The Playboy Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy

by Edited by The Playboy Editors

  “Admiral,” said Jones, and the man twitched, “I’d like to call your attention to the colonel’s use of the word ‘eliminate’ in his query. You don’t, you know, you just don’t eliminate a live President.” He let that sink in, and then said, “I mention it because you, too, used it, and it’s a fair conjecture that it means the same thing. Listen: ‘WHAT SINGLE MAN CAN I ELIMINATE TO BECOME PRESIDENT?’”

  “There could hardly be any one man,” said the civilian thoughtfully, gaining Jones’ great respect for his composure. Jones said, “oracle thinks so. It wrote your name, sir.”

  Slowly the civilian turned to the admiral. “Why, you sleek old son of a bitch,” he enunciated carefully, “I do believe you could have made it.”

  “Purely a hypothetical question,” explained the admiral, but no one paid the least attention.

  “As for you,” said Jones, rather surprised that his voice expressed so much of the regret he felt, “I do believe that you asked your question with a genuine desire to see a world at peace before you passed on. But, sir—it’s like you said when you walked in here just now—and the colonel said it, too: ‘I didn’t think . . .’ You are sitting next to two certifiable first-degree murderers; no matter what their overriding considerations, that’s what they are. But what you planned is infinitely worse.”

  He read, “‘CAN MY SUPPORT OF HENNY BRING PEACE?’ You’ll be pleased to know—oh, you already know; you were just checking, right?—that the answer is Yes. Henny’s position is such right now that your support would bring him in. But— you didn’t think. That demagog can’t do what he wants to do without a species of thought policing the like of which the ant-heap experts in China never even dreamed of. Unilateral disarmament and high morality scorched-earth! Why, as a nation we couldn’t do that unless we meant it, and we couldn’t mean it unless every man, woman and child thought alike— and with Henny running things, they would. Peace? Sure we’d have peace! I’d rather take on a Kodiak bear with boxing gloves than take my chances in that kind of a world. These guys,” he said carelessly, “are prepared to murder one or two or a few thousand. You,” said Jones, his voice suddenly shaking with scorn, “are prepared to murder every decent free thing this country ever stood for.”

  Jones rose. “I’m going now. All your answers are in the package there. Up to now it’s been an integral part of oracle —it was placed exactly in line with the reader, and has therefore been a part of everything the machine has ever done. My recommendation is that you replace it, or oracle will be just another computer, answering questions in terms of themselves. I suggest that you make similar installations in your own environment . . . and quit asking questions that must be answered in terms of yourselves. Questions which in the larger sense would be unthinkable.”

  The civilian rose, and did something that Jones would always remember as a decent thing. He put out his hand and said, “You are right. I needed this, and you’ve stopped me. What will stop them?”

  Jones took the hand. “They’re stopped. I know, because I asked oracle and oracle said this was the way to do it.” He smiled briefly and went out. His last glimpse of the office was the rigid backs of the two officers, and the civilian behind his desk, slowly unwrapping the package. He walked down the endless Pentagon corridors, the skin between his shoulder blades tight all the way: oracle or no, there might be overriding considerations. But he made it, and got to the first outside phone booth still alive. Marvelously, wonderfully alive.

  He heard Ann’s voice and said, “It’s a real wonderful world, you know that?”

  “Jones, darling! . . . you certainly have changed your tune. Last time I talked to you it was a horrible place full of evil intentions and smelling like feet.”

  “I just found out for sure three lousy kinds of world it’s not going to be,” Jones said. Ann would not have been what she was to him if she had not been able to divine which questions not to ask. She said, “Well, good,” and he said he was coming home.

  “Oh, darling! You fix that gadget?”

  “Nothing to it,” Jones said. “I just took down the sign.”

  She said, “I never know when you’re kidding.”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  AFTER

  BY HENRY SLESAR

  Henry Slesar is an advertising executive who, somehow, finds time to write great quantities of highly ingenious fiction. Exciting long stories he has done in abundance—several novels (one of which earned him the Mystery Writers of America Award); movie and television flays; the dramatic “A Cry from the Penthouse” which appears in “The Playboy Book of Crime and Suspense”—but, these longer successes notwithstanding, he has a particularly happy knack for devising the short-short story, and even the short-short-short story. It is a difficult form, demanding tremendous control of one’s craft and a thorough knowledge of that economy whereby maximum effect is achieved by minimum means. His ironic “After” is a quartet of such miniatures —four fables of the post-bomb world.

  ~ * ~

  DOCTOR: The employment advisor exchanged his professional calm for unprofessional exasperation. “There must be something you can do, Doctor,” he said, “a man of your educational background. The war hasn’t made savages out of all of us. If anything, the desire for teachers has increased a thousand times since A-day.”

