To Be Continued: The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume One

by Robert Silverberg

  Overhead hung a circular diadem of violet light. It explained the terms of the Test.

  “Each of you will be awarded a characteristic color. It will project before you into the area you ring. Your object will be to blend your seven colors into one; when you have achieved this, you will be admitted into us.”

  “May I ask what the purpose of this is?” Hollinrede said coldly.

  “The essence of our society is harmony—total harmony among us all, and inner harmony within those groups which were admitted at the same temporal juncture. Naturally if you seven are incapable even of this inner harmony, you will be incapable of the greater harmony of us all—and will be rejected.”

  Despite the impatient frowns of a few of his fellow contestants, Hollinrede said, “Therefore we’re to be judged as a unit? An entity?”

  “Yes and no,” the voice replied. “And now the Test.”

  Hollinrede saw to his astonishment a color spurt from his arm and hang hovering before him—a pool of inky blackness deeper in hue than the dark of space. His first reaction was one of shock; then he realized that he could control the color, make it move.

  He glanced around. Each of his companions similarly faced a hovering mass of color. The giant of Fondelfor controlled red; the girl of Dubhe, orange. The Alpherazian stared into a whirling bowl of deep yellow, the Terran green, the Spican radiant violet, the Denebian pearly grey.

  Hollinrede stared at his globe of black. A voice above him seemed to whisper, “Marti’s color would have been blue. The spectrum has been violated.”

  He shrugged away the words and sent his globe of black spinning into the area between the seven contestants ringed in a circle. At the same time each of the others directed his particular color inward.

  The colors met. They clashed, pinwheeled, seemed to throw off sparks. They began to swirl in a hovering arc of radiance.

  Hollinrede waited breathlessly, watching the others. His color of black seemed to stand in opposition to the other six. Red, orange, yellow, green, violet. The pearl-grey of the Denebian seemed to enfold the other colors warmly—all but Hollinrede’s. The black hung apart.

  To his surprise he saw the Dubhian girl’s orange beginning to change hue. The girl herself stood stiffly, eyes closed, her body now bare. Sweat poured down her skin. And her orange hue began to shift towards the grey of the Denebian.

  The others were following. One by one, as they achieved control over their Test color. First to follow was the Spican, then the Alpherazian.

  Why can’t I do that? Hollinrede thought wildly.

  He strained to alter the color of his black, but it remained unchanged. The others were blending, now, swirling around; there was a predominantly grey cast, but it was not the grey of the Denebian but a different grey tending towards white. Impatiently he redoubled his efforts; it was necessary for the success of the group that he get his obstinate black to blend with the rest.

  “The black remains aloof,” someone said near him.

  “We will fail if the black does not join us.”

  His streak of color now stood out boldly against the increasing milkiness of the others. None of the original colors were left now but his. Perspiration streamed down him; he realized that his was the only obstacle preventing the seven from passing the Test.

  “The black still will not join us,” a tense voice said.

  Another said, “The black is a color of evil.”

  A third said, “Black is not a color at all. Black is the absence of color; white is the totality of color.”

  A fourth said, “Black is holding us from the white.”

  Hollinrede looked from one to the other in mute appeal. Veins stood out on his forehead from the effort, but the black remained unchanging. He could not blend it with the others.

  From above came the voice of their examiner, suddenly accusing: “Black is the color of murder.”

  The girl from Dubhe, lilting the ugly words lightly, repeated it. “Black is the color of murder.”

  “Can we permit a murderer among us?” asked the Denebian.

  “The answer is self-evident,” said the Spican, indicating the recalcitrant spear of black that marred the otherwise flawless globe of near-white in their midst.

  “The murderer must be cast out ere the Test be passed,” muttered the giant of Fondelfor. He broke from his position and moved menacingly towards Hollinrede.

  “Look!” Hollinrede yelled desperately. “Look at the red!”

  The giant’s color had split from the grey and now darted wildly towards Hollinrede’s black.

  “This is the wrong way, then,” the giant said, halting. “We must all join in it or we all fail.”

