The Avram Davidson Treasury

by Avram Davidson

  “Don’t hit him any more, honey. He was drunk. Honey—”

  The boy and girl stopped at the bottom floor for only a moment. Then they were gone …

  Curtis paused, uncertain. He was sure that it was dangerous for him to remain on the street, but he didn’t know where to go. That little rat, William, had failed to reappear. There were planes flying, and trains and buses running, but even if he decided what to take he would still have to decide which airfield, which station, which terminal. The problems seemed to proliferate each time he thought about them.

  He would have a drink to help him consider.

  There wasn’t really any hurry.

  That dirty rat, William!

  The Sepoy Lords were holding an informal meeting—a caucus, as it were.

  Someone has remarked that the throne of Russia was neither hereditary, nor elective, but occupative. The same might be said of office in the Sepoy Lords.

  The scene was a friendly neighborhood rooftop.

  “So you think you’re going to be Warlord?” a boy named Buzz demanded.

  “That’s right,” said the one called Sonny.

  The quorum, including several Sepoy Ladies, listened with interest.

  “I don’t think you’re going to be Warlord,” said Buzz.

  “I know I am,” said Sonny.

  “What makes you so sure?” inquired Buzz.

  “This,” Sonny said, simply, reaching into his pocket, and taking something out.

  Sudden intakes of breath, eyes lighting up, members crowding around, loud comments of admiration. “Sonny got a piece!” “Look at that piece Sonny’s got!”

  The President of the Sepoy Lords, one Big Arthur, who had until now remained above the battle, asked, “Where’d you get it, Son’.”

  Sonny smirked, cocked his head. “She knows where I got it,” he said. His girl, Myra, smiled knowingly.

  Buzz said only one word, but he said it weakly. He now had no case, and he knew it.

  The new Warlord sighted wickedly down the revolver. “First thing I’m going to do,” he announced; “there’s one old cat I am going to burn. He said something about my old lady, and that is something I don’t take from anybody, let alone from one of those dirty old Ermine Kings.”

  Diplomatically, no one commented on the personal aspect of his grievance, all being well aware how easy it was to say something about Sonny’s old lady, and being equally aware that the old lady’s avenging offspring now held a revolver in his hand. But the general aspect of the challenge was something else.

  “Those Ermine Kings better watch out, is all!” a Sepoy Lady declared. There was a murmur of assent.

  Big Arthur now deemed it time to interpose his authority. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he said. “‘They better watch out!’—how come? Because we got one piece?”

  Warlord Sonny observed a semantic inconsistency. With eyes narrowed he said, “What do you mean, ‘we’? ‘We’ haven’t got anything. I’m the one who’s got the piece, and nobody is going to tell me what to do with my personal property—see?” He addressed this caveat to the exuberant Sepoy Lady, but no one misunderstood him—least of all, Big Arthur.

  Allowing time for the message to sink in, Sonny then said, “Big Arthur is right. I mean, one ain’t enough. We need money to get more. How? I got a plan. Listen—”

  They listened. They agreed. They laughed their satisfaction.

  “Now,” Sonny concluded, “let’s get going.”

  He watched as most of them filed through the door. He started after them, then stopped. Was stopped. Big Arthur seized his wrist with one hand and grabbed the revolver with the other.

  Sonny, crying, “Gimme that back!” leaped for it. But Big Arthur, taking hold of Sonny’s jacket with his free hand, slapped him—hard—back against the door.

  “You got the wrong idea, Son’,” Big Arthur said. “You seem to think that you are the President around here. That’s wrong. Now, if you really think you are man enough, you can try to get this piece away from me. You want to try?”

  For a while Sonny had been somebody. Now he was nobody again. He knew that he would never in a million years take the revolver away from Big Arthur, never burn that one old cat from the Ermine Kings who had said something about his old lady. Tears of pain and humiliation welled in his eyes. “Cheer up,” Big Arthur said. “We’re going to see how your plan works out. And it better work out good. Now get down those stairs with the other members, Mr. Sonny Richards.”

