Baby Is Three

by Theodore Sturgeon

  Ril sent: “Patience? How much more time do you think we have before they start to spread the virus through this whole sector of the cosmos? They are improving rockets, aren’t they? We should have sent for reinforcements. But then—how could we know we’d be trapped like this in separate entities which refuse to merge?”

  “We couldn’t,” Ryl answered. “We still have so much to learn about these creatures. Sending for reinforcements would solve nothing.”

  “And we have so little time,” Rul mourned. “Once they leave Earth, the Pa’ak pestilence will no longer be isolated.”

  Ril responded: “Unless they are cured of the disease before they leave.”

  “Or prevented from leaving,” Ryl pointed out. “An atomic war would lower the level of culture. If there is no choice, we could force them to fight—we have the power—and thus reduce their technology to the point where space flight would be impossible.”

  It was a frightening idea. They broke contact in trembling silence. They had a drink, and then coffee, and now Irving was leading her homeward. She hadn’t wanted to go through the park, but it was late and he assured her that it was much shorter this way. “There are plenty of places through here where you can cut corners.” It was easier not to argue. Irving commanded a flood of language at low pitch and high intensity that she could do without just now. She was tired and bored and extremely angry.

  It was bad enough that Jon had deserted her for that bit of flotsam from his past. It was worse that she should have walked right past him with her hat on without his even looking up. What was worst of all was that she had let herself be so angry. She had no claims on Jonathan Prince. They were more than friends, certainly, but not any more than that.

  “Who’s the girl you came to the party with, Irving?” she asked.

  “Oh, her. Someone trying to get a job at the plant. She’s a real bright girl. Electronics engineer—can you imagine?”

  “And—”

  He glanced down at her. “And what? I found out she was a cold fish, that’s all.”

  Oh, she thought. So you ditched her because you thought she was a cold fish, and scooped me up. And what does that make me? Aloud she said, “These paths wind around the park so. Are you sure it’s going to take us out on the downtown side?”

  “I know everything about these woods.” He peered. “This way.”

  They turned off the blacktop walk and took a graveled path away to the right. The path was brilliantly lit by a street-lamp at the crossing of the walks, and the light followed the path in a straight band through the undergrowth. It seemed so safe … and then Irving turned off to still another path. She turned with him, unthinking, and blinked her eyes against a sudden, oppressive darkness.

  It was a small cul de sac, completely surrounded by heavy undergrowth. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light that filtered through the trees, she saw benches and two picnic tables. A wonderful, secluded, restful little spot, she thought—for a picnic.

  “How do you like this?” whispered Irving hoarsely. He sounded as if he had been running.

  “I don’t,” she said immediately. “It’s late, Irving. This isn’t getting either of us anywhere.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. He put his arms around her. She leaned away from him with her head averted, swung her handbag back and up at his face. He caught her wrist deftly and turned it behind her.

  “Don’t,” she gasped. “Don’t …”

  “You’ve made your little protest like a real lady, honey, so it’s on the record. Now save us some time and trouble. Let’s get to it.”

  She kicked him. He gasped but stood solidly. There was a sharp click behind her. “Hear that?” he said. “That’s my switch-blade. Push a button and zip!—seven inches of nice sharp steel. Now don’t you move or make a sound, sweetheart, and this’ll be fun for both of us.”

  Locking her against him with his left arm, he reached slowly up under the hem of her short jacket. She felt the knife against her back. It slipped coldly between her skin and the back of her low-cut dress. “Don’t you move,” he said again. The knife turned, sawed a little and the back strap of her brassiere parted. The knife was removed; she heard it click again. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

  “Now,” he breathed, “doesn’t that feel better, lamb-pie?”

  She filled her lungs to scream, and instantly his hard hand was clamped over her mouth. It was a big hand, and the thumb was artfully placed so that she couldn’t get her mouth open wide enough to use her teeth on it.

