by Tom Boardman
At six o’clock they arose again, for it was time for their generation to eat breakfast in the kitchenette. No one spoke to them. They had twenty minutes in which to eat, but their reflexes were so dulled by the bad night that they had hardly swallowed two mouthfuls of egg-type processed seaweed before it was time to surrender their places to their son’s generation.
Then, as was the custom for whoever had been most recently disinherited, they began preparing Gramps’ breakfast, which would presently be served to him in bed, on a tray. They tried to be cheerful about it. The toughest part of the job was having to handle the honest-to-God eggs and bacon and margarine on which Gramps spent almost all of the income from his fortune.
“Well,” said Emerald, “I’m not going to get all panicky until I’m sure there’s something to be panicky about.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know what it was I busted,” said Lou hopefully.
“Probably thinks it was your watch crystal,” said Eddie, their son, who was toying apathetically with his buckwheat-type processed sawdust cakes.
“Don’t get sarcastic with your father,” said Em, “and don’t talk with your mouth full, either.”
“I’d like to see anybody take a mouthful of this stuff and not say something,” said Eddie, who was 73. He glanced at the clock. “It’s time to take Gramps his breakfast, you know.”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it,” said Lou weakly. He shrugged. “Let’s have the tray, Em.”
“We’ll both go.”
Walking slowly, smiling bravely, they found a large semicircle of long-faced Schwartzes standing around the bedroom door.
Em knocked. “Gramps,” she said brightly, “break-fast is ready.”
There was no reply, and she knocked again, harder.
The door swung open before her fist, in the middle of the room, the soft, deep, wide, canopied bed. the symbol of the sweet by-and-by to every Schwartz, was empty.
A sense of death, as unfamiliar to the Schwartzes as Zoroastrianism or the causes of the Sepoy Mutiny, stilled every voice and slowed every heart. Awed, the heirs began to search gingerly under the furniture and behind the drapes for all that was mortal of Gramps, father of the race.
But Gramps had left not his earthly husk but a note, which Lou finally found on the dresser, under a paper-weight which was a treasured souvenir from the 2000 World’s Fair. Unsteadily, Lou read it aloud:
“ ‘Somebody who I have sheltered and protected and taught the best I know how all these years last night turned on me like a mad dog, and diluted my anti-gerasone, or tried to. I am no longer a young man.. I can no longer bear the crushing burden of life as I once could. So, after last night’s bitter experience, I say good-bye. The cares of this world will soon drop away like a cloak of thorns, and I shall know peace. By the time you find this, I will be gone.’ ”
“Gosh,” said Willy brokenly, “he didn’t even get to see how the 500-mile Speedway Race was going to come out.”
“Or the World’s Series,” said Eddie.
“Or whether Mrs McGarvey got her eyesight back,” said Morty.
“There’s more,” said Lou, and he began reading aloud again: “ ‘I, Harold D. Schwartz… do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my last Will and Testament, hereby revoking any and all former wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made.’ ”
“No!” cried Willy. “Not another one!”
“ ‘I do stipulate,’ ” read Lou, “ ‘that all of my property, of whatsoever kind and nature, not be divided, but do devise and bequeath it to be held in common by my issue, without regard for generation, equally, share and share alike.’ ”
“Issue?” said Emerald.
Lou included the multitude in a sweep of his hand. “It means we all own the whole damn shootin’ match.”
All eyes turned instantly to the bed.
“Share and share alike?” said Morty.
“Actually,” said Willy, who was the oldest person present, “it’s just like the old system, where the oldest people head up things with their headquarters in here, and—”
“I like that!” said Em. “Lou owns as much of it as you do, and I say it ought to be for the oldest one who’s still working. You can snooze around here all day, waiting for your pension cheque, and poor Lou stumbles in here after work, all tuckered out, and—”
“How about letting somebody who’s never had any privacy get a little crack at it?” said Eddie hotly. “Hell, you old people had plenty of privacy back when you were kids. I was born and raised in the middle of the goddam barracks in the hall! How about—”
“Yeah?” said Morty. “Sure, you’ve all had it pretty tough, and my heart bleeds for you. But try honeymooning in the hall for a real kick.”