  Head down, Sonny stumbled through the door. Myra started to slip through after him, but Big Arthur detained her. “Not so quick, chick,” he said. “Let’s move along together. You and me are going to get better acquainted.” For just a second Myra hesitated. Then she giggled.

  “Much better acquainted,” Big Arthur said.

  Feeling neither strain nor pain, Curtis glided out of the bar. The late afternoon spread invitingly before him. He was supposed to meet somebody and go somewhere… William …

  There, slowly passing by in his fancy convertible, was the man himself. With great good humor Curtis cried, “William!” and started toward him.

  William himself saw things from a different angle. Curtis, to be sure, was rough, but what had really set William against going to California with him was the fact that he had observed Curtis that way. He, William, wanted nothing to do at any time with people who carried guns. And, anyway, he wasn’t quite ready to leave for California—something had come up.

  What came up at that moment was Curtis, roaring (so it seemed) with rage, and loping forward with murder in his eye.

  William gave a squeak of fright. The convertible leaped ahead, crashing into the car in front. And still Curtis came on—

  Screaming, “Keep away from me, Curtis!” William jumped out of the car and started to run. Someone grabbed him. “Don’t stop me—he’s got a gun—Curtis!” he yelled.

  But they wouldn’t let go. It was the police, wouldn’t you know it, grimfaced men in plain clothes; of all the cars to crash into—

  One of them finished frisking Curtis. “Nope, no gun,” he said. “This one ain’t dangerous. You.” He turned to William. “What do you mean by saying he had a gun?”

  William lost his head and started to babble, and before he could move, the men were searching him. And the car. They found his cigarette case stuffed with sticks of tea, and they found the shoebox full of it, too.

  “Pot,” said one of them, sniffing. “Real Mexican stuff. Convertible, hey? You won’t need a convertible for a long time, fellow.”

  William burst into tears. The mascara ran down his face and he looked so grotesque that even the grim faces of the detectives had to relax into smiles.

  “What about this one, Leo,” one of them asked, jerking his thumb. “He’s clean.”

  But Leo was dubious. “There must be some connection, or the pretty one wouldn’t of been so scared,” he said. A thought occurred to him. “What did he call him? What did you say his name was? Curtis?”

  The other detective snapped his fingers. “Curtis. Yeah. A question, Curtis: You in the apartment of a Mrs. Selena Richards today?”

  “Never heard of her,” said Curtis, sobering rapidly. Move on, that’s what he should have done—move on.

  Mrs. Richards was entertaining company. The baby was awake—had been awake, in fact, since those chest-deep, ear-splitting screams earlier in the afternoon—and the girls had come home from school. She had sent them down to the store for cold cuts and sliced bread; they hadn’t eaten more than half of it on the way back, and Mrs. Richards and the neighbors were dining off the other half. There was also some wine they had all chipped in to buy. Excitement didn’t come very often, and it was a shame to let it go to waste.

  “Didn’t that man bleed!” a neighbor exclaimed. “All over your floor, Selena!”

  “All over his floor, you mean—he owns this building.”

  After the whoops of laughter died down, someone thought of asking where Mrs. Richard
s’ oldest child was.

  “I don’t know where Sonny is,” she said, placid as ever. “He takes after his daddy. His daddy always was a traveling sort of man.” She felt in her bosom for the money she had placed there—the money she had taken from the hole in the wall after the police and ambulance left. Yes, it was safely there.

  All in all, she thought, it had been quite a day. Curtis gone, but he was on the point of becoming troublesome, anyway. Excitement—a lot of excitement. Company in, hanging on her every word. The receipt for the rent, plus the rent itself. Yes, a lucky day. Later on she would see what the date was, and tomorrow she would play that number.

  If luck was coming to you, nothing could keep it away.

  They had taken three stitches in Mr. Mason’s scalp, and taped and bandaged it.

  “You want us to call you a taxi?” the hospital attendant asked.

  “No,” Mr. Mason said. “I don’t have any money to waste on taxis. The bus is still running, isn’t it?”

  “There’s a charge of three dollars,” the attendant said.

