Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “It’s not a bad burn.”

  “No. You wouldn’t notice . . .” He looked down at the manuscript. “What did you want to see?”

  “Your flies,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Jo Anne. You’re Ralph? I’ve heard Alan speak about you.”

  He took the hand, and under its firm pressure, responded. He stood up awkwardly. “The files?”

  She laughed a bit, reassuringly. “Please don’t mind me. Really, this is very routine. I do five or ten a day.”

  “Never on me—before.”

  “Well,” she said, puckering her lips, “you’ve been extraordinarily efficient.”

  “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment!” he snapped.

  “Oh? Weren’t you? We’ll get along, famously.”

  “Come on, I’ll show you the files.”

  “Thanks, Ralph.”

  THEY crossed to the steel cabinet.

  “These are the most recent ones,” he said. “Last month’s are over here. June’s here, and before that, they’re down in General Filing.”

  “General Files have already been spot checked, so they’re okay. I’ll just look through these few, here.”

  She pulled out the drawer. “I really don’t expect to find anything, you know. I’ll bet I run fifty of these things before I find an error worth mentioning:” She bent down. “They’re very neat. That’s a good sign: if you keep neat files, with all the edges shook down, like this, it shows you’re a very tidy and meticulous person! I read palms, too, on my off days; appointments on request.” She picked up a manuscript. “Let’s see, now.” She scanned the preface data. “You’re about thirty-five, I’d say. Married ten—no, make it fifteen years: you’re the sort that marries early.” She leafed through the manuscript rapidly. “Happily married, too, I’d say? Well—aren’t you?”

  “. . . yes,” he said.

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Born in a state west of the Rockies; showed a flare for basketball in high school . . .”

  “You’ve looked at my records,” he accused.

  “Uh-huh. Feminine curiosity.”

  “Or routine?”

  She put back the manuscript. “The—that one was all right.”

  “You talk like you’re half psycho gist.”

  “The other half is great speck bird,” she said, reaching for another manuscript. “Do you listen to Chinwell, rather like to, myself.”

  “No,” he said. “That is, not often.”

  “I think he’s relaxing.”

  “How in heaven’s name can you check those things and talk?”

  “Schizophrenic,” she smiled, putting back the second manuscript and reaching for a third.

  “I’ll let you alone.”

  “Please don’t. I don’t mind. St fierce and talk to me.”

  TWENTY minutes later, when she had finished with the check, she said. “There!”

  “Did you find many errors?”

  “Oh, no. No more than you’d expect. A word inclusion here; an exclusive there.” She scribbled a note in her note book. “They were all in Chinwell stuff.”

  “. . . is that significant? I mean . . .”

  “No. Should it be?”

  “No—of course not, no!”

  She smiled. “Sure?”

  “Well, my wife . . . sure.”

  “Well,” she said, closing the book, “good afternoon, Ralph.” She held out her hand.

  Letting go of it, he said, “Good afternoon.”

  He walked back to his desk and started to work; some time later Alan called him again on the intercom.

  “Who was that girl?” Ralph asked. “Jo Anne? Just a checker.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Smart girl, don’t you think?”

  “Listen, Alan, what in hell’s the idea of sending her around to find out if I’m listening to Chinwell? What do you think you’re doing? If you want to accuse me of—of being a—some kind a disloyal fanatic, why, damn it, say so like a man!”

  “Now, now, Ralph. Use your head for a minute: Do you think we’d dare let a man we didn’t trust completely feed material to the Machine? You know that the only thing that can wreck our program is falsified data. Think. The very fact that you’ve got your job is proof positive of your loyalty.”

  “It’s my judgment, then . . .”

  “Don’t take it like that, Ralph,” Alan said. “Listen, boy, I’m recommending a two week vacation for you. I think that’s all you need.”

  Ralph swallowed. “Now, wait a minute!”

  “To tell you the truth, we’ve been getting a few more errors than are usual, lately, and we want to be on the safe side. You know how narrow the margin of error we work with is. We don’t want to exceed the Machine’s automatic compensation under any circumstance. Better to be safe than sorry, you know. So don’t take this as anything personal.

