The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Judith Merril

  “Agreed,” Herminia said. “This is a business deal not to be turned down,” and she put one arm around his waist, then the other.

  For over a week Diosdado picked no peaches. He worked around the clock, placing boards to make a roof, mixing adobe and plastering it over the bags and their wooden supports. Finally the walls, and also the roof, were covered with solid, substantial, homey-looking adobe. No rains could get in here, and no tax collectors.

  The afternoon Diosdado finished his labors he walked over to the well with Herminia and turned to take a good look at the finished structure. It was a real house, a good house, the best-looking house in the valley.

  “This is a house that could not be paid for in pennies,” he said, half into the well, half toward the wallowing pig, very little for Herminia’s ear.

  With her tendency to comment on everything, Herminia said, “There is not enough money in all the world, pennies or dollars, to pay for this house,” and put her arm around his waist.

  He patted her promise-leavened belly and looked down into the valley toward the other huts and cabins nestled here and there. He thought about a hundred-twenty-pound man getting to be two hundred on one Life Saver, wild cherry flavor, and shivered. He wondered how many other homes in this valley had twenty-thousand-dollar walls, but he was afraid to speculate about this too much.

  Down in the mud hollow the pig rolled on his back like a vacationing millionaire, trying, for lack of anything better to do, to punt away the molten centavo of a sun.

  <>

  * * * *

  THE FELLOW WHO MARRIED THE MAXILL GIRL

  by Ward Moore

  In just one year’s time, the change in the climate of our thinking in a “breakthrough” area is staggering. A year ago (while the public-at-large was still goggling at the official use of the word “Astronaut,” applied to the seven men selected for Project Mercury training), a select group of scientists embarked on a systematic search of space for radio signals indicating the existence of other Intelligent life In the universe. They called their project, charmingly If self-consciously, “Ozma”) and Harvard’s eminent Dr. Shapley (who was, you must understand, a guiding spirit in the venture) referred to it as “high-class science fiction.” The astronomers could no more help believing what half a dozen converging lines of research had already indicated than they could stop feeling slightly silly about believing it.

  Two days ago, as I write this, the country’s most staid newspapers headlined stories of the discovery of lifelike hydrocarbons in a sliver of meteorite: “Evidence of Life Beyond Earth Reported Found,” and “Wax a Clue to Life in Outer Space—Trees, Plants, Even Men May Be Behind Meteorites.”

  We—and the pronoun becomes daily more Inclusive, less exclusive—have begun to believe we are really not alone in the world. With this awareness comes (as for the babe in the process of distinguishing self from others) the first acute sense of need for a working system of communication.

  * * * *

  After a couple of weeks Nan began to understand him a little. Nan was the third oldest Maxill girl. The wild one, they called her in Henryton, not forgetting they had said the same of Gladys and later Muriel; Gladys now high in the Eastern Star, and Muriel, married to Henryton’s leading hardware and furniture dealer—Muriel, mother of the sweetest twins in Evarts County. But they said it of Nan with more assurance.

  Everyone knew Maxill had bought the old Jameson place, eighty of the most worthless acres ever to break a farmer’s heart, the year after Cal Coolidge became President, because he—Malcolm Maxill that is, not Mr. Coolidge— wanted an out-of-the-way location for a still. Naturally they looked for his six kids, all girls, to run wild with such a background. Not that Henryton, or Evarts County either, for that matter, upheld Prohibition or admired Andrew Volstead. But buying a so-called half-pint now and then (striking a blow for liberty, the more robust males called it, a trifle shame-facedly) was one thing, and condoning moon-shining and bootlegging in their midst was something else again.

  Of course moonshining was in the past now. Prohibition had been dead for two years, and people wondered more how Maxill was going to make a living from his worthless land than over his morals. But Nan had been seen necking in automobiles (a Velie and a Rickenbacker) with different boys, and heavens knew on how many unobserved occasions she’d done the same, and honestly, commented Henryton—not to say Evarts County—maybe the juvenile authorities should be notified, because Nan was still underage. Besides, she had a mean, sullen look, defiant and rebellious, that showed she needed a strong hand.

