Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol XI, Page 2

  * * * * *

  Edith Williams opened her eyes. Even before she realized that she was lying on the ground and that the figure bending over her was a State Trooper, she remembered the crash. Her head hurt but there was no confusion in her mind. Automatically, even as she tried to sit up, she accepted the fact that there had been a crash, help had come, and she must have been unconscious for several minutes at least.

  "Hey, lady, take it easy!" the Trooper protested. "You had a bad bump. You got to lie still until the ambulance gets here. It'll be along in five minutes."

  "Mark," Edith said, paying no attention. "My husband! Is he all right?"

  "Now lady, please. He's being taken care of. You--"

  But she was not listening. Holding to his arm she pulled herself to a sitting position. She saw their car on its side some yards away, other cars pulled up around them, a little knot of staring people. Saw them and dismissed them. Her gaze found her husband, lying on the ground a few feet away, a coat folded beneath his head.

  Mark was dead. She had been a doctor's wife for twenty years, and before that a nurse. She knew death when she saw it.

  "Mark." The word was spoken to herself, but the Trooper took it for a question.

  "Yes, lady," he said. "He's dead. He was still breathing when I got here, but he died two, three minutes ago."

  She got to her knees. Her only thought was to reach his side. She scrambled across the few feet of ground to him still on her knees and crouched beside him, fumbling for his pulse. There was none. There was nothing. Just a man who had been alive and now was dead.

  Behind her she heard a voice raised. She turned. A large, disheveled man was standing beside the Trooper, talking loudly.

  "Now listen, officer," he was saying, "I'm telling you again, it wasn't my fault. The guy pulled sharp left right in front of me. Not a thing I could do. It's a wonder we weren't all three of us killed. You can see by the marks on their car it wasn't my fault--"

  Edith Williams closed her mind to the voice. She let Mark's hand lie in her lap as she fumbled in her bag, which was somehow still clutched in her fingers. She groped for a handkerchief to stem the tears which would not be held back. Something was in the way--something smooth and hard and cold. She drew it out and heard the thin, sweet tinkle of the crystal bell. She must have dropped it automatically into her bag as they were preparing to leave the house.

  The hand in her lap moved. She gasped and bent forward as her husband's eyes opened.

  "Mark!" she whispered. "Mark, darling!"

  "Edith," Mark Williams said with an effort. "Sorry--damned careless of me. Thinking of the hospital...."

  "You're alive!" she said. "You're alive! Oh, darling, darling, lie still, the ambulance will be here any second."

  "Ambulance?" he protested. "I'm all right now. Help me--sit up."

  "But Mark----"

  "Just a bump on the head." He struggled to sit up. The State Trooper came over.

  "Easy, buddy, easy," he said, his voice awed. "We thought you were gone. Now let's not lose you a second time." His mouth was tight.

  "Hey, I'm sure glad you're all right!" the red-faced man said in a rush of words. "Whew, fellow, you had me all upset, even though it wasn't my fault. I mean, how's a guy gonna keep from hitting you when--when----"

  "Catch him!" Mark Williams cried, but the Trooper was too late. The other man plunged forward to the ground and lay where he had fallen without quivering.

  * * * * *

  The clock in the hall struck two with muted strokes. Cautiously Edith Williams rose on her elbow and looked down at her husband's face. His eyes opened and looked back at her.

  "You're awake," she said, unnecessarily.

  "I woke up a few minutes ago," he answered. "I've been lying here--thinking."

  "I'll get you another phenobarbital. Dr. Amos said for you to take them and sleep until tomorrow."

  "I know. I'll take one presently. You know--hearing that clock just now reminded me of something."

  "Yes?"

  "Just before I came to this afternoon, after the crash, I had a strange impression of hearing a bell ring. It sounded so loud in my ears I opened my eyes to see where it was."

  "A--bell?"

  "Yes. Just auditory hallucination, of course."

  "But Mark--"

  "Yes?"

  "A--a bell did ring. I mean, I had the crystal bell in my bag and it tinkled a little. Do you suppose--"

  "Of course not." But though he spoke swiftly he did not sound convincing. "This was a loud bell. Like a great gong."

