Short Fiction

The Beautiful People

Mary sat quietly and watched the handsome man’s legs blown off; watched further as the great ship began to crumple and break into small pieces in the middle of the blazing night. She fidgeted slightly as the men and the parts of the men came floating dreamily through the wreckage out into the awful silence. And when the meteorite shower came upon the men, gouging holes through everything, tearing flesh and ripping bones, Mary closed her eyes.

“Mother.”

Mrs. Cuberle glanced up from her magazine.

“Hmm?”

“Do we have to wait much longer?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

Mary said nothing but looked at the moving wall.

“Oh, that.” Mrs. Cuberle laughed and shook her head. “That tired old thing. Read a magazine, Mary, like I’m doing. We’ve all seen that a million times.”

“Does it have to be on, Mother?”

“Well, nobody seems to be watching. I don’t think the doctor would mind if I switched it off.”

Mrs. Cuberle rose from the couch and walked to the wall. She depressed a little button and the life went from the wall, flickering and glowing.

Mary opened her eyes.

“Honestly,” Mrs. Cuberle said to a woman sitting beside her, “you’d think they’d try to get something else. We might as well go to the museum and watch the first landing on Mars. The Mayoraka Disaster⁠—really!”

The woman replied without distracting her eyes from the magazine page. “It’s the doctor’s idea. Psychological.”

Mrs. Cuberle opened her mouth and moved her head up and down knowingly.

“Ohhh. I should have known there was some reason. Still, who watches it?”

“The children do. Makes them think, makes them grateful or something.”

“Ohhh.”

“Psychological.”

Mary picked up a magazine and leafed through the pages. All photographs, of women and men. Women like Mother and like the others in the room; slender, tanned, shapely, beautiful women; and men with large muscles and shiny hair. Women and men, all looking alike, all perfect and beautiful. She folded the magazine and wondered how to answer the questions that would be asked.

“Mother⁠—”

“Gracious, what is it now! Can’t you sit still for a minute?”

“But we’ve been here three hours.”

Mrs. Cuberle sniffed.

“Do⁠—do I really have to?”

“Now don’t be silly, Mary. After those terrible things you told me, of course you do.”

An olive-skinned woman in a transparent white uniform came into the reception room.

“Cuberle. Mrs. Zena Cuberle?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor will see you now.”

Mrs. Cuberle took Mary’s hand and they walked behind the nurse down a long corridor.

A man who seemed in his middle twenties looked up from a desk. He smiled and gestured toward two adjoining chairs.

“Well⁠—well.”

“Doctor Hortel, I⁠—”

The doctor snapped his fingers.

“Of course, I know. Your daughter. Ha ha, I certainly do know your trouble. Get so many of them nowadays⁠—takes up most of my time.”

“You do?” asked Mrs. Cuberle. “Frankly, it had begun to upset me.”

“Upset? Hmm. Not good. Not good at all. Ah, but then⁠—if people did not get upset, we psychiatrists would be out of a job, eh? Go the way of the early M. D. But, I assure you, I need hear no more.” He turned his handsome face to Mary. “Little girl, how old are you?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

“Oh, a real bit of impatience. It’s just about time, of course. What might your name be?”

“Mary.”

“Charming! And so unusual. Well now, Mary, may I say that I understand your problem⁠—understand it thoroughly?”

Mrs. Cuberle smiled and smoothed the sequins on her blouse.

“Madam, you have no idea how many there are these days. Sometimes it preys on their minds so that it affects them physically, even mentally. Makes them act strange, say peculiar, unexpected things. One little girl I recall was so distraught she did nothing but brood all day long. Can you imagine!”

“That’s what Mary does. When she finally told me, doctor, I thought she had gone⁠—you know.”

“That bad, eh? Afraid we’ll have to start a re-education program, very soon, or they’ll all be like this. I believe I’ll suggest it to the senator day after tomorrow.”

“I don’t quite understand, doctor.”

“Simply, Mrs. Cuberle, that the children have got to be thoroughly instructed. Thoroughly. Too much is taken for granted and childish minds somehow refuse to accept things without definite reason. Children have become far too intellectual, which, as I trust I needn’t remind you, is a dangerous thing.”

