Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “Yes,” June said wearily, “I know.”

  The music played on. The moving lights on the walls were like colored reflections from a sunlit river.

  “He may be a little late tonight; he has a lot to do, first. But he’ll be here.”

  Buzzzzz . . .

  It was the red button; it blinked on and off.

  “Visitors,” June said.

  “Look—” Mary said. “Look, June. I’m not half ready yet. Look. Tell Miss Bestris I’ll be down a little late. Tell her I have a special boy, and it’ll be all right. He wants me to wait for him.”

  June was on her feet. “. . . All right. You’d better not wait too long!”

  “I won’t.”

  After June was gone, Mary returned to the task of making her face pretty, but after a moment, she turned from the mirror, leaned back, and tried to relax. Underneath her dress, her heart was pounding.

  The warm air carried sounds of the night creatures. One of the great canal insects, screeching, flapped by the window. The tiny third moon crept up over the horizon, and the buildings cast triple shadows.

  Buzzz. Buzzzz.

  Still Mary waited.

  Buzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzzzz . . .

  She was afraid to wait any longer. But by now she was sure that he would be down stairs.

  There was a last-minute flurry of combing and primping, and then she rustled out of the room, her head erect, her eyes shining.

  THE LARGE reception room was filling. Overhead, the color organ threw shimmering, prismatic beams on the ceiling. Beneath it, stiff, embarrassed spacemen, mostly officers dressed in parade uniforms, chatted in space-pidgin with the laughing, rainbow-haired girls.

  Miss Bestris sat in one corner, her eyes roving the room: settling here for a second, there for a second, checking, approving, disapproving, silently. Occasionally she would smile or nod at one of the girls or one of the spacemen, and once she frowned ever so slightly and shook her head.

  Anne was reclining on a couch, eating a golden Martian apple, listening to a second mate; she played with a lock of his hair and smiled her wide smile.

  June, angelic, sat primly in a straight-backed chair, the captain at her feet, a boyish, space-pale Earthman, drew embarrassed circles on the carpet with his index finger.

  In the next room, three couples were dancing to the slow music of an Earth orchestra.

  An inner door opened, and a uniformed native sheriff stepped in, a crisp, military figure. “Miss Bestris?”

  She stood up. “Yes?”

  The Earthmen fell silent, waiting.

  “We think we have your runaway.” He turned to the door. “Bring her in.”

  Two more sheriffs entered, and between them, there was a young, slender girl. Her face was gaunt and tear-stained. Her body trembled. She looked at the Madame fearfully.

  “You idiots!” Miss Bestris screamed. “Get her out of here! You’ll ruin my party! Take her out!”

  The two men removed the girl. To the remaining sheriff, Miss Bestris said, “Damn you, if you ever do anything like that again, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Madame. But we wanted immediate identification. Would you want us to hold the wrong girl?”

  “That’s her, all right! Now, get out! Wait for me in my office.”

  When they were gone Miss Bestris turned to the silent room. In quite passable Esperanto she said, “I—am sorry. A misunderstanding. I assure you, nothing. Go on with the party, and I’ll see what I can do for the poor girl.”

  She stood up and in her own language said, “Lively, girls! Smile! You, Rita, hurry and serve tea!”

  She made her exit.

  The spacemen grumbled among themselves, coughed uneasily, watched the closed door through which the Madame had gone. Listening, they could hear only a muted mumble of sing-song sounds in several voices.

  With determined animation, the girls moved about, smiled, chatted.

  Rita came in, wheeling the tea tray, and the girls converged on it, each trying to be the first to serve her escort. The tea was the Martian stuff, concocted of a kind of local hemp. The Earthmen found it harsh and bitter to the taste, but gentle on the soul.

  Anne had filled two cups and returned to the second mate when she caught sight of Mary coming down the stairs.

  On the lowest step, Mary stood for a long time; her eyes eagerly searched the crowd. Slowly a puzzled, hurt look came over her face.

