That winter, Mary came upon the following story in the Nottingham newspaper.
Ghastly Events in Scotland
Our northern correspondent files the following report. In early November, the body of a young foreigner, Mr. Henry Clerval of Geneva, Switzerland, was found upon the beach near the far northern town of Thurso. The body, still warm, bore marks of strangulation. A second foreigner, Mr. Victor Frankstone, was taken into custody, charged with the murder, and held for two months. Upon investigation, the magistrate Mr. Kirwan determined that Mr. Frankstone was in the Orkney Islands at the time of the killing. The accused was released in the custody of his father, and is assumed to have returned to his home on the continent.
A month after the disposition of these matters, a basket, weighted with stones and containing the body of a young woman, washed up in the estuary of the River Thurso. The identity of the woman is unknown, and her murderer undiscovered, but it is speculated that the unfortunate may have died at the hands of the same person or persons who murdered Mr. Clerval. The woman was given Christian burial in the Thurso Presbyterian churchyard.
The village has been shaken by these events, and prays God to deliver it from evil.
Oh, Victor, Mary thought. She remembered the pressure of his hand, through her dressing gown, upon her thigh. Now he had returned to Switzerland, there, presumably, to marry his Elizabeth. She hoped that he would be more honest with his wife than he had been with her, but the fate of Clerval did not bode well. And the creature still had no mate.
She clipped the newspaper report and slipped it into the drawer of her writing table, where she kept her copy of Samuel Galton's The Natural History of Birds, Intended for the Amusement and Instruction of Children, and the Juvenile Anecdotes of Priscilla Wakefield, and a Dudley locust made of stone, and a paper fan from the first ball she had ever attended, and a dried wreath of flowers that had been thrown to her, when she was nine years old, from the top of a tree by one of the town boys playing near Meryton common.
After the death of her parents, Mary lived with Lizzy and Darcy at Pemberley for the remainder of her days. Under a pen name, she pursued a career as a writer of philosophical speculations, and sent many letters to the London newspapers. Aunt Mary, as she was called at home, was known for her kindness to William, and to his wife and children. The children teased Mary for her nearsightedness, her books, and her piano. But for a woman whose experience of the world was so slender, and whose soul it seemed had never been touched by any passion, she came at last to be respected for her understanding, her self possession, and her wise counsel on matters of the heart.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Plumage From Pegasus: The Publishing House Always Wins by Paul Di Filippo
"Maxim, the raucous men's magazine, has never been shy about putting its name out there. But nothing compares to its latest brand extension, which will affix the Maxim name to a new hotel and casino on the Las Vegas Strip."
—"Lad Mag and a Brand in Las Vegas,” by Lorne Manly, The New York Times, June 5, 2006.
* * * *
I was in a truly crappy mood that night. I had been demoted to the ranks of the third-tier showgirls in the “Hotties of Zenna Henderson's The People Revue” just because I had shown up for rehearsal drunk three times in a row. And a pay cut just added to the sting. But even though I was so far back on the big stage that the rubes in the audience could barely make out my pasties, I still had to force an unending cheek-stretching smile. The thong of my spacesuit costume was riding up my butt and my feet hurt in my battered Capezios. But I kept up with the other girls anyhow, kicking and prancing to beat the band.
The last thing I wanted was to lose my job here at the F&SF Casino. Vegas was a cruel town, crueler than ever since the New York publishers had moved in, and I knew that if I blew off this position, after all my other notorious failures in this incestuous town, I could easily start falling and never stop.
The song-and-dance number seemed to stretch on forever. Some washed-up pop tart at the front of the stage, dressed like an Amish schoolgirl—if Amish schoolgirls wore fishnets and bustiers—was singing about Earth boys being major studs, and every sour note she shrieked made me wince. But finally all us dancers made our exit offstage and back to the dressing room in a fog of female sweat and perfume.
But even then I wasn't free for the night. I started changing into the house's standard cocktail waitress uniform. It was modeled along the lines of what some babe wore in a book called Glory Road.
