“We won’t hurt you,” Tulya assured bun between peals of wicked laughter.
“Oh, Tulya, but he’s shy!”
“Something’s made him unhappy, Sefora.”
“He needs loving, Tulya!” And Elven felt Sefora’s cold arms go round his neck and her wet lips press his. Gasping, he tried to push away, and the lips bubbled more laughter. He closed his eyes tight and began to sob.
When next he opened them, he was standing near the gray build-ings, and someone had put wreaths of flowers around his neck and smeared fruit on his chin, and Alfors and Kors had come, and all four of them were dancing around him wildly in the twilight, hand in hand, laughing, laughing.
Then Elven laughed too, louder and louder, and their gleaming eyes encouraged him, and he began to spin round and round inside their spinning circle, and they grimaced their joy at his comradeship. And then he raised his dustgun and snapped it on and kept on spinning until the circle of other laughers was only an expanding dust ring. Then, still laughing, he ran over the hill, a cat scampering in swift rushes at his side, until he came to a thorny wall. After his hands and face were puffing with stings, he remembered to lift something he’d been holding in his hand and touch a button on it. Then he marched into a dust cloud, singing.
All night he marched and sang, pausing only to reload the gun with a gleeful automatism, or to take from his pack another flash-globe of cold light, which revealed the small world of green thorns and dust motes around him. Mostly he sang an old Centaurian lied that went:
We’ll fall through the stars, my Deborah,
We’ll fall through the skeins of light, We’ll fall out of the Galaxy
And I’ll kiss you again in the night.
Only sometimes he sang “Sefora” instead of “Deborah” and “kill” instead of “kiss.” At times it seemed to him that he was followed by prancing goats and sheep and strange monsters that were really his
brothers and sisters. And at other times there danced along beside him two nymphs, one red-haired.
They sang with him in high sweet voices and smiled at him wickedly. Toward morning he grew tired and unstrapped the pack from his back and threw it away, and later he ripped something from his throat and threw that away, too.
As the sky paled through the boughs, the nymphs and beasts vanished and he remembered that he was someone dangerous and important, and that something quite impossible had truly happened to him. But that if he could really manage to think things through—
The thorn forest ended. He stepped into a clearing a half mile in diameter. Just ahead a stream gurgled through a small valley. Beyond was an orchard-covered hill. Russet grain rippled in the valley. On the hillside low gray buildings clustered raggedly. From one rose a thin streamer of smoke.
And toward him, striding lithely through the grain, came Sefora.
Elven screamed horribly and pointed the dustgun. But the range was too great. Only a ribbon of grain stretching halfway to her went up in dust. She turned and raced toward the buildings. He followed her, gun still pointed and snapped on at full power, running furiously along the dust path, taking wild leaps through the gray clouds.
The dust path drew closer and closer to Sefora, until it almost lapped her heels. She darted between two buildings.
Then something tightened like a snake around Elven’s knees, and as he pitched forward something else tightened around his upper body, jerking his elbows against his sides. The dustgun flew from his hand as he smashed against the ground.
Then he was lying on his back gasping, and through the thinning dust cloud Alfors and Kors were looking down at him as they wound their lassos tighter and tighter around him, trussing him up. He heard Alfors say, “Are you all right, Sefora?” and a voice reply, “Yes. Let me see him.” And then Sefora’s face appeared through the dust cloud and looked down into his with cold curiosity, and her red hair touched his cheek, and Elven closed his eyes and screamed many times.
“It was all very simple and there was, of course, absolutely nothing of the supernatural,” the Director of Human Research assured Fedris, taking a sip of mellow Magellanic wine from the cup at his elbow. “Elven merely walked in a straight line.”
Fedris frowned. He was a small man with a worried look that the most thoroughgoing psychoanalysis had been unable to eradicate. “Of course the Galaxy is tremendously grateful to you for capturing Elven. We never dreamed he’d got as far as the Magellanics. Can’t say what horrors we may have escaped—”
“I deserve no credit,” the director told him. “It was all sheer accident, and the matter of Elven’s nerve
cracking. Of course you’d prepared the ground there by hinting to him that the supernatural might take a hand.”
“That was the merest empty threat, born of desperation,” Fedris interrupted, reddening a bit.
“Still, it prepared the ground. And then Elven had the devilish misfortune of landing right in the middle of our project on Magellanic 47. And that, I admit, might be enough to startle anyone.” The director grinned.
Fedris looked up. “Just what is your project? All I know is that it’s rather hush-hush.”
The director settled back hi his easy-chair. “The scientific understanding of human behavior has always presented extraordinary difficulties. Ever since the Dawn Age men have wanted to analyze their social problems in the same way they analyze the problems of physics and chemistry. They’ve wanted to know exactly what causes produce exactly what results. But one great obstacle has always licked them.”
Fedris nodded. “Lack of controls.”
“Exactly,” the director agreed. “With rats, say, it would be easy. You can have two—or a hundred— families of rats, each family with identical heredity, each in an identical environment. Then you can vary one factor in one family and watch the results. And when you get results you can trust them, because the other family is your control, showing what happens when you don’t vary the factor.”