  June came to her side after a little while.

  “Isn’t he here?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” June said, touching Mary’s arm lightly.

  “It’s all right. It’s early yet. I’ll just sit down by Miss Bestris’ chair and wait for him.”

  She turned from June and went to the chair. Before she could sit down, a space corporal came over, bowed, tried to take her hand. She shook her head. He smiled twistedly and walked stiffly away.

  Another man smiled at her. She shook her head slowly.

  Someone came in the front door, and she leaned forward. Then she slumped back limply.

  She heard a tinkly laugh. She looked in its direction. She met Anne’s eyes, bright and amused. Just then Miss Bestris came in, her eyes angry and her cheeks flushed. She strode across the room.

  “Well,” she said. “I’m glad to see you finally came down.” She sank heavily into her chair. “Cresent’s back. They just brought her in. The idiots came right in here with her. I’ll bet I lost half-a-dozen customers. These Earthmen are sensitive about such things.”

  Mary was still staring at the door; Miss Bestris looked down at her.

  “Well, what are you sitting here for?”

  “Please, Miss Bestris. I’m waiting for my special boy friend tonight.”

  She snorted and looked away. “Why isn’t he here?”

  “He will be.”

  “He’d better. I’ll let you wait another—half an hour. That’s all.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bestris. You’re very kind to me.”

  “I indulge you more than I ought to, child,” she said. “More than is good for you, if the truth were known.”

  A man came in; Mary stiffened and then relaxed.

  The mutter of voices blended into a steady hum. More couples were dancing. Miss Bestris moved around the room. The music was tinny.

  Another man came in.

  “Your time’s up,” the Madame told Mary.

  “Please, let me just wait for another few minutes.”

  Miss Bestris fixed her lips grimly. “I’ve had enough nonsense for tonight. You heard me!”

  “Please!”

  “You heard what I said.”

  “Miss Bestris, I couldn’t. Not tonight. Honest, I couldn’t. If I had to talk to anybody, I’d break down and cry. He’ll . . . come. I know he will.”

  Miss Bestris whirled on her. “Listen, you little—” But she stopped, suddenly. “All right,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I can’t afford another scene tonight. But you’ll be sorry for this.”

  Miss Bestris stormily looked away. The dancers danced; the music swelled louder. Gradually, deliberately, the lights were waning.

  “Haven’t I always been good to you, Mary?” the Madame asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then like an obedient girl, do as I say. If he hasn’t come by now, he just won’t. He’s gone to some other house.”

  “No!” Mary said doggedly.

  “Just remember, tomorrow, how you deliberately disobeyed me. Your silly emotions are costing me money, and that’s one thing I simply won’t stand for.”

  “He’ll come.” Mary said. “You won’t lose money.”

  Couples sat side by side, laughing, talking in whispers. Occasionally there were giggles. The room began to empty slowly.

  The lights continued to dim until the rooms were gloomy. Even the shifting shades of the color organ were no more than a faint lambence. Anne, laughing, helped her second mate to his feet.

 
“I’ll give you one more chance,” Miss Bestris said. “The next man that comes in . . .”

  “No! I just couldn’t! Not tonight!”

  A few more customers drifted in. Then even the stragglers stopped coming. It was very late.

  “He’s deserted you; you see that now?” Madame Bestris sneered.

  Mary stood up. There were tears in her eyes. “You can’t—you don’t—know—how I feel,” she choked. “You don’t care!” She turned and ran up the stairs, crying.

  Several Earthmen, still in the big room, turned to watch. The torches were misty twinkles now. The last couples climbed the stairs and then Miss Bestris, too, went to bed.

  THE BLUE morning came. The town awoke; commerce began.

  At seven, Miss Bestris lay in bed frowning, considering the events of the previous evening. But she was not so annoyed that she forgot to call a doctor on the teleview and arrange for him to come at nine to give a physical examination.

