fat body. The orderly came up from behind, grabbed Garth, and held him until the nurses came to inject a tranquilizer into his throbbing veins. Outside the rain drove against the hospital window with sudden fury.

  Elmo left. He had learned something significant: that there had been a survivor. Garth James would surely have valuable information. But there was scant comfort in this discovery. Who would tell the man about the fate of his wife? What effect was it having on Lisa?

  And Elmo couldn't even try to comfort her. Because she didn't know he existed.

  CHAPTER 16

  Restaurant

  MARTHA SAMULES LEFT her tropical fish store and walked down Main Street to her favorite restaurant, Terrie's Place. The outside of the restaurant looked like a graceless mausoleum, drab and cold. The only cheerful aspect of its front was a small canopy to the street which had rows of tiny red lights defining the roof line. On the door were the words:

  SHRIMP NIGHT—THURSDAY, ALL YOU CAN EAT.

  She ascended the soapstone steps large enough for only one person at a time to pass.

  “Good evening, Miss Samules,” said Gertie, a tall waitress in a slim skirt in stone wool and angora.

  “Good to see you,” Martha said as she walked briskly in, elegant as a knife.

  “Usual table?”

  “Sure.” The interior of the restaurant was in vivid contrast to the stark exterior. The noise level was congenial, not annoying. An opulent carpet covered the floor in an elegant floral pattern. Around each table were overstuffed chairs strewn with needle-point pillows. There were mirrors everywhere. After Martha sat down, Gertie handed her a large menu.

  Martha studied it for a minute. “Black bean soup is our soup of the day,” Gertie said.

  “Thanks. I think I'll have a lobster with a small side order of linguini with mussels, scallops, and clams,” Martha said to Gertie. Her voice was soft and eminently reasonable.

  Suddenly Martha saw Natalie Sheppard sitting alone in the far corner of the restaurant. She got up and walked over to the policewoman.

  “Natalie, good to see you here,” Martha said as she smiled.

  “Good to see you too,” Natalie agreed reluctantly.

  “I'd love you to join me at my table.”

  “Well—” Natalie arched her eyebrows.

  “Please. I rarely get to eat with friends.” Of course Martha had no friends among the human kind, but she had seen the policewoman often pass her store, keeping order in the neighborhood, and regarded her as worthwhile.

  “OK.”

  Natalie walked with Martha to Martha's table. Gertie came over and took Natalie's order, chicken cacciatore. Martha sniffed with satisfaction at the entire arrangement. A single radiator near the table began to hiss and clank and constantly spit out a warm moist trail of vapor.

  “Wish they would fix that thing,” Natalie said.

  “I agree.”

  One of the waitresses insisted on serving refreshments. Martha took a soft drink. Natalie took mineral water. When their meals finally arrived, they ate in relative silence, occasionally making small talk. Martha frequently had to pick out a piece of linguini caught between her long teeth. Natalie looked uneasy.

  “How do you like this place?” Martha asked as she gestured toward the mahogany-paneled, antique-filled room.

  Natalie shook her head. “This room is a bit dark for my tastes. The only reason I came was to try the food; I've heard so many good things about it.” She looked around at the strange decor.

  The restaurant was loade
d with antiques. The table upon which they ate appeared to be a Napoléon III. The table nearest them was banded by ormolu and stood on toupie feet. Lining the shelves were beautiful 18th-Century Mandarin-pattern bowls made of porcelain.

  “Watch this,” Martha said as she reached into the lobster and pressed one of its nerves in the abdominal cavity. Natalie watched with curiosity. Suddenly, the lobster's claw opened and closed ever-so-slightly.

  “My God,” Natalie screamed. “How could you do that?”

  “Anatomy, my dear. Anatomy,” Martha grinned. “It's knowing just what nerves and muscles to press to get a particular response.”

  “Impossible! That lobster is dead and boiled.”

  “Actually it's broiled, not boiled. But it doesn't matter. Even the dead can move. It does, however, work better with live specimens. You just have to know the right pressure points. It's like acupuncture.”