“Silence!” shouted Willy imperiously. “The next person who opens his mouth spends the next six months by the bathroom. Now clear out of my room. I want to think.”
A vase shattered against the wall, inches above his head. In the next moment, a free-for-all was under way, with each couple battling to eject every other couple from the room. Fighting coalitions formed and dissolved with the lightning changes of the tactical situation. Em and Lou were thrown into the hall, where they organized others in the same situation, and stormed back into the room.
After two hours of struggle, with nothing like a decision in sight, the cops broke in.
For the next half-hour, patrol wagons and ambulances hauled away Schwartzes, and then the apartment was still and spacious.
An hour later, films of the last stages of the riot were being televised to 500,000,000 delighted viewers on the Eastern Seaboard.
In the stillness of the three-room Schwartz apartment on the 76th floor of Building 257, the television set had been left on. Once more the air was filled with the cries and grunts and crashes of the fray, coming harmlessly now from the loudspeaker.
The battle also appeared on the screen of the television set in the police station, where the Schwartzes and their captors watched with professional interest.
Em and Lou were in adjacent four-by-eight cells, and were stretched out peacefully on their cots.
“Em,” called Lou through the partition, “you got a washbasin all your own too?”
“Sure. Washbasin, bed, light—the works. Ha! And we thought Gramps’ room was something. How long’s this been going on?” She held out her hand. “For the first time in forty years, hon, I haven’t got the shakes.”
“Cross your fingers,” said Lou, “the lawyer’s going to try to get us a year.”
“Gee,” said Em dreamily, “I wonder what kind of wires you’d have to pull to get solitary?”
“All right, pipe down,” said the turnkey, “or I’ll toss the whole kit and caboodle of you right out. And first one who lets on to anybody outside how good jail is ain’t never getting back in!”
The prisoners instantly fell silent.
The living-room of the Schwartz apartment darkened for a moment, as the riot scenes faded, and then the face of the announcer appeared, like the sun coming from behind a cloud. “And now, friends,” he said, “I have a special message from the makers of anti-gerasone, a message for all you folks over 150. Are you hampered socially by wrinkles, by stiffness of joints and discolouration or loss of hair, all because these things came upon you before anti-gerasone was developed? Well, if you are you need no longer suffer, need no longer feel different and out of things.
“After years of research, medical science has now developed super-anti-gerasone! In weeks, yes weeks, you can look, feel, and act as young as your great-great-grandchildren! Wouldn’t you pay $5,000 to be indistinguishable from everybody else? Well, you don’t have to. Safe, tested super-anti-gerasone costs you only dollars a day. The average cost of regaining all the sparkle and attractiveness of youth is less than fifty dollars.
“Write now for your free trial carton. Just put your name and address on a dollar postcard, and mail it to ‘Super’, Box 500,000, Schenectady, N.Y.
Have you got that? I’ll repeat it. ‘Super’, Box…” Underlining the announcer’s words was the scratching of Gramps’ fountain-pen, the one Willy had given him the night before. He had come in a few minutes previous from the Idle Hour Tavern, which commanded a view of Building 257 across the square of asphalt known as the Alden Village Green. He had called a cleaning woman to come straighten the place up, and had hired the best lawyer in town to get his descendants a conviction. Gramps had then moved the day-bed before the television screen so that he could watch from a reclining position. It was something he’d dreamed of doing for years.
“Schen-ec-ta-dy,” mouthed Gramps. “Got it.” His face had changed remarkably. His facial muscles seemed to have relaxed, revealing kindness and equanimity under what had been taut, bad-tempered lines. It was almost as though his trial package of Super-anti-gerasone had already arrived. When something amused him on television, he smiled easily, rather than barely managing to lengthen the thin line of his mouth a mill-metre. Life was good. He could hardly wait to see what was going to happen next.
