The Mammoth Book Of Science Fiction

by Mike Ashley (Editor)

  But when tomorrow came, I3 didn’t even have time to get my3 breakfast. Serena Siddons called Proteus’s house a dozen times that day, checking on his health. I3 saw Morgana exactly twice, for a total of about forty seconds. The rest of the time she was working with Proteus. The whole house was charged up. Middleton ran up and down stairs like a teenager, Mrs Etherege scurried from room to room wringing her hands, and Ida scrubbed everything in the kitchen twice: once as Dorothy, once as Lillian. And the theater was even worse.

  When the play finally started, I3 was ready to drop. I3 took the seat reserved for me3 in the third row, while I1,2 stayed in the wings and I4 took a seat in the stage manager’s booth. I3 expected to doze off, job or no job, as soon as the lights went down. But no one slept through that performance. It was magnificent.

  Three was as good as everyone expected him to be, but I3 had a special interest in Proteus. Whenever he was on stage, I3 fixed on him, and he was onstage almost constantly. This night he did something he’d never done in rehearsal. He played Ophelia as Morgana. It was unmistakable. He had her voice and every gesture down pat. It was strange to sit there seeing and hearing painful things happen to the woman I3 loved and all the time knowing that she was safe across town, waiting for me3. When the account of Ophelia’s drowning was given, I3 choked up, and an awful feeling of doom came over me3 at the thought of ever losing Morgana.

  I3 didn’t like Proteus for doing that, but I3 couldn’t deny his brilliance as an actor. Minutes after doing Ophelia’s mad scene he was a gravel-voiced gravedigger, with bulging red nose and swaying belly. And in the last scene of the play, with all the main characters dead by trickery and treachery, he strode on as Fortinbras. That’s a small part, but he stretched it to something big. Here’s a guy who’s fought and never won the prize, been held back and kept down and made to wait, and now it all drops into his lap. The way Proteus played him, Fortinbras was a giant – proud, confident, self-assured, a man whose faith in himself had never wavered and now was justified before the world.

  When the lights went down, there was a moment of absolute silence, and then an outburst of applause that went on and on. It got louder, and still the lights did not come on. I3 slipped from my3 seat and went backstage to see what was wrong. This was not part of the play.

  The first person I3 saw was Serena, leaning on my4 arm. Under the heavy makeup she looked weary and shrunken. I3 had the same feeling of doom I3 had felt at Ophelia’s death.

  She grabbed at my3 sleeve. “He’s dead. All of him. Murdered,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “Who?”

  “Three. All three.”

  “What happened?” I3 asked me4.

  “The sword. It was razor-sharp, and something was smeared on the tip,” I4 said.

  “So whoever did it stuck to the script.”

  “No. The wine wasn’t poisoned, or Serena would be dead, too. Someone wanted to kill Three and no one else. He was playing Hamlet, Laertes, and Claudius, and they’re the only ones touched by the sword,” I4 explained.

  “What will we do?” Serena moaned.

  “Leave that to me. But first I want you to give the best performance of your life . . . if you can,” I4 said.

  Serena covered her face with her hands for a moment, then looked up and nodded. “I can.”

  I4 laid my4 hands on her shoulders. “Go out there and tell them that there won’t be any curtain calls tonight. Give any reason you like, Serena, or none at all, but get them out of the theater quietly, without panic.”

  “But how? What can I say?” she asked, wavering.

  “Improvise. You can do it,” I4 said.

  She took a deep breath, then straightened and looked me3,4 in the eye. “I’ll do it,” she said. She turned, and walked out cool and poised as a queen.

  As soon as she was gone, I4 said, “I’ve called Homicide, and I’m staying with the bodies and the murder weapon. I’ve given word that no one backstage is to leave.”

  “Is it wise to let the audience go?”

  “There’s no way of keeping them here. Anyway, this wasn’t done by anyone in the audience. No one came backstage once the play started.”

  “The sword could have been poisoned before,” I3 pointed out.

  “No. I checked them all at intermission, and they were clean.”

  “But they were blunted, weren’t they?”