“Yes, but what has this to do with⁠—”

“With Mary? Everything, of course. Mary, like half the sixteen, seventeen and eighteen year olds today, has begun to feel acutely self-conscious. She feels that her body has developed sufficiently for the Transformation⁠—which of course it has not, not quite yet⁠—and she cannot understand the complex reasons that compel her to wait until some future date. Mary looks at you, at the women all about her, at the pictures, and then she looks into a mirror. From pure perfection of body, face, limbs, pigmentation, carriage, stance, from simon-pure perfection, if I may be allowed the expression, she sees herself and is horrified. Isn’t that so, my dear child? Of course⁠—of course. She asks herself, why must I be hideous, unbalanced, oversize, undersize, full of revolting skin eruptions, badly schemed organically? In short, Mary is tired of being a monster and is overly anxious to achieve what almost everyone else has already achieved.”

“But⁠—” said Mrs. Cuberle.

“This much you understand, doubtless. Now, Mary, what you object to is that our society offers you, and the others like you, no convincing logic on the side of waiting until age nineteen. It is all taken for granted, and you want to know why! It is that simple. A nontechnical explanation will not suffice⁠—mercy no! The modern child wants facts, solid technical data, to satisfy her every question. And that, as you can both see, will take a good deal of reorganizing.”

“But⁠—” said Mary.

“The child is upset, nervous, tense; she acts strange, peculiar, odd, worries you and makes herself ill because it is beyond our meagre powers to put it across. I tell you, what we need is a whole new basis for learning. And, that will take doing. It will take doing, Mrs. Cuberle. Now, don’t you worry about Mary, and don’t you worry, child. I’ll prescribe some pills and⁠—”

“No, no, doctor! You’re all mixed up,” cried Mrs. Cuberle.

“I beg your pardon, Madam?”

“What I mean is, you’ve got it wrong. Tell him, Mary, tell the doctor what you told me.”

Mary shifted uneasily in the chair.

“It’s that⁠—I don’t want it.”

The doctor’s well-proportioned jaw dropped.

“Would you please repeat that?”

“I said, I don’t want the Transformation.”

“D⁠—Don’t want it?”

“You see? She told me. That’s why I came to you.”

The doctor looked at Mary suspiciously.

“But that’s impossible! I have never heard of such a thing. Little girl, you are playing a joke!”

Mary nodded negatively.

“See, doctor. What can it be?” Mrs. Cuberle rose and began to pace.

The Doctor clucked his tongue and took from a small cupboard a black box covered with buttons and dials and wire.

“Oh no, you don’t think⁠—I mean, could it?”

“We shall soon see.” The doctor revolved a number of dials and studied the single bulb in the center of the box. It did not flicker. He removed handles from Mary’s head.

“Dear me,” the doctor said, “dear me. Your daughter is perfectly sane, Mrs. Cuberle.”

“Well, then what is it?”

“Perhaps she is lying. We haven’t completely eliminated that factor as yet; it slips into certain organisms.”

More tests. More machines and more negative results.

Mary pushed her foot in a circle on the floor. When the doctor put his hands to her shoulders, she looked up pleasantly.

“Little girl,” said the handsome man, “do you actually mean to tell us that you prefer that body?”

“Yes sir.”

“May I ask why.”

“I like it. It’s⁠—hard to explain, but it’s me and that’s what I like. Not the looks, maybe, but the me.”

“You can look in the mirror and see yourself, then look at⁠—well, at your mother and be content?”

“Yes, sir.” Mary thought of her reasons; fuzzy, vague, but very definitely there. Maybe she had said the reason. No. Only a part of it.

“Mrs. Cuberle,” the doctor said, “I suggest that your husband have a long talk with Mary.”

“My husband is dead. That affair near Ganymede, I believe. Something like that.”

“Oh, splendid. Rocket man, eh? Very interesting organisms. Something always seems to happen to rocket men, in one way or another. But⁠—I suppose we should do something.” The doctor scratched his jaw. “When did she first start talking this way,” he asked.