  Natalie didn't seem to believe Martha. It must be some trick, she surely thought. That was of course why Martha had done it. She couldn't help showing off her bits of knowledge.

  “Care for a mussel?” Martha lifted a spoon filled with some of the bivalve's tan flesh and waved it in Natalie's direction. Bright red tomato sauce dripped from the seafood and onto the amber table cloth. One piece of the flesh shot out of Martha's mouth and onto a nearby 19th-century Italian table with an intricate marquetry inlay. Another splattered against the limestone column supporting the roof. Martha realized that she was going into one of her moods and was about to make a scene. Well, so be it.

  “No thanks.” Natalie looked increasingly uncomfortable.

  Martha caught her own reflection in the shiny glass of a cabinet. In silhouette, in the dark light, she seemed an ominous figure, like a great vulture or dangerous vampire. She liked that. “Personally, invertebrates are my favorite foods. Mussels, squid, octopus, snails—I love them all.”

  “I prefer fish.” Natalie's tone suggested that what she really would prefer was to be somewhere else.

  “Fish have backbones. I hate those backbones. I choke on the spinal cords and ribs.”

  Natalie looked apprehensive about the direction the conversation was taking. She didn't seem to know whether to laugh at the absurdity of the conversation or get up and leave. Now the room seemed darker, more depressing. Rancid grease hung in the air like a wet rag. Oh, yes, this was going to be a good scene.

  Martha began to point out some of the anatomical features of the food she was consuming. Natalie pretended to be more interested in the rosewood pedestals with inlaid jade in the far corner of the room. But she couldn't keep it up. She hesitated and then picked up her fork. She wanted to eat instead of listen to Martha. Well, Martha intended to see about that.

  “Look at this,” Martha said. “It's the clam's stomach. And this is its aortic arch.” She started dissecting the various specimens on her plate. She pushed aside the shells to give Natalie a better view. Natalie put down her fork, giving up her effort to eat. She tried to swallow some of her drink, without much better success.

  Martha continued as Natalie looked regretfully at her plate. Her food was getting cold, and the sauce on her chicken was congealing. She sighed. “It's been interesting Martha, but now I have to leave.”

  Oh, really?

  Natalie started to get up.

  Martha screamed. “I see parasites in my clam. Look! Hundreds of protozoa.” Martha turned in the direction of their waitress. “Gertie!” she screamed in a high screech.

  Gertie scurried over. “What's the matter?” she asked timidly. Gertie's father had been a tyrant, always quick to anger, always quick to subdue his wife and daughter with verbal abuse. This did little to give the waitress confidence when confronting abusive customers.

  “I see parasites in my clam!” Martha repeated.

  “I can't believe this is happening,” Natalie said, looking ill. Gertie stared in amazement.

  “Look at all these parasites,” Martha yelled as she smeared the digestive contents of the clam's stomach on the table cloth. Tomato sauce was everywhere. “Look at this. It looks like the adrenal glands of sheep and cattle.” A few other people in the restaurant were staring intently at the unwholesome scene. Others were looking at their own plates with similar apprehension.

  Natalie stood up.

  “I'll get the manager,” Gertie whispered.

  “Speak up, Gertie, I can't hear you!” Martha shouted.

  “I said I'll get the manager!” Gertie's mind seemed to snap and she began screaming, “I'll get the manager,” over and over again at the top of her lungs as she fled.

  From somewhere in the room, a diner dropped his fork. Another diner overturned her glass of water. There was something like a panic riot in the making.

  Natalie slapped some money on the table and ran from the restaurant.

  Martha was sorry to see her go. But once she got into one of her moods, nothing would stop it.

  CHAPTER 17

  Population

  BACK IN THE store, Martha Samules was ashamed of herself. Not for making the scene in the restaurant, but for alienating a potential friend. Natalie Sheppard seemed like a decent sort, despite her profession. Martha seldom admitted it, even to herself, but she would have liked to have a friend or two. But somehow she never could resist the temptation to make others uncomfortable. She even did it to her brother, when she wouldn't hurt him for the world. And to their mother.

