The Best of Fritz Leiber (27 page)

“First,” he said, eyeing Mr. Wilson, “Money! Because he’s a tyrant, a very Midas who turns the moon to two bits and the green grass to dingy green paper.

“Second,” (Mr. Felton beamed as the stern gaze turned his way). “Success! Because he goes around with the wrong sort of people— I mean the gentleman I referred to first and the lady I’m referring to next.” He looked at Miss Kidd. “Glamour! Because she’s a huzzy who doesn’t play fair. We like girls too much to let them be used to help sell soft drinks.

“And finally,” he went on, turning to Jim Kelly and Mr. Moriarty, “Hurry and Worry! The one because while he’s a good boy on a trip to Mars or the doctor, he’s too hard on our hearts. The other-Worry—because he aids and abets all four aforementioned.”

Mr. Jingles stepped up and began to tootle the funeral march, while dark Mr. Ambrose rumbled his drums ever so softly.

Mr. Goldfarb concluded, “These five are directed to leave town at once without pause or prayer. If they—or any of their equally guilty accomplices, such as Work, War, and Glory—should venture within the town limits during the next three days, we will violate the Constitution and visit upon them various cruel and unusual punishments.”

He rolled up the parchment, folded his arms, stuck out his beard, and said, “Now, get!”

Mr. Wilson stamped on the starter. The exhaust puffed nose-wrinkling blue smoke. The fat black car moved forward ponderously. Ahead the bright-clad people lined up on either side, like rows of flowers.

“Goodbye,” they called.

They waved at Mr. Wilson. “Goodbye, Money.” He stared solemnly ahead, intent on steering.

“Goodbye, Success,” they called to Mr. Felton. Forgetting character, he waved happily back.

“Goodbye, Glamour,” they called to Miss Kidd. She smiled at them scornfully, threw back her shoulders, looked down her plunging neckline, gathered her courage and held her position.

“Goodbye, Hurry. Goodbye, Worry,” they called to
Jim
Kelly and Mr. Moriarty. The latter creased his brow and shook his head doom-fully. The sprinter wildly pleaded with Wilson for more speed.

The car passed between Mason’s Hardware and the town’s sole skyscraper, a ten-story glastic skylon. Buckets of black confetti filled the air, snowed on the car, peppered Miss Kidd with beauty spots. Black paper streamers unrolled lazily downward, snagged chromium grills, dragged behind like a black fringe.

Moving majestically always, the car reached the schoolyard with its new-gathered ranks of children. A line of third and fourth grade boys raised cap pistols and solemnly discharged them. “Goodbye, Hurry. Goodbye, Worry.” A few fourth graders called, “Goodbye, Miss Kidd,” and some added, “Goodbye, themes,” but their voices were lost.

One boy, greatly daring, darted in front of the car, planted two suction cupped black plumes on the hood, and skipped away. They waved like black banderillas in the shoulders of a sluggish black bull.

“Goodbye, Money. Goodbye, Success. Goodbye, Glamour.

“Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”

A half mile out of town, just beyond the flower-gay cemetery, Mr. Wilson parked the fat black car. They all got out and took suitcases from the trunk compartment, changed to regular holiday clothes and strolled back to join the fun, half listening to a bibulous harangue by Mr. Felton on the pros and cons of the Big Holiday.

“Who’s your girl friend this time?” Miss Kidd asked Jim Kelly with teacher-like camaraderie, but he blushed and sidled away without answering.

Two blocks off they could hear Mr. Pullen, the banker, sawing on his fiddle. Right in the dappling shade in front of the courthouse. Mr. Jingles was twittering his flute. Dark Mr. Ambrose was making his drums talk gay. The whole village band was turning its happiness to sound. Around, streams of women were piling tables high. Suddenly there was a rush to the west side of the square. Up Main Street, swept speckless for dancing, creaked a museum carriage, pulled like a rickshaw by half the eighth grade boys. Out of it jumped Mr. Ferguson, the butcher, dressed in a domino, face red with glee. He lifted down a girl dressed in white like a nymph or a bride. Seeing her in the insurance office, you’d never have guessed that Miss Wolzynski could look so pretty.

“Welcome, Friendship! Welcome, Love!”

Up from the back of the carriage, yawning and arm-stretching, rose tall Mr. Gutknecht, teacher and town historian, dressed like an oldtime farmer, with hay in his hair.

“Welcome, Laziness!”

Clang! Up popped a magnesium manhole cover and out shot Joe Turner, the town policeman, dressed in motley with a bladder on a stick.

