That had been before people came, before Earth’s noisy, elbowing civilization had crowded up to their doorsteps.
Her mother had learned the hard way and had tried to tell her. Dirk would never be happy on Earth. And happiness for her was impossible if he fretted his life away as her father had, working on a job he hated and dreaming of another more satisfying one.
“We’ll take the anti-grav engine,” she told the robot. She turned to Dirk. “We’ll need that out Jupiter way.”
THE SLOW SEASON
If business had not been so slow, Slobold might not have done it. But business was slow. No one seemed to need the services of a ladies’ custom tailor. Last month he had let his assistant go. Next month, he would have to let himself go.
Slobold was pondering this, surrounded by bolts of cotton, wool, and gabardine, dusty pattern books and suited dummies, when the man walked in.
“You’re Slobold?” the man asked.
“That’s right, sir,” Slobold said, jumping to his feet and straightening his vest.
“I’m Mr. Bellis. I suppose Klish has been in touch with you. About making the dresses.”
Slobold thought rapidly, staring at the short, balding, fussily dressed man in front of him. He knew no one named Klish, so Mr. Bellis had the wrong tailor. He opened his mouth to tell him this. But then he remembered that business was very slow.
“Klish,” he mused. “Oh yes, I believe so.”
“I can tell you now,” Mr. Bellis said sternly, “we will pay very well for the dresses. But we’re exacting. Quite exacting.”
“Of course, Mr. Bellis,” Slobold said. He felt a slight tremor of guilt, but ignored it. Actually, he decided, he was doing Bellis a favor, since he was undoubtedly the best tailor named Slobold in the city. Later, if they discovered he was the wrong man, he could explain that he knew someone else named Klish.
“That’s fine,” Mr. Bellis said, stripping off his doeskin gloves. “Klish filled you in on the details, of course?”
Slobold didn’t answer, but by means of a slow smile made it apparent that he knew and was amused.
“I daresay it came as quite a revelation,” Mr. Bellis said.
Slobold shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, you’re a calm one,” Bellis said admiringly. “But I suppose that’s why Klish picked you.”
Slobold busied himself lighting a cigar, since he didn’t know what expression to assume.
“Now down to work,” Mr. Bellis said briskly, slipping a hand into the breast pocket of his gray gabardine suit. “Here is the complete list of measurements for the first dress. There will be no fittings, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Slobold said.
“And we must have the completed article in three days. That is as long as Egrish can wait.”
“Naturally,” Slobold said again.
Mr. Bellis handed him the folded piece of paper. “Klish must have told you about the need for absolute secrecy, but let me repeat it. Nothing can slip out until the branch is well established. And here is your advance.”
Slobold was so completely in control of himself that he didn’t even wince at the sight of five crisp $100 bills.
“Three days,” he said, tucking the money in his pocket.
Mr. Bellis stood for a moment, musing. Then he shrugged his shoulders and hurried out.
As soon as he was gone, Slobold unfolded the measurements. Since no one was watching, he allowed his jaw to gape open.
The dress was going to be like nothing ever before seen. It would fit an eight footer quite nicely, if she conformed to certain bodily modifications. But what modifications!
Reading through the 50 separate measurements and directions, Slobold realized that the wearer would have to have three breasts staggered across her stomach, each of a different size and shape. She would have a number of large bulges on her back. Only eight inches was allowed for her waist, but her four arms—to judge by the armholes—would be the thickness of young oak trees. There was no provision made for buttocks, but a flare was provided for tremendous thighs.
The material specified was cashmere. The color was to be jet black.
Slobold understood why there would be no fittings.
Staring at the directions, he gently tugged at his lower lip. “It’s a costume,” he said aloud, but shook his head. Costume specifications never included 50 separate measurements, and cashmere was not a suitable material.
He read the paper again, frowning deeply. Was it an expensive practical joke? That seemed dubious. Mr. Bellis had been too serious.
This dress, Slobold knew with every tailoring instinct, was being made for a person who fitted its dimensions.
That was a shivery thought. Although it was a bright day, Slobold switched on the overhead fluorescent lights.
He decided, tentatively, that it might be for a wealthy, but terribly deformed woman.
Except, he thought, that no one in the history of the world had ever been deformed like that.
But business was slow, and the price was right. If the price were right, he was willing to make dirndls for elephants and pinafores for hippopotamuses.
Therefore, shortly he retired to his back room, and, turning on every available light, began to draw patterns.
Three days later, Mr. Bellis returned.
“Excellent,” he said, holding the dress in front of him. He pulled a tape measure out of his pocket and began to check off the measurements. “I don’t doubt your work,” he said, “but the garment must be form-fitting.”
“Of course,” Slobold said.
Mr. Bellis finished, and put away the tape. “That’s just fine,” he said. “Egrish will be pleased. The light was bothering her. None of them are used to it, you know.”
“Ah,” Slobold said.
“It’s difficult, after spending all one’s life in darkness. But they’ll get acclimated.”
“I should imagine so,” Slobold said.
