The Best from Fantasy & Science Fiction 8 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Alfred Bester

  Toto thought her very attractive, in her hard blond way, though by no means so beautiful as Dorothy Lamour. Even so, it occurred to him, it might be fun to whisk her away for a weekend atop the Empire State Building while crowds gathered and the police hovered in helicopters; but he quickly suppressed this whimsical idea, and filed respectfully into the office along with the other applicants.

  There were not enough chairs for all of them. Toto joined a nervous little group standing by the wall, while the blond secretary busied herself at her desk. “I might as well start the ball rolling,” she announced, “while we’re waiting for Mr. Phineas. I certainly didn’t expect so many. Let me make it clear at the beginning that we want somebody experienced and responsible, preferably with references. There’s every chance that Miss Lamour will ask to be photographed with the successful applicant.”

  Toto’s heart trembled, beat faster. He had no experience to offer, and no references, but he took pride in thinking he was responsible. And how could they possibly not prefer him over these wretched fakes? And to be photographed with . . . with . . . “I’ll take your names,” he heard the secretary saying. “You first.” The man next to him started forward. “No, no, the other one. The one that’s already got his suit on.” Slowly, fearfully, Toto approached the desk.

  “Name?” she said, pencil poised.

  …

  “Speak up. Don’t mumble so. What is it?”

  …

  She threw down the pencil. “Oh, never mind! I can’t take everybody’s name anyway—there are too many. Why the hell didn’t that stupid Phineas do all this through an employment agency?”

  Toto, ashamed of his failure to communicate with her, desperately racked his brain. He might, of course, establish for her his authenticity by performing some of the indelicate little antics that so unfailingly delighted visitors to the zoo . . . But no, that would probably do more harm than good, would, in fact, quite ruin his chances of being thought responsible. It was better to retire and wait for Mr. Phineas.

  “I can’t say your costume is very convincing,” she called after him as he backed away from the desk. “Still, it’s up to Phineas to decide—Oh, Mr. Phineas!”

  A little bowlegged man had bounded in, breathlessly throwing off his hat and overcoat. “I’m terribly sorry, Eloise honey,” he cried, “to have dumped all this on you. Honestly, I didn’t realize. Next time, sweetie, I’ll do it all through an employment agency and let them screen people first.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, Mr. Phineas,” she said, with a brave smile.

  “That’s the spirit, girl!” He patted her on the shoulder. “All right, all you Tarzans, let’s have a look at you! Into the monkey suits and make it snappy!” And glancing at Toto, he added aside to Eloise, “A-ha, a real eager beaver!”

  A real eager gorilla. But he stood patiently, waiting while all the men clambered into their suits. “Line up!” commanded Mr. Phineas, and they all took their places, as he walked along examining them with a shrewd, suspicious eye.

  “Just look at this one!” he shrieked, pointing to an especially seedy individual standing next to Toto. “The buttons even show. He might as well have turned up in his long winter underwear! I’ll bet there’s not a zipper in the whole crowd.” Toto was on the point of stepping forward to demonstrate that he had neither buttons nor zippers—most important of all, didn’t need them—but before he could think of a decorous approach, Mr. Phineas had moved on.

  “Honest, Eloise,” he was saying, sauntering up and down with his hands on his hips, “did you ever in your life see such a bunch of mangy, moth-eaten gorillas? That one there”—he flipped a hand in Toto’s direction—”isn’t too bad, I suppose. What do you think, honey?”

  “Gee, Mr. Phineas, I just don’t know,” she said, gazing at them all in bewildered disappointment. “Would you like me to call up one of the employment agencies after all?”

  “No, we haven’t got time. It’ll have to be one of these.” And he gave Toto a long critical look.

  Toto’s heart was bursting with hope and joy, but he made every effort to contain himself. And then it happened, in all its horror—the door opened, and in came another real gorilla, an arrogant creature carrying a shining aluminum suitcase.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I think we have enough applicants already—” Eloise began, but the newcomer, grinning, merely slavered at her lecherously. He set down his suitcase, opened it, and—to Toto’s stunned mortification—took out a lustrous gorilla suit, into which he deftly proceeded to zipper himself. This process completed, he made a little bow to Mr. Phineas and Eloise, offering his arm for their inspection.

  “Why, it’s not gorilla fur at all,” said Mr. Phineas, feeling the suit. “It’s genuine, fine-spun, combed, nylon-acetate!”

  “It’s beautiful,” breathed the secretary. “It’s perfectly divine.”

  “And so chic,” marveled Mr. Phineas. “Well, that settles it. He’s definitely hired. All the rest of you can go now. Leave by the side door, please.”

  The men, grumbling and disconsolate, took off their gorilla suits and trooped out. Toto heard Eloise saying to the successful applicant, “It’s just for one day, but you’ll still have to fill out a withholding statement. What’s your social security—” And then he was in the hallway, shuffling sadly towards the elevator. “Too bad, eh, Mac?” said the man next to him. “That’s what always happens.” But Toto had no idea whom he might be addressing.