  “. . . I see.”

  “I’ll send around a replacement for you in about an hour.”

  “But—”

  “Have a good time,” said Alan heartily.

  “Listen, Alan, please . . .”

  “In case you’re interested, Jo Anne suggested that you and Ivy fly over to Europe for a week.”

  Alan snapped off, and Ralph sat staring at the intercom without moving. After a while he stood up and walked over and locked his file cabinet. Then he brought back the key and placed it on his desk.

  “SO THEY vacationed you. You see, the Machine is beginning to get you, too!”

  She had been drinking; he could tell by the half glassy stare in her eyes, which had widened with surprise when he had entered the room: as if he had almost caught her doing something she wished to keep hidden.

  “Not the Machine,” he said.

  “Maybe not directly,” Ivy said.

  “I thought, after the other night, we weren’t going to talk like that any more.”

  “I . . . forgot.”

  “Have you been listening to Chinwell again?”

  “. . . no.”

  “Are you . . . never mind, let it go.”

  “No,” she said, sullenly, crossing her legs.

  He went to his chair, looked down, puzzled. “Where’s my pipe? I thought I left it right here when I left.”

  “Your pipe? Oh, yes, your pipe. I sat on it. I mean, it slipped off on the floor and I stepped on it. Broke the stem, right at the whatyoucallit—shank.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “I wish you wouldn’t drink so much, Ivy.”

  “Drink? I don’t drink so much.”

  He sat down and took out a cigarette. “I’m sorry about the pipe. It was a good one.”

  “You can get another one.”

  He lit the cigarette. “Say; Ivy, what would you say to you and me .running over to Europe next week?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He put the cigarette down.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Where’s the Colberg?” he said, noticing that it was missing from the wall.

  “The Colberg? Oh! You want it? I’ll get it for you.”

  She left him, and he stared at the place where the picture had been hanging for years.

  When she came back, she was carrying the silver sweetmeats plate. She had cut up the Colberg in narrow strips, and it occupied the center of the silver plate like a serving of tossed green salad.

  “Here’s the Colberg,” she said, holding it out to him.

  He stared at the plate for some time. Then he said, “I don’t want it any more.”

  “I’ll throw it out,” she said.

  “All right.”

  Ralph was trembling as she left the room.

  He stood up and went to the window; he pulled it open savagely and stared out into the sunlight.

  “Just this afternoon Chinwell said . . .” she began with a petulant note in her voice.

  “I thought you said you didn’t listen to him.”

  She was standing behind him, an
d he could hear her breathing.

  “I . . . all right, so I told you a—fib.” He turned slowly.

  She tilted her face to his! “What are you going to do about it?”

  He licked his lips. “Nothing.”

  “You’re going to let me . . . to let your wife lie to you?”

  “What can I do about it?” he said levelly.

  “. . . nothing, I guess.”

  IVY crossed the room with quick, jerky movements. “I don’t know whether to believe in Chinwell or not.”

  “Please,” he said wearily. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “But some of the things he says. About the basic nature of man, and the rule of the strong, and the quest for excitement.”

  Ralph started toward her, and she came to meet, him, eagerly.

  “Chinwell says that the Machine is destroying man.”

  “He’s a crackpot,” Ralph said evenly. “No, he’s not!” she defended. “Some day the Machine will have to fight, him!”

  “No.”

  “Some day, everyone will have to choose sides. Whose side will you be on, when that day comes?”

  A nerve quivered in his cheek. “Nonsense.”

  “It’s not!”

  He looked down at her.

  “We’re emotional,” she said. “We don’t give a damn about percentages and reason.”

  “Danger is reasonable or not reasonable. It’s not emotional. Chinwell can’t do any harm . . . except for a few lunatics.”

  “Chinwell says—”

  “Shut up! Shut up!”

  Her face flushed. doming closer t him, she said breathlessly, “Chinwell says—”

  He drew back his hand, and.sh tensed, waiting. He let his hand drop limply to his side.

  “Chinwell says that—”

  He turned away.