  "But--I mean, Mark darling--a moment earlier you--had no pulse."

  "No pulse?"

  "And you weren't--breathing. Then the crystal bell tinkled and you--you...."

  "Nonsense! I know what you're thinking and believe me--it's nonsense!"

  "But Mark." She spoke carefully. "The driver of the other car. You had no sooner regained consciousness than he--"

  "He had a fractured skull!" Dr. Williams interrupted sharply. "The ambulance intern diagnosed it. Skull fractures often fail to show themselves and then--bingo, you keel over. That's what happened. Now let's say no more about it."

  "Of course." In the hall, the clock struck the quarter hour. "Shall I fix the phenobarbital now?"

  "Yes--no. Is David home?"

  She hesitated. "No, he hasn't got back yet."

  "Has he phoned? He knows he's supposed to be in by midnight at the latest."

  "No, he--hasn't phoned. But there's a school dance tonight."

  "That's no excuse for not phoning. He has the old car, hasn't he?"

  "Yes. You gave him the keys this morning, remember?"

  "All the more reason he should phone." Dr. Williams lay silent a moment. "Two o'clock is too late for a 17-year-old boy to be out."

  "I'll speak to him. He won't do it again. Now please, Mark, let me get you the phenobarbital. I'll stay up until David--"

  * * * * *

  The ringing phone, a clamor in the darkness, interrupted her. Mark Williams reached for it. The extension was beside his bed.

  "Hello," he said. And then, although she could not hear the answering voice, she felt him stiffen. And she knew. As well as if she could hear the words she knew, with a mother's instinct for disaster.

  "Yes," Dr. Williams said. "Yes ... I see ... I understand ... I'll come at once.... Thank you for calling."

  He slid out of bed before she could stop him.

  "An emergency call." He spoke quietly. "I have to go." He began to throw on his clothes.

  "It's David," she said. "Isn't it?" She sat up. "Don't try to keep me from knowing. It's about David."

  "Yes," he said. His voice was very tired. "David is hurt. I have to go to him. An accident."

  "He's dead." She said it steadily. "David's dead, isn't he, Mark?"

  He came over and sat beside her and put his arms around her.

  "Edith," he said. "Edith--Yes, he's dead. Forty minutes ago. The car--went over a curve. They have him--at the County morgue. They want me to--identify him. Identify him. Edith! You see, the car caught fire!"

  "I'm coming with you," she said. "I'm coming with you!"

  * * * * *

  The taxi waited in a pool of darkness between two street lights. The long, low building which was the County morgue, a blue lamp over its door, stood below the street level. A flight of concrete steps went down to it from the sidewalk. Ten minutes before, Dr. Mark Williams had gone down those steps. Now he climbed back up them, stiffly, wearily, like an old man.

  Edith was waiting in the taxi, sitting forward on the edge of the seat, hands clenched. As he reached the last step she opened the door and stepped out.

  "Mark," she asked shakily, "was it--"

  "Yes, it's David." His voice was a monotone. "Our son. I've completed the formalities. For now the only thing we can do is go home."

  "I'm going to him!" She tried to pass. He caught her wrist. Discretely the taxi driver pretended to doze.

>   "No, Edith! There's no need. You mustn't--see him!"

  "He's my son!" she cried. "Let me go!"

  "No! What have you got under your coat?"

  "It's the bell, the rose-crystal bell!" she cried. "I'm going to ring it where David can hear!"

  Defiantly she brought forth her hand, clutching the little bell. "It brought you back, Mark! Now it's going to bring back David!"

  "Edith!" he said in horror. "You mustn't believe that's possible. You can't. Those were coincidences. Now let me have it."

  "No! I'm going to ring it." Violently she tried to break out of his grip. "I want David back! I'm going to ring the bell!"

  She got her hand free. The crystal bell rang in the quiet of the early morning with an eerie thinness, penetrating the silence like a silver knife.

  "There!" Edith Williams panted. "I've rung it. I know you don't believe, but I do. It'll bring David back." She raised her voice. "David!" she called. "David, son! Can you hear me?"

