Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Would you like for me to fix you a cup of tea before we go on?”

  “I don’t think so. But it’s a nice thought.”

  “Honey?”

  “Yes?”

  “You asked what that fuel oil was for, remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, when I finish this,” she said, “I’m going to pour it over you and light it.”

  “Helen,” he said, “I married one of the . . . cleverest . . . women . . . in the . . . system.”

  “There,” she said, “I thought I’d never get that one.”

  THE captain got very cramped, sitting there. It was late. He expected it was about time for the assembly bell to ring.

  He stood up.

  No one had come down his corridor all day, and he felt very pleased with his acumen in selecting it.

  There wasn’t nearly as much noise as there had been earlier; people were thinning out. He hoped there wouldn’t be many left in the fight for the assembly.

  He heard, interrupting his reverie, a thin, shrill shriek, drifting down the corridor from his left. Then, looking, he saw a crewman running toward him.

  He tightened his grip on his infantry sword.

  Then he relaxed. It was all right.

  The man had no arms.

  The crewman came to a stop in front of him.

  “Oh? Captain. Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon. Careful there. You’ll get blood on my uniform.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “How are things going, back there?”

  “Pretty slow . . . last . . . couple hours.”

  “Getting pretty weak, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Mind if . . . I . . . sit down?”

  “Not at all. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thank . . . you, sir.” He sat down. “My,” he said, “I’m tired.”

  “Loss of blood, probably. Listen, old fellow. Do you think you’ve about quit suffering, now?”

  “Oh, yes,” the crewman said. “Scarcely feel . . . a thing any more. Numb.”

  “Well, in that case, no sense in keeping you from your Reward.”

  “Not . . . a bit.”

  The captain drew back his huge sword.

  “See . . . you . . . around,” the crewman said.

  The sword whistled down.

  The captain wiped the sword on the crewman’s blouse. His legs were still stiff. He needed a little exercise. He began to walk toward the dead end of the corridor, keeping a weather eye behind him.

  “. . . Bombs away!”

  The crewman hurtled onto his shoulders from the steampipe above.

  The captain fell flat, and his sword went skittering away, rattling loudly on the steel deck.

  “Umph!” he said.

  “Boy!” the crewman said, “I shore thought you’d never come back down here.”

  The captain was stunned. He could feel the crewman lashing his hands together behind him.

  “What were you doing up there?” the captain said at length.

  “I clumb up there when I a-hyeared ya a-comin’ like a herd o’ elephants. I thought ta come down here an’ wait hit out ‘til th’ assembly bell.”

  “My intentions exactly,” the captain said, testing his bonds. There was no escape from them. “Your voice sounds familiar.”

  “Yeah. Hit should. I’m Henderson, th’ officers’ messman.”

  “Lord give me strength,” the captain said.

  “Now, iffen you’ll jest roll over on yer back, Captain.”

  “What for, my boy?”

  “I kinda thought that first off I’d like ta pour this little bottle of hydrofluoric acid on ya.”

  “That’s very clever,” the captain said. Then he reconsidered. “For a crewman, that is.”

  X

  THE first mate looked over at the bosun.

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “Yes,” the bosun said.

  “Fine, I thought you’d be.” He took out his penknife and began to whittle on a piece of wood.

  After a while he said, “You haint mindin’ me puttin’ hit off this away?”

  “No,” the bosun said, “suit yourself.”

  The first mate sent a shaving skittering with his knife blade. “Shucks,” he said, “there hain’t really no hurry.”

  The bosun raised his head from his chest and shook the hair out of his face. “Not really, when you consider it,” he said.

  “Yep, that’s right.” The first mate began to work on the point of the stick; he sharpened it down to needle fineness, and then he carefully cut in the barb. “Hain’t very strong wood; them barbs are cut against the grain, an’ they’re liable ta split off when I try ta pull ’em out.”

  “I hope not,” the bosun said.

  The first mate said, “Yep, I’m shore afraid they’re a-gonna do jest that little trick.”

  “Look,” said the bosun, “this hair’s gettin’ in my eyes. I wunder if you’d mind kinda snippin’ it off?”

  “Not a-tall,” the first mate said.

  He walked over to the bosun, grabbed a handful of hair and sawed it off with the penknife.

  “That better?”

  “It shore is. Thanks.”

  “Not a-tall.”

  The first mate threw down the stick on the table. “Really should uv cut that before.”

  “I suppose so,” the bosun said.

  “ ’Course I warn’t hable to see what uz in th’ priest’s mind.”

  “No, that’s true,” the bosun agreed.

  The first mate walked over and picked up the typewritten instructions.

  “You’re a-gonna get a fine Castin’ Off,” he said.

  “I should,” the bosun said. “It ain’t everybody can be th’ Sole Survivor.”

  “That’s true,” the first mate said. “Well,” he said after a minute, “I jest guess I know them there instructions fine as anything. I suspect we may as well start, iffen hits agreeable ta you.”

  “I’m ready,” the bosun said.

  The first mate took his penknife and tested the edge with his thumb. “Shore is sharp,” he said. “Ought ta be. I jest got done a-honin’ hit.”