  No one thought of going to her father. Everybody knew he kept a loaded shotgun handy (gossips said that was how Muriel—empty chatter—those lovely twins) and had run more than one nosy character off his place. Henryton people tended to mind their own business—they had plenty to think about with the Depression—so talk of the authorities, remained just talk. Still, it isolated Nan Maxill more than ever and encouraged her wildness.

  He—the fellow; they hadn’t any other name for him for a long time; all the Maxills knew who was meant when one of them used the pronoun—was found by Josey in the south pasture, which hadn’t been a pasture for years and years, just a hummocky, lumpy expanse of weeds and obstinate brush. Josey was eleven and shy, a birthmark down the left side of her face was complicated from time to time by almost every possible affliction of the skin, so that she had begun hiding from strangers at the age of seven and never found reason to break the pattern.

  She hadn’t hidden from him. All her natural childish curiosity about people, long suppressed, overwhelmed by their greedy inquisitiveness over her blemishes, seemed stirred by the sight of him. Though, as everyone said afterward, he didn’t really look different. He was oddly dressed, but Henryton had seen boys from Spokane or San Francisco who dressed even more oddly, and his complexion had a peculiar vitality and sheen and at the same time a delicacy which contrasted with those of the farmers accustomed to sun all day, or those who hid in shadowed stores or offices to earn dollars.

  “Who’re you?” asked Josey. “My dad don’t like fellers snooping around. What’s your name? Maybe you better get out; he’s got a gun and believe me he can use it. What’s that stuff you’re wearing? Looks like it was your skin, only blue, not something sewed at all. I can sew real good myself; it relaxes me, so I’ll probably never be a delinquent. You’re not deaf and dumb, are you, Mister? There’s a man in Henryton’s deaf, dumb and blind. People buy pencils from him and drop pennies and nickels in his hat. Say, why don’t you say something? My dad’ll sure run you off. That’s a funny kind of humming. Can you whistle? There’s a piece they got a record of in school—I can whistle the whole thing. It’s called Flight of the Bumblebee. Want to hear me? Like this... Gee, you don’t need to look so miserable. I guess you just don’t like music. That’s too bad. I thought when you were humming like that—the way you are now too, and I think it sounds real nice even if you don’t like my whistle—you must like music. All us Maxills do. My Dad can play the fiddle better than anybody....”

  She told Nan later (because Nan had been the sister who had most to do with taking care of her) he hadn’t seemed just not to understand, like a Mexican or something, but acted as though he wouldn’t have caught on even if he’d known the meaning of every single word. He came close, still humming, though a different tune if you could call it that; it was more like snatches of odd melodies. He put his hands—she didn’t notice them particularly then—very gently on her face. The touch made her feel good.

  He walked with her to the house—it seemed right and natural—with his arm lightly around her shoulder. “He don’t talk,” she told Nan; “he don’t even whistle or sing. Just hums, sort of. Suppose Dad’ll run him off. Maybe he’s hungry.”

  “Your face—” began Nan, then swallowed and looked from the child to him. She was in bad humor, frowning, ready to ask what he wanted or tell him sharply to be off. “Go wash your face,” she ordered Josey, staring
after her as she obediently took down the enameled basin and filled it. The muscles in Nan’s cheek relaxed. “Come in,” she said to him; “there’s a hot apple pie.”

  He stood there, humming, making no move, smiling pleasantly. Involuntarily she smiled back, though she had been in a mood and the shock of Josey’s face was still in her mind. It was hard to tell his age; he didn’t look as though he shaved, but there was no adolescent down, and his eyes had mature assurance. She puzzled over the strangely light color; darkandhandsome had always been an indivisible word to her, yet she thought them and the pale hair quite exciting.

  “Come in,” she repeated; “there’s a hot apple pie.”

