Here Comes Civilization: The Complete Science Fiction of William Tenn Volume II

by William Tenn

  Joey was squeezing the doll with both hands. As I watched, not daring to remove my eyes, the wax—already softened by the sunlight—lost its shape and came through the cracks in his tight freckled fingers. It dripped through the muslin dress and fell in blobs on the school yard cement.

  Over and above the yells of the children, Miss Drury's voice rose to an agony-filled scream and went on and on and on.

  Joey looked over my shoulder with rolling eyes. But he kept on squeezing the doll and I kept my eyes on it desperately, prayerfully, while the screaming went on all about me and the immense sun pushed the perspiration steadily down my face. As the wax oozed through his fingers, he began singing suddenly in a breathless, hysterical cackle.

  One, two, three alary—

  I spy Mistress Sary

  Sitting on a bumble-ary,

  Just like a little fairy!

  And Miss Drury screamed and the children yelled and Joey sang, but I kept my eyes on the little wax doll. I kept my eyes on the little wax doll drooling through the cracks of Joey Richards' strained, little fingers. I kept my eyes on the doll.

  AFTERWORD

  This is my first attempt at the gothic, a form I have never been fond of—with the possible exception of some pieces by the Bronte sisters and something else, something quite else, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.

  But I had been an avid reader of Weird Tales through most of my early adolescence (let's hear it for H.P. Lovecraft!—Seabury Quinn!—C.L. Moore!—Clark Ashton Smith!), and now—in my twenties—though the avidity had been seriously modified, I was deeply flattered to learn from Ted Sturgeon that the magazine would look with favor upon a submission by me.

  I gave them "Mistress Sary," and they bought it. All right, it's no Frankenstein, and it's certainly not even a "The Shadow Over Innsmouth," but I enjoyed seeing it appear where that fine editor, Farnsworth Wright, once gloried and drank deep.

  Written 1947——Published 1947

  THE MALTED MILK MONSTER

  From the moment he opened his eyes and saw the color of the sky, the shape of the clouds, the incredible topography, Carter Broun knew exactly where he was. He didn't really have to identify the blandly sweet smell which filled his nostrils, nor did he particularly have to investigate further the river of dark mahogany coursing, with the gentlest of roars, between two small, cone-shaped hills, two hills of exactly the same dimensions and sporting exactly the same vegetation.

  There was just no doubt about it. Not after Carter had contemplated, for ten or fifteen awe-struck seconds, the sky of absolutely uniform and brilliant blue—bluey-blue, that was the color, he decided morosely—and those oval, pink-white clouds spaced so evenly across it. Not to mention those birds flapping into the narrowing distance; from here, each looked like a letter V, the arms of which had been carefully curved outward and down.

  Only one place in the universe boasted such a landscape, such an atmosphere, such birds. This was The World of The Malted Milk Monster.

  God help me, Carter thought, now it's my world, too.

  That peculiar, ripping flash inside him, like some sort of lightning of the soul! He'd said goodbye to Lee at the door of her lawn-enclosed home and started down the neat suburban street to where his MG was parked. He'd been rolling the car keys around in his hand and planning the itinerary of his Friday night date with Lee—you either got a girl to your apartment by the second date, he had found, or you flunked out forever—when he'd noticed the Malted Milk Monster watching him unwinkingly from behind a hedge. Probably had followed them all the way from Goldie's Goodie Palace.

  Then the flash, the mad sensation of being ripped out of his context and being shoved into another, entirely different place. And opening his eyes here.

  It all came, and the knowledge was bitter, of taking your date to an ice cream parlor instead of an honest bar. But a bar didn't seem like the right follow-up to a Sunday afternoon movie in Grenville Acres. Besides, you don't take a schoolteacher to a bar on her home grounds. You pour an inoffensive soda into her, walk her home through the autumn streets, being as gentlemanly charming as possible, you decline the invitation to come in and meet the folks by mentioning the big report you have to prepare for tomorrow's Account Executive conference—a man has his work to do, and that must come first—and back you drive to Manhattan with the pleasant knowledge of a seduction intelligently initiated.