  For a long time she was silent. She said, “Whose side will you be on?”

  He did not answer.

  She came to him. “I thought you were a man!”

  He said nothing.

  “I’m going to leave you,” she said, he huge eyes wide and expectant.

  He did not move.

  “Chinwell says—” then, disappointed she said, “I’m going to leave you! I couldn’t stay with you! Not if you feel like you do!”

  Still he said nothing.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “Listen t me. You’re not even a man. I love Chin well, do you hear! I love Chinwell!” Muscles in his jaw moved again.

  “I said. I love Chinwell—can’t you hear? What are you going to do?”

  Silence.

  “I love him,” she whined.

  Silence.

  “Damn you, do something, do some thing, do something!”

  “Please go,” he said.

  After he heard the door slam, he went to the desk and sat down.

  It grew dark slowly; chill air came in through the open window.

  He wandered aimlessly about the gloomy apartment.

  WHEN the phone finally, rang, he was in the kitchen listlessly brewing coffee. He hurried to the front room.

  “Hello. I knew you’d—oh. Who?” Hi face grew ashen. “Oh!” he said dully—“you think it may have been part of a plot to intimidate the personnel of this Machine?” he repeated, scarcely understanding the words. “Yes, yes. I’ll be . . . I’ll come right over to make the . . . the identification . . .”

  He hung up. He stood motionless. Then, mechanically, he picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “This is Ralph! Alan, have you heard it yet? My wife, she was just . . . just killed. By one of those fanatics.”

  “Oh, God!” Alan said. The phone was silent for a second. “This is terrible. I don’t know what to say. Ivy? I can’t believe it. Anything I can do, Ralph?” Ralph’s face was gray, his lips trembled. His body shook. “First they drove her out of her mind and then . . . and then they . . . they killed her. We’ve got believe it. Is there anything I can do, to stop that swine, do you hear?”

  “The police will get the murderer, Ralph,” said Alan calmly.

  “It’s Chinwell! He’s behind it!”

  “Quiet down, Ralph. Take a minute. Maybe he is. If he’s broken the criminal law, they’ll get him. But as long as he hasn’t done anything but talk . . .”

  “I’m going to see that rat gets what’s coming to him! I don’t give a damn what the Machine says!”

  “You’re hysterical, man!”

  The coffee in the silex began to spew over the hot plate. A smell of burned coffee grounds came from the kitchen.

  “Listen!” Ralph screamed. “Can’t you see? I don’t give a damn about statistics and averages! The bastard was responsible for my wife’s murder!”

  The law will handle it, Ralph. There’s nothing you can do. The police will catch the murderer exactly as they catch any murderer . . . Look at it this way: Murders are bound to happen. There are fewer today than before the Machine. The Machine’s policy aims at the eventual elimination of—”

  Ralph was shaking so hard he could scarcely Hold the phone. “To hell with that! To hell with that!”

  “Listen, Ralph, what you’re asking for is vengeance. The Machine provides justice. You want the greater of two evils. The Machine sees what is best for society as a whole. We can’t afford to wreck our whole program for an individual.”

  Ralph was crying.

  “. . . phone me back,” Alan said. “You’ll stop thinking with your emotions after the shock wears off. It’s horrible, I know, and I can imagine how you feel right now. But you’ll see I’m right, Ralph, just wait. I want you to call me if I can be of any help, and I’ll . . .”

  Ralph hung up. Leadenly he crossed to his desk. He took out a sheet of stationary. He began to scribble his letter of resignation.

  He stopped. He looked up. Remembering Alan’s cool words, his face slowly hardened with cunning and hatred. There was a new, fanatic gleam in his eyes.

  He burned the half finished letter in the ashtray. Then he put on his coat and left to identify his wife’s body.

  The water boiled slowly away from the coffee . . .