  HE walked over to where the bosun was hanging.

  “Well,” he said. “No time like the present.”

  He raised the knife.

  “Jest a minute,” he said. “I think I’ll get me some music on the radio. You don’t mind?”

  “No,” said the bosun. “Not a bit.”

  The first mate walked to the hyperspace radio and flicked on the dial. After fiddling with it for some time, he picked up a symphony being broadcast from Kque. “There,” he said, “that’s th’ kind uv music I shore do like ta hear.”

  The music welled out and filled the room with sound.

  “Shore is purty,” the bosun said.

  The first mate walked back to him.

  “Guess I’ll start on your back,” he said. He reached up and ripped the bosun’s shirt off.

  Then, when the back was laid bare, he made a very shallow cut running the length of the shoulders from armpit to armpit.

  “Be kinda hard ta get started,” he said.

  He put the penknife in the incision and began to pry the skin loose. “Gonna take me a long time ta get a hand holt,” he said. “Course onct I do, hit’ll be as easy as skinnin’ a skunk.”

  “Take yer time,” the bosun said.

  “Aim to.”

  The music turned quiet and sounded of the rippling brooks on far Corazon; it reflected the vast meadows of Nid and the giant, silver-capped mountains of Muri. A cello picked up the theme and ran it, in rich notes, over the whole surface of the dead world, Astolath. A whining oboe piped of the sweet winds from Zoltah; and the brass beat out the finny rhythm of the water world of Du.

  “ ’Scuse me,” the first mate said. He laid down the penknife and walked to the radio. With a flick of his wrist, he cut it off.

  “Wh
at uz th’ matter with hit?” the bosun asked.

  “Didn’t ja notice?” said the first mate. “Th’ third fiddle was sour.”

  “Guess I wasn’t listenin’ close enough,” said the bosun.

  The first mate returned to his work. “May as well get on with it,” he said.

  He raised the penknife again.

  MARTHA threw the door open. “Here!” she said. She swung Joey around in front of her by the left ear. “I’m going to have to leave him in here with you, where he won’t get into trouble.”

  The first mate laid aside the penknife.

  “Martha,” he said, “I jest plain don’t like kids.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “But I just can’t keep him with the rest of the children. I just can’t.”

  “Whatud he do?” the bosun asked.

  “Do? Let me tell you,” Martha said. “First, he . . .”

  “I didn’t,” Joey said.

  “I haint got no all day ta listen ta ya, woman,” the first mate said.

  “Well. The worst of it was with little Jane. Do you know what he tried to do to her?”

  “No, and I shore don’t care,” said the first mate testily.

  “Well, first he got her down under the table; and then he sat on her; and if I hadn’t stopped him, he would have pounded her brains out against the deck.”

  “My, my,” said the bosun.

  “That hain’t a-tall nice.”

  “Grownups do it,” Joey said.

  “That’s entirely different,” the bosun said.

  “No, it ain’t. You just don’t like me, that’s all.”

  “Little Jane wasn’t ready,” Martha said. “She hasn’t had a chance to do her duty.”

  “It don’t matter,” Joey said.

  “Little boy,” said the bosun, “do you know where people go who talk that way?”

  “I don’t care,” Joey said.

  “You see? I’ll simply have to leave him in here with you.”

  “All right,” the first mate agreed reluctantly. “Now, little boy,” he said, “you hain’t a-gonna bother me, hear? I’m very busy. You jest go over there and watch.”

  “Yes,” said the bosun.

  Martha said, “Well, I better get back to the other children.”

  She left and the first mate turned back to his job.

  “What’s he crying for?” Joey asked.

  “ ’Cause it hurts,” the first mate explained.

  “You missed somethin’ there in th’ back,” Joey said.

  “Why did you try to choke that little girl?” the mate asked.

  “ ’Cause I wanted to.”

  “Well,” the first mate said, “that’s why I left that little patch o’ skin.”

  “Oh,” said Joey.

  He stood up and walked around the bosun.

  “What’re ya gonna do next?” he asked.

  “Be still,” said the bosun.

  “I bet I know,” Joey said. “I’ll bet you’re gonna take that little stick over there an’ stick it in him.”

  “That shore . . . is right,” the bosun said proudly.

  “Can I, huh?”

  “No,” the first mate said.

  “Why not? All ya gotta do is . . .” He picked up the stick and lunged at the bosun.

  THE first mate tripped him and took the stick away from him.

  “Let him alone,” the bosun said to Joey. “He’s doin’ jest fine.”

  “Thankee,” said the first mate.

  Martha came back.

  “Is he bothering you? We could put him in the ice with the new crew,” she said.

  “Fine,” the first mate said.

  “Oh, no,” Joey said. “You gotta catch me first.” He began to back away from Martha.

  She took a step toward him.

  He turned and started to run.

  “Thought so,” she said. She had been holding one hand behind her. It contained a plastic ash-tray. She caught him squarely between the ears with it, and he went down.

  “Good heave, Martha!” the first mate said.

  She walked over to Joey, picked him up and started to the door.

  At the door she paused.

  “What did you say you wanted for supper, Fontelroy?”