  He reached the street and began walking dejectedly up Broadway. Hurrying pedestrians brushed against him, but he hardly noticed them. He tried to take comfort in the knowledge that he hadn’t really needed a job, and he only hoped that Mr. McCready wouldn’t be too angry when he presented himself back at the zoo. At a corner newsstand he suddenly stopped, his attention caught by a screaming headline in the Daily News:

  DRAGNET OUT FOR ESCAPED GORILLA

  And the Journal-American announced in bold red letters:

  TERROR GRIPS CITY AS KILLER APE PROWLS!

  while underneath was a photograph, his, Toto’s, with the caption, “Have You Seen This Gorilla?” and the telephone number to call in case you had. People milled about the newsstand trying to get a look at the picture, a few women clutched their bosoms, and one of them stepped on Toto’s foot. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, looking him right in the face.

  Still, someone soon would recognize him—it was only a matter of time. He wondered whether to strike out boldly along Broadway or try to hide in some side-street, and as he stood, hesitating on the corner, a squad car stopped, and a policeman got out and tapped him on the shoulder.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  ZENNA HENDERSON

  No series of stories in F&SF has been more popular than Zenna Henderson’s novelets of The People, those tragic yet triumphant exiles from the stars. I hope that soon the complete chronicles of The People will be available in book form; meanwhile here is the longest story in the series, and one of the most meaty and moving.

  CAPTIVITY

  By the rivers of Babylon, there we sot down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

  How shall we sing the Lords song in a strange land?

  —psalm 137

  ~ * ~

  I SUPPOSE many lonely souls have sat at their windows many nights looking out into the flood of moonlight, sad with a sadness that knows no comfort, a sadness underlined by a beauty that is in itself a pleasant kind of sorrow—but very few ever have seen what I saw that night.

  I leaned against the window frame, close enough to the inflooding light so that it washed across my bare feet and the hem of my gown and splashed whitely against the foot of my bed, but picked up none of my features to identify me as a person, separate from the night. I was enjoying hastily, briefly, the magic of
the loveliness before the moon would lose itself behind the heavy grove of cottonwoods that lined the creek below the curve of the back-yard garden. The first cluster of leaves had patterned itself against the edge of the moon when I saw him—the Francher kid. I felt a momentary surge of disappointment and annoyance that this perfect beauty should be marred by any person at all, let alone the Francher kid, but my annoyance passed as my interest sharpened.

  What was he doing—half black and half white in the edge of the moonlight? In the higgledy-piggledy haphazardness of the town Groman's Grocery sidled in at an angle to the back yard of the Somansons' house, where I boarded—not farther than twenty feet away. The tiny high-up windows under the eaves of the store blinked in the full light. The Francher kid was standing, back to the moon, staring up at the windows. I leaned closer to watch. There was a waitingness about his shoulders, a prelude to movement, a beginning of something. Then there he was—up at the windows, pushing softly against the panes, opening a dark rectangle against the white side of the store. And then he was gone. I blinked and looked again. Store. Windows. One opened blankly. No Francher kid. Little windows. High up under the eaves. One opened blankly. No Francher kid.

  Then the blank opening had movement inside it, and the Francher kid emerged with both hands full of something and slid down the moonlight to the ground outside.

  "Now looky here!" I said to myself. "Hey! Lookit now!"

  The Francher kid sat down on one end of a twelve-by-twelve that lay half in our garden and half behind the store. Carefully and neatly he arranged his booty along the timber. Three Cokes, a box of candy bars, and a huge harmonica that had been in the store for years. He sat and studied the items, touching each one with a fingertip. Then he picked up a Coke and studied the cap on it. He opened the box of candy and closed it again. He ran a finger down the harmonica and then lifted it between the pointer fingers of his two hands. Holding it away from him in the moonlight he looked at it, his head swinging slowly down its length. And, as his head swung, faintly, faintly, I heard a musical scale run up, then down. Careful note by careful note singing softly but clearly in the quiet night.

  The moon was burning holes through the cottonwood tops by now and the yard was slipping into shadow. I heard notes riff rapidly up and cascade back down, gleefully, happily, and I saw the glint and chromium glitter of the harmonica, dancing from shadow to light and back again, singing untouched in the air. Then the moon reached an opening in the trees and spotlighted the Francher kid almost violently. He was sitting on the plank, looking up at the harmonica, a small smile on his usually sullen face. And the harmonica sang its quiet song to him as he watched it. His face shadowed suddenly as he looked down at the things laid out on the plank. He gathered them up abruptly and walked up the moonlight to the little window and slid through, head first. Behind him, alone, unattended, the harmonica danced and played, hovering and darting like a dragonfly. Then the kid reappeared, sliding head first out of the window. He sat crosslegged in the air beside the harmonica and watched and listened. The gay dance slowed and changed. The harmonica cried softly in the moonlight, an aching asking cry as it spiraled up and around until it slid through the open window and lost its voice in the darkness. The window clicked shut and the Francher kid thudded to the ground. He slouched off through the shadows, his elbows winging sharply backward as he jammed his fists in his pockets.

