The Huddlers, Page 3

to bed."

  She laughed. "Public transportation? Freddy, you don't know this town.There isn't any. Did you just get here, tonight?"

  I looked at her, and nodded.

  "On the bum?" she said quietly.

  "I--suppose," I said honestly, "though the word has connotations whichdon't describe me." I put my hand in my jacket pocket and fumbled in theopen bag for one of the smaller diamonds. I brought one out about thesize of my little finger nail, and placed it on the table.

  All the light in the room seemed to be suddenly imprisoned there. Shestared at it, and up at me.

  "Fred--for heaven's sake--that's not--real, is it?"

  I nodded.

  "But--it--" She glanced from the diamond to me, her mouth partiallyopen. "Fred, what kind of monstrous gag is this? God, I thought I'd seeneverything, growing up in this town. Fred--"

  "I'd like to sell it," I said. "You, Jean, are my only friend in thistown. Could you help me arrange for its sale?"

  She was looking at me with wonder now, studying me. "Hot?" she asked.

  "Hot--?"

  "Stolen--you know what I mean."

  "Stolen? Jean, you didn't mean to accuse me of that."

  Skepticism was ugly on her lovely face. "Fred, what's your angle? Youstep out of the darkness like some man from Mars in a strange suit, withno money, but a diamond that must be worth--"

  "We'll learn what it's worth," I said. "Mars isn't inhabited, Jean.Don't you trust me? Have I done anything to cause you to distrust me?"

  "Nothing," she said.

  "Do you distrust all men, Jean?"

  "No. Just the ones I've met. Oh, baby, and I thought you were a farmer."She was crushing out her cigarette. "You haven't a place to stay, butI've got a guest house, and you'll stay there, tonight. You aren'tstepping back into the darkness, tonight, Fred Werig. You, I want toknow about."

  The words held a threat, but not her meaning, I was sure. And whatbetter way to orient myself than in the home of a friend?

  * * * * *

  That was some home she had. Massive, in an architecture I'd assumed wasconfined to the south-eastern United States. Two-story place, with huge,two-story pillars and a house-wide front porch, the great lawn studdedwith giant trees.

  And she lived there alone, excepting for the servants. She was nohuddler, and I told her that.

  "Dad owned a lot of property in this town," she said. "He was a greatbeliever in the future of this town."

  At the time I didn't understand what that had to do with her lack ofhuddling.

  The guest house was small, but very comfortable, a place of threebedrooms and two baths and a square living room with a natural stonefireplace.

  I had my first night of sleep on this planet, and slept very well. Iwoke to a cloudy morning, and the sound of someone knocking on the frontdoor.

  It was a servant, and she said, "Miss Decker sent me to inform you thatbreakfast will be ready any time you want it, sir. We are eating inside,this morning, because of the cold."

  "I'll be there, soon, thank you," I said, and she went away.

  Showering, I was thinking of Akers for some reason and his directedtheory and what was that other theory he'd had? Oh, yes, the twinplanets. Senile, he was, by that time and not much listened to, but amind like that? And who had he been associated with at that time? It wasbefore my birth, but I'd read about it, long ago. The Visitor, Akers hadcalled this man. The Earth man who had come to Venus. And what had hisname been?

  Beer--? Beers--? No, but like that--and it came.

  Ambrose Bierce.

  Jean wore a light green robe, for breakfast, and it was difficult for meto take my eyes away from her.

  "I'm not usually this informal at mixed breakfasts," she told me,smiling, "but I thought it might warm up enough for a swim a littlelater."

  She threw the robe aside, and I saw she was wearing a scanty garmentbeneath it. Evidently the huddlers didn't swim naked, and I wondered ata moral code that sanctioned drinking alcohol but was ashamed of thehuman body.

  I was glad the house had been cold when I answered the maid's summons,for I had worn a robe I'd found there.

  Fruit juice and wheat cakes and sausage and toast and jelly and eggs andmilk. We ate in a small room, off a larger dining room, a small roomwhose walls were glass on two sides.

  "It's too old a house to modernize completely," Jean told me. "I grew upin this house."

  "You don't--work, Jean?"

  "No. Should I?"

  "Work or study. Life must be very dull if you don't do one of those."

  "You might have a point there," she said. "I tried everything from themovies to sculpture. I wasn't very good at anything. What do you do,Fred?"

  "I'm a perpetual guest," I said lightly. "Do you read much, Jean?"

  "Too much, though nothing very heavy, I grant you."

  "Have you ever read about a man named Ambrose Bierce?"

  "I've read everything he ever wrote. Why did you ask that, Fred?"

  "I--heard about him. I wondered who he was."

  "Where did you hear about him, Fred? In Mexico?"

  "No. I don't remember where I heard about him."

  "He disappeared," she said quietly, "some time right before the firstworld war. I've forgotten the exact year. I think it was 1914."

  Before the war, before the "first" war.... And I thought of Jars' wife,who had come to us just before this last planetary war--the "second"world war. And what was his pet name for her? Guest, he called her, andjoked about her coming from another world. But didn't Jars defend thediscredited late-in-life theories of Akers? I tried to remember the nameof Jars' wife, and then it came.