  “Let’s not wrestle,” he said, his voice really gentle, pleading. “It just doesn’t make sense. I’d as soon kill you as not—you know that.”

  She stood trembling violently, her eyes rolled up almost out of sight. Her mouth sagged open when he kissed it. Then he screamed.

  His arms whipped away from her and she fell. She lay looking dully up at him. He stood straight in the dim light, stretched, his face up and twisted with pain. He had both hands, apparently, on one of his back pockets. He whirled around and her eyes followed him.

  There was someone else standing there … someone in black. Someone who looked like a high-school teacher Priscilla had once had. Gray hair, thin, wattled face.

  Moving without haste but with great purpose, the spinsterish apparition stooped, raised her skirts daintily and kicked Irving accurately in the groin. He emitted a croaking sound and dropped to a crouch, and began a small series of agonizing grunts. The old lady stepped forward as if she were dancing a minuet, put out one sensible shoe and shoved. Irving went down on his knees and elbows, his head hanging.

  “Get out,” said the old lady crisply. “Now.” She clapped her hands once. The sound stiffened Irving. With a long, breathy groan he staggered to his feet, turned stupidly to get his bearings and hobbled rapidly away.

  “Come on, dear.” The woman got her hands under Priscilla’s armpits and helped her up. She half-carried the girl over to one of the picnic tables and seated her on the bench. With an arm around Priscilla’s shoulders, she held her upright while she put a large black handbag on the table. Out of it she rummaged a voluminous handkerchief which she thrust into Priscilla’s hands. “Now, you sit there and cry a while.”

  Priscilla said, still trembling,” I can’t,” and burst into tears.

  When it was over she blew her nose weakly. “I don’t … know what to say to you. I—he would have killed me.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. Now while I’m alive and carry a hatpin.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend. If you’ll believe that, child, that’s good enough for me and it’ll have to be good enough for you.”

  “I believe that,” said Priscilla. She drew a long, shuddering breath. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “By paying attention to what I tell you. But you must tell me some things first. How did you ever get yourself mixed up with such an animal? You surely have better sense than that.”

  “Please don’t scold … I was silly, that’s all.”

  “You were in a tizzy, you mean. You were, weren’t you?”

  “Well,” sniffed Priscilla, “yes. You see, I work with this doctor, and he and I—it isn’t anything formal, you understand, but we work so well together and laugh at the same things, and it’s … nice. And then he—”

  “Go on.”

  “He was married once. Years ago. And he saw her tonight. And he didn’t look at me any more. I guess I’m foolish, but I got all upset.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. He just wanted to talk to her. He forgot I was alive.”

  “That isn’t why. You were upset because you were afraid he’d get together with her again.”

  “I—I suppose so.”

  “Do you want to marry him?”

  “Why, I—I don’t … No, I wouldn’t. It isn’t that.”

  The old lady nodded. “You think if he married her again—or anyone else—that it would make a big difference in the work you do
together, in the way he treats you?”

  “I … don’t suppose there would be any difference, no,” Priscilla said thoughtfully. “I’d never thought it through.”

  “And,” continued the old lady relentlessly, “have you thought through any other possible course of action he could have taken tonight? He was married to her for some time. He apparently hasn’t seen her for years. It must have been a small shock to him to find her there. Now, what else might he have done? ‘Goodness gracious, there’s my old used-up wife. Priscilla, let’s dance.’ Is that what you expected?”

  At last she giggled. “You’re wonderful. And you’re right, you are so absolutely right. I have been sil—Oh!”

  “What is it?”

  “You called me Priscilla. How did you know my name? Who are you?”

  “A friend. Come along, girl; you can’t sit here all night.” She drew the startled girl to her feet. “Here, let me look at you. Your lipstick’s smeared. Over here. That’s better. Can you button that jacket? I think perhaps you should. Not that it should matter if your bust does show, the way you brazen things dress nowadays. There now, come along.”

  She hurried Priscilla through the park, and when they reached the street, turned north. Priscilla tugged at the black sleeve. “Please—wait. I live that way.” She pointed.