“Welcome, Fun!”

Fun chased Mr. Ferguson, chased Miss Wolzynski, chased Mr. Gutknecht, who wouldn’t be chased and only yawned as the bladder bounced off his back.

BZZ-bzz. A silver ambulance-copter droned over the square. Down snowed bushels of flowers. Down came a silken line. And down that, on a flower-decked parachute in a flower-decked dress, came Jenny, waitress at the Skylon Cafe. Her hair was so full of flowers you’d need to have seen her before to know it was corn-colored.

“Welcome, Joy!”

Mr. Goldfarb smiled at everything, wiped his forehead and his neck under his beard, and wrapped comradely ringers around a lapel of Mr. Wilson, who had just got back.

“Say,” he said, “did you notice in the last flash that Amalgamated Planetoid shares have climbed to—”

Biff
! Fun’s bladder dented Mr. Goldfarb’s fuzzy Homburg and Fun roared triumphantly, “Caught you talking news, Mr. Goldfarb! Next you’ll be reading inch-thick newspapers, like the ancients did to pass away holidays. The forfeit is to wear your hat upside down for the next three days.”

Mr. Goldfarb shrugged happily, upended the Homburg so he looked like an ancient bearded sailor, and headed for the food tables.

Things got livelier. Rotary, Baptist Church, Volunteer Fire Department, and Space Veterans put on acts and skits—just little stuff, the big shows were for tomorrow: the town’s own live movies on real stages, the town’s own lifesize TV shows without screens, ballets they danced themselves, games they played with their own hands, races they ran with their own feet, poetry they read with their own mouths—not to mention an original epic by Mr. Tomlinson entitled
Roosevelt’s Farewell
.

People laughed, people talked, people milled, people mocked, people got it off their chests. It got dark. Small children were herded off to dormitories to be told wonderful stories by parents who babysat by turns. The square blossomed with bobbing lanterns. People ate quite a bit and drank quite a little. Space was cleared in the street and the dancing started.

Mr. Felton weaved up to Mr. Wilson, decided that this was the man he’d been arguing with in the dark for a long, long time. “Look,” he said with brotherly aggressiveness, “I don’t hold with those folk who say America never had any good holidays and parties until now. Why, America’s the home of holidays.” His aplomb became professorial and his tongue began to trip more lightly than any sober man’s possibly could. “There’s the clambake, the cocktail party, the Sunday school picnic, the convention, the moon-jaunt, the field day, the jam session, the ten-way telephone call, the treasure hunt, the week end, the round-the-world-in-a-day-and-a-half—” He gulped a huge breath and grabbed tight to Mr. Wilson, who showed signs of edging off. “—the pub crawl, the night-to-howl, the barbecue, the wiener roast, the Sunday copter soar, the Kentucky frolic, the county fair, the retreat, the psychodrama, the psychoanalysis, the space-scoot, the blanket party, bundling, the revival, the over-the-top-of-the-world, and the fishing trip!” He waved his arms wildly and proclaimed, “They had Christmas, New Year’s, Labor Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Sweetest Day—oh, and all sorts of holidays a man might enjoy with pleasure and profit. Only—” (and he hiccuped wisely) “—they got just a little too profitable.”

Miss Kidd, dressed like Cleopatra, glided in front of Mr. Wilson. He put his arms around her.

“I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to kiss a schoolteacher,” he said.

“Now you know,” she told him three seconds later.

“Yes, I do,” he agreed in awed tones, as Mr. Felton swayed off through the dancers.

It got real dark. New lights flamed and flared. The music got faster. Miss Kidd danced with Mr. Gutknecht. Mr. Felton swooped around with Mrs. Goldfarb. Mr. Kantarian danced with Mrs. Ferguson. Mr. Gianelli danced with Mrs. Lovesmith. Mr. Moriarty danced with Jenny and the wrinkles danced right off his face, maybe into his ears or under his collar. Octavia Tomlinson went to ask Jim Kelly to dance with her, but he saw her coming and ran away into the dark. So Diana strung a silver arrow to her plastic bow and went hunting.

Joy spun and flowers sprang from her dress, joined those underfoot. Friendship waltzed with Love, Fun cut didoes, while Laziness smiled and snoozed by turns. Dark shopfronts all around the square reflected a whirling rout of colors. But overhead there was nothing to turn back the happy hues and they shot upward, through air untroubled by radio waves or the roar of jets, to join those from a hundred thousand other towns on Earth and Mars, and flash a gay message to the twinkling, friendly stars.