  Unfortunately, you don't plan on other factors—unseen powers, for example.

  There was not much point in checking but he might as well check. Once he was really certain, he could begin worrying. And working out an escape.

  Carter wandered down to the mahogany river across well-cropped grass and past large tinsel-type flowers. He knelt, dipped a finger in the thick liquid and tasted it. Chocolate. Of course.

  Just on the off-chance, he pinched himself long and hard, squeezingly and painfully. It hurt enough. No, he'd known he hadn't been dreaming to begin with. For one thing, in a dream you rarely realize you're dreaming.

  This was real.

  Chocolate syrup to drink. And for food—

  The two little hills were covered with dwarf trees bearing lollipops, the cellophane-wrapped fruit varying slightly in color from tree to tree. Here and there on the level ground were bonbon bushes and sharply triangular Christmas-tree affairs from whose twigs dangled small pies, cakes and assorted cookies—most of them chocolate.

  The sun beat down rosily, rosily, and none of the chocolate melted. The chocolate river, on the other hand, ran interminably and gurglingly. Whatever its sources, wherever it rose, the river evidently had plenty of reserves.

  Carter was struck by an especially ugly thought. Suppose, viewing the river's effluence, suppose it rained chocolate! Really, one could not put anything past the Malted Milk Monster.

  —|—

  Lee had objected to the name.

  "She's just a fat little girl. Rather brilliant, rather neurotic, too. And very curious about the strange, distinguished young man who's buying her teacher a soda."

  "All right, but I've been counting," Carter had insisted. "Five chocolate malteds since we came in. Five! And the way she sits there at the end of the counter, never taking her eyes off us, not even when she unwraps a fresh straw!"

  "Most of the children in Grenville have more spending money than is good for them. Dorothy's parents are divorced—mother's a big-time buyer, father's a vice-president of a bank—and they use their money to fight for her affections. She spends practically all of her time in Goldie's. You know, Carter, that psychological equation: when I was small and my parents loved me, they gave me food; therefore, food equals love?"

  Carter nodded. He knew all about such psychological equations. As a determined and well-sexed young bachelor, he had studied Freud as intently as a second lieutenant in the First World War might have studied von Clausewitz.

  "You're so damned feminine," he announced warmly, underlining the points that, with any luck at all, would shortly be at issue. "Only a gal who was woman all the way through would be able to see in that ball of lard, that pimply Malted Milk Monster—"

  "She's no such thing, Carter! What a terrible nickname for such a mixed-up little girl! Although," Lee mused, swirling the long spoon about in the residual muddy bubbles of her soda glass, "although it is funny you should think of it. That's what—or something like it—the other kids in the class call her. They tell stories about her—that she can make stones and flowerpots disappear just by staring hard at them. Kids are just like adults, a little more obvious, that's all. They make a witch out of the unpopular one."

  He kept trying. "They never made one out of you, that's for sure. Anybody who's the slightest bit sensitive just has to look at you to know that love and loving—"

  "It's so pathetic, really," she interrupted without knowing it. "I asked them to write a composition about the happiest day they could remember. Do you know what Dorothy wrote about? A day in her dream world, a day that never ever happened. And yet it
was beautifully done, for a child her age. Full of affection-symbols like cake and candy. The world was supposed to smell like an ice cream parlor. Imagine! There was a finely written passage—you appreciate good writing, Carter, I know—about two cute little hills all covered with lollipop trees, each tree bearing a different flavor. And between the hills there wound a stream of purest chocolate!"

  Carter gave up. He lit a cigarette and stared over Lee's earnest but nonetheless lovely head. At the grossly heavy little girl whose fat overflowed the last stool in the ice cream parlor, her mouth sucking steadily at the chocolate malted milk, her eyes as steadily sucking at his. He found himself forced to drop his glance first.