  “I know, I know. But you’re not going home just yet. Come along, child!”

  “Where are you—we—going?”

  “You’ll see. Now listen to me. Do you trust me?”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes!”

  “Very well. When we get where we’re going, you’ll go inside alone. Don’t worry now, it’s perfectly safe. Once you’re inside you’ll do something very stupid indeed.”

  “I will?”

  “You will. You’ll turn around and try to leave. Now, then, I want you to understand that you must not leave. I shall be standing outside to see that you don’t.”

  “But I—But why? What am I supposed … where …”

  “Hush, child! You do as you’re told and you’ll be all right.”

  Priscilla walked along in silence for a time. Then she said, “All right.” The old lady turned to look into the softest-smiling, most trusting face she had ever seen. She put her arm around Priscilla’s shoulders and squeezed.

  “You’ll do,” she said.

  Henry Faulkner sat in a booth, far from the belly-thumping juke box and the knot of people chattering away at the head end of the bar. Henry’s elbows were on the table and his thumbs, fitted carefully into the bony arches over his eyelids, supported the weight of his head. The cafe went round and round like a Czerny etude, but with a horizontal axis. The walls moved upward in front of him and down behind him, and he felt very ill. Once he had forced down three beers, and that was his established capacity; it had bloated him horribly and he’d had a backache in the morning. Tonight he’d had four double ryes.

  “There he shtood,” he said to one of the blonde girls who sat opposite, “nex’ to the conductor, watching the orch’stra, an’ sometimes he’d beat time wiz arms. When the last movement ended, th’ audience rozhe up as one man an’ roared. An’ there he shtood, nex’ to the conductor—”

  “You said that before,” said the girls. They spoke in unison, and the pair of them had only one voice, like the doubled leading tone in a major chord.

  “There he shtood,” Henry went on, “shtill beating time after the music stopped. An’ the conductor, wi’ eyes in his tears—wi’ tears in his eyes—turned him around so he could shee the applause.”

  “What was the matter with him?” asked the girls.

  “He was deaf.”

  “Who was?”

  “Beethoven.” Henry wept.

  “My God. Is that what you’re tying one on about?”

  “You said to tell you the sad story,” said Henry. “You didn’t say tell you my sad story.”

  “Okay, okay. You got money, ain’t you?”

  Henry lifted his head and reared back to get perspective. It was then that the girl merged and became one; he realized that there had been one all along, in spite of what he had seen. That explained why they both had the same voice. He was extravagantly pleased. “Sure I got money.”

  “Well, come on up to my place. I’m tired uh sittin’ around here.”

  “Very gracious,” he intoned. “I shall now tell you the sad story of my laysted wife.”

  “What type wife?”

  “I beg your pardon? I’ve never been married.”

  The girl looked perplexed. “Start over again.”

  “Da capo,” he said, with his finger beside his nose. “Very well. I repeat. I shall now tell you the story of my wasted life.”

  “Oh,” said the girl.

  “I have had the ultimate in rejections,” said Henry solemnly. “I fell in love, deeply, deeply, deeply, dee—”

  “Who with?” said the girl tiredly. “Get to the point and let’s get out of here.”

  “With a string bass. A bull, as it were, fiddle.” He nodded solemnly.

  “Ah, fer Pete’s sake,” she said scornfully. She stood up. “Look, mister, I can’t waste the whole night. Are you comin’ or ain’t you?”

  Henry scowled up at her. He hadn’t asked for her company. She’d just appeared there in the booth. She had niggled and nagged until he was about to tell her all the things he had come here to forget. And now she wanted to walk out. Suddenly he was furious. He, who had never raised his hand or his voice in his whole life, was suddenly so angry that he was, for a moment, blind. He growled like the open D on a bass clarinet and leaped at her. His clawed hand swept past her fluffy collar and got caught, tore the collar a little, high on the shoulder.