Theodore Sturgeon
Mr Costello, Hero
“Come in, Purser. And shut the door.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” The Skipper never invited anyone in—not to his quarters. His office, yes, but not here.
He made an abrupt gesture, and I came in and closed the door. It was about as luxurious as a compartment on a spaceship can get, I tried not to goggle at it as if it was the first time I had ever seen it, just because it was the first time I had ever seen it.
I sat down.
He opened his mouth, closed it, forced the tip of his tongue through his thin lips. He licked them and glared at me. I’d never seen the Iron Man like this. I decided that the best thing to say would be nothing, which is what I said.
He pulled a deck of cards out of the top-middle drawer and slid them across the desk. “Deal.”
I said, “I b—”
“And don’t say you beg my pardon!” he exploded.
Well, all right. If the skipper wanted a cosy game of gin rummy to while away the parsecs, far be it from me to… I shuffled. Six years under this cold-blooded, fish-eyed automatic computer with eyebrows, and this was the first time that he—
“Deal,” he said. I looked up at him. “Draw, five-card draw. You do play draw poker, don’t you, Purser?”
“Yes, sir.” I dealt and put down the pack. I had three threes and a couple of court cards. The skipper scowled at his hand and threw down two. He glared at me again.
I said, “I got three of a kind, sir.”
He let his cards go as if they no longer existed, slammed put of his chair, and turned his back to me. He tilted his head back and stared up at the see-it-all, with its complex of speed, time, position, and distance-run coordinates. Borinquen, our destination planet, was at spitting distance—only a day or so off—and Earth was a long, long way behind. I heard a sound and dropped my eyes. The Skipper’s hands were locked behind him, squeezed together so hard that they crackled.
“Why didn’t you draw?” he grated.
“I beg your—”
“When I played poker—and I used to play a hell of a lot of poker—as I recall it, the dealer would find out how many cards each player wanted after the deal and give him as many as he discarded. Did you ever hear of that. Purser?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“You did.” He turned around. I imagine he had been scowling this same way at the see-it-all, and I wondered why it was he hadn’t shattered the cover glass.
“Why, then, Purser,” he demanded, “did you show your three of a kind without discarding, without drawing—without, mister, asking me how many cards I might want?”
I thought about it. “I—we—I mean, sir, we haven’t been playing poker that way lately.”
“You’ve been playing draw poker without drawing!” He sat down again and beamed that glare at me again. “And who changed the rules?”
“I don’t know, sir. We just—that’s the way we’ve been playing.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Now tell me something. Purser. How much time did you spend in the galley during the last watch?”
“About an hour, sir.”
“About an hour.”
“Well, sir,” I explained hurriedly, “it was my turn.”
He said nothing, and it suddenly occurred to me that these galley-watches weren’t in the ship’s orders.
I said quickly, “It isn’t against your orders to stand such a watch, is it, sir?”
“No,” he said, “it isn’t.” His voice was so gentle, it was ugly. “Tell me, Purser, doesn’t Cooky mind these galley-watches?”
“Oh, no, sir! He’s real pleased about it.” I knew he was thinking about the size of the galley. It was true that two men made quite a crowd in a place like that. I said, “That way, he knows everybody can trust him.”
“You mean that way you know he won’t poison you.”
“Well—yes, sir.”
“And tell me,” he said, his voice even gentler, “who suggested he might poison you?”
“I really can’t say. Captain. It’s just sort of something that came up. Cooky doesn’t mind.” I added. “If he’s watched all the time, he knows nobody’s going to suspect him. It’s all right.”
Again he repeated my words.
“It’s all right.” I wished he wouldn’t. I wished he’d stop looking at me like that. “How long,” he asked, “has it been customary for the deck officer to bring a witness with him when he takes over the watch?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir. That’s out of my department.”
“You couldn’t say. Now think hard. Purser. Did you ever stand galley-watches, or see deck-officers bring witnesses with them when they relieve the bridge, or see draw poker played without drawing—before this trip?”