  There it was. Elmo had called her and told her that Mom was in a coma after surgery. She should have gone with him to see her. Yet she couldn't. Her alienation had been too deep, too long. Even if it didn't make a lot of sense.

  From the beginning, Elmo had been the ornery one. He had fought those who tried to tease him, and he had learned the art of fighting well. Let a boy say “finger” in that sneering tone, and he might soon enough feel that finger, curled with the others into a surprisingly solid fist, against his flesh. Let him curl his lip back to emulate too long a tooth, and he might find his own teeth loosened. No, boys had not teased Elmo for long! But that did not make them like him. Neither did the teachers, some of whom seemed to think he was a sending of the devil. More than one school had found pretexts to discipline him repeatedly, isolating him from his classmates. Their mother had protested, but it kept happening, and Elmo's fighting attitude didn't help his case.

  She remembered the trouble when he severely hurt another boy. It didn't seem to matter that three boys, all larger than he, had jumped him and pummeled him mercilessly, and neither classmates nor the teacher had come to his rescue. He had finally, in desperation, managed to throw one clear, grab another around the waist, and heave him into the third with such force that their two heads cracked together, rendering both unconscious. That had been lucky and unlucky for him. Lucky because he hadn't been trying for anything so effective; unlucky because of the consequence. One boy had a concussion; the other wound up in the hospital for stitches. Elmo was expelled for violence.

  After that Mom had tutored Elmo at home. Martha, who tended to internalize, rather than externalize in the manner of her brother, remained in school, keeping her fingers folded and her mouth closed, literally, so that her teeth didn't show. She got along despite the jeers. She didn't give anyone any concussions, though she did take some licks. And gradually her confusion and doubt congealed into the realization that she wasn't inferior, just different, and that she would never be accepted by others. All her efforts to conform, to be nice, had been wasted; she could do her very best for a century and still be a target of ridicule. Just because of her hands. Because of her teeth. Because.

  Today some of her acquaintances asked her why she didn't get corrective plastic surgery. Why didn't they just mind their own business? When she was growing up, plastic surgery in her town had not been sufficiently advanced, and in any case was too costly. And although today doctors could make some improvement, Martha had an acute phobia toward dentists, hospitals, and the like. That was part of what had stopped her from
going with her brother to see their mother. Even if she were to have all her teeth removed and wear dentures, her jaws would be very misaligned and would require even more surgery with no guarantee of the results. No way. All that surgery was not for her.

  Martha continued to reminisce. It took her some time to make her internal adjustments, but by the time she finished school her heart had, as it were, become a crystal of ice. Only occasionally did she encounter someone with the potential to be liked, and then it always went wrong. Just as it had with Natalie Sheppard. Something in Martha just couldn't allow an artifact as dangerous as friendship to hatch from its reptilian egg. So her emotional censor cut in and broke it up before it could spread. Sheppard would avoid her like the plague, after that scene in the restaurant. Yet one faint, lonely vestige of Martha's original longing to be liked felt the pain of that necessary surgery. If only, that vestige thought, there could be just one exception. A faint thread, a tie to someone who was a friend. But the solid majority of her feelings were disciplined, knowing that in friendship was ruin. Only in complete emotional alienation from all human beings could she be what she had to be, and accomplish what she had to accomplish. Alienation from all except Elmo.

  Elmo. He had thrived on the home tutoring, and learned a phenomenal amount. He had been able to keep his illusions about the decency of the human kind, because he was no longer subjected to the refutation on a daily basis. There might have been some justified bitterness in him, but it was overmatched by the constant overflowing love of their mother, who lavished her attention on him. Elmo, in withdrawing from human society physically, had been returned to it emotionally. Martha, remaining among humans, had become completely alienated from them. It was in its fashion a paradox. But it had allowed her to draw from the human society all the intellectual things she needed to accomplish her purpose.

  For she, with the objectivity of alienation, had come to comprehend the fundamental problem of the world. It was being overrun by a single species. Like rabbits breeding without predation in Australia, and in England before that, humans were thoughtlessly consuming the resources needed for the future.