  She squealed in routine fear. The bartender hopped up sitting on the bar and swung his thick legs over.

  “What the hell’s going on back there?” he demanded, pushing himself onto the floor.

  The blonde said, shrilly and indignantly, exactly what she thought Henry was trying to do.

  “Right there in the booth?” said a bourbon up the row.

  “That I got to see,” replied a beer.

  They started back, followed by the rest of the customers.

  The bartender reached into the booth and lifted Henry bodily out of it. Henry, sick and in a state of extreme panic, wriggled free and ran—two steps. The side of his head met the bridge of the bourbon’s nose. Henry was aware of a dull crunch. There were exploding lights and he went down, rolled, got to his feet again.

  The girl was screaming in a scratchy monotone somewhere around high E flat. The bourbon was sitting on the floor with blood spouting from his nose.

  “Get ’im!” somebody barked.

  Powerful hands caught Henry’s thin biceps. A heavy man stood in front of him, gigantic yellow mallets of fists raised.

  “Hold him tight,” said the heavy man. “I’m gonna let him have it.”

  And then a sort of puffball with bright blue eyes was between Henry and the heavy man. In a soft, severe voice it said, “Leave him alone, you—you bullies! You let that man go, this very minute!”

  Henry shook his head. He regretted the movement, but among the other things it made him experience was clearing sight. He looked at the puffball, which became a sweet-faced lady in her fifties. She had gentleness about her mouth and sheer determination in her crackling blue eyes.

  “You better stay out of this, Granny,” said the bartender, not unkindly. “This character’s got it comin’ to him.”

  “You let him go this instant!” said the lady, and stamped a small foot. “And that’s the way it is.”

  “Al,” said the heavy man to the bartender, “just lead this lady off to one side while I paste this bastard.”

  “Don’t you put a hand on me.”

  “Watch your language, Sylvan,” said the bartender to the heavy man. He put a hand on the lady’s shoulder. “Come over here a sec—uh!”

  The final syllable was his staccato response to the
old lady’s elbow in the pit of his stomach. That, however, was not the end of her—literally—chain reaction. She swung her crocus reticule around in a full-armed arc and brought it down on the heavy man’s head. He sank to the floor without a whimper. In the same movement she put her other hand swiftly but firmly against Henry’s jaw and pushed it violently. His head tipped back and smashed into the face of the man who stood behind him holding his arms. The man staggered backward, tripped, and fell, bouncing his skull off an unpadded bar stool.

  “Come along, Henry,” said the old lady cheerfully. She took him by the wrist as if he were a small boy whose face needed washing, and marched him out of the cafe.

  On the street he gasped, “They’ll chase us.…”

  “Naturally,” said the lady. She put two fingers into her mouth and blew a piercing blast. A block and a half away, a parked taxicab slid away from the curb and came toward them. There was shouting from the cafe. The taxicab pulled up beside them. The lady whipped the door open and pushed Henry in. As four angry men shouldered out on the sidewalk, she reached deep into her reticule and snatched a dark object from it. She stood poised for a moment, and in the neon-shot half-light Henry saw what was in her hand—an old-fashioned, top-of-stove flat iron. He understood then why the heavy man had drowsed off so readily.

  The lady hefted the iron and let it fly. It grazed the temple of one of the men and flew straight through a plate glass window. The man who was hit went to his knees, his hands holding his head. The other three fell all over each other trying to get back out of range. The lady skipped into the cab and said calmly, “Young man, take us away from here.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” said the driver in an awed tone, and let in his clutch.

  They jounced along in silence for a moment, and then she leaned forward. “Driver, pull up by one of these warehouses. Henry’s going to be sick.”

  “I’m all right,” said Henry weakly. The cab stopped. The lady opened the door. “Come along!”

  “No, really, I—”

  The lady snapped her fingers.

  “Oh, all right,” said Henry sheepishly. In the black shadows by the warehouse he protested faintly, “But I don’t want to be sick!”