I GLANCED down my neck secretly at the two snowy hillocks, ruby peaked, that were pushing out my blouse tautly without the aid of a brassiere. I decided they’d more than do. So I turned away scornfully as his vast top-down convertible cruised past my street lamp. I struck my hip and a big match against the fluted column, and lit a cigarette. I was Lili Marlene to a T—or rather to a V-neckline. (I must tell you that my command of earth-idiom and allusion is remarkable, but if you’d had my training you wouldn’t wonder.)

The convertible slowed down and backed up. I smiled. I’d been certain that my magnificently formed milk glands would turn the trick. I puffed on my cigarette languorously.

“Hi, Babe!”

Right from the first I’d known it was the man I was supposed to contact. Handsome hatchet face. Six or seven feet tall. Quite a creature. Male, as they say.

I hopped into his car, vaulting over the low door before he opened it. We zoomed off through New York’s purple, smelly twilight.

“What’s your name, Big Male?” I asked him.

Scorning to answer, he stripped me with his eyes. But I had confidence in my
milk
glands. Lord knows, I’d been hours perfecting them.

“Slickie Millane, isn’t it?” I prompted recklessly.

“That’s possible,” he conceded, poker-faced.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” I asked him, nudging him with the leftermost of my beautifully conical milk glands.

“Look here, Babe,” he told me, just a bit coldly, “I’m the one who dispenses sex and justice in this area.”

I snuggled submissively under his encircling right arm, still nudging him now and again with my left milk gland. The convertible sped. The skyscrapers shrank, exfoliated, became countryside. The convertible stopped.

As the hand of his encircling arm began to explore my prize possessions, I drew away a bit, not frustratingly, and informed him, “Slickie dear, I am from Galaxy Center…”

“What’s that—a magazine publisher?” he demanded hotly, being somewhat inflamed by my cool
milk
glands.

“… and we are interested in how sex and justice are dispensed in all areas,” I went on, disregarding his interruption and his somewhat juvenile fondlings. ‘To be bold, we suspect that you may be somewhat misled about this business of sex.”

Vertical, centimeter-deep furrows creased his brow. His head poised above mine like a hawk’s. “What are you talking about, Babe?” he demanded with suspicious rage, even snatching his hands away.

“Briefly, Slickie,” I said, “you do not seem to feel that sex is for the production of progeny or for the mutual solace of two creatures. You seem to think—”

His rage exploded into action. He grabbed a great big gun out of the glove compartment. I sprang to my two transmuted nether tentacles—most handsome gams if I, the artist, do say so. He jabbed the muzzle of the gun into my midriff.

“That’s exactly what I mean, Slickie,” I managed to say before my beautiful midriff, which I’d been at such pains to perfect, erupted into smoke and ghastly red splatter. I did a backward flipflop out of the car and lay still—a most fetching corpse with a rucked-up skirt. As the convertible snorted off triumphantly, I snagged hold of the rear bumper, briefly changing my hand back to a tentacle for better gripping. Before the pavement had abraded more than a few grams of my substance, I pulled myself up onto the bumper, where I proceeded to reconstitute my vanished midriff with material from the air, the rest of my body, and the paint on the trunk case. On this occasion the work went rapidly, with no artistic gropings, since I had the curves memorized from the first time I’d worked them out. Then I touched up my abrasions, stripped myself, whipped myself up a snazzy silver lame evening frock out of chromium from the bumper, and put in time creating costume jewelry out of the tail light and the rest of the chrome.

The car stopped at a bar and Slickie slid out. For a moment his proud profile was silhouetted against the smoky glow. Then he was inside. I threw away the costume jewelry and climbed over the folded top and popped down on the leather-upholstered seat, scarcely a kilogram lighter than when I’d first sat there.

The minutes dragged. To pass them, I mentally reviewed the thousand-and-some basic types of mutual affection on the million-plus planets, not forgetting the one and only basic type of love.

There was a burst of juke-box jazz. Footsteps tracked from the bar toward the convertible. I leaned back comfortably with my silver-filmed
milk
glands dramatically highlighted.

“Hi, Slickie,” I called, making my voice sweet and soft to cushion the shock.

Nevertheless it was a considerable one. For all of ten seconds he stood there, canted forward a little, like a wooden Indian that’s just been nudged from behind and is about to topple.

Then with a naive ingenuity that rather touched me, he asked huskily, “Hey, have you got a twin sister?”