[Jan Darzek 03] - This Darkening Universe

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  She was earning perhaps seventy per cent of what she had to have to live on, and the massive indebtedness that haunted her was increasing daily because of interest and penalties. She studied, she went weekends to a nearby medical center to treat charity patients without pay so she would not forget how to practice her profession, and she watched every approaching pedestrian in the hope that he might be drawn to her door. Very few were.

  She had grown up viewing life with eager optimism, and life had responded by giving her everything she'd ever wanted: a loving and loved husband whom she'd met in medical school; two charming, beautiful, intelligent children; a future of unbounded brightness to look forward to.

  And then life had taken much of it away. Her husband had been murdered in a robbery attempt by a krelliol addict who wasn't aware that an intern dermatologist wouldn't be carrying that drug. She was left with her two children and the debts her husband had incurred for his medical education. At horrendous sacrifice and probably permanent damage to her physical and mental well-being, she returned to medical school and completed her own training. Everyone had told her it couldn't be done, but she had done it. Everyone had told her she couldn't move into a strange community and establish a successful medical practice, but she'd been determined to do that, too.

  Now, two years later, she was on the verge of bankruptcy and striving heroically to avoid the unavoidable. She could not remain where she was; she lacked the resources to go elsewhere.

  On this dreary day of wind-driven rain, her future looked as dismal as the weather; but she would continue to fight, for two excellent reasons. Brian, age nine, was so like his father in appearance and manners that she spoiled him outrageously. Maia, a year younger, was as badly spoiled as her brother because Malina scrupulously avoided favoring one child over the other. Because of the rain, they were playing indoors, and Malina occasionally heard them shushing each other so as not to disturb Mother's nonexistent patients.

  She was looking out at the depressing downpour and thinking about the rusted eaves troughs and the three leaks in the roof when the telephone rang. A flat, precise voice informed her that Mr. Smith would like an appointment.

  "One moment, please," she responded. She waited an appropriate interval to feign examination of her blank appointment book before she answered. "I have an opening this afternoon at three," she said. "Would that be convenient?"

  "That will be satisfactory," the voice said. "I shall come at three. Thank you."

  She hung up with a sigh, wondering which of the syndicated columnists had mentioned falling hair that day. She wished this anonymous Mr. Smith no ill fortune, but neither would she experience excessive regret if he had an advanced case of Stoyer's alopecia and needed a course of hormone injections.

  But when Mr. Smith arrived, at precisely three o'clock, it was immediately obvious that his affliction was not related to falling hair. He was totally bald. His epidermis, however, had fascinating peculiarities of hue and texture that defied instantaneous diagnosis. He was an ordinary-looking middle-aged man, extremely broad framed and somewhat overweight. His clothing, which was expensive and stylish, somehow contrived to look shabby on him. He walked awkwardly, with a slight shuffle. He had no obvious racial characteristics, and there was no trace of any kind of accent in his speech.

  He settled himself on the edge of the chair she indicated, and she took a record card and said, with pen poised, "A few preliminary questions, Mr. Smith. Your birth date?"

  "I do not come to consult with you for medical reasons, Doctor Darr." His pronunciation was so wonderfully precise that it sounded odd. "That is, I do," he went on, "but not concerning myself. I am calling on you as an agent. I wish to engage your services."

  Silently she sighed her farewell to the consultation fee. She had been counting on that. Now the children would have soup again for supper. "What sort of services?" she asked politely.

  "Medical services, of course. I understand that you are a - a dermatologist?"

  "That is correct." She noticed, now, that there was something exceedingly odd about his eyes.

  "You are a specialist in conditions affecting the skin?"

  "Of the physiology and pathology of the skin, yes," she answered mechanically.

  "Would this include defects present at birth?" "Congenital defects. Of course."

  His eyes were fixed searchingly on her face, and they now seemed more than merely odd. They were remarkable. "Inherited defects?" he persisted.

  She studied him for a moment, puzzled because she could not say why his eyes were remarkable. She never had encountered such an expressionless physiognomy. She could read no emotion there at all. Even his vague attitude of puzzlement was apparent in his voice but not in his face. "Inherited defects, congenital defects, or defects," she said, smiling.

  "Those are the services I wish to engage." "May I ask who is to be treated?"

  He gestured vaguely. "A group of people in need of your services. The project will require that you leave your - your community - for an extended period of time. There possibly would be some danger involved, but I would consider it minimal. We would of course pay all of your expenses in addition to the established fee or stipend."

  "Am I to understand that this position requires traveling?" she asked.

  "Indeed yes. Of course." "Extended traveling?" "Very extended traveling."

  She felt curious without being the least interested. She said, intending it as a joke, "I suppose this concerns the medical problems of some tribe of Indians in the upper Amazon Valley."