  He looked at her, at the kitchen behind her, at the unpromising acres over his shoulder. You might have thought he’d never seen such ordinary sights before. She took his sleeve—the feel of it sent prickles through her thumb and fingers as though she’d touched something live instead of inert, touched silk expecting cotton, metal anticipating wood —and pulled him through the door. He didn’t hold back or, once inside, seem ill at ease. He merely acted—strange. As though he didn’t know a chair was for sitting on or a spoon was for cutting the flaky crust and scooping up the juicy, sticky, drippy filling, or even that the pie was for putting in the mouth, tasting, chewing, swallowing, eating. The horrid thought of mental deficiency crossed her mind, to be dismissed by the sight of him, so unequivocally whole and invulnerable. Still...

  Josey ran to her. “Nan, Nan— I looked in the mirror! Look at me. My face!”

  Nan nodded, swallowing again, glancing swiftly at him and away. “It must have been that last prescription. Or else you’re just growing out of it, baby.”

  “The—the thing! It’s lighter. Faded.”

  The birthmark, angry and purple, had receded in size and color. The skin around it was clear and vibrant. Nan put her fingers wonderingly on the smooth cheek and stooped to kiss her sister. “I’m so happy.”

  He sat there, humming again. Oh, what a silly, Nan thought cheerfully. “Here,” she said, in the manner of one addressing an idiot or a foreigner. “Eat. See. Like this. Eat.”

  Obediently he put the guided spoon of pie into his mouth. She was relieved when he disposed of it normally; she had been afraid she might have to direct each spoonful. At least he didn’t have to be fed like a baby. She hesitated a fraction of a second before pouring a glass of milk, feeling small for doing so. She wasn’t mean—none of the Maxills were; their faults usually sprang from an excess of generosity—but the cow was drying up, she was a hard one to breed, her father wasn’t much of a hand with animals anyway, and the kids needed the milk, to say nothing of the butter Nan preferred to lard for baking. But it would be shameful to grudge—

  He had put the glass to his lips, evidently more at home with methods of drinking than of eating, and taken a single sip before sputtering, choking and spitting. Nan was furious, equally at the waste and the manners, until she noticed his hands for the first time. They were strong-looking, perhaps longer than ordinary. On each there was a thumb and three fingers. The three fingers were widely spaced; there was no sign of deformity or amputation. He was simply eight- instead of ten-fingered.

  Nan Maxill was a softhearted girl. She had never drowned a kitten or trapped a mouse in her life. She forgot her annoyance instantly. “Oh, poor man!” she exclaimed.

  There was no question he must stay and her father must be cozened into allowing it. Ordinary decency—contrary to Maxill custom—demanded hospitality. And if they let him go, her unsatisfied curiosity would torment her for years. On his part he showed no inclination to leave, continuing to examine each object and person with interest. His humming wasn’t monotonous, or tiresome. Though it sounded like no music she had ever heard, it was agreeable enough for her to try to imitate it. She found if deceptively complicated and hard—almost impossible for her to reproduce.

  His reaction was enthusiastic surprise. He hummed, she hummed, he hummed back joyously. Briefly the Maxill kitchen echoed a strange, unearthly duet. Then—at least so it seemed to Nan—he was demanding more, far more, than she was able to give. His tones soared away on subtle scales she couldn’t possibly follow. She fell silent; after a questioning interval, so did he.

  Malcolm Maxill came home in ill-humor. He worked for his son-in-law during the winter and for a month or so in summer; his natural irritation at this undignified role was not lessened by the hardware merchant’s insinuations that this employment was in the manner of family charity: who else in Evarts County would hire an ex-bootlegger? Maxill looked to the day he could sell the farm—it was clear of mortgages since it would have been inconvenient in his former profession to have bankers scrutinizing his affairs —and work for himself again. But even good farms were hard to sell in times like these and there were no offers on the eighty acres. More to give an impression to an unlikely prospective buyer that the place had potentialities than in hope of profit, he kept the cow, some pigs and chickens, planted twenty acres or so each spring to corn it never paid to harvest, and looked with disgust on the decayed orchard which was good only for firewood—for which he couldn’t get back the cost of cutting.