“And pretty soon they can begin work,” Mr. Bellis said, with a complacent smile.
Slobold began to wrap the dress, his mind racing, trying to make some sense out of Bellis’ words. After spending one’s life in darkness, he thought, as he tucked in the tissue paper. Getting acclimated, he told himself, closing the box.
And Egrish wasn’t the only one. Bellis had spoken of others. For the first time, Slobold considered the possibility that Egrish and the rest weren’t from Earth. Could they be from Mars? No, plenty of light there. But how about the dark side of the moon?
“And here are the measurements for three other dresses,” Mr. Bellis said.
“I can work from the ones you gave me,” Slobold said, still thinking of other planets.
“How can you?” Mr. Bellis asked. “The others can’t wear anything that would fit Egrish.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Slobold said, forcing his attention back. “Would Egrish like some more dresses out of the same pattern?”
“No. What for?”
Slobold closed his mouth tightly. Bellis might get suspicious if he made any more errors.
He looked over the new measurements.
Now he needed all his self-control, for these were as different from Egrish as Egrish had been from the human norm.
“Could you have these ready in a week?” Mr. Bellis asked. “I hate to rush you, but I want to get the branch established as soon as possible.”
“A week? I think so,” Slobold said, looking at the $100 bills that Bellis was fanning across the counter. “Yes, I’m quite sure I can.”
“Fine,” Mr. Bellis said. “The poor things just can’t stand light.”
“Why didn’t they bring their clothes with them?” Slobold asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“What clothes?” Mr. Bellis asked, frowning at Slobold. “They don’t have any clothes. Never had. And in a little while, they never will again.”
“I forgot,” Slobold said, perspiring freely.
“Well, a week then. And that will ju
st about do it.” Mr. Bellis walked to the door. “By the way,” he said, “Klish will be back in a day or two from Darkside.”
And with that he was gone.
Slobold worked feverishly that week. He kept his store lights burning at all hours, and avoided dark corners. Making the dresses told him what their wearers looked like, and that didn’t help him sleep nights. He devoutly wished Bellis hadn’t told him anything, for he knew too much for his peace of mind.
He knew that Egrish and her fellows lived their lives in darkness. That implied that they came from a lightless world.
What world?
And normally they didn’t wear anything. Why did they need dresses now?
What were they? Why were they coming here? And what did Bellis mean about getting them to work?
Slobold decided that genteel starvation was better than employment of this sort.
“Egrish was quite pleased,” Mr. Bellis said, a week later. He finished checking the measurements. “The others will be too, I’m sure.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Slobold said.
“They’re really more adaptable than I dared hope,” Mr. Bellis said. “They’re getting acclimated already. And, of course, your work will help.”
“I’m very glad,” Slobold said, smiling mechanically and wishing Bellis would leave.
But Bellis was feeling conversational. He leaned on the counter and said, “After all, there’s no reason why they should function only in darkness. It’s very confining. That’s why I brought them up from Darkside.”
Slobold nodded.
“I think that’s all,” Bellis said, tucking the dress box under his arm. He started toward the door. “By the way,” he said. “You should have told me that you were the wrong Slobold.”
Slobold could only grin foolishly.
“But there’ll be no damage done,” Bellis said. “Since Egrish wants to thank you in person.”
He closed the door gently behind him.
Slobold stood for a long time, staring at the door. Then he touched the $100 bills in his pocket.
“This is ridiculous,” he told himself. Quickly he locked the front door. Then he hurried to the back door, and bolted it. Then he lighted a cigar.
“Perfectly ridiculous,” he said. Outside it was broad daylight. He smiled at his fears, and snapped on the overhead lights.
He heard a soft noise behind him.
The cigar slid from his fingers, but Slobold didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound, although every nerve in his body was shrieking.
“Hello, Mr. Slobold,” a voice said.
Slobold still was unable to move, there in his brightly lighted shop.
“We want to thank you for your very fine work,” the voice said. “All of us.”
Slobold knew that he would go crazy at once, if he didn’t look. There could be nothing worse than not looking. Slowly, inexorably, he began to turn.
“Klish said we could come,” the voice said. “Klish said you would be the first to see us. In the daytime, I mean.”
Slobold completed his turn and looked. There was Egrish, and there were the others. They weren’t wearing the dresses.
They weren’t wearing the dresses. How could they, when they had no bodies? Four gigantic heads floated in front of him. Heads? Yes, he supposed that the misshapen, bulging things were heads.
There was something vaguely familiar about them.
For a moment, Slobold tried desperately to convince himself that he was having an hallucination. He couldn’t have met them before, he told himself. Bellis said they came from Darkside. They lived and worked in the dark. They had never owned clothes, never would again....
Then Slobold remembered. He had met them once before, in a particularly bad dream.
They were nightmares.
Perfectly understandable, he thought crazily. Long overdue, really, when one comes to think about it. No reason why nightmares should restrict themselves to the night. Daytime—huge, undeveloped area, ripe for exploitation.
Mr. Bellis had started a daymare branch, and here they were.