  I asked, "And Amelia Earhart?"

  Jean's voice was rough. "July 2nd, 1937. I guess I'll never forget that,when my god died. What are you trying to say? Is it some new damned cultyou're promoting, Fred?"

  "You called her a god. Why, Jean?"

  "I don't know. I was only thirteen when she died. But she was so clean,so--so free and windswept, so--oh, what the spirit of America shouldbe--and isn't."

  I looked up to see tears in her eyes. Why was she moved? This girl whocertainly knew corruption, this worldly, lovely girl. I smiled at her.

  She wiped the tears with the back of her hand. "Fred, you are thestrangest--I know this town's a zoo, but you, Fred--"

  I continued to smile at her. "I'm just a guy trying to learn. May Irepeat something I said last night? You're beautiful, Jean."

  "You're no three-headed calf, yourself," she said.

  Twin planets and parallel evolution.... Parallel destiny? Not with athird planetary war shaping up here. Three major wars in less than fiftyyears. Why, why, why....

  She said, "Thinking, again? You do a lot of thinking, don't you?"

  "I have to think of something besides you," I told her honestly. "Ican't afford to fall in love with you, Jean. I've too many places to goand too many things to see."

  She just stared at me. It must have been a full minute before she said,"Well, I'll be damned."

  After breakfast, it was still cold, and she said, "There'll be no swimthis morning, I see. If you want to get an appraisal on that diamond,Fred, I'll phone one of our jewelers to come out."

  "I'd appreciate that," I said. "Would it be all right if I took thesenewspapers back to my room, now?"

  "Just dandy," she said. "Sorry to be boring you."

  "You're not," I told her earnestly. "Believe me, you're not."

  * * * * *

  The papers were interesting. Nowhere was it stated, but a glance at thefront pages showed they were on opposite sides of the political fence.On my planet, we keep the editorial opinion in the editorial columns.Not so with these. The wire services were impartial and the accounts inboth papers identical. That was as far as the similarities went. Readingthe other accounts was like living in two worlds.

  An informed people will always be free. Well, perhaps these weren'ttypical.
/>
  I was to see papers a lot worse than these before long.

  I was just starting the want ads when the knock came at the door. It wasthe maid, again; the jeweler was at the house.

  A small man, suave and dark, with the manners of a diplomat, fawninglike a puppy.

  It was a perfect stone, he decided. He had, he was sure, a customer whowould be interested. Would I accept eight thousand dollars for it?

  I said I would, and he left.

  We were in the living room, and Jean stood near the tall front windows.She had changed to a suit of some soft blue material.

  "As soon as I get the money," I said, "we're going out for some fun,aren't we? I owe you for a beef barbecue."

  "You don't owe me anything," she said. She didn't look at me.

  "You'll get over him," I said.

  "Him--?" She turned to look at me curiously.

  "That man you're in love with, that man you told me about last night."

  "Oh," she said. "Oh. I was drunk last night, Fred. I'm not in love."

  Silence. That attraction of hers pulling at me like some localizedgravity, silence, and the beating of my heart. Silence, my handstrembling, my knees aching.

  "I'd like to see some fights," I said. "Would you like to?"

  She frowned. "Not particularly." She stared at me, shook her head, andlooked away.

  "Well," I said, "I haven't finished the want ads."

  "Of course," she said. "Get right back to them, Freddy. You never knowwhen you'll find a bargain."

  They weren't very interesting. I kept seeing her standing next to thewindow, looking unhappy, frustrated, somehow. I kept seeing the softfabric of the suit clinging to her beautiful body and the proud grace ofher posture.

  I went back to the house, and she was sitting on the davenport near thefireplace. She looked up without expression.

  I asked, "Is there a library around here?"

  She sighed, and rose. She said, "Follow me."

  She led me to a room whose four walls were lined with books. There was awide glass door leading out from this to the patio.

  "Dad's old retreat," she said. "Everything from Aristotle to Zola. Ifthere's something you don't see, don't hesitate to ask. We aim toplease."

  She closed the door behind her.

  I didn't gorge; I only nibbled. But fed enough to realize this was adeep, rich culture; this planet had produced some first rate minds andexceptional talents. But still, with all this to choose from, the peopleseemed to prefer Milton Berle. And the people were in command.

  I was reading Ambrose Bierce when she came in. She looked at the book,and at me. "Lunch," she said quietly.

  I put the book down, and rose. "The unwelcome guest?"

  "I'd tell you, if you were."

  "Would you, honestly?"

  She didn't answer that. She smiled, and said, "There are some fights atOcean Park, tonight."

  We saw those, and later, some amateur fights. Strange spectacles theywere, men belaboring each other, but fascinating, too. The amateurs wereless talented, but more friendly, leaving the ring arm in arm, if bothwere still conscious. The professionals displayed no such amicability.

  Why? I asked Jean. What was the difference between the amateurs and theprofessionals?