  He considered this gravely; his eyes - his remarkable eyes remained fixed on her face. "If these Indians have skin problems, then the cases may have something in common."

  She no longer felt curious. Since no fee could possibly result from this conversation, she felt that her time could be spent more profitably in thinking about which kind of dehydrated soup to have for supper.

  She got to her feet. "I appreciate your consideration, but I couldn't leave my children."

  "Your - children?" She thought she saw a flicker of astonishment distort his blank look. His voice sounded tense with consternation, as though children constituted a transgression of natural law. "You have children?"

  "Two," she said, smiling again. "Ages nine and eight."

  She continued to stand; he remained perched on the edge of his chair. He ruminated slowly, "You couldn't leave your children. You couldn't leave - - but, in that case - " He paused, almost visibly grappling with his perplexity. "In that case - do you mean you would have to take them with you?" ....

  She shook her head. "I mean that I couldn't go. They're healthy youngsters, but I'm not about to plunk them down in a jungle somewhere."

  "Jungle?" Again he paused to grapple with his perplexity. “Jungle? There is no jungle!" The flat voice actually took on tones of indignation.

  "Wherever it is. I prefer to bring my children up in close proximity to civilization." She had discovered what was remarkable about his eyes. They did not blink. They did not blink now. They had been focused on her unblinkingly since he arrived.

  But his momentary indignation had passed, or he had managed to contain it. When he spoke again, his voice was expressionless. "That will pose no difficulty. The civilization there is better than here. Far better. Immeasurably better."

  "Is it a city?"

  "A large city, yes. A very modern city. What you call crime does not exist. But with regard to your taking your children, I should have to reflect - I probably should consult - x - I don't know if I could permit it. If we were to increase the established fee, would you consider not taking them?"

  "There is no fee, of any conceivable size, that would persuade me to undertake extended traveling if my children could not come along," she said firmly. She paused. "You keep talking about an established fee or stipend. What is it?"

  "One million dollars."

  She glared down at him furiously, wondering whether he were
a cloddish practical joker or a mental case. "I'll believe that when I see it," she snapped. "Good afternoon, Mister Anonymous Smith."

  Awkwardly he pushed himself erect. His face remained expressionless, his eyes unblinking. "Good afternoon, Gula Darr."

  "What did you call me?"

  It had sounded like a rank insult, but his attitude was one of complete innocence. "Gula - excuse me, Doctor Darr."

  He nodded absently, turned, shuffled out. She did not know whether to laugh or weep. She hadn't collected a fee that week - the few patients she'd treated hadn't paid her - and Brian's tenth birthday was Monday. She had no notion at all of how to manage the party he so dearly wanted, or even a present. But that couldn't be helped.

  She would fight. She would fight to the end, even though she knew the end would not be long in coming.

  She awoke the next morning with a painful headache. "Physician, heal thyself," she murmured and went off to soak in a hot bath. Brian came pounding at the bathroom door.

  "There's a truck here, Mama."

  She roused herself. The headache continued to pound mercilessly. "What sort of truck?"

  "A truck with boxes. The man wants to know where to put them."

  She sat up with a splash. "We aren't expecting any boxes. We don't want them."

  "Maybe it's my birthday present," Brian said hopefully.

  It didn't seem remotely possible. There were distant relatives, but they'd never remembered a birthday before. It would be nothing less than a miracle if they suddenly did so at this moment of dire need.

  "Does the man want money?" she asked.

  "He just wants to know where to put the boxes."

  Was it possible that she'd ordered medical supplies and forgotten about it? She sank back into the tub and pressed both hands against her forehead. "Make sure he has the right address," she called. "Ask him to check. Ask him to make sure the boxes say 'Darr' and '147 Main' on them. If they do, he can leave them inside the front door."

  Brian did not return. "Wrong address," she concluded and abandoned herself to her headache. When finally she left the tub it still was raging unabated.

  She dressed herself and unsteadily started down the stairs, hands again pressed against her forehead. On the landing she collided with Brian and Maia. They were staring down into the living room, both of them tense with excitement.

  The living room was full of boxes.

  "There wasn't room inside the door" Brian explained.

  A narrow aisle had been left along one wall. Malina edged through it sideways to the hallway, edged past more boxes, and dashed through the front door and down the walk to the street, waving wildly. The truck was two block away and gathering speed.

  She returned to the house. "Didn't he want anything signed?" she asked Brian incredulously.

  Brian shook his head. He picked up a box and shook it. Nothing rattled. "What are they?" he asked.

  "I haven't the faintest idea," she said.

  The boxes were a meter long and perhaps a third of that high and deep. Each box had her name and address neatly stenciled on it. She lifted one; it was lighter than she had expected, though she could not have said what she had expected, or why. She ripped a flap open, tearing the tape that sealed the box. She could see nothing inside except an inner wrapping or padding of newspaper. She ripped open the other flap and tore aside the paper.