  “Keep away from me,” Hollinrede said. “It’s not my fault if—”

  Then they were on him—four pairs of hands, two rough claws, two slick tentacles. Hollinrede felt himself being lifted aloft. He squirmed, tried to break from their grasp, but they held him up—

  And dashed him down against the harsh rock floor.

  He lay there, feeling his life seep out, knowing he had failed—and watched as they returned to form their circle once again. The black winked out of being.

  As his eyes started to close, Hollinrede saw the six colors again blend into one. Now that the murderer had been cast from their midst, nothing barred the path of their harmony. Pearly grey shifted to purest white—the totality of color—and as the six merged into one, Hollinrede, with his dying glance, bitterly saw them take leave forever of their bodies and slip upward to join their brothers hovering brightly above.

  Warm Man

  We come to January, 1957. My ledger entry for that month shows business as usual—seventeen stories, 85,000 words, and I was just warming up for the really productive times a couple of years down the line. How I did it, God only knows. These days I’m happy to manage two or three stories a year; that was a week’s work for me in far-off unimaginable 1957.

  A phenomenon, I was. And one who took notice of it was Anthony Boucher, the urbane and sophisticated editor of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Tony, in his editorial capacity, was a collector at heart, who wanted one of everything for his superb magazine—including a story by this hypermanic kid from New York who seemed able to turn one out every hour. But Boucher wasn’t going to relax his high standards simply for the sake of bagging me for his contents page; and so, although he told me in just about so many words that he’d be delighted to publish something of mine, he turned down the first few stories I sent him, offering great regrets and hope for the future. What I had to do in order to sell one to him, I told myself, was to break free of the pulp-magazine formulas that I had taken such trouble to master, and write something about and for adults. (Not so easy, when I was not much past twenty-one myself!) The specific genesis of “Warm Man” was a moment at that famous Milford Writers’ Conference of September, 1956. During one workshop session Cyril Kornbluth had some sort of epiphany about his writing while a story of Damon Knight’s was being discussed, and suddenly he cried out in a very loud voice, “Cold!” What that signified to him, I never knew; Algis Budrys, another writer present at that conference, told me long afterward that what he thought Kornbluth was saying was “Gold!”, a reference to the editor of that name. (Knight did eventually sell that story to Gold.) Well, whether cold or Gold, Kornbluth’s outcry set something working in me, something which surely had nothing at all to do with whatever had passed through Cyril’s mind; in the story process that followed I turned “cold” to “warm” and out came, a few months later, this tale of psychic vampirism. I sent it to Boucher (who had been present at Milford also, I think) and by return mail across the continent came his expression of delight that I had broken the ice at last with him. He ran the story a few months later—the May 1957 issue—and put my name on the cover, a signal honor. Boucher was the best kind of editor—a demanding one, yes, but also the kind who is as pleased as you are that you have produced something he wants to publish. He (and a few others back th
en) helped to teach me the difficult lesson that quantity isn’t as effective, in the long run, as quality. Which is demonstrated by this story’s frequent reappearance in print over the span of more than three decades since it was written.

  ~

  No one was ever quite sure just when Mr. Hallinan came to live in New Brewster. Lonny Dewitt, who ought to know, testified that Mr. Hallinan died on December 3, at 3:30 in the afternoon, but as for the day of his arrival no one could be nearly so precise.

  It was simply that one day there was no one living in the unoccupied split-level on Melon Hill, and then the next he was there, seemingly having grown out of the woodwork during the night, ready and willing to spread his cheer and warmth throughout the whole of the small suburban community.

  Daisy Moncrieff, New Brewster’s ineffable hostess, was responsible for making the first overtures towards Mr. Hallinan. It was two days after she had first observed lights on in the Melon Hill place that she decided the time had come to scrutinize the newcomers, to determine their place in New Brewster society. Donning a light wrap, for it was a coolish October day, she left her house in the early forenoon and went on foot down Copperbeech Road to the Melon Hill turnoff, and then climbed the sloping hill till she reached the split-level.