  Her bulk out of bed, she dressed and went to the kitchen to brew a pot of hemp tea. The cleaning maid, moving about in the next room, heard Miss Bestris call sharply: “Flavia! Come in here!”

  Flavia appeared with a dust rag in her hand.

  “Did you cut this cake?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Miss Bestris glowered. “That little idiot! She must have slipped down here after we were all asleep and sat here and cried her silly little eyes out! If she thinks she can pull that love-sick act on me she’ll soon find out different. Am I supposed to put up with having her moon over every space tramp that comes in? Why, I’ve taken more from her—!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Bestris waddled to the stairs, climbed them determinedly. At Mary’s door she stopped and twisted the knob. Locked!

  Miss Bestris hammered. “Open up, Mary!” The door rattled under her hand. “Open that door at once!”

  No answer.

  Miss Bestris pounded harder. “Open up, I say!”

  Anne sauntered into the hall, her dressing gown swishing. “She really made you look the fool last night, didn’t she?” Anne said lazily.

  “You—you slut! Mind your own business.”

  Anne smiled and shrugged.

  “Open the door, Mary! Do you hear me! Open it!”

  “Maybe she killed herself,” Anne said. “It has happened.”

  “My God! No . . . She wouldn’t dare. You think she would?”

  Anne shrugged again. “They do funny things sometimes.”

  Miss Bestris’ face was red. “Run down and get my keys. In my desk. You know where they are.”

  Then, “For God’s sake, hurry!”

  While she waited Miss Bestris rattled the door, pleading and cursing.

  Finally Anne returned. Miss Bestris snatched the key with a shaking hand. She hurled the door open and burst inside.

  “See here, you little—!” She stopped.

  The room was empty.

  On the neatly made bed reposed a little stack of money. When Miss Bestris got around to counting it, she found that it contained exactly nine hundred and ten dordocs.

  ———— THE END ————

  IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

  The enormously important place of advertising in our social and economic life is a sort of cultural novelty, without any exact historical precedent. Further, this self-styled acceleration of obsolescence points toward a pretty silly future. The logical Mr. Neville has managed to tear his eyes and ears from the singing commercial long enough to contemplate that future with dispassionate irony and depict a too-plausible culture of consumer demand, a society whose citizens will accept nothing, not even scientific progress, unless it is properly advertised.

  PAUSING NOW and again to consult his dictographed notes, Ansonwald Striker, the reviewer for the Express, sat in his wheel chair and dictated his review.

  “Professor Metaxes is a thorough scholar, of which there can be no doubt. Even in the little space he has taken (103 pages), he has displayed brilliantly the synthesis of his lines of research. However his book, Reexamination: William Harold Smith (Farsen, Inc., 3.), raises fully as many questions as it answers.

  “That little is actually known about Smith during the crucial years is understandable when one considers the chaos that occurred during the change-over and that served to obscure the period immediately prior to it more thoroughly than any comparable period in our history. It is a regrettable but an indisputable fact that we know a great deal more about the relatively insignificant years between 1910 and 1950 than we do about the infinitely more important years between 2010 and 2050.

  “No one would challenge the Professor’s facts about the period. His Durocoil research unit is of proven excellence. But considering the paucity of facts available (even taking into account the recent uncoveries at Blighton), one may be forgiven for challenging some of the conclusions Professor Metaxes sees fit to arrive at.

  “For instance he states (page 67): ‘That Smith was personally acquainted with Raymond Anthony Parmenter is apparent from the Coby letter dated March 7, 2020. But that this acquaintance was of a friendly nature is not altogether clear from the context nor, surprisingly, do we have any other information as to their personal relationship. It appears, therefore, that we have as much reason for suspecting that the two men shared antipathy between them as the reverse.’