“Oh, for quite some time. I used to think it was because she was such a baby. But lately, the time getting so close and all, I thought I’d better see you.”

“Of course, yes, very wise. Er⁠—does she also do odd things?”

“Well, I found her on the second level one night. She was lying on the floor and when I asked her what she was doing, she said she was trying to sleep.”

Mary flinched. She was sorry, in a way, that Mother had found that out.

“To⁠—did you say ‘sleep’?”

“That’s right.”

“Now where could she have picked that up?”

“No idea.”

“Mary, don’t you know that nobody sleeps anymore? That we have an infinitely greater lifespan than our poor ancestors now that the wasteful state of unconsciousness has been conquered? Child, have you actually slept? No one knows how anymore.”

“No sir, but I almost did.”

The doctor sighed. “But, it’s unheard of! How could you begin to try to do something people have forgotten entirely about?”

“The way it was described in the book, it sounded nice, that’s all.” Mary was feeling very uncomfortable now. Home and no talking man in a foolish white gown.⁠ ⁠…

“Book, book? Are there books at your Unit, Madam?”

“There could be⁠—I haven’t cleaned up in a while.”

“That is certainly peculiar. I haven’t seen a book for years. Not since ’17.”

Mary began to fidget and stare nervously about.

“But with the tapes, why should you try and read books⁠—where did you get them?”

“Daddy did. He got them from his father and so did Grandpa. He said they’re better than the tapes and he was right.”

Mrs. Cuberle flushed.

“My husband was a little strange, Doctor Hortel. He kept those things despite everything I said.”

“Dear me, I⁠—excuse me.”

The muscular, black-haired doctor walked to another cabinet and selected from the shelf a bottle. From the bottle he took two large pills and swallowed them.

“Sleep⁠—books⁠—doesn’t want the Transformation⁠—Mrs. Cuberle, my dear good woman, this is grave. Doesn’t want the Transformation. I would appreciate it if you would change psychiatrists: I am very busy and, uh, this is somewhat specialized. I suggest Centraldome. Many fine doctors there. Goodbye.”

The doctor turned and sat down in a large chair and folded his hands. Mary watched him and wondered why the simple statements should have so changed things. But the doctor did not move from the chair.

“Well!” said Mrs. Cuberle and walked quickly from the room.

The man’s legs were being blown off again as they left the reception room.

Mary considered the reflection in the mirrored wall. She sat on the floor and looked at different angles of herself: profile, full-face, full length, naked, clothed. Then she took up the magazine and studied it. She sighed.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall⁠—” The words came haltingly to her mind and from her lips. She hadn’t read them, she recalled. Daddy had said them, quoted them as he put it. But they too were lines from a book⁠—“who is the fairest of⁠—”

A picture of Mother sat upon the dresser and Mary considered this now. Looked for a long time at the slender, feminine neck. The golden skin, smooth and without blemish, without wrinkles and without age. The dark brown eyes and the thin tapers of eyebrows, the long black lashes, set evenly, so that each half of the face corresponded precisely. The half-parted-mouth, a violet tint against the gold, the white, white teeth, even, sparkling.

Mother. Beautiful, Transformed Mother. And back again to the mirror.

“⁠—of them all.⁠ ⁠…”

The image of a rather chubby girl, without lines of rhythm or grace, without perfection. Splotchy skin full of little holes, puffs in the cheeks, red eruptions on the forehead. Perspiration, shapeless hair flowing onto shapeless shoulders down a shapeless body. Like all of them, before the Transformation.

Did they all look like this, before? Did Mother, even?

Mary thought hard, trying to remember exactly what Daddy and Grandpa had said, why they said the Transformation was a bad thing, and why she believed and agreed with them so strongly. It made little sense, but they were right. They were right! And one day, she would understand completely.

Mrs. Cuberle slammed the door angrily and Mary jumped to her feet. She hadn’t forgotten about it. “The way you upset Dr. Hortel. He won’t even see me anymore, and these traumas are getting horrible. I’ll have to get that awful Dr. Wagoner.”