Jeanie, who was the closest thing to a friend I had among the troupe, said, “What's with the queen of the cosmos getup, Ava?"
"Aw, I took on a shift hustling drinks. Gotta make up the money I lost somehow."
"Could be worse. Maybe you'll get to meet some generous high-rollers."
"Hunh! Not likely. This joint is strictly penny ante. Now if I was working at The New Yorker or the Atlantic Monthly or even Granta, then maybe I'd be brushing shoulders with some major players...."
Jeanie finished taking off her stage makeup. “Well, you never know who's gonna show up at an offbeat joint like this. I heard somebody spotted Joyce Carol Oates on the floor last weekend. She dropped ten large at the craps table."
Adjusting the fit of my strapless bra, I thought about Jeanie's comments, and felt a little better. You never could tell who you'd meet in this life. Maybe tonight would bring me luck.
Little did I know then how right I was.
I exited the dressing room and made my way past the noisy flashing slot machines with their motifs from a bunch of weird stories I had never heard of before coming to work here. “A Canticle for Leibowitz.” “Hothouse.” “That Hellbound Train.” (Now that one was really appropriate to this place and my mood.) “A Rose for Ecclesiastes.” (They must've been aiming for the Bible Belt crowd with that one.) “The Deathbird.” (Another cheerful motif.) And so on and so on, with all the slot zombies shoving bills into the machines and pushing buttons like they were earning overtime at some misery factory, their faces lit up in Technicolor by the glowing screens like that astronaut's helmet in 2001.
I made my way across the broad busy floor to the Boucher Room bar, picked up a tray with a few of the more popular miscellaneous mixed drinks already on it, and began to circulate. I got the nod from various security guys I was friendly with. They were all dressed up like “Starship Troopers” and “Time Patrol” officers, so there was no secret about who they were. But this was the kind of rough and tumble house where discretion was less important than a visible show of force.
The next couple of hours, nothing out of the ordinary happened. I decided to visit the poker tables in the McComas Room.
I zeroed in right away on one particular game.
A big Texan sat behind an enormous pile of chips. He looked like something out of a Fritz Leiber story, tall and thin. (Okay, I been doing a little outside reading since I took this job. The stuff's kinda addictive.) He was sweating and grinning, smoking a big stogie. When he spotted me he bellowed out, “Howdy, little miss! Let's have another one of those ‘Flowers for Algernons’ over here, pronto!"
Luckily I had one of the tall frosty drinks on my tray. I set it down on the table in front of him and recited the drink's motto: “Every sip makes you smarter!"
He extinguished his cigar in an old glass, winked at me, then swilled a big draft of his new drink. “Sure thing—until you crash!"
Turning again to his fellow players, Tex said, “Okay, boys, let's get back to building up Daddy's retirement fund. This hand's gonna be ‘Rogue Moon,’ with the multiple sudden death option."
Everyone groaned, but resigned themselves to the Texan's choice as their only chance to win any of their money back.
For the next three hours I kept close to Tex, stoking him with drinks and letting him grope my butt. The way he was raking it in, I was counting on at least a thousand for a tip, maybe more. That would go a long way toward improving my finances.
But the longe
r he played and the more he drank without getting dumb as a lab rat, the more suspicious I got. There was just something plain unnatural about this guy.
Then it hit me, and without meaning to, I blurted it right out.
"Hey, this guy's Ferdinand Feghoot!"
Instantly a pile of security guys were on top of us, immobilizing Tex before he could escape. Acknowledging he was trapped, the guy shimmered, changing his very looks. In place of the tall skinny Texan was a burly, black-haired guy with plastic-frame glasses and plenty of chin spinach: the most common appearance of Ferdinand Feghoot, aka Randall Garrett, Mark Phillips, Robert Randall, and a dozen other crooked bylines, a notorious cardsharp with access to various unnatural powers and knowledge of the future, banned from every casino on the Strip.
Feghoot gave me a wry smile and said, “Well spotted, little miss. But you've just blown a very sizable tip."
