Wandering Stars

by Jack Dann (ed)

  “There won’t be as much for you, let me remind you. I get the feeling there’s going to be a whole lot more for me.”

  “It’s a good farm.”

  “It’s how they bought your manhood, yekl,” said Sharon. Murray didn’t answer. “Wonderful, what a match that shadchen machine stuck me with,” she muttered.

  “Look,” called Murray. “This is one of the animals that live around here.” He held up a small jellyball. “You get a couple of them and they sort of mush together. They make gray things that you can eat.”

  “Feh!” said Sharon.

  “You carry it,” said Murray. “You have to get over your fear.”

  “It isn’t fear,” she said shrilly. “It’s disgust.”

  The first few days were unpleasant. Sharon refused to have anything to do with the animals. Even the vegetables from the fields made her run from the table at mealtime. Soon her hunger grew to the point where she had to compromise. She ate a few vegetables, and some of the boiled gray lumps. She admitted that they were reasonably pleasant in taste; but her intellect betrayed her, and after she thought about the source of the food she hurried to the bathroom again. It wasn’t as bad the next day, and then it wasn’t long before she was eating well again. From then on she helped Murray in all the day’s chores, although forever after she had a particular distaste for the jellyanimals.

  Murray had come back to the house for a quick lunch one day. It was now near the end of summer, and the day’s routines had none of the urgency of the spring planting or the fall harvest. Sharon had fixed a special meal for him, hamburgers made from ground stupe meat.

  “You’re incredible,” said Murray.

  “I figured you’d like it,” said Sharon. “How long has it been since you had a good old greasy hamburger?”

  “Too long. One of the things I was hoping to do when I went back to get married was fill up on things like that. You know, pizzas and cheap French fries.”

  “I know how you feel already. I’d give anything for some honest drive-in trayf. It wouldn’t be so bad, except that this isn’t our choice. If you never had the chance to decide, you never had the chance to make your own mistake. The Representatives have cheated you out of your own humanity. They’ve just forgotten about free will.”

  Murray sighed. “Don’t start that again, Sharon, okay? This is my little Garden of Eden. You keep forgetting if you’re Eve or the serpent. You’re forever trying to make the Representatives sound like corruption personified. How many other people do you know who have a whole, clean, beautiful world all to themselves? You just can’t make a gift like that out of evil intentions.”

  “For thousands of years we’ve swallowed that einredenish. They say, ‘Go on. Make money. Gather possessions. But just don’t get pushy.’ And the nuchshleppers go right along with them. Every time we seem to be pulling our people together, somebody throws cold water on our smoldering desire, scatters the flame of our spirit. Being driven out of our own land into exile wasn’t bad enough. But then for centuries, wherever small communities of Jews gathered, the machers in power devoted themselves to splitting up even those tiny groups.”

  “That’s the racial paranoia my father yelled about all the time,” said Murray. “It’s stupid. What’s the matter, you need to be persecuted? You can’t have someone hand you a gift horse without looking it in the mouth?”

  “Bubkes! I know some Trojans that would’ve been a lot better off if they had. Anyway, now the Representatives have found the real answer. This is a neat thing they’ve done. Nobody can accuse them of genocide. Even you can’t see what they’re doing.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “You know what the Diaspora means?”

  “No,” said Murray.

  “It used to mean the community of Jews living outside Israel. There used to be great numbers of Jews throughout the world. Now there isn’t. Mostly, there are a couple of million Jews in Israel, living in sort of an amusement park for the Representatives. And some more scattered neighborhoods in the rest of the world. Now they’re taking the best of our people and spreading them even further. A dispersion of the Dispersion. It’s much more effective than killing them would be. No one is angered, no one is vengeful. I mean, you certainly looked happy enough when you visited your parents, nu?”

  “All right,” said Murray, rubbing his eyes with his rough fingers, “suppose you tell me why they bother?”

  “Go to that damn machine of yours,” said Sharon. Murray frowned, not understanding, but he went to the tect. “Now ask it a question,” she said. “Ask it what a Jew is.”