  Dr. Meigham leaned back in the chair and sighed. “You don’t understand. I am not a teacher in the ordinary sense; there is no longer a demand for the subject I know best. Yes, people want knowledge; they want to know how to deal with this shattered world they inherited. They want to know how to be masons and technicians and construction men. They want to know how to put the cities together, and make the machines work again, and patch up the radiation burns and the broken bones. They want to know how to make artificial limbs for the bomb victims, how to train the blind to be self-sufficient, the madmen to reason again, the deformed to be presentable once more. These are the things they wish to be taught. You know that better than I.”

  “And your specialty, Doctor? You feel there is no longer a demand?”

  Dr. Meigham laughed shortly. “I don’t feel, I know. I’ve tried to interest people in it, but they turn away from me. For twenty-five years, I have trained my students to develop a perfect memory. I have published six books, at least two of which have become standard textbooks at universities. In the first year after the armistice, I advertised an eight-week course and received exactly one inquiry. But this is my profession; this is what I do. How can I translate my life’s work into this new world of horror and death?”

  The employment advisor chewed his lip; the question was a challenge. By the time Dr. Meigham left, he had found no answer. He watched the bent, shuffling figure leave the room at the end of the interview, and felt despair at his own failure. But that night, rousing suddenly from a familiar nightmare, he lay awake in his shelter and thought of Dr. Meigham again. By morning, he knew the answer.

  A month later, a public notice appeared in the government press, and the response was instantaneous.

  hugo meigham, ph.d.

  Announces an Accelerated 8-week Course

  “how to forget”

  Enrollment begins Sept. 9.

  ~ * ~

  LAWYER: “I’ll be honest with you,” Durrel said to his client. “If times were any different, if A-day had never happened, I could guarantee you a verdict no worse than manslaughter. But with things as they are—” He dropped a weary hand on the young man’s shoulder. McAllister might have been a statue for all the response he got.

  “So what happens now?” he said bitterly. “Do they throw the book at me?”

  “Try and understand the way the court feels,” the lawyer said. “Since the war, the population has been reduced by ninety percent. Even worse, the female-to-male ratio is almost eight hundred to one and not getting any better.” He arched an eyebrow. “There is no official statute regarding it, but I can tell you this—if it was a woman you’d killed in that
brawl, the judgment wouldn’t be nearly so harsh. That’s the way the world is, son. That’s what we’ve come down to.”

  “Then I don’t have a chance? I get the full penalty?”

  “That’s up to the jury, of course, but I wanted to warn you in advance. When you go back into that room, I want you to be prepared for the worst.”

  The door opened, and the square face of the bailiff appeared. “Jury’s in, McAllister. Come on.”

  The lawyer shook his hand, without speaking.

  The verdict was: guilty of murder in the first degree. Sentence was announced immediately by the judge, in order that no time be wasted in its execution. The following day, McAllister, his teeth clenched and his face blanched, was married in civil ceremony to his victim’s 18 wives, giving him a total of 31.

  ~ * ~

  MERCHANT: Swanson came into the board room, sustaining an air of executive nonchalance that even his enemies found admirable. It was common knowledge that this was the day he would have to answer for his failure as President of the United Haberdashery Corporation. But Swanson was at ease; even if his opposition knew his attitude to be a pose, they stirred restlessly at his casual manner.

  The Chairman began the meeting without fanfare, and called at once for a report from Sales. They all knew the contents of the report; it had been circulated privately to each member. Instead of listening to the dreary recitation of losses, the board watched the face of Swanson to see his reaction to this public accusation of his poor management.

  Finally, it was Swanson’s turn to speak.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, without a tremor in his voice, “as we have heard, haberdashery sales have been crippled badly since the war. The loss of revenue has been no surprise to any of us, but it is not this loss which concerns us today. It is the prediction that sales will decline even further in the future. Gentlemen, I contest the prognostication of the Sales Department; I contend that sales will be greater than ever!”

  The board buzzed; at the end of the long table, someone chuckled dryly.

  “I know my prediction sounds hard to credit,” Swanson said, “and I intend to give you a full explanation before we leave this room today. But first, I wish you to hear a very special report from a very special man, Professor Ralph Entwiller of the American Foundation of Eugenics.”

  For the first time, the pale-cheeked man sitting in the chair of honor beside the President rose. He nodded to the assemblage, and began speaking in a voice almost too low to be heard.

  “Mr. Swanson asked me to speak to you today about the future,” he said hesitantly. “I know nothing about the haberdashery business. My field is eugenics, and my specialty is the study of radiation biology . . .”

  “Would you be more specific?” Swanson said.

  “Yes, of course. I deal with mutations, gentlemen, mutations which will soon become the norm of birth. Already, the percentage of mutated births is close to sixty-five, and we believe it will increase as time goes by.”

  “I don’t understand this,” the Chairman growled. “What does all this have to do with us?”

  Swanson smiled. “Ah, but a great deal.” He held the lapel of his jacket, and surveyed the curious, upturned faces around the table. “For one thing, gentlemen, we’re going to be selling twice as many hats.”