  "Money," she said, and looked at me strangely. "Didn't you really knowthat?"

  I lied with a nod. "I wanted you to see it, and to word it foryourself."

  "Look," she said with controlled irritation, "if I want any curbstonephilosophy, I can read one of those corny columnists. I certainly don'thave to sit in a screaming mob watching a couple of morons pound eachother bloody to arrive at a stupid generality like that."

  "Let's get a hamburger," I said.

  She just stood there, on the sidewalk. "You--you--"

  People were turning to stare.

  "Farmer?" I suggested.

  "Oh," she said, "oh, oh--"

  "Or a cheeseburger," I added.

  There was a small crowd, now, openly watching. One man said, "Hey, thisis better than them jerks inside. Slug him, lady."

  Jean started to laugh, and so did I, and then all of us were laughing,the whole crowd.

  We didn't go to a hamburger place. We went to a place where we coulddance, too, and I had a small glass of wine, and wondered why we'doutgrown alcohol, on our planet.

  It was a night I will never forget. It was a night I learned how muchshe meant to me. There wasn't ever going to be anybody else for me,after that night.

  * * * * *

  We were married in Las Trenos at five-thirty the next morning.

  And still, I didn't tell her where I was from. When the time came, shecould go back with me, but I couldn't risk sharing that secret with her.I didn't have the right to jeopardize my people by giving herinformation she might divulge unintentionally.

  The world was our playground, and my study hall American first. We droveeast, taking our time, while I tried to get the temper of the people. Inever overlooked a chance to talk to people; the papers were nosubstitute for that. And between the papers and the people, I found thatonly the hysterics were voluble, only the biased articulate. And yet, itwas a country with a liberal and progressive tradition, a country thatshould have been informed beyond the average.

  Knowledge had been made too easy; the glib were in command.

  Fear, Jars had said, and it was becoming increasingly clear to me thathe was closer to it than Deering. For Deering's viewpoint, I had aworking model, I had Jean.

  In the canyon city, New York, high in our room at the Empire-Hudson, shesaid, "You're an awfully nosy guy, Dream Boat."

  "I like to talk to people," I said. "Haven't you been getting enoughattention?"

  "As much as I can handle," she said. "And I'm enjoying every second ofit. But it seems to be getting you down."

  "You or the people?" I asked, and mussed her hair.

  She didn't answer that. "Fred," she said, "do you remember that day atbreakfast, long ago? Do you remember asking about Ambrose Bierce andAmelia Earhart?"

  "I guess I do."

  "Don't be evasive, Fred. You know you do."

  I pulled her close. "Is this going to be a questioning period? Is thisone of _those_ marriages?"

  "Now, Fred--" she said, against my shoulder. "Be serious, please, Fred.Please be serious--oh, you, Fred--"

  * * * * *

  We went to England. What's that phrase they have--"muddling through"?That's what they were doing. Proudly, with a minimum of complaint, withno thought of rebellion, with no rationalizing or projection, living asthe submerged tenth lives in America, and seeming to think that--well,things _could_ be worse.

  In Italy, it was the kids, the beggars and procurers and thieves andeven murderers who were kids. In Spain we found much of the same. InFrance it was all the heat and no light, charges and counter-charges,lies and counter-lies, confusion and corruption.

  In Berlin, it was Russia. The cloud that darkens the world looms darkestin Berlin. The apathy that grips the world is epitomized in Berlin. Apeople with no sense of guilt and no reason for hope, nor stirring tothe promise of a re-armed Germany. A bled and devastated people, shornof their chief strength, their national pride.

  Jean said, "I've seen enough. Haven't you, Fred? How much can you take?"

  "One more," I said. "Russia."

  "Don't be silly," she said. "How would we get into Russia?"

  "_We_ wouldn't. But _I_ would."

  "Look, baby, whither though goest, I--"

  "Up to here," I said. "Who's the big boss in this family?"

  "Now, Fred--"

  "Now, Jean--"

  "Get away from me. This time, it won't work. If you think that for onesecond you're going into that no man's land alone--and--"

  It took some talking, to convince her, it took some lies. She'd wait,she agreed finally, in Switzerland. In comfort for a change.

  It took two diamonds to get to the right m
an, and it took a formula fromthere. A formula that is learned in the first year of college chemistryon my planet, a formula for converting an element. A formula this planetcouldn't have been more than a decade short of learning, anyway.

  The last man I saw in Berlin went along, for which I was grateful,though he didn't know that. I don't speak Russian, but he did.

  They were careful, they don't even trust themselves. I told Nilenoff theformula came from America, and there were more, but I needed money. Ididn't tell him the fallacy in the formula; it had taken us three yearsto realize what it was.

  My trips were limited, directed, and avoided the seamier side. I saw themodern humming factories, and the mammoth farms. No unemployment, nowaste, no "capitalistic blood sucking"--and the lowest standard ofliving in the industrialized world. A vast, bleak land peopled withstringless puppets, with walking cadavers.

  I remembered the faces of the crowds and the strangely mixed people inAmerica, their obvious