  Murray did so. The answer was immediate:

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  A Jew is a kind of person**

  “That’s why they bother,” said Sharon. “It’s all the reason they need.”

  Her ideas were as foreign to Murray as Grandpa Zalman’s had been; but, after he had thought about them, he discovered that he couldn’t find an easy reply. When he had made that admission, Murray decided that Sharon at least deserved the attention he had given to his grandfather’s odd ways. The summer ended. Several weeks later, he went to the tect and asked a few more questions. “How many other individuals have been given their own planet?” he said.

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Seven thousand, four hundred and twelve**

  “What percentage of those people are Jewish or of Jewish extraction?”

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Thirty-nine percent**

  “And what percentage of the population of the Earth is Jewish or of Jewish extraction?”

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Less than one-half of one percent**

  Those figures seemed to substantiate Sharon’s angry charges. But, still, Murray didn’t agree that giving virgin worlds away was a scheme to destroy the Jewish people. It may just be the result of a natural superiority among Jewish students, at least as far as what the Twelfth-year Test measured. But then Murray had a sudden thought. “How many known, habitable worlds are there in the universe, besides Earth?” he asked.

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Six hundred and thirty-six**

  There! “How many other people are living on the world known as Zalman, other than Murray and Sharon Rose?”

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Twenty-two**

  Murray took the information to Sharon. “I have to apologize,” he said. “It looks like your view of things may be a little more accurate than mine. I’m either naïve or just stupid. If the Representatives will lie about meaningless things like this, who knows what else they’ve been lying about?”

  Sharon smiled at him sadly. “Twenty-two other people, scattered around the face of a world. A regular little shtetl, if we could all get together. That’s what Jews have been saying since Genesis.”

  “I guess it’s too late, now.”

  “It may be too late for you and me,” said Sharon. “We’ve sold the birthright. We’ve betrayed our ancestors. And for what? Some gray lumps.”

  Murray was still upset by his discoveries, and Sharon’s words only irritated him. He grew defensive. “So what should I be doing?” he said loudly. “Fighting them by myself?”

  “We should be conserving what little remains of our heritage,” said Sharon softly. “You never cared much for that, did you?”

  “You can’t blame me for my environment,” said Murray.

  “I can, if you keep making its mistakes.”

  Murray slammed his hand down on the table. “You want me to go back to Earth? Lead an uprising? Murray Maccabeus, for pity’s sake?”

  “Murray, that light on the machine is flashing,” said Sharon. He turned around, startled. There was a message coming through.

  “You think they’ve been listening?” asked Murray.

  “Probably,” said Sharon with a scowl. “What difference does it make?”

  Murray hurried to the tect. The CRT screen displayed the news:

  **ROSE, Murray S.—ExtT—R
epNA Dis9 Sec14 Loc58-NY-337

  M154-62-485-39Maj

  07:33:02 27May 469 YR DatAdvis**

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Notification of Propagation Assent (RoutProc follows) (Specifications follow)**

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  The office of the Representative of North America extends its warmest greetings and congratulations.

  It has been decided that, due to your unusual and somewhat severe conditions, you and your wife, MRS. SHARON F. S. ROSE, will be permitted to begin your child. The Representative is certain you will be as excited and pleased as he is**

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  A package containing the pills and injections necessary for the successful fabrication of your offspring will be subceived twenty-four hours after this message. The location of the package will be marked by a red flare. Immediate implementation of the contents of the package is necessary for the safety of both MRS. SHARON F. S. ROSE and the offspring**

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Your offspring will be male; weight at birth seven pounds, six ounces; hair brown; eyes brown; estimated height at maturity five feet, eleven inches; estimated weight at maturity one hundred ninety-five pounds; right-handed; allergies: none; pre-diabetic condition at age twenty-two; hearing normal; eyesight normal; Intelligence Level B+; sober disposition; taciturn; strong; hard-working; not unhandsome by contemporary standards. Congratulations!**

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Offspring will be born 18July, 470 YR, between 05.00 and 05:45**

  **ROSE, Murray S.:

  Failure to comply with the above will be considered Contempt of RepWish and Wilfull Neglect of PropFunc**

  “Congratulations,” said Murray. “The Representative strikes again.”