  The box was full of money.

  She went again to the front door and looked out dazedly. She did not know what she expected to see that hadn't been there before the truck driver returning in rage, accompanied by the police, perhaps. She saw no one except her next-door neighbor, a dour, elderly woman who disliked children. Probably the neighbor had witnessed that remarkable parade of boxes into the house She still was watching the place suspiciously.

  Malina returned to the living room and opened another box.

  Money. She ignored the excited questions flung at her by the children - she hardly heard them. She was thinking of the peculiar Mr. Anonymous Smith with the remarkable unblinking eyes. "A million dollars," he had told her. And she had replied, "I'll believe that when I see it."

  Without counting or even attempting to estimate the amount of money in each box, or the total number of boxes, she had a feeling of certitude that she was seeing the million dollars. She opened another box. Money.

  She went to the telephone and called her attorney.

  Hours later, at the bank, the contents of the last box had been counted and recounted. The bank president himself certified the grand total, treating her with a deferential respect she never before had experienced in such an institution. She received it with a wan smile, thinking of the previous week's conversation with one of his vice-presidents concerning her mortgage.

  He handed her a receipt. It read, "ONE MILLION & No/100 Dollars."

  Her attorney was talking rapidly, explaining that she would incur no liability in leaving the money on deposit, since that represented the fulfillment of her responsibility to safeguard it properly. As long as she was able to return the money on demand, any commitment the mysterious Mr. Smith thought she had made could be passed off as a misunderstanding.

  "Anyway," he said reassuringly, "when you told him you would believe the offer only when you saw the money, you in no way implied that you would accept it - just that you wouldn't consider it bona fide until he demonstrated his ability to pay the sum offered, which is perfectly understandable. You now have no obligation whatsoever except to fully consider his offer and return the money if you decide not to accept. I'd suggest that you take a cashier's check for the million, made out to yourself. When he calls again, you can terminate this funny business by endorsing the check over to him”.

  "Thank you," Malina said. "I'll consider that."

  While watching a million dollars being counted, she'd had a vision - a dream of debts paid, of a fresh start in building a medical practice with adequate financial backing, of trust funds for her children's futures, of a life style in which there could be an occasional luxury without the prior sacrifice of a necessity. She wondered how much of her life Mr. Smith was expecting to buy for his million dollars. Surely not all of it, but probably much more than she'd be willing to bargain away, even for one million.

  But perhaps she could take less money and have the commitment defined in a way that would permit her to accept it. Or perhaps not, but it would cost her nothing to ask. It had occurred to her that in their future negotiations, the anonymous Mr. Smith would be at a slight disadvantage.

  She already had the million dollars.

  10

  There are names that have their own peculiar magic and evoke exotic visions and scents and sounds. For Malina Darr, Montura Mart did none of these. It was not even enigmatic. It seemed every bit as prosaic as the name of the Crossway Mart, where she occasionally bought potatoes and onions.

  But the experience was enigmatic enough, from the moment the mysterious Mr. Smith presented himself at her office until she and her children looked out onto the depressingly barren surface of the world of Montura.

  Several times her suspicions were aroused, but Smith glibly explained, or she performed her own glib rationalization - as when Smith suggested that she should take clothing for herself and the children for the entire three years of her commitment, and she wondered what kind of a large, highly civilized city did not sell clothing; or when she quizzed him about the school her children would be attending and he doubted that there was one. But she could understand that the clothing available in a foreign city might not be comfortable or the proper sizes for her children; and she could understand that the schools would be conducted in a different language and teach unfamiliar subjects at far different levels of accomplishment for their ages. In the end she convinced herself that she could take textbooks along and tutor the children herself, if the need arose.

  She terminated her practice, sold her house, paid off all of her debts, and - without reali
zing that she was being prophetic - reflected wryly that she had severed every Earthly tie. The job Smith described sounded both interesting and challenging. She was committed for only three years, including travel time, and when she returned she could take up her life again, blissfully free from financial worries. Her children would have the broadening experience of travel as well as life in a foreign place, and they could hardly contain their excitement.

  They turned their backs on the inhospitable town of Colliston and traveled, by way of public transmitting terminals, to Nashville, Tennessee, where Smith registered them at a motel next to an enormous shopping center. There they were outfitted for their trip - not only with clothing for three years, but with everything else Malina could think of assisted by Smith's prompting: enormous stocks of preserved foods, toys, books, every kind of sundry. Smith also ordered a complete medical office for her, including books, instruments, and an entire pharmacy of medicines and supplies. When Smith also insisted that they have complete medical and dental examinations, Malina began to think that their highly civilized destination must be something out of the Middle Ages.