But why dresses? Slobold knew, then, what he had been making, and it was just too much. His mind began to shiver and tremble, and warp around the edges. He wished he could go decently insane.
“We’ll go now,” Egrish said. “The light still bothers us.”
Slobold saw the fantastic heads drift closer. “Thank you for the sleeping masks. They fit perfectly.” Slobold collapsed to the floor. “You’ll be seeing us,” Egrish said.
ALONE AT LAST
The annual Io ship was already in blast position, and swarms of androids labored over the final ground details. A crowd had gathered to watch the event, to stand close together and be amused. Horns sounded, a warning siren began to shriek. Confetti poured from the last unsealed ports, and long silver and red streamers. From a loudspeaker came the hearty voice of the ship’s captain—a human, of course—saying, “All ashore that’s going ashore!”
In the midst of this joyous confusion stood Richard Arwell, perspiration pouring down his face, baggage heaped around him and more arriving every minute, barred from the ship by a ridiculous little government official.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I must refuse permission,” the official was saying, with a certain unction.
Arwell’s spacepass was signed and countersigned, his ticket was paid and vouchered. To reach this point he had waited at a hundred doors, explained himself to a hundred ignorant flunkies, and somehow won past them all. And now, at the very threshold of success, he was faced with failure.
“My papers are in order,” Arwell pointed out, with a calmness he did not feel.
“They seem to be in order,” the official said judiciously. “But your destination is so preposterous—”
At that moment a robot porter lumbered up with the packing case that contained Arwell’s personal android.
“Careful with that,” Arwell said.
The robot set it down with a resounding thud.
“Idiot!” Arwell screamed. “Incompetent fool!” He turned to the official. “Can’t they ever build one that will follow orders properly?”
“That’s what my wife asked me the other day,” the official said, smiling sympathetically. “Just the other day our android—”
The robot said, “Put these on the ship, sir?”
“Not yet,” the little official said.
The loudspeaker boomed, “Last call! All ashore!”
The official picked up Arwell’s papers again. “Now then. This matter of destination. You really wish to go to an asteroid, sir?”
“Precisely,” Arwell said. “I am going to live upon an asteroid, just as my papers state. If you would be good enough to sign them and let me aboard—”
“But no one lives on the asteroids,” the official said. “There’s no colony.”
“I know.”
“There isn’t anyone on the asteroids!”
“True.”
“You would be alone.”
“I wish to be alone,” Arwell said simply.
The official stared at him in disbelief. “But consider the risk. No one is alone today.”
“I will be. As soon as you sign that paper,” Arwell said. Looking toward the ship he saw that the ports were being sealed. “Please!”
The official hesitated. The papers were in order, true. But to be alone—to be completely alone—was dangerous, suicidal.
Still, it was undeniably legal.
He scrawled his name. Instantly Arwell shouted, “Porter, porter! Load these on the ship. Hurry! And be careful with the android!”
The porter lifted the case so abruptly that Arwell could hear the android’s head slam against the side. He winced, but there was no time for a reprimand. The final port was closing.
“Wait!” Arwell screamed, and sprinted across the concrete apron, the robot porter thundering behind him. “Wait!” he screamed again, for a ship’s android was methodically closing the port, obl
ivious to Arwell’s unauthorized command. But a member of the human crew intervened, and the door’s progress was arrested. Arwell sprinted inside, and the robot hurled his baggage after him. The port closed.
“Lie down!” the human crew member shouted. “Strap yourself. Drink this. We’re lifting.”
As the ship trembled and rose, Arwell felt a tremendous drunken satisfaction surge through him. He had made it, he had won, and soon, very soon, he would be alone!
But even in space, Arwell’s troubles were not over. For the ship’s captain, a tall, erect, graying man, decided not to put him on an asteroid.
“I simply cannot believe you know what you are doing,” the captain said. “I beg you to reconsider.”
They were sitting in upholstered chairs in the captain’s comfortable lounge. Arwell felt unutterably weary, looking at the captain’s smug, conventional face. Momentarily he considered strangling the man. But that would never bring him the solitude he desired. Somehow, he must convince this last dreary idiot.
A robot attendant glided noiselessly behind the captain.
“Drink, sir?” it asked, in its sharp metallic voice. The captain jumped abruptly.
“Must you sneak up that way?” he asked the robot.
“Sorry, sir,” the robot said. “Drink, sir?”
Both men accepted drinks. “Why,” the captain mused, “can’t these mechanicals be trained better?”
“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Arwell said, with a knowing smile.
“This one,” the captain went on, “is a perfectly efficient servitor. And yet, he does have that ridiculous habit of creeping up in back of people.”
“My own android,” Arwell said, “has a most annoying tremble in his left hand. Synaptic lag, I believe the technicians call it. One would think they could do something about it.”
The captain shrugged. “Perhaps the new models... oh well.” He sipped his drink.
Arwell sipped his own drink, and considered that an air of comradeship had been established. He had shown the captain that he was not a wild-eyed eccentric; on the contrary, that his ideas were quite conventional. Now was the time to press his advantage.
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