  "Edith," Dr. Williams groaned. "You're just tormenting yourself. Come home. Please come home."

  "Not until David has come back.... David, David, can you hear me?" She rang the bell again, rang it until Dr. Williams seized it, then she let him take it.

  "Edith, Edith," he groaned. "If only you had let me come alone...."

  "Mark, listen!"

  "What?"

  "Listen!" she whispered with fierce urgency.

  He was silent. And then fingers of horror drew themselves down his spine at the clear, youthful voice that came up to them from the darkness below.

  "Mother?... Dad?... Where are you?"

  "David!" Edith Williams breathed. "It's David! Let me go! I must go to him."

  "No, Edith!" her husband whispered frantically, as the voice below called again.

  "Dad?... Mother?... Are you up there? Wait for me."

  "Let me go!" she sobbed. "David, we're here! We're up here, son!"

  "Edith!" Mark Williams gasped. "If you've ever loved me, listen to me. You mustn't go down there. David--I had to identify him by his class ring and his wallet. He was burned--terribly burned!"

  "I'm going to him!" She wrenched herself free and sped for the steps, up which now was coming a tall form, a shadow shrouded in the darkness.

  Dr. Williams, horror knotting his stomach, leaped to stop her. But he slipped and fell headlong on the pavement, so that she was able to pant down the stairs to meet the upcoming figure.

  "Oh, David," she sobbed, "David!"

  "Hey, Mom!" The boy held her steady. "I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry. But I didn't know what had happened until I got home and you weren't there and then one of the fellows from the fraternity called me. I realized they must have made a mistake, and you'd come here, and I called for a taxi and came out here. My taxi let me off at the entrance around the block, and I've been looking for you down there.... Poor Pete!"

  "Pete?" she asked.

  "Pete Friedburg. He was driving the old car. I lent him the keys and my driver's license. I shouldn't have--but he's older and he kept begging me...."

  "Then--then it's Pete who was killed?" she gasped. "Pete who was--burned?"

  "Yes, Pete. I feel terrible about lending him the car. But he was supposed to be a good driver. And then them calling you, you and Dad thinking it was me--"

  "Then Mark was right. Of course he was right." She was laughing and sobbing now. "It's just a bell, a pretty little bell, that's all."

  "Bell? I don't follow you, Mom."

  "Never mind," Edith Williams gasped. "It's just a bell. It hasn't any powers over life and death. It doesn't bring back and it doesn't take away. But let's get back up to your father. He may be thinking that the bell--that the bell really worked."

  They climbed the rest of the steps. Dr. Mark Williams still lay where he had fallen headlong on the pavement. The cab driver was bending over him, but there was nothing to be done. The crystal bell had been beneath him when he fell, and it had broken. One long, fine splinter of crystal was embedded in his heart.

  * * *

  Contents

  THIS CROWDED EARTH

  By Robert Bloch

  1. Harry Collins—1997

  The telescreen lit up promptly at eight a.m. Smiling Brad came on with his usual greeting. "Good morning—it's a beautiful day in Chicagee!"

  Harry Collins rolled over and twitched off the receiver. "This I doubt," he muttered. He sat up and reached into the closet for his clothing.

  Visitors—particularly feminine ones—were always exclaiming over the advantages of Harry's apartment. "So convenient," they would say. "Everything handy, right within reach. And think of all the extra steps you save!"

  Of course most of them were just being polite and trying to cheer Harry up. They knew damned well that he wasn't living in one room through any choice of his own. The Housing Act was something you just couldn't get around; not in Chicagee these days. A bachelor was entitled to one room—no more and no less. And even though Harry was making a speedy buck at the agency, he couldn't hope to beat the regulations.

  There was only one way to beat them and that was to get married. Marriage would automatically entitle him to two rooms—if he could find them someplace.

  More than a few of his feminine visitors had hinted at just that, but Harry didn't respond. Marriage was no solution, the way he figured it. He knew that he couldn't hope to locate a two-room apartment any closer than eighty miles away. It was bad enough driving forty miles to and from work every morning and night without doubling the distance. If he did find a bigger place, that would mean a three-hour trip each way on one of the commutrains, and the commutrains were murder. The Black Hole of Calcutta, on wheels.