  “There was a transparent sheath covering the last fifteen inches of the blade. Someone stripped it off just before the fencing match,” I4 said.

  “Any ideas?”

  I4 shrugged. “It could have been anyone. Anyone but Three.”

  That feeling of doom came over me3 again. I3 grabbed my4 arm and said, “How can I be sure that all three Three are Three? One of them could be Count Proteus.”

  “Three played Hamlet, Laertes, and Claudius in that scene, and they’re the ones who died. Proteus played Fortinbras.”

  “What if they decided to switch roles at the last minute? They changed roles a few times during the play. They could have done it in the last scene, too.”

  “But why would they?”

  “Who knows why actors do anything?”

  “It’s a possibility,” I4 conceded. “And it’s easy to check. All I have to do is find Fortinbras and –”

  A guard came running up, stopped in front of me3,4, and panted, “Mr Kilborn, sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I let him go.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr Three, sir. He was in a hurry, and I didn’t know anything had happened. He just rushed right by.”

  “Are you sure it was Three?” I3 asked.

  “Yes, sir. No doubt about it.”

  So I3 was right. For some reason, Proteus had switched roles with one of Three for that scene, and now he was dead. But why had he done it on opening night? Why did he do it at all? Was his death the outcome of a careful plot that had been a long time in matching, or a case of mistaken identity? No matter how things appeared, no one could be sure of anything until all the people who might be involved were physically present and clearly visible. So far, the chief suspects were actors and stagehands – people who spent their lives making audiences believe that fantasy was reality.

  “It could still have been Proteus, you know,” I4 said. “He could have fooled the guard into thinking he was Three.”

  “We won’t know for sure until we get the makeup off the bodies,” I3 said.

  While I3,4 was pondering the guard’s news, a second guard rushed up. He was carrying a bundle, which he thrust into my4 arms.

  “I found this behind the steps, Mr Kilborn. It’s a costume,” he said.

  “Fortinbras’s costume,” I4 said.

  “This may be the proof that they did switch roles. Let’s see it.”

  I4 tossed me3 the costume. It looked heavy, but it wasn’t. Most of it was the lightweight padding that built the person wearing it up to heroic size. As I3 examined it more closely, I3 caught a faint whiff of a familiar fragrance. I3 dropped the costume as if it were on fire, and took an unsteady step backwards. As I3 did so, a great roar of applause and cheering swept over me3,4 from the front of the house, drowning the cries and questions. When it subsided, I3 was aware of my4 hand on my3 shoulder, and Serena looking at me3 as if I3 were a ghost.

  “What’s wrong?” I4 asked.

  “I have to go. Give me an hour, then meet me at Proteus’s house,” I3 said.

  I3 let my3 self in at the servants’ entrance and went directly to the fourth floor. Morgana was there, at a desk, sorting through papers. A small suitcase was on the floor beside the desk. She gave a start when she saw me3.

  “Joe! I didn’t expect you so early.”

  “I left before it was over. I’ve had enough Hamlet to last a long time.”

  “Then . . . you didn’t see the end?”

  I3 laughed. “I know how it ends, don’t I? But what are you doing here? I thought this place was off limits.”

  “Proteus told me to come here, Joe. He
said there was a surprise for me – for us.”

  “Us?”

  “I told him everything, Joe. He was happy. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

  “I’ve never seen him happy at all. He seemed pretty keyed-up to me, especially these past few days.”

  “Did you notice it, too?”

  “Couldn’t help it. He was as jumpy as a man getting ready to commit a murder.”

  She winced. “Don’t say things like that, Joe.”

  “Sorry. What’s this surprise he had?”

  “Oh, Joe, it’s incredible! Count Proteus is the kindest, most generous man I ever knew. Look at this.”

  She held out a letter. I3 read it over quickly and gave a single low whistle. The letter gave Morgana Millwood a half interest in Proteus’s share of Hamlet.

  “We can be together for the rest of our lives, Joe, just the two of us, anywhere we want to be. We can go away tonight, right now, and never tell a soul,” she said, coming into my3 arms, putting her soft mouth to mine3, nestling close. I3 breathed in the sweetness of her perfume, and wanted to keep this moment forever. But I3 knew it couldn’t last.