  ~ * ~

  CHIEF: Mboyna, chieftain of the Aolori tribe, showed no fear as the longboat approached the island. But it was more than the obligation of his rank which kept his face impassive; he alone of his tribesmen had seen white men before, when he was a child of the village half a century ago.

  As the boat landed, one of the whites, a scholarly man with a short silver beard, came toward him, his hand raised in a gesture of friendship. His speech was halting, but he spoke in the tongue of Mboyna’s fathers. “We come in peace,” he said. “We have come a great distance to find you. I am Morgan, and these are my companions, Hendricks and Carew; we are men of science.”

  “Then speak!” Mboyna said in a hostile growl, wishing to show no weakness before his tribe.

  “There has been a great war,” Morgan said, looking uneasily at the warriors who crowded about their chief. “The white men beyond the waters have hurled great lightning at each other. They have poisoned the air, the sea and the flesh of men with their weapons. But it was our belief that there were outposts in the world which war had not touched with its deadly fingers. Your island is one of these, great chief, and we come to abide with you. But first, there is one thing we must do, and we beg your patience.”

  From the store of supplies in their longboat, the white men removed strange metal boxes with tiny windows. They advanced hesitatingly toward the chief and his tribesmen, pointing the curious devices in their direction. Some of them cowered, others raised their spears in warning. “Do not fear,” Morgan said. “It is only a plaything of our science. See how they make no sound as their eyes scan you? But watch.” The white men pointed the boxes at themselves, and the devices began clicking frantically.

  “Great magic,” the tribesmen whispered, their faces awed. “Great magic,” Mboyna repeated reverently, bowing before the white gods and the proof of their godhood, the clicking boxes. With deference, they guided the white men to their village, and after the appropriate ceremony, they were beheaded, cleaned and served at the evening meal.

  For three days and nights, they celebrated their cleverness with dancing and bright fires; for now, they too were gods. The little boxes had begun to click magically for them, also.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  DECEMBER 28TH

  BY THEODORE L. THOMAS

  Many animals are fighters, stalkers, killers, but the only gratuitously cruel animal is man. Since his beginning, man has been punishing his fellow man, quite legally, by putting him to torture and/or death via stoning, burning, boiling, crucifying, racking, impaling, garroting, decapitating, disemboweling, hanging, electrocuting, gassing, and other “cruel and unusual” methods. What forms will legal chastisement take in the future? Will it be eliminated? Made more humane? Or will it, through the evil ingenuity of dark minds and in the name of humanitarian reform, attain the hideous refinement so chillingly depicted here by Theodore L. Thomas?

  ~ * ~

  WHY MUST THEY DO it on December 28th? John Stapleton considered the question. That was the worst part of it, the date. December 28th, tucked neatly between the brightest holidays of the year.

  Stapleton spun from the small window in a characteristic rush of motion. Hands locked behind him, he stared at the door. In the back of his mind he knew there was a good reason for the date. They had picked the anniversary of the day he and Ardelle had married, a day of special gladness, in the heart of the holiday season. Yes, December 28th was a time for many things, but it was not a time for a hanging.

  In three steps Stapleton was at the door; he took the bars into his two great hands. Understanding the reason for the date did nothing to sap his anger at it. Most of the world celebrated, and it seemed to Stapleton that this universal jubilee was at his expense. The world danced at his hanging.

  Stapleton somberly began his exercises. The guards saw, and looked at each other uncomfortably. Stapleton took the pencil-thin bars into his two hands and methodically tried to pull them apart. First, the right hand directly in front of the massive chest, the left hand off to one side. The tendons stretched audibly. Then the hands were reversed, and again the tightening of great muscles. Then both hands on a single bar, and both feet on another. The soft grunts and the low rumbles deep in the throat echoed in the chamber as Stapleton worked on the bars, worked until his body was covered with a fine sweat. Stapleton knew, and the guards knew, that the thin shafts were of an alloy capable of withstanding the best efforts of ten men such as Stapleton. Yet the slow and careful straining, the deliberate and intense attack on the bars by the massive man created the illusion that he was able to rip them out of their moorings. Twice a day Stapleton took his exercises on the bars, and twice a
day the guards watched with a fear that knowledge could not dispel.

  Stapleton finished. He stood at the door breathing deeply, his hands clenching and unclenching, the fingers making a scraping sound as he forced the tips across the callused and furrowed palms. The guards visibly relaxed and turned away. Stapleton looked at the clock and grunted. It was almost time. In a few moments now they would come for him.

  He grunted louder. Let them come. Ardelle was dead, Ardelle and that other. And no matter what they said or did, it was right it should be that way. There are things a man knows who has been one with a woman like Ardelle. Between such a man and such a woman there could be nothing concealed, not for long. How strange that she should have tried.

  But the time came when he looked at her with a mild question in his eyes. The response—the incredible, soul-shaking response—was a flicker of the panic of discovery. Just a brief flash in her eyes, but he read it well; it was enough.