  But then, everything was murder, Harry reflected, as he stepped from the toilet to the sink, from the sink to the stove, from the stove to the table.

  Powdered eggs for breakfast. That was murder, too. But it was a fast, cheap meal, easy to prepare, and the ingredients didn't waste a lot of storage space. The only trouble was, he hated the way they tasted. Harry wished he had time to eat his breakfasts in a restaurant. He could afford the price, but he couldn't afford to wait in line more than a half-hour or so. His office schedule at the agency started promptly at ten-thirty. And he didn't get out until three-thirty; it was a long, hard five-hour day. Sometimes he wished he worked in the New Philly area, where a four-hour day was the rule. But he supposed that wouldn't mean any real saving in time, because he'd have to live further out. What was the population in New Philly now? Something like 63,000,000, wasn't it? Chicagee was much smaller—only 38,000,000, this year.

  This year. Harry shook his head and took a gulp of the Instantea. Yes, this year the population was 38,000,000, and the boundaries of the community extended north to what used to be the old Milwaukee and south past Gary. What would it be like next year, and the year following?

  Lately that question had begun to haunt Harry. He couldn't quite figure out why. After all, it was none of his business, really. He had a good job, security, a nice place just two hours from the Loop. He even drove his own car. What more could he ask?

  And why did he have to start the day like this, with a blinding headache?

  Harry finished his Instantea and considered the matter. Yes, it was beginning again, just as it had on almost every morning for the past month. He'd sit down at the table, eat his usual breakfast, and end up with a headache. Why?

  It wasn't the food; for a while he'd deliberately varied his diet, but that didn't make any difference. And he'd had his usual monthly checkup not more than ten days ago, only to be assured there was nothing wrong with him. Still, the headaches persisted. Every morning, when he'd sit down and jerk his head to the left like this—

  That was it. Jerking his head to the left. It always seemed to trigger the pain. But why? And where had he picked up this habit of jerking his head to the left?

  Harry didn't know.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine, now. High time that he got sta
rted. He reached over to the interapartment video and dialled the garage downstairs.

  "Bill," he said. "Can you bring my car around to Number Three?"

  The tiny face in the hand-screen grinned sheepishly. "Mr. Collins, ain't it? Gee, I'm sorry, Mr. Collins. Night crew took on a new man, he must have futzed around with the lists, and I can't find your number."

  Harry sighed. "It's one-eight-seven-three-dash-five," he said. "Light blue Pax, two-seater. Do you want the license number, too?"

  "No, just your parking number. I'll recognize it when I see it. But God only knows what level it's on. That night man really—"

  "Never mind," Harry interrupted. "How soon?"

  "Twenty minutes or so. Maybe half an hour."

  "Half an hour? I'll be late. Hurry it up!"

  Harry clicked the video and shook his head. Half an hour! Well, you had to expect these things if you wanted to be independent and do your own driving today. If he wanted to work his priority through the office, he could get his application honored on the I.C. Line within a month. But the I.C. was just another commutrain, and he couldn't take it. Standing and swaying for almost two hours, fighting the crowds, battling his way in and out of the sidewalk escalators. Besides, there was always the danger of being crushed. He'd seen an old man trampled to death on a Michigan Boulevard escalator-feeder, and he'd never forgotten it.

  Being afraid was only a partial reason for his reluctance to change. The worst thing, for Harry, was the thought of all those people; the forced bodily contact, the awareness of smothered breathing, odors, and the crushing confinement of flesh against flesh. It was bad enough in the lines, or on the streets. The commutrain was just too much.

  Yet, as a small boy, Harry could remember the day when he'd loved such trips. Sitting there looking out of the window as the scenery whirled past—that was always a thrill when you were a little kid. How long ago had that been? More than twenty years, wasn't it?

  Now there weren't any seats, and no windows. Which was just as well, probably, because the scenery didn't whirl past any more, either. Instead, there was a stop at every station on the line, and a constant battle as people jockeyed for position to reach the exit-doors in time.