  “Joe, let’s go now. Right now,” she whispered.

  I3 took her hand and led her to a chair. “Sit down, Morgana. I want to tell you something.”

  “Later, Joe. Let’s go now, right away.”

  “I lied to you. I stayed to the end of Hamlet.”

  “Oh? What’s so important about that, Joe? I thought you had a big confession to make.”

  “I made mine. Now it’s your turn. Sit down.” She sat and looked up at me3, frowning slightly, looking genuinely puzzled. “I want you to tell me the truth about that small-time impressionist. It’s the one thing I can’t figure out.”

  “Joe, what do you mean? What are you trying to say?”

  “Did he die, or did you kill him, too?”

  She whispered my3 name once, very softly, then she turned away and stared blankly into the darkness of the far corner of the room. I3 pulled up a chair and sat facing her.

  “Let me see if I have it right. You were a kid with the face of an angel and a body that every man you met was hungry for – every one but this guy. He was different. Sure, he saw that you were beautiful, but he saw something else that the others didn’t. He spotted that one-in-a-million gift, and he helped you to bring it out.”

  “I didn’t kill him, Joe. Not in the way you mean. I’ll always be grateful to him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He made me his assistant, and started teaching me everything he knew. He had all the theory, but not much talent. I was a natural – like a chameleon. In three months, I was the act and he was the assistant. People didn’t even bother to talk to him any more, except to ask for me. He tried to keep up a front, but one night in San Francisco he took a walk across the bridge and never got to the other side.”

  “And that’s when Count Proteus was born.”

  “No. That came later. I knew I had the talent, but I still had a lot to learn if I was going to be the best, and I meant to be the best. I had some money by then, so I found the best teachers and worked hard with them. I traveled around Europe and the East, and when I was ready, I came back here as Count Proteus. When people asked questions, I just smiled and referred them to my assistant, Millwood, who told them nothing. The more mysterious I was, the better they liked it.”

  “Why Count Proteus? Why not Countess?”

  She smiled and shrugged. “Just one more mask, Joe. I felt safer behind it.”

  “When did you find out where all that talent came from? You must have wondered.”

  “Genius, Joe. Not talent, sheer genius,” she said. “Yes, I wondered. I nearly went crazy wondering. I spent a fortune trying to find out who my real parents were, and I learned nothing.” She took my3 hand in hers. “The other private investigators aren’t in your league.”

  “I try harder. So when did you find out?”

  “Not until I signed with Serena and met Three for the first time. It hit me like a bolt of lightning, Joe. You know how it is. We can sense these things.”

  “Three didn’t sense it.”

  “I was Count Proteus at the time. Safe behind my impenetrable mask.” Her expression hardened and she drew her hands back. “Besides, Three couldn’t even begin to imagine the truth. He had my original’s full freight of misogyny.”

  “Sir Herbert Three was no woman-hater, Morgana. He was married four times and had dozens of mistresses. He couldn’t keep away from women.”

  Morgana looked at me3 clinically for a time; then she shook her head and laughed a faint, humorless laugh. “I know the stories better than you do, Joe. Sir Herbert Three believed in loving and leaving, breaking hearts, treating women like disposable cups you use once and then crumple and throw away. He had his wives and he had his affairs, but no woman was good enough to bear his child. He left orders to be cloned. He wanted four male heirs, four perfect little images of himself uncontaminated by a woman’s touch.” She sat back. She smiled, then she laughed, and it was a laugh of sheer delight. “But something went wrong. A chromosome decided it wasn’t going to go along with the process of making four little Sir Herberts. And then there were three. And me – the dirty little secret that had to be hidden away.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him, Morgana,” I3 said.

