The 20th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK ™: Evelyn E. Smith, Page 3

  “Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor.”

  “If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica.”

  “Movid stars go to Mars.”

  Carpenter smiled politely at them. “No space trips for us today, gentlemen. We’re staying on Terra.” He guided the bewildered young man through the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number of surface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing for business.

  “Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady, lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rare scents from Algedi.”

  “Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my fine cab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won’t cost you nuttin’—see a passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuing Eliza.”

  “All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your race or your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who rides in the taxi from Earth.”

  “Couldn’t we—couldn’t we walk? At least part of the way?” Michael faltered.

  Carpenter stared. “Walk! Don’t you know it’s forbidden to walk more than two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk.”

  “But they have no feet.”

  “That has nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

  * * * *

  Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab…which reeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. “No, no! Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would break the driver’s heart if he thought you didn’t like it. You wouldn’t want to be had up for ego injury, would you?”

  “Of course not,” Michael whispered weakly.

  “Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer,” the advideo informed him, “when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara.”

  After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five and was able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork, the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, the most cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well as its inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tall helical edifices of the Venusians.

  “You’ll notice that the current medieval revival has even reached architecture,” Carpenter pointed out. “See those period houses in the Frank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?”

  “Very quaint,” Michael commented.

  Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it was still daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped out from the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquire about this, “We now interrupt the commercials,” the advideo said, “to bring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that are becoming so popular…”

  “I shall scream,” stated Carpenter, “if they play Beautiful Blue Deneb just once more… No, thank the Wise Ones, I’ve never heard this before.”

  “Thuban, Thuban, I’ve been thinking,” sang a buxom Betelgeusian, “what a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the wasteful sea.”

  “I guess the first thing for me to do,” Michael began in a businesslike manner, “is to get myself a room at a hotel… What have I said now?”

  “The word hotel,” Carpenter explained through pursed lips, “is not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant connotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think…”

  “Certainly not,” Michael agreed austerely. “I merely want a lodging.”

  “That word is also—well, you see,” Carpenter told him, “on Zaniah it is unthinkable to go anywhere without one’s family.”

  “They’re a sort of ant, aren’t they? The Zaniahans, I mean.”

  “More like bees. So those creatures who travel—” Carpenter lowered his voice modestly “—alone hire a family for the duration of their stay. There are a number of families available, but the better types come rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as much as—if you’ll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would.”

  * * * *

  The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because most nonhumans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical devices.

  “This,” said Carpenter, “is Times Square. Once it wasn’t really square, but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit the existence of anything that isn’t true, so when Nekkar entered the Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.”

  “The pictures in my history books—” Michael began.

  “Did I hear you correctly, sir?” The capes of a bright blue cloak trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. “Did you use the word history?” He pronounced it in terms of loathing. “I have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the police, sir.”

  “Please don’t!” Carpenter begged. “This youth has just come from one of the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe. I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.”

  “Well,” the red one conceded, “let it not be said that Meropians are not tolerant. But, be careful, young man,” he warned Michael. “There are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you might find yourself in trouble.”

  He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his floating platform in the air.

  “I should have told you,” Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian swirled off. “Never mention the word ‘history’ in front of a Meropian. They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven’t any history at all. Naturally, they’re sensitive in the extreme about it.”

  “Naturally,” Michael said. “Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I noticed it along the way and it’s all over here, too.”

  “Why, Christmas is coming, my boy,” Carpenter answered, surprised. “It’s July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Some places are so slack, they haven’t even got their Mother’s Week shrines cleared away.”

  * * * *

  A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over Times Square.

  “Izarians,” Carpenter explained “They’re much in demand for Christmas displays.”

  The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: “It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven’s All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial… Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble’s.”

  “This beautiful walk you see before you,” Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, “shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—”

  “Listen, could we—” Michael began.

  “—Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—”

  “By the way—”

  “It is extremely rude and hence illegal,” Carpenter glared, “to interrupt anyone who is speaking.”

  “But I would like,” Michael whispered very earnestly, “to get washed. If I might.”

  The other man frowned. “Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it’s more
than two hundred yards. Custom, you know.”

  “A taxi? Isn’t there one closer?”

  “Ah, impatient youth! There aren’t too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive.”

  They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.

  Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history—in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign “Public-Washport” riding on its spire.

  Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby. “Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floor right. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floor right. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement…”

  Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sadeyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on wemps, a cross between a harp and a flute.

  “Foreign planets are strange and we’re subject to mange.

  Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious.

  Only with our mind’s eye can we sail through the sky

  to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.”

  The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:

  “Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let’s not be evasive, for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub with grease put up in tins. For others there’s deterging. Some lick themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa.”

  * * * *

  “And now,” smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, “we must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious, but, on the other hand, you mustn’t count credits and ally yourself beneath your station.”

  Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing “Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas” across an aquamarine sky.

  “They won’t be permanent?” he asked. “The family, I mean?”

  “Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you choose. But why are you so anxious?”

  The young man blushed. “Well, I’m thinking of having a family of my own some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.”