  “Professor Metaxes then postulates this antipathy as the reason behind several hitherto unexplained (except for the controversial Nine Point Pronouncement which is almost undoubtedly a forgery) well documented actions on the part of Smith; the events in the summer of ’20 being an example. And he points to two obscure references in the Coby letter itself, which may, I suppose, be taken as statements of extreme hostility if Professor Metaxes’ debatable annotation is correct.

  “But while this is a beguiling theory in many respects, it nevertheless fails to explain almost as much as it succeeds in explaining. How, then, was Parmenter able to acquire the Smith process in the first place? Why was it not placed in more congenial quarters? It has long been held that Smith gave the process to Parmenter in preference to any other Agency representative, but it would now appear, if Professor Metaxes is correct, that Smith would have acted illogically in doing so. Smith was not an illogical man. Might it not then be concluded that Smith was in reality opposed to giving the process to any Agency representative at all and that it was in some manner wrested from him by the most powerful one?

  “If one were to answer this question affirmatively, it would invalidate much of Smith’s character that has heretofore been agreed upon and with which Professor Metaxes, himself, agrees in broad outline—and indeed, make it appear that Smith was much less of a popular hero than is generally supposed—if not actually—at least tacitly—a supporter of the Anti-Progress Party.”

  Ansonwald Striker stopped dictating and leaned back.

  Suppose one were to consider Smith as an anti-socialitarian.

  He puckered his lips.

  It would certainly explain a great deal. Smith’s attitude toward haircuts, for instance. And it would make it plausible for the Nine Point Pronouncement to be a genuine document after all.

  He experienced the mental unsettlement that went with a shift of his whole historical perspective. He shuddered delicately. Still—he considered it another minute.

  There was a feeling of truth to it, all right. He imagined a scene in a biography written from that viewpoint; one scene and then another.

  Had he finally written the book—doubtless in the then popular, so-called fict-biographical form—had he the passion for research-synthesis and the powers of historical recreation of a Metaxes, he might have presented the events in the summer of ’20 somewhat as follows:

  William Smith, on the nineteenth of May of that year, issued his third and somewhat ambiguous refusal to accept any payment for his process.

  His rooms were on the eighth floor of the Waldheim—overlooking Center Street in the old downtown area. Fro
m the west window, which faced the distant lake front, he could watch the myriad daybright signs that lined Center and Polk as far as the eye could see in either direction.

  From atop the Sebright Building the chartreuse reflecto sign read: “There is no Service like human Service,” and the rotating collar between the sixth and seventh floors carried the message: “Be respected . . . Train for the profession of maid . . . Serve humanity . . . See Piper’s School for Upstairs Training.” Further north on Polk, outshining all the rest, was the dainty daylight purple exhortation: “See your favorite manicurist today.”

  Milling in the street below the Waldheim was a gesticulating crowd of professional pickets carrying signs reading: “We like it like we are.” “You ain’t God, Doc.” “Smith spells unemployment.” “TO HELL WITH YOU, SMITH!”

  One of the guards assigned to Smith’s person was seated in the corner of the living room, his chair propped against the wall, reading—or giving the appearance of reading—the now famous article in the July 2019 issue of the Journal of Federation Biochemists: “Selective Mutations in Genes of Mammals, an Experiment upon Twenty-one Generations of Mus Rattus under Laboratory Controls, by W. H. Smith, D.G.E.,” which he had just a moment ago picked up from the end table.

  Smith, himself—a tall wiry man with unusual and rather unsightly muscular development of the neck and forearms—was staring out the window at the sign: “Don’t let a machine do it. Hire a human. Human service is more personalized.”

  The other guard was stationed at the door, and when the knock came, he stood up and put his hand on the knob. The daybright light from the collar below the eighth floor reflected into the room to add a colored brilliance to the pale green illumination from the overhead neon, although its message was not, of course, refracted to the wall screen. “A healthy economy is an economy based on Human Service.” Nor, indeed, were there even wall screens in the apartment; their development being scarcely more than begun as early as the ’20s.