“Sorry⁠—”

Mrs. Cuberle sat on the couch and crossed her legs carefully.

“What in the world were you doing on the floor?”

“Trying to sleep.”

“Now, I won’t hear of it! You’ve got to stop it! You know you’re not insane. Why should you want to do such a silly thing?”

“The books. And Daddy told me about it.”

“And you mustn’t read those terrible things.”

“Why⁠—is there a law against them?”

“Well, no, but people tired of books when the tapes came in. You know that. The house is full of tapes; anything you want.”

Mary stuck out her lower lip.

“They’re no fun. All about the Wars and the colonizations.”

“And I suppose books are fun?”

“Yes. They are.”

“And that’s where you got this idiotic notion that you don’t want the Transformation, isn’t it? Of course it is. Well, we’ll see to that!”

Mrs. Cuberle rose quickly and took the books from the corner and from the closet and filled her arms with them. She looked everywhere in the room and gathered the old rotten volumes.

These she carried from the room and threw into the elevator. A button guided the doors shut.

“I thought you’d do that,” Mary said. “That’s why I hid most of the good ones. Where you’ll never find them.”

Mrs. Cuberle put a satin handkerchief to her eyes and began to weep.

“Just look at you. Look. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this!”

“Deserve what, Mother? What am I doing that’s so wrong?” Mary’s mind rippled in a confused stream.

“What!” Mrs. Cuberle screamed, “What! Do you think I want people to point to you and say I’m the mother of an idiot? That’s what they’ll say, you’ll see. Or,” she looked up hopefully, “have you changed your mind?”

“No.” The vague reasons, longing to be put into words.

“It doesn’t hurt. They just take off a little skin and put some on and give you pills and electronic treatments and things like that. It doesn’t take more than a week.”

“No.” The reason.

“Don’t you want to be beautiful, like other people⁠—like me? Look at your friend Shala, she’s getting her Transformation next month. And she’s almost pretty now.”

“Mother, I don’t care⁠—”

“If it’s the bones you’re worried about, well, that doesn’t hurt. They give you a shot and when you wake up, everything’s moulded right. Everything, to suit the personality.”

“I don’t care, I don’t care.”

“But why?”

“I like me the way I am.” Almost⁠—almost exactly. But not quite. Part of it, however. Part of what Daddy and Grandpa meant.

“But you’re so ugly, dear! Like Dr. Hortel said. And Mr. Willmes, at the factory. He told some people he thought you were the ugliest girl he’d ever seen. Says he’ll be thankful when you have your Transformation. And what if he hears of all this, what’ll happen then?”

“Daddy said I was beautiful.”

“Well really, dear. You do have eyes.”

“Daddy said that real beauty is only skin deep. He said a lot of things like that and when I read the books I felt the same way. I guess I don’t want to look like everybody else, that’s all.” No, that’s not it. Not at all it.

“That man had too much to do with you. You’ll notice that he had his Transformation, though!”

“But he was sorry. He told me that if he had it to do over again, he’d never do it. He said for me to be stronger than he was.”

“Well, I won’t have it. You’re not going to get away with this, young lady. After all, I am your mother.”

A bulb flickered in the bathroom and Mrs. Cuberle walked uncertainly to the cabinet. She took out a little cardboard box.

“Time for lunch.”

Mary nodded. That was another thing the books talked about, which the tapes did not. Lunch seemed to be something special long ago, or at least different. The books talked of strange ways of putting a load of things into the mouth and chewing these things. Enjoying them. Strange and somehow wonderful.

“And you’d better get ready for work.”

“Yes, Mother.”

The office was quiet and without shadows. The walls gave off a steady luminescence, distributed the light evenly upon all the desks and tables. And it was neither hot nor cold.

Mary held the ruler firmly and allowed the pen to travel down the metal edge effortlessly. The new black lines were small and accurate. She tipped her head, compared the notes beside her to the plan she was working on. She noticed the beautiful people looking at her more furtively than before, and she wondered about this as she made her lines.