  "—even when we have a drawing lesson," Lee was still on it. "She never does anything else. It's absolutely real to the poor child—so lonely, so starved for companionship! I've learned to expect that flat blue sky full of oval pink clouds, those curved-line birds, that chocolate river and all those bushes filled with goodies. Every single time! For a child of her intelligence, she's somewhat retarded graphically. She draws like a child a year or two younger. But that's to be expected: it's almost purely a verbal, a conceptual intelligence, you might say—"

  You might also say the topic had created a highly annoying and useless diversion. Carter bit on the cigarette through his lips, looked up again cautiously. The Malted Milk Monster's eyes were as unwavering as ever. Such pulling power—what was so fascinating about him? Well, her father was a Madison Avenue type: the clothes, probably. Carter was justly proud of his wardrobe. His clothes, he knew, were in almost ostentatious good taste—they screamed restraint and expensive lowness of key.

  Yes, that was it. He reminded her of her father. Her rich father.

  Carter caught himself preening and stubbed out the cigarette in abrupt harsh disgust. Damn it! That was the trouble with this Madison Avenue music—you laughed at it, you kidded others about it, you even read books satirizing it—and then you found yourself singing to it. He reminded her of her father who was the vice-president of a bank and probably quite well off. Well, so what? Did that say anything good about Carter Broun? Not necessarily at all, at all. Carter Broun was just a well-educated, clever and rather lucky young man who had found his way into a well-paying, clever and extremely luck-flavored business.

  A young man who had gotten so deeply involved in the superficialities of the business that when a child as obviously and horrifyingly tormented as this little girl came to his attention, all he could see was a neat gag nickname—the kind of shallow, brilliant thing you'd toss off to a client at a sales conference.

  Lee, now. Lee's roots were still wrapped around the compact, squirming mass of the human race. She loved her work but she cared too; she certainly cared. The way she goes on! The way her eyes shine as she talks!

  "—the other children were positively stupefied. Or that time I asked them to make up riddles. Do you know what Dorothy asked when her turn came? Just listen to this, Carter. She asked the class: 'Which would you rather be eaten by—a giant caterpillar, or a million tiny little lions?' Now I maintain that a girl with that much imagination—"

  "That much maladjustment," he corrected. "She sounds like a very sick kid. But I'd give a lot," he mused, "to see how she'd do on a Rorschach. A giant caterpillar, or a million tiny little lions... and without even ink-blots to go on! Do you know if she's ever had any psychotherapy?"

  His companion had smiled grimly. "Her parents are very well off, I told you. I suspect she's had all the advantages. Up to and including protracted legal battles as to whether she's to go to poppa's doctor or momma's doctor. What that girl really needs, no one can give her: a different set of parents, or, at the least, one parent who really cares for her."

  Carter had disagreed. "Not so much now, not at her age. I'd say it would be much more helpful at this point to have a couple of kids who like and accept her. If there's one thing that Motivational Research brings home to you, it's what thoroughgoing social animals we humans are. Without a matrix of companionship, without the interest and approval of at least a handful of our contemporaries, we're worse than mixed-up—we aren't even people. Hermits aren't people; I don't know what they are, exactly, but they're not people. And so long as that kid is a psychological hermit, she's not really a human person. She's something else."

  Somewhere in the next fifteen minutes, he knew that he had clicked with Lee. But by then he was deep in the problem of how one could help a kid like Dorothy to make friends. It had become an MR problem, dealing with the individual, however, rather than the group; and, like all MR problems, of such obsessing interest to him that nothing else mattered.

  In the end, it had been Lee who had changed the subject very forcefully; it had been Lee who had to drop hints about their next date. He'd managed to get a grip on himself and began talking about what they'd do when she came into town to meet him next Friday night. All in all, it had worked out quite well.

  But as they left the soda shop, Carter had thrown just one last glance behind him through the plate-glass window. The Malted Milk Monster had turned on her stool, straw still in her mouth, eyes following him like a pair of starving sharks.