  The name was already on the mailbox: DAVIS HALLINAN. That probably meant they’d been living there a good deal longer than just two days, thought Mrs. Moncrieff; perhaps they’d be insulted by the tardiness of the invitation? She shrugged and used the doorknocker.

  A tall man in early middle age appeared, smiling benignly. Mrs. Moncrieff was thus the first recipient of the uncanny warmth that Davis Hallinan was to radiate throughout New Brewster before his strange death. His eyes were deep and solemn, with warm lights shining in them; his hair was a dignified grey-white mane.

  “Good morning,” he said. His voice was deep, mellow.

  “Good morning. I’m Mrs. Moncrieff—Daisy Moncrieff, from the big house on Copperbeech Road. You must be Mr. Hallinan. May I come in?”

  “Ah—please, no, Mrs. Moncrieff. The place is still a chaos. Would you mind staying on the porch?”

  He closed the door behind him—Mrs. Moncrieff later claimed that she had a fleeting view of the interior and saw unpainted walls and dust-covered bare floors—and drew one of the rusty porch chairs for her.

  “Is your wife at home, Mr. Hallinan?”

  “There’s just me, I’m afraid. I live alone.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Moncrieff, discomforted, managed a grin nonetheless. In New Brewster everyone was married; the idea of a bachelor or a widower coming to settle there was strange, disconcerting…and just a little pleasant, she added, surprised at herself.

  “My purpose in coming was to invite you to meet some of your new neighbors tonight—if you’re free, that is. I’m having a cocktail party at my place about six, with dinner at seven. We’d be so happy if you came!”

  His eyes twinkled gaily. “Certainly, Mrs. Moncrieff. I’m looking forward to it already.”

  The ne plus ultra of New Brewster society was impatiently assembled at the Moncrieff home shortly after 6, waiting to meet Mr. Hallinan, but it was not until 6:15 that he arrived. By then, thanks to Daisy Moncrieff’s fearsome skill as a hostess, everyone present was equipped with a drink and a set of speculations about the mysterious bachelor on the hill.

  “I’m sure he must be a writer,” said Martha Weede to liverish Dudley Heyer. “Daisy says he’s tall and distinguished and just radiates personality. He’s probably here only for a few months—just long enough to get to know us all, and then he’ll write a novel about us.”

  “Hmm. Yes,” Heyer said. He was an advertising executive who commuted to Madison Avenue every morning; he had an ulcer, and was acutely aware of his role as a stereotype. “Yes, then he’ll write a sizzling novel exposing suburban decadence, or a series of acid sketches for The New Yorker. I know the type.”

  Lys Erwin, looking desirable and just a bit disheveled after her third martini in thirty minutes, drifted by in time to overhear that. “You’re always conscious of types, aren’t you, darling? You and your grey flannel suit?”

  Heyer fixed her with a baleful stare but found himself, as usual, unable to make an appropriate retort. He fumed away, smiled hello at quiet little Harold and Jane Dewitt, whom he pitied somewhat (their son Lonny, age 9, was a shy; sensitive child, a total misfit among his playmates), and confronted the bar, weighing the probability of a night of acute agony against the immediate desirability of a Manhattan.

  But at that moment Daisy Moncrieff reappeared with Mr. Hallinan in tow, and conversation ceased abruptly throughout the parlor while the assembled guests stared at the newcomer. An instant later, conscious of their collective faux pas, the group began to chat again, and Daisy moved among her guests, introducing her prize.

  “Dudley, this is Mr. Davis Hallinan. Mr. Hallinan, I want you to meet Dudley Heyer, one of the most talented men in New Brewster.”

  “Indeed? What do you do, Mr. Heyer?”

  “I’m in advertising. But don’t let them fool you; it doesn’t take any talent at all. Just brass, nothing else. The desire to delude the public, and delude ’em good. But how about you? What line are you in?”