A tall man rose from his desk in the rear of the office and walked down the aisle to Mary’s table. He surveyed her work, allowing his eyes to travel cautiously from her face to the draft.

Mary looked around.

“Nice job,” said the man.

“Thank you, Mr. Willmes.”

“Dralich shouldn’t have anything to complain about. That crane should hold the whole damn city.”

“It’s very good alloy, sir.”

“Yeah. Say, kid, you got a minute?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let’s go into Mullinson’s office.”

The big handsome man led the way into a small cubbyhole of a room. He motioned to a chair and sat on the edge of one desk.

“Kid, I never was one to beat around the bush. Somebody called in little while ago, gave me some crazy story about you not wanting the Transformation.”

Mary said “Oh.” Daddy had said it would have to happen, some day. This must be what he meant.

“I would’ve told them they were way off the beam, but I wanted to talk to you first, get it straight.”

“Well, sir, it’s true. I don’t. I want to stay this way.”

The man looked at Mary and then coughed, embarrassedly.

“What the hell⁠—excuse me, kid, but⁠—I don’t exactly get it. You, uh, you saw the psychiatrist?”

“Yes sir. I’m not insane. Dr. Hortel can tell you.”

“I didn’t mean anything like that. Well⁠—” the man laughed nervously. “I don’t know what to say. You’re still a cub, but you do swell work. Lot of good results, lots of comments from the stations. But, Mr. Poole won’t like it.”

“I know. I know what you mean, Mr. Willmes. But nothing can change my mind. I want to stay this way and that’s all there is to it.”

“But⁠—you’ll get old before you’re half through life.”

Yes, she would. Old, like the Elders, wrinkled and brittle, unable to move right. Old. “It’s hard to make you understand. But I don’t see why it should make any difference.”

“Don’t go getting me wrong, now. It’s not me, but, you know, I don’t own Interplan. I just work here. Mr. Poole likes things running smooth and it’s my job to carry it out. And soon as everybody finds out, things wouldn’t run smooth. There’ll be a big stink. The dames will start asking questions and talk.”

“Will you accept my resignation, then, Mr. Willmes?”

“Sure you won’t change your mind?”

“No sir. I decided that a long time ago. And I’m sorry now that I told Mother or anyone else. No sir, I won’t change my mind.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mary. You been doing awful swell work. Couple of years you could be centralled on one of the asteroids, the way you been working. But if you should change your mind, there’ll always be a job for you here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.”

“Okay then. You’ve got till March. And between you and me, I hope by then you’ve decided the other way.”

Mary walked back down the aisle, past the rows of desks. Past the men and women. The handsome, model men and the beautiful, perfect women, perfect, all perfect, all looking alike. Looking exactly alike.

She sat down again and took up her ruler and pen.

Mary stepped into the elevator and descended several hundred feet. At the Second Level she pressed a button and the elevator stopped. The doors opened with another button and the doors to her Unit with still another.

Mrs. Cuberle sat on the floor by the TV, disconsolate and red-eyed. Her blond hair had come slightly askew and a few strands hung over her forehead. “You don’t need to tell me. No one will hire you.”

Mary sat beside her mother. “If you only hadn’t told Mr. Willmes in the first place⁠—”

“Well, I thought he could beat a little sense into you.”

The sounds from the TV grew louder. Mrs. Cuberle changed channels and finally turned it off.

“What did you do today, Mother?” Mary smiled.

“Do? What can I do, now? Nobody will even come over! I told you what would happen.”

“Mother!”

“They say you should be in the Circuses.”

Mary went into another room. Mrs. Cuberle followed. “How are we going to live? Where does the money come from now? Just because you’re stubborn on this crazy idea. Crazy crazy crazy! Can I support both of us? They’ll be firing me, next!”

“Why is this happening?”

“Because of you, that’s why. Nobody else on this planet has ever refused the Transformation. But you turn it down. You want to be ugly!”

Mary put her arms about her mother’s shoulders. “I wish I could explain, I’ve tried so hard to. It isn’t that I want to bother anyone, or that Daddy wanted me to. I just don’t want the Transformation.”