Fedris looked at him wonderingly. “Do you mean to say—?”
The director nodded. “On Magellanic 47 we’re carrying on that same sort of work, not with rats, but with human beings. The cages are half-mile clearings with identical weather, terrain, plants, animals — everything identical down to the tiniest detail. The bars of the cages are the thorn trees, which our botanists developed specially for the purpose. The inmates of the cages—the human experimental animals—are identical twins—though centuplets would be closer to the right word. Identical upbringings are assured for each group by the use of robot nurses and mentors, set to perform always the same unvarying routine. These robots are removed when the members of the group are sufficiently mature for our purposes. All our observations are, of course, competely secret—and also intermittent, which had the unfortunate result of letting Elven do some serious damage before he was caught.
“Do you see the setup now? In the thorn forest in which Elven was wrecked there were approximately one hundred identical clear-ings set at identical intervals. Each clearing looked exactly like the other, and each contained one Sefora, one Tulya, one Alfors, and one Kors. Elven thought he was going in a circle, but actually he was going hi a straight line. Each evening it was a different clearing he came to. Each night he met a new Sefora.
“Each group he encountered was identical except for one factor— the factor we were varying—and that
had the effect of making it a bit more grisly for him. You see, in those groups we happened to be running an experiment to determine the causes of human behavior patterns toward strangers. We’d made slight variations in their environment and robot-education, with the result that the first group he met was submissive toward strangers; the second was violently hostile; the third as violently friendly; the fourth highly suspicious. Too bad he didn’t meet the fourth group first—though, of course, they’d have been unable to manage him except that he was half mad with supernatural terror.”
The director finished his wine and smiled at Fedris. “So you
see it all was the sheerest accident. No one was more surprised than I when, in taking a routine observation, I found that my ‘animals’ had this gibbering and trussed-up intruder. And you could have knocked me over with a molecule when I found out it was Elven.”
Fedris whistled his wonder. “I can sympathize with the poor devil,” he said, “and I can understand, too, why your project is hush-hush.”
The director nodded. “Yes, experimenting with human beings is a rather hard notion for most people to take. Still it’s better than running all mankind as one big experiment without controls. And we’re extremely kind to our ‘animals’. As soon as our experiment with each is finished, it’s our policy to graduate them, with suitable reeducation, into the sos.”
“Still-” said Fedris doubtfully.
“You think it’s a bit like some of the ideas of the Wild Ones?”
“A bit,” Fedris admitted.
“Sometimes I think so too,” the director admitted with a smile, and poured his guest more wine.
While deep in the thorn forest on Magellanic 47, green shoots and tendrils closed round a locket containing a white tablet, encapsulating all the Wild Ones save Elven in a green and tiny tomb.
Coming Attraction
THE COUPE with the fishhooks welded to the fender shouldered up over the curb like the nose of a nightmare. The girl in its path stood frozen, her face probably stiff with fright under her mask. For once my reflexes weren’t shy. I took a fast step toward her, grabbed her elbow, yanked her back. Her black skirt swirled out.
The big coupe shot by, its turbine humming. I glimpsed three faces. Something ripped. I felt the hot exhaust on my ankles as the big coupe swerved back into the street. A thick cloud like a black flower blossomed from its jouncing rear end, while from the fishhooks flew a black shimmering rag.
“Did they get you?” I asked the girl.
She had twisted around to look where the side of her skirt was torn away. She was wearing nylon tights. “The hooks didn’t touch me,” she said shakily. “I guess I’m lucky.”
I heard voices around us:
“Those kids! What’ll they think up next?”
“They’re a menace. They ought to be arrested.”
Sirens screamed at a rising pitch as two motor-police, their rocket-assist jets full on, came whizzing toward us after the coupe. But the black flower had become an inky fog obscuring the whole street. The motor-police switched from rocket assists to rocket brakes and swerved to a stop near the smoke cloud.
“Are you English?” the girl asked me. “You have an English accent.”
Her voice came shudderingly from behind the sleek black satin mask. I fancied her teeth must be chattering. Eyes that were perhaps blue searched my face from behind the black gauze covering the eyeholes of the mask. I told her she’d guessed right. She stood close to me. “Will you come to my place tonight?” she asked rapidly. “I can’t thank you now. And there’s something else you can help me about.”
My arm, still lightly circling her waist, felt her body trembling. I was answering the plea in that as much as in her voice when I said, “Certainly.” She gave me an address south of Inferno, an apartment number and a time. She asked me my name and I told her.
“Hey, you!”
I turned obediently to the policeman’s shout. He shooed away the small clucking crowd of masked women and barefaced men. Coughing from the smoke that the black coupe had thrown out, he asked for my papers. I handed him the essential ones.
He looked at them and then at me. “British Barter? How long will you be in New York?”
Suppressing the urge to say, “For as short a time as possible,” I told hun I’d be here for a week or so.
“May need you as a witness,” he explained. “Those kids can’t use smoke on us. When they do that, we pull them in.”
He seemed to think the smoke was the bad thing. “They tried to kill the lady,” I pointed out.