  “Have you noticed how when that gonif strikes, he always seems to hit me?” said Sharon. Murray looked at her; she laughed, and he felt relieved. “Having a baby has taken more than one good revolutionary out of the action,” she said. “But at least I can train him to take care of those jellyanimals. That’s the trouble with this planet. No hired hands.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say,” said Murray. “Our baby—”

  “I was only kidding.”

  “I had this vision of you raising him to be an employee instead of a son. I can never tell when you’re serious.”

  “Wait until you get to know me,” she said. “Then you can worry.”

  “So tell me. How are you going to raise a kid without chicken soup?”

  Sharon laughed. “I was waiting for that. No, really, I figure we can make a good enough broth out of stupe bones. Stupe soup. Feh!”

  “And then this champion we’re raising can go back to Earth and bust heads for us,” said Murray.

  Sharon suddenly got serious. “You know, Murray,” she said, “I don’t want to believe we’re the only ones who have discovered what the Representatives are doing. I mean, they’ve scattered our best minds, but those minds are still functioning. Our kid won’t be any Messiah. Not by himself. But maybe around these planets, we’re making a generation of Messiahs.”

  “That’s a very heroic thought,” said Murray. “I guess you have to tell yourself things like that, to keep yourself going.” Now Sharon stared at her husband, until he laughed.

  “I’m going to crown you one of these days, chachem, if you don’t stop mocking me. Look, the Hebrews were wandering around leaderless, oppressed by all sorts of people and ideas. Then came Moses. Now everybody’s oppressed and lost, not just our small tribe. So instead of one man, the world needs one strong family of men to stand up and fight back. What Moses is to the Jews, the Jews can be to all mankind.”

  “And before the Messiah comes, isn’t the prophet Elijah supposed to return?” asked Murray with a smile. “I like that. It makes me Elijah. Mom would be proud.”

  “No,” said Sharon, “it makes us Elijah. And the spirit of Elijah is with us. It’s Succoth.”

  “What?”

  “A feast. A harvest thanksgiving. There are traditions. We’ll build a booth in the fields, and we’ll eat our meals there. It will remind us of the temporary shelters of the Hebrews in their years of wandering. It can mean the temporary kind of dominance the Representatives have over us, if you want. We’re supposed to have willow and myrtle and other branches, but I suppose we can substitute. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?”

  Murray kissed Sharon lightly on the cheek. “You’re very special,” he said. “You’re a little insane, but you’re special.”

  “And you, luftmensh, you’re just dumb.”

  “Let’s hurry up and have that baby, so we can all get out of here,” said Murray, sighing.

  “Relax. We’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer.”

  “What do I do in the meantime?” asked Murray.

  “You can help me get the rest of those bluebeans in,” she said. “And then we can start on the booth.” Murray nodded and started to go back outside. “Nu,” said Sharon. “I made this for you.”

  Murray looked at the little thing she had pulled from her pocket. “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s a yarmulke. Take it.”

  He hesitated for a second. Then he took it from her and put it on. It was time they got to work.

  ROBERT SHECKLEY

  Street of Dreams, Feet of Clay

  Ess, ess, mein kindt (eat, eat, my child)—the cry of the Jewish mother as told by Borscht Belt comedians to sympathetic audiences. The Jewish mother becomes a modern Earth mother, another pop culture metaphor that is not strictly Jewish, but Jewish-American. She is the archetypical giver of security and chicken soup, the selfless soul who lives only for others, who is always clean, tidy, and hopeful, who nags, pleads, admonishes, serves, and suffers—all this out of lovelovelove. She is the instiller of Jewish guilt, the unwanted advisor and eternal consoler, the matriarch with the steel-reinforced apron strings, and her obedient son’s one true love. And should he not be obedient, she will suffer and accept the responsibility of shame.