  Mr. Mason snorted. “I don’t have three cents. I’ll have to borrow bus fare from some storekeeper, I guess. That dirty—he took everything I had. Right in broad daylight. I don’t know what we pay taxes for.”

  “I guess we pay them to reward certain people for turning decent buildings into flophouses,” the attendant said. He was old and crusty and due to retire soon, and didn’t give a damn for anybody.

  Mr. Mason narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “Nobody has the right to tell me what to do with my personal property,” he said meanly.

  The attendant shrugged. “That’s your personal property, too,” he said, pointing. “Take it with you; we don’t want it.”

  It was the empty shoulder holster.

  On leaving the hospital Mr. Mason headed first for a store, but not to borrow bus fare. He bought a book of blank receipts. He still had most of his rents to collect, and he intended to collect every single one of them. It hardly paid a person to be decent, these days, he reflected irritably. One thing was sure: nobody else had better tangle with him—not today.

  He headed for the first house on his round, and it was there, in the hallway, that the Sepoy Lords caught up with him.

  The Tail-Tied Kings

  INTRODUCTION BY FREDERIK POHL

  Avram Davidson was one of a kind. He was physically gentle, intellectually ferocious, and disturbingly erudite. He was also markedly Jewish. When I say “markedly,” the word should be understood in the context of my own lapsed-Protestant relationship with Jewish people: most of the science-fiction fans and writers I grew up with were Jews, so were the fifty percent of my Brooklyn neighbors who weren’t Catholic, so, at the time I first met Avram, was my wife. In my experience, however, few of them took the matter very seriously. They might remember to be choosy about their diet when it wasn’t too inconvenient, and most of them thought seders were a lot of fun (for that matter, so did I), but that was about it. Avram was different.

  I had not appreciated quite how different until the day when, while Avram was supervising some friends’ children in a swimming pool, one of the kids got into trouble and had to be taken to a hospital. The nearest hospital was ten miles away. It was the Sabbath. And Avram was the only adult around. So he took the child to the emergency room in a car, because that was permissible as a matter of saving life, but there was no such justification for riding back. In Avram’s view the only lawful way to return was to walk. So he did. Ten long miles of it.

  Avram was good, civilized company; his opinions were always strongly held but his sense of humor was reliably meliorating. It was good fun to argue with him. Good exercise, too; half an hour with Avram toned you up for days of disagreement with lesser mortals.

  And, of course, as a writer Avram was a pure wonder. His densely textured and beautifully phrased prose was a delight to read, and a pleasure to publish. Well, you can see the part about why it was a delight to read for yourself, because this book is full of some of the best of his stories. But I doubt that unless you’ve had the actual experience you can quite understand how pleasing it was to find, among the bushels of hopelessly inept manuscripts that every editor has to pick through in order to find the ones worth putting into print, one of Avram’s little gems.

  “The Tail-Tied Kings” is one of my personal favorite Davidsons—partly because of its own considerable merits, partly because it was one of the ones that I was lucky enough to publish in Galaxy, partly because of an event that occurred shortly after its publication, thirty years ago or so.

  I was visiting the Milford Science Fiction Writers Workshop (so long ago that the workshop was actually still held in Milford, Pennsylvania). So was Avram, and during a break in the proceedings he came up to me and, amiably but forcefully, grabbed my lapel. “Why did you change my title to ‘The Tail-Tied Kings?’” he demanded.

  I answered promptly, “Because I didn’t think the title you had on it would make anyone want to read the story. In fact, it was so uncompelling I don’t even remember what it was. What was it?”

  He reflected for a belligerent moment, then shrugged. “I don’t remember it either,” he said.

  So I figured I won that one. I don’t recall winning many others.

  THE TAIL-TIED KINGS

  HE BROUGHT THEM WATER, one by one.

  “The water is sweet, One-eye,” said a Mother. “Very sweet.”

  “Many bring Us water,” a second Mother said, “but the water you bring is sweet.”

  “Because his breath is sweet,” said a third Mother.

  The One-Eye paused, about to leave. “I would tell you of a good thing,” a Father said, “which none others know, only We. I may tell him, softly, in his ear, may I not?”