  GRATITUDE GUARANTEED

  It is all too obvious that certain departments of the modern business establishment have developed into sentient beings who exist solely to harass the bewildered customer. It is equally obvious that nothing whatsoever can be done about this. These evil creatures are essentially rugged individualists. Sullenly ignoring the best drawn charts of industrial planners and efficiency experts, they carefully execute such self-assigned tasks as failing to fill orders at all or shipping them in quadruplicate, losing remittances or crediting them to long dead accounts, and replying to a six-month subscription with seven copies of one issue of the desired journal or issuing a blunt “notice of cancellation because of non-renewal.” Young innocents—whose life under the tyranny is yet brief—may argue that science will find a means of liberation. But Messrs. Bretnor and Neville are older and wiser heads—and longer suffering. Their wondrously zany collaboration extrapolates a horrendous time when the whole process of wronging the customer will be carried out by cybernetically controlled maximum inefficiency.

  ON THE MORNING of December 5, Mr. E. Howard Harrison showed up at the processing labs of Cuddlypets Corporation promptly at 8:45. He hung up his coat, scrubbed his hands, and put on his smock, mask, and gloves. Then, as he had every working day for seven long years, he joined the two other surgical technicians who made up his team.

  As always, Mr. Olson was sitting on the operating table, singing Cuddlypets commercials in his concrete-mixer baritone:

  “Cudd-lee-pets, Cudd-lee-pets,

  Snuggle up to Cudd-lee-pets!

  They’ll love Mom and Dad and you

  Like they’re GUAR-AN-TEED to do!

  “Tweak their whiskers, pull their fur,

  Cuddly pets just grin and purr!

  Cuddlypets just purr and grin—

  Love and gra-ti-tude’s BUILT-IN!”

&nbs
p; As always, Mr. Kerfoid was standing across from him, beating time on a sterilizer with his forceps. When Mr. Harrison entered the room, Mr. Kerfoid glanced up, nodded, and winked like a vulture with sand in its eye. Mr. Olson just kept on singing:

  “Cuddlytiger’s big and classy,

  Cuddlypanther’s really snazzy,

  Cuddly leopard, Cuddly lion—

  YOU can buy them all ON TIME!

  “Cudd-lee-pets, Cudd-lee-pets,

  Snuggle up to—”

  It had been Mr. Harrison’s habit to ignore these renditions as politely as possible, keeping his long, tight rectangle of a face carefully averted, and busying himself with minor adjustments to the encephaloscreen, or the disposal unit, or to the little glass cabinet that held their day’s supply of Schroeder Bypasses and Dappleby Blocks. On the morning of December 5, however, he did nothing of the sort. Instead, he took three brisk paces to bring himself face to face with Mr. Olson, and snarled, “Shut up!”

  Mr. Olson jerked his head back, emitted a hoarse “—Cudd-l—,” gasped, and was silent. Mr. Kerfoid dropped his forceps, and said, “Now, now, Mr. Harrison,” plaintively several times.

  “You shut up too,” growled Mr. Harrison, turning on him. “It’s bad enough having to waste my time working on these goddam big cats, cats, cats—that’s all we get nowadays, is cats—lions, tigers, panthers, jaguars, cougars, ocelots—what’ll it be next, I want to know, sabre-tooths?” He confronted Mr. Olson again. “It’s so bad I can smell ’em in my sleep.”

  “I—I don’t see how you can,” protested Mr. Olson nervously. “We’ve a swell Cuddlylion at home ourselves. Got him for the kid. He’s clean and neat, just like it says in the com—Anyhow, he doesn’t smell even a little bit. Uses his little old lion-box every time.” He looked toward his colleague for support. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Kerfoid?”

  “It certainly is,” croaked Mr. Kerfoid. “Everybody knows that Cuddlypets are—well, as Dr. Schroeder puts it, they are ‘personally dainty.’ Besides they’re all of them deodorized before shipment. It’s the policy of the firm, and a very good policy too, I may say.”

  Mr. Olson sniffed. “And anyhow,” he said, “it seems to me, Mr. Harrison, that even if you don’t like my singing, you might at least have the courtesy not to be offensive about it. Maybe Mr. Kerfoid and I don’t have our B.S.’s in Cyber-Surgery; maybe we aren’t qualified to work on human beings like you say you are—but at least we don’t let our conduct become subprofessional.”