  And then, of course, shadowing them all the way to Lee's home. What had she done to him? How had she done it? Why?

  —|—

  He kicked angrily at a loose stone, watched it bounce into the river with a thick brown splash. Was this one of the stones Dorothy had abstracted from the real world? Again, how? Not why, though; it could well have been part of a series of controlled experiments to test the range of her powers.

  Powers? Was that the word? Talent, perhaps, or catalytic capacity—that might be more descriptive.

  Given a very remarkable mind, given a very strong personality embedded in a child's brain, given unhappiness, unpopularity, and general neurosis to sharpen that mind, to add even more punch to the personality—and what? What would develop?

  He suddenly recalled his last thoughts before arriving in this lollipop world. Just after he'd left Lee, his head full of happy thoughts about Friday night, just at the very moment he'd seen the kid staring at him, he'd begun thinking about her problems again. The realization that she had followed them all the way from the soda shop out of sheer murderous loneliness had stimulated him into wondering about her mind.

  There had been a sequence. First: Gee, she's hungry for people. Then: Not for people in general, for kids her own age. How would you go about making kids like her? Now there's a motivation problem for you! Then: Well, the first question is what are her motives; what's it like in her mind? Good professional MR unraveling technique.

  And then that terrible flash, that mental rip, and he'd opened his eyes here.

  In other words, he'd had something to do with it. It hadn't been all her. He'd been wide open psychologically, trying to visualize the inside of her mind, just as she had—as she had done something.

  No, it still required something from her, for all this to have happened. And no matter what you called it—talent, powers, catalysis—she had it. And she'd used it on him.

  Carter shivered suddenly, remembering the riddle she'd made up.

  He was adrift in the fantasy life of that kind of kid. He wished he had paid attention to Lee's earlier discussion in the ice cream parlor instead of forcing the conversation back into more profitable channels. To get out safely, to survive, he could use every scrap of information on Dorothy that had ever existed.

  After all, her most meager wishes were now the fixed and immutable natural laws under which he had to operate.

  He was no longer alone, he observed. He was surrounded by children. They had seemingly materialized all around him, yelling, playing, scrambling, jumping. And where the yelling was loudest, where the games were thickest, there was Dorothy. The Malted Milk Monster. The children gamboled about her like so many fountains against a central statue.

  She stood there, still staring at him. And her stare was as uncomfortable as ever. A little more so,
for that matter, than he remembered it. She wore the same blue jeans and yellow cashmere sweater with smudges on it. She was taller than life-size, a bit taller than the other children. She was slenderer, too. Now, in all fairness, you could not call her more than plump.

  And she had no pimples.

  Carter was irritated at how fast he'd had to drop his eyes. But to keep them open and aimed at her was like looking directly into the beam of an anti-aircraft searchlight.

  "Looka me, Dorothy!" the kids yelled. "I'm jumping! Looka how high I can jump!"

  "How about playing tag, Dorothy?" they yelled. "Let's play tag! You choose who should be It!"

  "Make up a new game, Dorothy! Make up one of the good games you always make up!"

  "Let's have a picnic, huh, Dorothy?"

  "Dorothy, let's have a relay race!"

  "Dorothy, let's play house!"

  "Dorothy, let's jump rope!"

  "Dorothy—"

  "Dorothy—"

  "Dorothy—"

  When she started to speak, every one of the kids shut up. They stopped running, they stopped yelling, they stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at her.

  "This nice man," she said. "He'll play with us. Won't you, mister?"

  "No," Carter said. "I'd like to, but I'm afraid I—"

  "He'll play a game of ball with us," she went on imperturbably. "Here, mister. Here's the ball. You're a nice man to play with us."

  When she moved toward him, holding out a large striped ball which had suddenly appeared in her hands, the bulk of the children moved with her.

  Carter was still searching for words wherewith to explain that, while he had no interest at the moment in playing a game of ball, he was much interested in a private conversation with Dorothy herself, an audience, so to speak—when the ball was thrust into his fingers and he found himself playing.