  But the “Jewish-mother-shtik” has been done to death in Mainstream fiction; it’s an old routine for the new comics, although one that’s guaranteed to get a few laughs. Like the Western and the vampire story, it has been worked and reworked into stylized parody. It is a cue—there’s no mystery or excitement, only familiarity, easy identification, and, of course, a few well-worn belly laughs.

  New ideas are sorely needed, The following story by Robert Sheckley represents a new comedy based on the tenets, not the materials of the old—it is an infusion of originality and excitement into a fallow theme, a new fertilization. Science fiction provides new grist for the mill. Take Bellwether, a nice city that talks in your sleep, a perfect place to be for your own good, a tempting, taunting representation of something lost in the past, only to be found in the future.

  J. D.

  *

  CARMODY HAD NEVER REALLY PLANNED to leave New York. Why he did so is inexplicable. A born urbanite, he had grown accustomed to the minor inconveniences of metropolitan life. His snug apartment on the 290th floor of Levitfrack Towers on West Ninety-ninth Street was nicely equipped in the current “Spaceship” motif. The windows were double-sealed in tinted lifetime plexiglass, and the air ducts worked through a blind baffle filtration system which sealed automatically when the Combined Atmosphere Pollution Index reached 999.8 on the Con Ed scale. True, his oxygen-nitrogen air recirculation system was old, but it was reliable. His water purification cells were obsolete and ineffective; but then, nobody drank water anyhow.

  Noise was a continual annoyance, unstoppable and inescapable. But Carmody knew that there was no cure for this, since the ancient art of soundproofing had been lost. It was urban man’s lot to listen, a captive audience, to the arguments, music and watery gurglings of his adjacent neighbors. Even this torture could be alleviated, however, by producing similar sounds of one’s own.

  Going to work each day entailed certain dangers; but these were more ap
parent than real. Disadvantaged snipers continued to make their ineffectual protests from rooftops and occasionally succeeded in potting an unwary out-of-towner. But as a rule, their aim was abominable. Additionally, the general acceptance of lightweight personal armor had taken away most of their sting, and the sternly administered state law forbidding the personal possession of surplus cannon had rendered them ineffectual.

  Thus, no single factor can be adduced for Carmody’s sudden decision to leave what was generally considered the world’s most exciting megapolitan agglomeration. Blame it on a vagrant impulse, a pastoral fantasy, or on sheer perversity. The simple, irreducible fact is, one day Carmody opened his copy of the Daily Times-News and saw an advertisement for a model city in New Jersey.

  “Come live in Bellwether, the city that cares,” the advertisement proclaimed. There followed a list of utopian claims which need not be reproduced here.

  “Huh,” said Carmody, and read on.

  Bellwether was within easy commuting distance. One simply drove through the Ulysses S. Grant Tunnel at 43rd Street, took the Hoboken Shunt Subroad to the Palisades Interstate Crossover, followed that for 3.2 miles on the Blue-Charlie Sorter Loop that led onto U.S. 5 (The Hague Memorial Tollway), proceeded along that a distance of 6.1 miles to the Garden State Supplementary Access Service Road (Provisional), upon which one tended west to Exit 1731A, which was King’s Highbridge Gate Road, and then continued along that for a distance of 1.6 miles. And there you were.

  “By jingo,” said Carmody, “I’ll do it.”

  And he did.

  II

  King’s Highbridge Gate Road ended on a neatly trimmed plain. Carmody got out of his car and looked around. Half a mile ahead of him he saw a small city. A single modest signpost identified it as Bellwether.

  This city was not constructed in the traditional manner of American cities, with outliers of gas stations, tentacles of hot-dog stands, fringes of motels and a protective carapace of junkyards; but rather, as some Italian hill towns are fashioned, it rose abruptly, without physical preamble, the main body of the town presenting itself at once and without amelioration.