  He stared belligerently at the fellow. “What do you want around here?”

  The stranger hummed. Nan and Josey started explaining at the same time. Jessie and Janet begged, “Oh, Daddy, please.”

  “All right, all right,” growled their father. “Let him stay a couple of days if you’re all so hot about it. I suppose at least he can do the chores for his board and maybe cut down a few of those old apple trees. Can you milk?” he asked the fellow. “Huh; forgot he’s a dummy. O.K. come along; soon find out whether you can or not.”

  The girls went with them, Nan carrying the milkpail and tactfully guiding the stranger. Sherry, the cow, was fenced out rather than fenced in: she had the run of the farm except for the cornfield and the scrubby kitchen garden. She was not bedded down in the barn in summer; she was milked wherever she was found. Half-Jersey, half-Guernsey, (and half anybody’s guess, Malcolm Maxill said sourly), her milk was rich with cream but it had been too long since she last freshened and the neighboring bulls had never earned their stud fee, though their owners didn’t return it when she failed to calve.

  Maxill set the pail under Sherry’s udder. “Go ahead,” he urged, “let’s see you milk her.” The fellow just stood there, looking interested, humming. “Wouldn’t you know it? Can’t milk.” He squatted down disgustedly, gave a perfunctory brush of his hand against the dangling teats, and began pulling the milk, squit, squit, shish, down into the pail.

  The fellow reached out his four-fingered hand and stroked the cow’s flank. City man or not, at least he wasn’t scared of animals. Of course Sherry wasn’t balky or mean; she hardly ever kicked over the pail or swished her tail real hard in the milker’s eyes. Still it took confidence (or ignorance) to walk around her left side and touch the bag from which Maxill was drawing, slish, slish, slish, the evening milk.

  Nan knew her father was no fanner and that a real one would be milking Sherry only once a day by now, drying her up, since she yielded little more than three quarts. But Maxill knew you were supposed to milk a cow twice a day, just as he knew how long to let mash ferment and he was no chemist either. He went by rules.

  “Be darned,” exclaimed Maxill, who seldom swore in front of his children. “That’s the most she’s given in months and I ain’t stripped her yet.”

  The cow’s unexpected bounty put him in good humor; he didn’t seem to mind slopping the pigs nor the stranger’s helplessness at throwing scratch to the chickens. (The girls usually did this anyway; Maxill’s presence was a formality to impress the fellow with the scope and responsibility of the chores.) He ate what Nan had cooked with cheerful appetite, remarking jovially that the dummy would be cheap to feed since he didn’t touch meat, butter or milk, only bread, vegetables and water.

  Maxill’s jollity led him to tune up his fiddle—only Josey and Nan noted the
stranger’s anguish—and run through Birmingham Jail, Beautiful Doll, and Dardanella. Maxill played by ear, contemptuous of those who had to read notes. Josey whistled (after an apologetic glance), Jessie played her mouth-organ, Janet performed expertly with comb and toilet-paper. “You’d think,” grunted Maxill, “with his humming he could give us a tune himself. How about it?” And he offered the fiddle.

  The fellow looked at the fiddle as though it were explosive. He put it down on the table as fast as he could and backed away. Nan grieved at this evidence of mental deficiency; Jessie and Janet giggled; Malcolm twirled his finger at his temple; even Josey smiled ruefully.

  Then the fiddle began playing. Not playing really, because the bow lay unmoving beside it and the strings didn’t vibrate. But music came out of the sound holes, uncertainly at first, then with swelling assurance. It resembled the fellow’s humming except that it was infinitely more complicated and moving...

  * * * *

  Next morning Maxill took the fellow down to the orchard, the girls tagging along. They weren’t going to miss the possibility of more miracles, though now everyone had had a chance to think things over, the Maxills weren’t so sure they’d actually heard the fiddle, or if they had, that it hadn’t been by some perfectly explicable trick or illusion. Still, if he could seem to make it play without touching it, maybe he could do similar things with the ax.