  “I didn’t want to, Joe, I swear I didn’t. I kept waiting for one of him to show a single glimmer of recognition. We were closer than sister and brother, closer than twins – but all that Three ever saw was Count Proteus. He was cold, Joe, cold as ice! I thought of all those years I was alone, and frightened . . . the things I did to stay alive . . . while Three was together, never feeling that awful loneliness. I wanted to kill him, one by one.” She rose and stood with her fists clenched, ramrod stiff from head to foot. “I thought about it every day. I planned it to the last detail. But I never really meant to do it, Joe. Tonight I gave him one last chance. I dropped the mask. I played Ophelia as myself. I was sure he’d see who I really was. All I wanted was one word, one look of recognition . . . and when it didn’t come, I told myself that Three didn’t deserve to live. It was no problem. I was Osric, remember? I handed out the foils. ‘A hit, a very palpable hit,’ ” she cried in Osric’s foppish voice, then turned to me3. “That’s the whole story, Joe. Now you know. You’ve solved this case. And now let’s go far away where no one will ever find us. Come on, Joe. Don’t you want me?”

  I3 looked from her hair to her feet and up to her eyes again. “I do, Morgana. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in the world. But the law wants you, too.”

  “Joe,” she said softly, in a voice that was barely a whisper. “Joe, don’t let it end like this. Please, Joe.”

  She reached out to me3. Just as our hands were about to touch, the door burst open. Lieutenant Chupka of Homicide and I1,2,4 had arrived, right on time.

  “Here’s your murderer, Chupka,” I3 said. “Morgana Millwood, also known as Count Proteus. Her real name’s Herbert Three4.”

  “All right, Kilborn,” Chupka said. He nodded, and two policewomen took Millwood by the arms and led her out. She didn’t look at me3.

  “Go easy,” I3 said. “She had a pretty good reason for killing him.”

  “They always do, don’t they?” Chupka pushed his hat back and surveyed the room. The little suitcase caught his eye. “Looks like she was getting ready to skip. Alone?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her,” I3 said.

  “That was fast work, Kilborn. How did you figure this one out?”

  I1 said, “It was easy.”

  “Easy?”

  I2 shrugged. “She killed Three and she’s going over for it.”

  Chupka nodded. “Yeah. A fine-looking woman, too. It’s a shame.”

  I4 looked after her thoughtfully and murmured, “A lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.”

  “Three did,” Chupka growled. Turning to me3, he add
ed, “But you got her, Kilborn. Nice work. You must feel pretty good.”

  I3 turned away without answering and went to the window. I3 didn’t feel good. I3 felt a way I3’d never felt before, a way I3 thought only a solo could feel.

  I3 felt lonely.

  Into Your Tent I’ll Creep

  Eric Frank Russell

  Britain has produced some of the world’s greatest science fiction writers. One has only to mention the names Arthur C. Clarke, John Wyndham, J.G. Ballard and, of course, H.G. Wells, to achieve instant recognition. Whereas Clarke, Wyndham, Ballard and a few others went on to establish a world-wide reputation, as accepted by the mainstream and literary establishment as by the sf world, there were others who remained mighty in their own world but unknown beyond. Such a one was Eric Frank Russell (1905–78). Russell began selling science fiction, mostly in America, from 1937 onwards and scored a big hit with his novel Sinister Barrier, published in the magazine Unknown in 1939. Russell established a special rapport with the editor of Unknown and of the leading science-fiction magazine Astounding (still published today as Analog), John W. Campbell, Jr. Russell was Campbell’s favourite sf writer and most of his best work appeared in Astounding during the forties and fifties. But Russell found it increasingly difficult to sell his work elsewhere and by the sixties had tired of the hassle. He thus faded from the sf scene. If you hunt around you should find his collections Deep Space (1954) or Far Stars (1961) or the later compendium The Best of Eric Frank Russell (1978). Russell won a Hugo-award for a clever British satire of bureaucracy in space, “Allamagoosa” (1955), and though not typical of his work, it was typical of his habit to be light-hearted about intrinsically far-reaching matters. The following story is another such example.

  Morfad sat in the midship cabin and gloomed at the wall. He was worried and couldn’t conceal the fact. The present situation had the frustrating qualities of a gigantic rat-trap. One could escape it only with the combined help of all the other rats.

  But the others weren’t likely to lift a finger either on his or their own behalf. He felt sure of that. How can you persuade people to try to escape a jam when you can’t convince them that they’re in it, right up to the neck?