The Starship Troopers hustled the con man away and I collapsed into his seat and began to cry.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was one of the Time Patrol.
"Miss Davidson, the Owner would like to see you in his offices."
I managed to pull myself together somehow, and followed the Time Patrolman.
The Owner's offices were a swank penthouse with a view of the whole damn sleazy city. I had never been in such luxurious digs. While I sipped a rum and Coke (the Time Patrolman had told me to take whatever I wanted from the private bar), I gawked at all the artwork on the walls: Freas, Emsh, Hunter, Walotsky.... Several portraits showed all the past Owners, right down to some guy named Ed Ferman. While I was admiring their happy faces, the current Owner walked in.
I had never seen his face before, not any pictures either, and I expected some freak like Howard Hughes. Instead, I got prime Russell Crowe!
Dressed in a tuxedo, his face charmingly stubbled, the Owner extended his hand, and I took it with a sweaty palm.
"Miss Davidson,” he said in a voice that would melt ice on Pluto, “you've saved Spilogale Enterprises a considerable sum of money and much bad publicity tonight. I'd like to make it up to you somehow."
"Well, if you could set me up with a better job here—"
"Consider it done,” he said, and the rest of the night is strictly off-limits to you.
So now I work in the Isaac Asimov Sweet Science Amphitheater, where all the big-money boxing matches go down. I'm a Ring Girl, carrying the information cards at the start of each match and between rounds. It's a lot easier on the old tootsies than hoofing it, pays twice as much, and the job has got me a new boyfriend too.
"Battlin'” Boff Hurkle, and he's got the body of a god!
[Back to Table of Contents]
Mars: A Traveler's Guide by Ruth Nestvold
Ruth Nestvold lives in Germany and has a Ph.D. from the University of Stuttgart (but she asks not to be called Dr. Ruth). Since attending the Clarion West writer's workshop in 1998, she sold stories to Asimov's, Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, and about a dozen other anthologies and magazines. Her first novel, Yseult, has just been sold to a German publisher.
You have chosen the topic “dust storms":
Dust storms on Mars can encompass the entire planet. Global winds disperse the dust until the entire surface is covered and sunlight is cut off. When sunlight can no longer warm the ground, the effect stops. These storms are connected with the dominant weather patterns and the warmer summers in the southern hemisphere—
You have chosen the topic “weather patterns":
Weather on Mars consists of storms made of dust rather than rain. Typically, these storms occur during summer in the southern hemisphere, which on average is warmer than the northern hemisphere because it comes appreciably closer to the sun as a result of the elliptical orbit of the planet. The rapid heating of the surface gives rise to the famous “dust devils": when the temperature difference between lower and higher altitude air is great enough, pockets of warm, rising air expand and turn into whirlwinds that pick up dust. These dust devils can trigger global storms. The dusty air absorbs sunlight, warming the upper atmosphere and changing wind patterns. The dust particles in the clouds trap infrared energy, helping to make the planet's atmosphere warmer.
Weather patterns are extremely difficult to forecast because the changes are dramatic and can result in abrupt planet-wide swings between dusty and hot and cloudy and cold—
I'm sorry, I have no entry in my database for “rover accident."
Would you like to select a new topic?
You have chosen the topic “pressurized rover":
The pressurized rover is especially designed to withstand the stresses of the Martian environment. The passenger compartment is protected by a waffled body tub in order to ensure that the cabin will not lose pressure in case the outer shell is damaged. Radiator fins help control the interior temperature. The rover has two independent hydrogen fuel cell systems, one on each side, and a power transmission grid wired directly into each wheel—a design very resistant to breakdowns—
You have chosen the topic “fuel cell":
The fuel cells in the rover are powered by hydrogen (H2), working through a nanocontrolled catalytic membrane rated for Mars-normal surface conditions. These fuel cells can also provide power to pressure suits, exploration droids, and other Mars excursion implements. Hydrogen is available from a number of sources including subsurface ice deposits, trace amounts in the Martian atmosphere, and ice shipped on low-energy trajectories from Jovian orbit or salvaged from cometary bodies.