  Carpenter beamed. “That’s nice; you’re being adopted! I do hope it’s an Earth family that’s chosen you—it’s so awkward being adopted by extraterrestrials.”

  “Oh, no! I’m planning to have my own. That is, I’ve got a—a girl, you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind in Portyork, I’d send for her and we’d get married and…”

  “Married!” Carpenter was now completely shocked. “You mustn’t use that word! Don’t you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusive possession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha. Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wanted her also; you wouldn’t wish him to endure the frustration of not having her, would you?”

  Michael squared his jaw. “You bet I would.”

  Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination. “This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn’t have a kind heart, I would report you.”

  Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. “You mean if I bring my girl here, I’d have to share her?”

  “Certainly. And she’d have to share you. If somebody wanted you, that is.”

  “Then I’m not staying here,” Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admit even to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. “I don’t think I like it, anyhow. I’m going back to the Brotherhood.”

  There was a short, cold silence.

  “You know, son.” Carpenter finally said, “I think you might be right. I don’t want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won’t hurt your feelings?” he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he might call a policeman for ego injury.

  “You won’t hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannot adapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It’s much better for them to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in one of the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious though they are.”

  “Much better,” Michael agreed.

  “By the way,” Carpenter went on. “I realize this is just vulgar curiosity on my part, and you have a right to refuse an answer without fear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girl when you belong to a Brotherhood?”

  Michael laughed. “Oh, ‘Brotherhood’ is merely a generic term. Both sexes are represented in our society.”

  “On Talitha—” Carpenter began.

  “I know,” Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was and always would be. “But our females don’t mind being generic.”

  * * * *

  A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow, very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to the Lodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howling was getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, it would be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.

  "When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when our sorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed in an urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."

  The advideo crackled : "The gown her fairy godmother once gave to Cinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion- wise Capella."

  The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from the Lodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as if it had been waiting for his return.

  "I see you're back, son," the driver said without surprise. He set the noisy old rockets blasting. "I been to Portyork once. It's not a bad place to live in, but I hate to visit it."

  "I'm back!" Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazed with pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. "I'm back! And a loud sneer to civilization!"

  "Better be careful, son," the driver warned. "I know this is a rural area but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over. How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in for insulting civilization."

  The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purring sound: "Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quick death you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed by skilled workmen from Ancha?"

  Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.

  NOT FIT FOR CHILDREN

  Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, May 1953

  Ppon lowered himself hastily to the orlop and ran toward me. "Hurry up, Qan!" he projected on a sublevel, trying to escape my mother's consciousness. "They're coming! All the others are up already."

  "Who's coming?" my mother wanted to know, but her full interest was absorbed by her work, and she gave us only the side of her mind. "You youngsters really must learn to think clearly."

  "Yes'm." Ppon projected suitable youthful embarrassment, but on a lower level he was giggling. Later I must give him another warning; we young ones could not yet separate the thought channels efficiently, so it was more expedient not to try.

  "The zkuchi are coming," I lied glibly, knowing that the old ones accept inanity as merely a sign of immaturity, "on hundreds of golden wings that beat faster than light."

  Grandfather removed a part of his mind from his beloved work. "The zkuchi are purely mytho
logical creatures," he thought crossly. "You're old enough to know better than that . . . Qana,".he appealed to my mother, "why do you let him believe in such nonsense?"

  "The zkuchi are part of our cultural heritage, Father," she projected gently. "We must not let the young ones forget our heritage. Particularly if we are to be here for some time."

  "It seems to me you're unnecessarily pessimistic," he complained. "You know I've never failed you yet. We shall get back, I promise you. It's just that the transmutation takes time."

  "But it's taken such a long time already," she thought sadly. "Sometimes I begin to have doubts." Then she apparently remembered that serious matters should not be discussed before us young ones. As if we didn't know what was going on. "Run along and play, children," she advised, "but don't forget to check the atmosphere first."

  Grandfather started to excogitate something about how it would be better if Ppon went and helped his father while I stayed and did my lessons—you never seem to escape from lessons anywhere in the Universe—but we got away before he could finish.

  * * * *

  Topside, the others were jumping up and down in their excitement. Ztul, the half-wit, was so upset he actually spoke: "Hurry, Qan, the tourists are coming!"

  "Ztul, you must never, never make words aloud!" I thought fiercely. "The old ones might hear and find out about the game."

  "It's a harmless game," Ppon contributed. "And useful, too. Your grandfather needs the stuff."

  "Yes," I agreed, "but perhaps the old ones wouldn't see it that way. They might even stop the game. Adults have funny ideas, and there's no use asking for trouble."

  There was a chorus of assenting thought from the others. All of us had our family troubles.

  We got to work. Quickly we arranged the interiors of the shelters which we had cleverly built out of materials borrowed from below when the old ones' perceptions were directed elsewhere. The essential structure of the materials had not been changed and could easily be replaced when the time came, but there was no use having to give involved explanations. The old ones never seemed to understand anything.

  At first We had just built the shelters as play huts, but when the first tourists had misunderstood, we had improved upon the original misconception. Now we had a regular street full of rude dwellings. Lucky for us the old ones never came topside.