He shook his head wisely. “They always pretend they’re going to, but actually they just want to snag skirts. I’ve picked up rippers with as many as fifty skirt-snags tacked up hi their rooms. Of course, sometimes they come a little too close.”
I explained that if I hadn’t yanked her out of the way, she’d have been bit by more than hooks. But he interrupted, “If she’d thought it was a real murder attempt, she’d have stayed here.”
I looked around. It was true. She was gone.
“She was fearfully frightened,” I told hun.
“Who wouldn’t be? Those kids would have scared old Stalin himself.”
“I mean frightened of more than ‘kids.’ They didn’t look like ‘kids.’”
“What did they look like?”
I tried without much success to describe the three faces. A vague impression of viciousness and effeminacy doesn’t mean much.
“Well, I could be wrong,” he said finally. “Do you know the girl? Where she lives?”
“No,” I half lied.
The other policeman hung up his radiophone and ambled toward us, kicking at the tendrils of dissipating smoke. The black cloud no longer hid the dingy fagades with their five-year-old radiation flash-burns, and I could begin to make out the distant stump of the Empire State Building, thrusting up out of Inferno like a mangled finger.
“They haven’t been picked up so far,” the approaching policeman grumbled. “Left smoke for five blocks, from what Ryan says.”
The first policeman shook his head. “That’s bad,” he observed solemnly.
I was feeling a bit uneasy and ashamed. An Englishman shouldn’t lie, at least not on impulse.
“They sound like nasty customers,” the first policeman continued in the same grim tone. “We’ll need witnesses. Looks as if you may have to stay in New York longer than you expect.”
I got the point. I said, “I forgot to show you all my papers,” and handed him a few others, making sure there was a five dollar bill in among them.
When he handed them back a bit later, his voice was no longer ominous. My feelings of guilt vanished. To cement our relationship, I chatted with the two of them about their job.
“I suppose the masks give you some trouble,” I observed. “Over in England we’ve been reading about your new crop of masked female bandits.”
“Those things get exaggerated,” the first policeman assured me. “It’s the men masking as women that really mix us up. But, brother, when we nab them, we jump on them with both feet.”
“And you get so you can spot women almost as well as if they had naked faces,” the second policeman volunteered. “You know, hands and all that.”
“Especially all that,” the first agreed with a chuckle. “Say, is it true that some girls don’t mask over in England?”
“A number of them have picked up the fashion,” I told him. “Only a few, though—the ones who always adopt the latest style, however extreme.”
“They’re usually masked in the British newscasts.”
“I imagine it’s arranged that way out of deference to American taste,” I confessed. “Actually, not very many do mask.”
The second policeman considered that. “Girls going down the street bare from the neck up.” It was not clear whether he viewed the prospect with relish or moral distaste. Likely both.
“A few members keep trying to persuade Parliament to enact a law forbidding all masking,” I continued, talking perhaps a bit too much.
The second policeman shook his head. “What an idea. You know, masks are a pretty good thing, brother. Couple of years more and I’m going to make my wife wear hers around the house.”
The first policeman shrugged. “If women were to stop wearing masks, in six weeks you wouldn’t know the difference. You get used to anything, if enough people do or don’t do it.”
I agreed, rather regretfully, and left them. I turned north on Broadway (old Tenth Avenue, I believe) and walked rapidly until I was beyond Inferno. Passing such an area of undecontaminated radioactivity always m
akes a person queasy. I thanked God there weren’t any such in England, as yet.
The street was almost empty, though I was accosted by a couple of beggars with faces tunnelled by H- bomb scars, whether real or of makeup putty, I couldn’t tell. A fat woman held out a baby with webbed fingers and toes. I told myself it would have been deformed anyway and that she was only capitalizing on our fear of bomb-induced mutations. Still, I gave her a seven-and-a-half-cent piece. Her mask made me feel I was paying tribute to an African fetish.
“May all your children be blessed with one head and two eyes, sir.”
“Thanks,” I said, shuddering, and hurried past her.
“... There’s only trash behind the mask, so turn your head, stick to your task: Stay away, stay away—
from—the—girls!”
This last was the end of an anti-sex song being sung by some religionists half a block from the circle- and-cross insignia of a fe-malist temple. They reminded me only faintly of our small tribe of British monastics. Above their heads was a jumble of billboards advertising predigested foods, wrestling instruction, radio handies and the like.
I stared at the hysterical slogans with disagreeable fascination. Since the female face and form have been banned on American signs, the very letters of the advertiser’s alphabet have begun to crawl with sex— the fat-bellied, big-breasted capital B, the lascivious double O. However, I reminded myself, it is chiefly the mask that so strangely accents sex in America.
A British anthropologist has pointed out, that, while it took more than 5,000 years to shift the chief point of sexual interest from the hips to the breasts, the next transition to the face has taken less than 5Q years. Comparing the American style with Moslem tradition is not valid; Moslem women are compelled to wear veils, the purpose of which is to make a husband’s property private, while American women have only the compulsion of fashion and use masks to create mystery.
The Best of Fritz Leiber Page 13