If you'd like me to repeat this entry, say ‘repeat.’ If you'd like to explore a new topic, simply say the name of the topic. If you're done using the Mars Traveler's Guide, say ‘quit’ to shut the system down.
Return to the topic “dust storms":
Some dust storms rise up to eight kilometers above the surface of the planet and may carry many tons of fine red dust. Heavy dustfalls can be dumped on areas below the datum plane or within areologically sheltered formations that otherwise experience little or no direct impact from the storm. Major dust storms can cause brownouts, leading to dramatically decreased visibility, which may be so bad that the horizon, landmarks, and nearby safe havens cannot be seen. If this should occur, travelers are advised to use GPS navigational assistance. Martian scientists, however, are rapidly developing the technology to predict dust storms, making it possible to take extra precautions in advance against the danger of dust particles.
If you'd like me to repeat this entry, say ‘repeat.’ If you'd like to explore a new topic, simply say the name of the topic—
You have chosen the topic “dust particles":
Dust is one of the biggest dangers to travelers on Mars. Dust devils with wind speeds of over one hundred fifty kilometers per hour can carry the particles into rover engines, bearings, machinery, air-locks, and pressure-suit fittings. Dust may travel at such high velocity that it can have an effect resembling sandblasting on equipment and viewports—
You have chosen the topic “GPS":
GPS is available extensively near the Mars bases and within the planet's equatorial zone thanks to line-of-sight repeaters. At this time, there are not enough satellites deployed for full-time planetwide coverage, but our experts at Red Planet Adventures project that within ten years, satellite coverage will reach one hundred percent.
Availability of navigation services and other kinds of satellite-based communications may be hampered by landforms with an altitude differential sufficient to obscure the satellite footprint or repeater sightlines. In the case of an emergency in which communication is not possible, your tour guide will direct you to the nearest Mars base as quickly as possible.
If you'd like me to repeat this entry, say ‘repeat.’ If you'd like—
You have chosen the topic “Mars bases":
The bases on Mars at present include Sagan in Kasei Vallis—the first and largest, and also headquarters of Red Planet Adventures—Gagarin in Hebes Chasma in the Valles Marineris system, Armstrong
in the Gusev Crater, the most isolated of the Martian bases—
You have chosen the topic “Armstrong Base":
Neil Armstrong Memorial Base is situated north of Ma'adim Vallis in the Aesis region of Mars. The site in the Gusev Crater lies at the mouth of a very long fluvial valley dating from about 3.5 billion years ago. The area has provided some of the earliest evidence for ancient Martian microbes—
You have chosen the topic “Ma'adim Vallis":
Ma'adim Vallis is one of the largest canyons on Mars. Over seven hundred kilometers long, twenty kilometers wide, and two kilometers deep in some places, it offers breathtaking vistas to the Mars adventure tourist. The course of the valley runs from a region of southern lowlands thought to have once contained a large group of lakes north to Gusev Crater near the equator, the location of Armstrong Base. The tour from Armstrong the length of the valley of Ma'adim is one of the most dramatic offered by Red Planet Adventures—
Return to the topic “Armstrong Base":
While it does not yet provide the level of amenities available in Sagan or Arestia with their geodesic domes, Armstrong Base has its own picturesque charm for adventure tourists. Its networked habitat is reminiscent of the early days of Mars colonization and provides a feel for authentic history. But even here, tourists need have no fears regarding safety considerations. The individual pods in the habitat are constructed from titanium-reinforced buckyplastic, equipped with double air locks, and connected to each other with inflatable tunnels of neoKevlar. Spacesuits are provided for all visitors and included in the tour package. However, it is not recommended that tourists attempt to explore Gusev Crater or nearby Ma'adim Vallis without an experienced tour guide.
If you'd like—
You have chosen the topic “Safety Considerations":
Tours with Red Planet Adventures have been optimized for safety—
I'm sorry, did you say ‘vacuum'?
I'm sorry, I don't understand the phrase, “no eye said fuck you."
FSF, January 2008 Page 11