  Mr. Hallinan ignored the question. “I’ve always thought advertising was a richly creative field, Mr. Heyer. But, of course, I’ve never really known at first hand—”

  “Well, I have. And it’s everything they say it is.” Heyer felt his face reddening, as if he had had a drink or two. He was becoming talkative, and found Hallinan’s presence oddly soothing. Leaning close to the newcomer, Heyer said, “Just between you and me, Hallinan, I’d give my whole bank account for a chance to stay home and write. Just write. I want to do a novel. But I don’t have the guts; that’s my trouble. I know that come Friday there’s a $350 check waiting on my desk, and I don’t dare give that up. So I keep writing my novel up here in my head, and it keeps eating me away down here in my gut. Eating.” He paused, conscious that he had said too much and that his eyes were glittering headily.

  Hallinan wore a benign smile. “It’s always sad to see talent hidden, Mr. Heyer. I wish you well.”

  Daisy Moncrieff appeared then, hooked an arm through Hallinan’s, and led him away. Heyer, alone, stared down at the textured grey broadloom.

  Now why did I tell him all that? he wondered. A minute after meeting Hallinan, he had unburdened his deepest woe to him—something he had not confided in anyone else in New Brewster, including his wife.

  And yet—it had been a sort of catharsis, Heyer thought. Hallinan had calmly soaked up all his grief and inner agony, and left Heyer feeling drained and purified and warm.

  Catharsis? Or a blood-letting? Heyer shrugged, then grinned and made his way to the bar to pour himself a Manhattan.

  As usual, Lys and Leslie Erwin were at opposite ends of the parlor. Mrs. Moncrieff found Lys more easily, and introduced her to Mr. Hallinan.

  Lys faced him unsteadily, and on a sudden impulse hitched her neckline higher. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Hallinan. I’d like you to meet my husband Leslie. Leslie! Come here, please?”

  Leslie Erwin approached. He was twenty years older than his wife, and was generally known to wear the finest pair of horns in New Brewster—a magnificent spread of antlers that grew a new point or two almost every week.

  “Les, this is Mr. Hallinan. Mr. Hallinan, meet my husband, Leslie.”

  Mr. Hallinan bowed courteously to both of them. “Happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “The same,” Erwin said. “If you’ll excuse me, now—”

  “The louse,” said Lys Erwin, when her husband had returned to his station at the bar. “He’d sooner cut his throat than spend two minutes next to me in public.” She glared bitterly at Hallinan. “I don’t deserve that kind of thing, do I?”

  Mr. Hallinan frowned sympathetically. “Have you any children, Mrs. Erwin?”

  “Hah! He’d never give me any—not with my reputation! You
’ll have to pardon me; I’m a little drunk.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Erwin.”

  “I know. Funny, but I hardly know you and I like you. You seem to understand. Really, I mean.” She took his cuff hesitantly. “Just from looking at you, I can tell you’re not judging me like all the others. I’m not really bad, am I? It’s just that I get so bored, Mr. Hallinan.”

  “Boredom is a great curse,” Mr. Hallinan observed.

  “Damn right it is! And Leslie’s no help—always reading his newspapers and talking to his brokers! But I can’t help myself, believe me.” She looked around wildly. “They’re going to start talking about us in a minute, Mr. Hallinan. Every time I talk to someone new they start whispering. But promise me something—”

  “If I can.”

  “Someday—someday soon—let’s get together? I want to talk to you. God, I want to talk to someone—someone who understands why I’m the way I am. Will you?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Erwin. Soon.” Gently he detached her hand from his sleeve, held it tenderly for a moment, and released it. She smiled hopefully at him. He nodded.

  “And now I must meet some of the other guests. A pleasure, Mrs. Erwin.”

  He drifted away, leaving Lys weaving shakily in the middle of the parlor. She drew in a deep breath and lowered her décolletage again.

  At least there’s one decent man in this town now, she thought. There was something good about Hallinan—good, and kind, and understanding.

  Understanding. That’s what I need. She wondered if she could manage to pay a visit to the house on Melon Hill tomorrow afternoon without arousing too much scandal.

  Lys turned and saw thin-faced Aiken Muir staring at her slyly, with a clear-cut invitation on his face. She met his glance with a frigid, wordless go to hell.