Mrs. Cuberle reached into the pockets of her blouse and got a purple pill. She swallowed the pill. When the letter dropped from the chute, Mrs. Cuberle ran to snatch it up. She read it once, silently, then smiled.

“Oh, I was afraid they wouldn’t answer. But we’ll see about this now!”

She gave the letter to Mary.

Mrs. Zena Cuberle

Unit 451 D

Levels II & III

City

Dear Madam:

In re. your letter of Dec. 3 36. We have carefully examined your complaint and consider that it requires stringent measures. Quite frankly, the possibility of such a complaint has never occurred to this Dept. and we therefore cannot make positive directives at the moment.

However, due to the unusual qualities of the matter, we have arranged an audience at Centraldome, Eighth Level, Sixteenth Unit, Jan. 3 37, 23 sharp. Dr. Elph Hortel has been instructed to attend. You will bring the subject in question.

Mary let the paper flutter to the floor. She walked quietly to the elevator and set it for Level III. When the elevator stopped, she ran from it, crying, into her room.

She thought and remembered and tried to sort out and put together. Daddy had said it, Grandpa had, the books did. Yes, the books did.

She read until her eyes burned and her eyes burned until she could read no more. Then Mary went to sleep, softly and without realizing it, for the first time.

But the sleep was not peaceful.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the young-looking, well groomed man, “this problem does not resolve easily. Dr. Hortel here, testifies that Mary Cuberle is definitely not insane. Drs. Monagh, Prinn and Fedders all verify this judgment. Dr. Prinn asserts that the human organism is no longer so constructed as to create and sustain such an attitude through deliberate falsehood. Further, there is positively nothing in the structure of Mary Cuberle which might suggest difficulties in Transformation. There is evidence for all these statements. And yet we are faced with this refusal. What, may I ask, is to be done?”

Mary looked at a metal table.

“We have been in session far too long, holding up far too many other pressing contingencies. The trouble on Mercury, for example. We’ll have to straighten that out, somehow.”

Throughout the rows of beautiful people, the mumbling increased. Mrs. Cuberle sat nervously, tapping her shoe and running a comb through her hair.

“Mary Cuberle, you have been given innumerable chances to reconsider, you know.”

Mary said, “I know. But I don’t want to.”

The beautiful people looked at Mary and laughed. Some shook their heads.

The man threw up his hands. “Little girl, can you realize what an issue you have caused? The unrest, the wasted time? Do you fully understand what you have done? Intergalactic questions hang fire while you sit there saying the same thing over and over. Doesn’t the happiness of your Mother mean anything to you?”

A slender, supple woman in a back row cried, “We want action. Do something!”

The man in the high stool raised his hand. “None of that, now. We must conform, even though the question is out of the ordinary.” He leafed through a number of papers on his desk, leaned down and whispered into the ear of a strong blond man. Then he turned to Mary again. “Child, for the last time. Do you reconsider? Will you accept the Transformation?”

“No.”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, then. I have here a petition, signed by two thousand individuals and representing all the Stations of Earth. They have been made aware of all the facts and have submitted the petition voluntarily. It’s all so unusual and I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to⁠—but the petition urges drastic measures.”

The mumbling rose.

“The petition urges that you shall, upon final refusal, be forced by law to accept the Transformation. And that an act of legislature shall make this universal and binding in the future.”

Mary’s eyes were open, wide. She stood and paused before speaking.

“Why?” she asked, loudly.

The man passed a hand through his hair.

Another voice from the crowd, “Seems to be a lot of questions unanswered here.”

And another, “Sign the petition, Senator!”

All the voices, “Sign it, sign it!”

“But why?” Mary began to cry. The voices stilled for a moment.

“Because⁠—Because⁠—”

“If you’d only tell me that. Tell me!”

“Why, it simply isn’t being done, that’s all. The greatest gift of all, and what if others should get the same idea? What would happen to us then, little girl? We’d be right back to the ugly, thin, fat, unhealthy-looking race we were ages ago! There can’t be any exceptions.”

“Maybe they didn’t consider themselves so ugly.”