  “Two aigs,” he said.

  NEW APPLES IN THE GARDEN

  Some problems are perfectly predictable—yet not in the sense that allows a preprogrammed machine to handle them—

  Eddie Hibbs reported for work and was almost immediately called out on an emergency. It was the third morning in succession for emergencies.

  This time a section of distribution cable had blown in West Los Angeles. Blown cable was routine, but each instance merited the attention of an assistant underground supervisor.

  Eddie climbed down the manhole with the foreman of the maintenance crew. There were deep pull marks on the lead sheath above where the cable had blown.

  “Where’d they get it?” he asked.

  “It came in from a job on the East Side.”

  “Sloppy work,” Eddie said. “Water got in the splice?”

  “These new guys . . .” the foreman said.

  Eddie fingered the pull marks. “I think she’s about shot anyway. How much is like this?”

  “A couple of hundred feet.”

  “All this bad?”

  “Yep.”

  Eddie whistled. “About fifteen thousand dollars worth. Well. Cut her back to here and make splices. Stand over them while they do it.”

  “I’ll need two men for a week.”

  “I’ll try to find them for you. Send through the paper.”

  “I can probably find maybe another thousand miles or so that’s about this bad.”

  “Don’t bother,” Eddie said.

  That was Eddie’s productive work during the morning. With traffic and two sections of street torn up by the water people, he did not get back to his office until just before lunch. He listened to the Stock Market reports while he drove.

  He learned that spiraling costs had retarded the modernization program of General Electronics and much of their present equipment was obsolete in terms of current price factors. He was also told to anticipate that declining sales would lead to declining production, thereby perpetuating an unfortunate cycle. And finally he was warned that General Electronics was an example of the pitfalls involved in investing in the so-called High Growth stocks.

  Eddie turned off the radio in the parking lot as the closing Dow-Jones’ report was starting.

  During lunch, he succeeded in reading two articles in a six-week-old issue of Electrical World, the only one of the dozen technical journals he found time for now.

  At 12:35 word filtered into the department that one of the maintenance crew, Ramon Lopez, had been killed. A forty-foot ladder broke while atop it Lopez was hosing down a pothead, and he was driven backward into the concrete pavement by the high-pressure water.

  Eddie tried to identify the man. The name was distantly familiar but there was no face to go with it. Finally the face came. He smoked two cigarettes in succession. He stubbed the last one out angrily.

  “That was a tough one,” his supervisor, Forester, said, sitting on the side of Eddie’s desk. Normally exuberant, he was left melancholy and distracted by the accident. “You know the guy?”

  “To speak to.”

  “Good man.”

  “After I thought about it a little bit,” Eddie said, “I remembered he was transferring tomorrow. Something like this brings a man up short, doesn’t it?”

  “A hell of a shame. Just a hell of a shame.”

  They were silent for a minute.

  “How was the market this morning?” Forester asked.

  “Up again. I didn’t catch the closing averages.”

  “I guess that makes a new high.”

  “Third straight day,” Eddie said.

  “Hell of a shame,” Forester said.

  “Yeah, Lopez was a nice guy.”

>   “Well . . .” Forester’s voice trailed off in embarrassment.

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “I wanted to remind you about the budget meeting.”

  Eddie glanced at his watch. “Hour and a half?”

  “Yeah. You know, I feel like . . . never mind. What about the burial transformers, you get on it yet?”

  “The ones we’re running in the water mains for cooling? They’re out of warranty. None of the local shops can rewind them until the manufacturer sends out a field engineer to set them up for the encapsulation process.”

  “How long is that going to take?” Forester asked.

  “They tell me several months. Still doesn’t leave us with anything. The plant says they’ve fixed the trouble, but between them and the rewind shop, they can buck it back and forth forever.”

  “I guess we’ll have to go back to the pad-mounted type.”

  “People with the Gold Medallion Homes aren’t going to like the pads by their barbecues.”

  Forester uncoiled a leg. “Draw up a memorandum on it, will you, Eddie?” He stood up. “That thing sure got me today. There’s just entirely too many of these accidents. A ladder breaking. I don’t know.”

  Eddie tried to find something intelligent to say. Finally he said, “It was a rough one, all right.”

  After Forester left, Eddie picked up, listlessly from the top of the stack one of the preliminary reports submitted for his approval.

  The report dealt with three thousand capacitors purchased last year from an Eastern firm, now bankrupt. The capacitors were beginning to leak. Eddie called the electrical laboratory to see what progress was being made on the problem.

  The supervisor refreshed his memory from the records. He reported: “I don’t have any adhesive man to work on it. Purchasing has half a dozen suppliers lined up—but none have any test data. I don’t know when we’ll get the time. We’re on a priority program checking out these new, low-cost terminations.”

  “Can’t we certify the adhesive to some AIEE spec or something?” Eddie asked.

  “I don’t know of any for sealing capacitors, Eddie. Not on the maintenance end, at least.”

  “Maybe Purchasing can get a guarantee from one of the suppliers?”

  “For the hundred dollars of compound that’s involved? What good would that do us?”

  Eddie thanked him and hung up. He signed the preliminary report.