  In his corner, Keeper stirred. A Mother and a Father raised their voices. “It is colder now,” They said. “Outside: frost. A white thing on the ground, and burns. We have heard. Frost.” Keeper grunted, did not move. “Colder, less food, less water, We have heard, but for Us always food, always water, water, food, food …” They went on. Keeper did not move.

  “Come closer,” said the Father, softly. “I will tell you of a good thing, while Keeper sleeps.” The Father’s voice was deep and rich. “Come to my mouth. A secret thing. One-Eye.”

  “I may not come, Father,” said the One-Eye, uncertainly. “Only to bring water.”

  “You may come,” said a Mother. Her voice was like milk, her voice was good. “Your breath is sweet. Come, listen. Come.”

  Another Father said, “You will be cold, alone. Come among Us and be warm.” The One-Eye moved his head from side to side, and he muttered.

  “There is food here and you will eat,” the other Father said. The One-Eye moved a few steps, then hesitated.

  “Come and mate with me,” said the milk-voiced Mother. “It is my time. Come.”

  The One-Eye perceived that it was indeed her time and he darted forward, but the Keeper blocked his way.

  “Go, bring water for Them to drink,” said Keeper. He was huge.

  “He has water for Us now,” a Mother said, plaintively. “Stupid Keeper. We are thirsty. Why do you stop him?”

  A Father said, “He has water in his mouth which he has brought for Us. Step aside and let him pass. Oh, it is an ugly, stupid Keeper!”

  “I have water in my mouth which I have brought for Them,” the One-Eye said. “Step aside and—” He stopped, as they burst into jeers and titters.

  The Keeper was not even angry. “There was nothing in your mouth but a lie. Now go.”

  Too late, the One-Eye perceived his mistake. “I may sleep,” he muttered.

  “Sleep, then. But go.” Keeper bared his teeth. The One-Eye shrank back, and turned and slunk away. Behind him he heard the Mother in her milk-voice say, “It was a stupid One-Eye, Father.”

  “And now,” the Father said. The One-Eye heard their mating as he went.

  Sometimes he had tried to run away, but everywhere
there were others who stopped him. “It is a One-Eye, and too far away. Go to your place, One-Eye. Go to your duty, bring water for the Mothers and Fathers, take Their food to the Keeper, go back, go back, One-Eye, go back,” they cried, surrounding him, driving him from the way he would go.

  “I will not be a One-Eye any longer,” he protested.

  They jeered and mocked. “Will you grow another eye, then? Back, back: it is The Race which orders you!” And they had nipped him and forced him back.

  Once, he had said, “I will see the goldshining!”

  There was an old one who said, “Return, then, One-Eye and I will show you the goldshining on the way.” And the old one lifted a round thing and it glittered gold. He cried out with surprise and pleasure.

  Then, “I thought it would be bigger,” he said.

  “Return, One-Eye, or you will be killed,” the old one said. “Outside is not for you. Return… Not that way! That way is a death thing. Mark it well. This way. Go. And be quick—there may be dogs.”

  There was sometimes a new one to instruct, blood wet in the socket, at the place of water, to drink his fill and then fill his mouth and go to the Fathers and Mothers, not to swallow a drop, to learn the long way and the turnings, down and down in the darkness, past the Keeper, mouth to mouth to the Fathers and Mothers. Again and again.

  “Why are They bound?” a new one asked.

  “Why are we half-blinded? It is The Race which orders. It is The Race which collects the food that other One-Eyes bring to Keeper, and he stores it and feeds Them.”

  “Why?”

  They paused, water dripping from above into the pool. Why? To eat and drink must be or else death. But why does The Race order Fathers and Mothers to be bound so that they cannot find their own food and water? “I am only a stupid One-Eye. But I think the Fathers and Mothers would tell me… There was mention of a secret thing… The Keeper would not let me listen after that …”

  “That is a big Keeper, and his teeth are sharp!”

  Water fell in gouts from overhead and splashed into the pool. They filled their mouths and started down. When he had emptied the last drop in his mouth he whispered, “Mother, I would hear the secret thing.”