  I let go of the curtain where my clenched fingers had cut four nail-sized holes through the. age-fragile lace, and released a breath I couldn't remember holding. I stared at the empty plank and wet my lips. I took a deep breath of the mountain air that was supposed to do me so much good, and turned away from the window. For the thousandth time I muttered "I won't," and groped for the bed. For the thousandth time I finally reached for my crutches and swung myself over to the edge of the bed. I dragged the unresponsive half of me up onto the bed, arranging myself for sleep. I leaned against the pillow and put my hands in back of my head, my elbows fanning out on either side. I stared at the light square that was the window until it wavered and rippled before my sleepy eyes.

  Still my mind was only nibbling at what had happened and showed no inclination to set its teeth into any sort of explanation. I awakened with a start to find the moonlight gone, my arms asleep and my prayers unsaid.

  Tucked in bed and ringed about with the familiar comfort of my prayers, I slid away from awareness into sleep, following the dance and gleam of a harmonica that cried in the moonlight.

  Morning sunlight slid across the boardinghouse breakfast table, casting alpine shadows behind the spilled corn flakes that lay beyond the sugar bowl. I squinted against the brightness and felt aggrieved that anything should be alive and active and so—so—hopeful so early in the morning. I leaned on my elbows over my coffee cup and contemplated a mood as black as the coffee.

  "... Francher kid."

  I rotated my head upward on the axis of my two supporting hands, my interest caught. "Last night," I half remembered, "last night—"

  "I give up." Anna Semper put a third spoonful of sugar in her coffee and stirred morosely. "'Every child has a something—I mean there's some way to reach every child—all but the Francher kid. I can't reach him at all. If he'd even be aggressive or actively mean or actively anything, maybe I could do something, but he just sits there being a vegetable. And then I get so spittin' mad when he finally does do something, just enough to keep him from flunking, that I could bust a gusset. I can't abide a child who can and won't." She frowned darkly and added two more spoonfuls of sugar to her coffee.

  "'I'd rather have an eager moron than a won't-do genius!" She tasted the coffee and grimaced. "Can't even get a decent cup of coffee to arm me for my struggle with the little monster."

  I laughed. "Five spoonfuls of sugar would spoil almost anything. And don't give up hope. Have you tried music? Remember, 'Music hath charms—'"

  Anna reddened to the tips of her ears. I couldn't tell if it was anger or embarrassment. "Music!" Her spoon clished against her saucer sharply. She groped for words. "This is ridiculous, but I have had to send that Francher kid out of the room during music appreciation."

  "Out of the room? Why ever for? I thought he was a vegetable."

  Anna reddened still further. "He is," she said stubbornly, "but—" She fumbled with her spoon, then burst forth, "But sometimes the record player won't work when he's in the room."

  I put my cup down slowly. "Oh, come now! This coffee is awfully strong, I'll admit, but it's not that strong."

  "No, really!" Anna twisted her spoon between her two hands. "When he's in the room that darned player goes too fast or too slow or even backwards. I swear it. And one time—" Anna looked around furtively and lowered her voice, "one time it played a whole record and it wasn't even plugged in!"

  "You ought to patent that! That'd be a real money-maker."

  "Go on, laugh!" Anna gulped coffee again and grimaced.

  "I'm beginning to believe in poltergeists—you know, the kind that are supposed to work through or because of adolescent kids. If you had that kid to deal with in class—"

  "Yes." I fingered my cold toast. "If only I did."

  And for a minute I hated Anna fiercely for the sympathy on her open face and for the studied not-looking at my leaning crutches. She opened her mouth, closed it, then leaned across the table.

  "Polio?" she blurted, reddening.

  "No," I said. "Car wreck."

  "Oh." She hesitated. "Well, maybe someday—"

  "No," I said. "No." Denying the faint possibility that was just enough to keep me nagged out of resignation.

  "Oh," she said. "How long ago?"

  "How long?" For a minute I was suspended in wonder at the distortion of time. How long? Recent enough to he a shock each time of immobility when I expected motion. Long enough ago that eternity was between me and the last time I moved unthinkingly.

  "Almost a year," I said, my memory aching to this time last year I could...

  "Yo
u were a teacher?" Anna gave her watch a quick appraising look.

  "Yes." I didn't automatically verify the time. The immediacy of watches had died for me. Then I smiled. "'That's why I can sympathize with you about the Francher kid. I've had them before."

  "There's always one," Anna sighed, getting up. "Well, it's time for my pilgrimage up the hill. I'll see you." And the swinging door to the hall repeated her departure again and again with diminishing enthusiasm. I struggled to my feet and swung myself to the window.

  "Hey!" I shouted. She turned at the gate, peering back as she rested her load of workbooks on the gatepost.

  "Yes?"

  "If he gives you too much trouble send him over here with a note for me. It'll take him off your hands for a while at least."

  "Hey, that's an idea. Thanks. That's swell! Straighten your halo!" And she waved an elbow at me as she disappeared beyond the box elder outside the gate.