“Well, no, sir. I don’t think I have. I suppose we just never thought of it before.”
“We never had Mr Costello as a passenger before, did we?”
“No, sir.”
I thought for a moment he was going to say something else, but he didn’t, just: “Very well, Purser. That will be all.”
I went out and started back aft, feeling puzzled and sort of upset. The Skipper didn’t have to hint things like that about Mr Costello. Mr Costello was a very nice man. Once, the Skipper had picked a fight with Mr Costello. They’d shouted at each other in the day-room. That is, the Skipper had shouted—Mr Costello never did. Mr Costello was as good-natured as they come. A good-natured soft-spoken man, with the kind of face they call open. Open and honest. He’d once been a Triumver back on Earth—the youngest ever appointed, they said.
You wouldn’t think such an easy-going man was as smart as that. Triumvers are usually life-time appointments, but Mr Costello wasn’t satisfied. Had to keep moving, you know. Learning all the time, shaking hands all around, staying close to the people. He loved people.
I don’t know why the Skipper couldn’t get along with him. Everybody else did. And besides—Mr Costello didn’t play poker; why should he care one way or the other how we played it? He didn’t eat the galley food—he had his own stock in his cabin—so what difference would it make to him if the cook poisoned anyone? Except, of course, that he cared about us. People—he liked people.
Anyway, it’s better to play poker without the draw. Poker’s a good game with a bad reputation. And where do you suppose it gets the bad reputation? From cheaters. And how do people cheat at poker? Almost never when they deal. It’s when they pass out cards after the discard. That’s when a shady dealer knows what he holds, and he knows what to give the others so he can win. All right, remove the discard and you remove nine-tenths of the cheaters. Remove the cheaters and the honest men can trust each other.
That’s what Mr Costello used to say, anyhow. Not that he cared one way or the other for himself. He wasn’t a gambling man.
I went into the day-room and there was Mr Costello with the Third Officer. He
gave me a big smile and a wave, so I went over.
“Come on, sit down, Purser,” he said. “I’m landing tomorrow. Won’t have much more chance to talk to you.”
I sat down. The Third snapped shut a book he’d been holding open on the table and sort of got it out of sight.
Mr Costello laughed at him. “Go ahead, Third, show the Purser. You can trust him—he’s a good man. I’d be proud to be shipmates with the Purser.”
The Third hesitated and then raised the book from bis lap. It was the Space Code and expanded Rules of the Road. Every licensed officer has to bone up on it a lot, to get his licence. But it’s not the kind of book you ordinarily kill time with.
“The Third here was showing me all about what a captain can and can’t do,” said Mr Costello.
“Well, you asked me to,” the Third said.
“Now just a minute,” said Mr Costello rapidly, “now just a minute.” He had a way of doing that sometimes. It was part of him, like the thinning hair on top of his head and the big smile and the way he had of cocking his head to one side and asking you what it was you just said, as if he didn’t hear so well. “Now just a minute, you wanted to show me this material, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, Mr Costello,” the Third said.
“You’re going over the limitations of a spacemaster’s power of your own free will, aren’t you?”
“Well,” said the Third, “I guess so. Sure.”
“Sure,” Mr Costello repeated happily. “Tell the Purser the part you just read to me.”
“The one you found in the book?”
“You know the one. You read it out your own self, didn’t you?”
“Oh,” said the Third. He looked at me—sort of uneasily, I thought—and reached for the book.
Mr Costello put his hand on it. “Oh, don’t bother looking it up,” he said. “You can remember it.”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” the Third admitted. “It’s a sort of safeguard against letting a skipper’s power go to his head, in case it ever does. Suppose a time comes when a captain begins to act up, and the crew gets the idea that a lunatic has taken over the bridge. Well, something has to be done about it. The crew has the power to appoint one officer and send him up to the Captain for an accounting. If the Skipper refuses, or if the crew doesn’t like his accounting, then they have the right to confine him to his quarters and take over the ship.”