The mumbling began anew.

“That isn’t the point,” cried the man. “You must conform!”

And the voices cried “Yes” loudly until the man took up a pen and signed the papers on his desk.

Cheers, applause, shouts.

Mrs. Cuberle patted Mary on the top of her head.

“There, now!” she said, happily, “Everything will be all right now. You’ll see, Mary.”

The Transformation Parlor Covered the entire Level, sprawling with its departments. It was always filled and there was nothing to sign and no money to pay and people were always waiting in line.

But today the people stood aside. And there were still more, looking in through doors, TV cameras placed throughout the tape machines in every corner. It was filled, but not bustling as usual.

Mary walked past the people, Mother and the men in back of her, following. She looked at the people. The people were beautiful, perfect, without a single flaw.

All the beautiful people. All the ugly people, staring out from bodies that were not theirs. Walking on legs that had been made for them, laughing with manufactured voices, gesturing with shaped and fashioned arms.

Mary walked slowly, despite the prodding. In her eyes, in her eyes, was a mounting confusion; a wide, wide wonderment.

The reason was becoming less vague; the fuzzed edges were falling away now. Through all the horrible months and all the horrible moments, the edges fell away. Now it was almost clear.

She looked down at her own body, then at the walls which reflected it. Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone, all hers, made by no one, built by herself or someone she did not know. Uneven kneecaps, making two grinning cherubs when they bent, and the old familiar rubbing together of fat inner thighs. Fat, unshapely, unsystematic Mary. But Mary.

Of course. Of course! This was what Daddy meant, what Grandpa and the books meant. What they would know if they would read the books or hear the words, the good, reasonable words, the words that signified more, much more, than any of this.

The understanding heaped up with each step.

“Where are these people?” Mary asked half to herself. “What has happened to them and don’t they miss themselves, these manufactured things?”

She stopped, suddenly.

“Yes! That is the reason. They have all forgotten themselves!”

A curvacious woman stepped forward and took Mary’s hand. The woman’s skin was tinted dark. Chipped and sculptured bone into slender rhythmic lines, electrically created carriage, stance, made, turned out.

“All right, young lady. We will begin.”

They guided Mary to a large, curved leather seat.

From the top of a long silver pole a machine lowered itself. Tiny bulbs glowed to life and cells began to click. The people stared. Slowly a picture formed upon the screen in the machine. Bulbs directed at Mary, then redirected into the machine. Wheels turning, buttons ticking.

The picture was completed.

“Would you like to see it?”

Mary closed her eyes, tight.

“It’s really very nice.” The woman turned to the crowd. “Oh yes, there’s a great deal to be salvaged; you’d be surprised. A great deal. We’ll keep the nose and I don’t believe the elbows will have to be altered at all.”

Mrs. Cuberle looked at Mary and smiled. “Now, it isn’t so bad as you thought, is it?” she said.

The beautiful people looked. Cameras turned, tapes wound.

“You’ll have to excuse us now. Only the machines allowed.”

Only the machines.

The people filed out.

Mary saw the rooms in the mirror. Saw things in the rooms, the faces and bodies that had been left; the woman and the machines and the old young men standing about, adjusting, readying.

Then she looked at the picture in the screen.

And screamed.

A woman of medium height stared back at her. A woman with a curved body and thin legs; silver hair, pompadoured, cut short; full sensuous lips, small breasts, flat stomach, unblemished skin.

A strange, strange woman no one had ever seen before.

The nurse began to take Mary’s clothes off.

“Geoff,” the woman said, “come look at this, will you. Not one so bad in years. Amazing that we can keep anything at all.”

The handsome man put his hands in his pockets.

“Pretty bad, all right.”

“Be still, child, stop making those noises. You know perfectly well nothing is going to hurt.”

“But⁠—what will you do with me?”

“That was all explained to you.”

“No, no, with me, me!”

“Oh, you mean the castoffs. The usual. I don’t know exactly. Somebody takes care of it.”

“I want me!” Mary cried. “Not that!” She pointed at the screen.

Her chair was wheeled into a semi-dark room. She was naked now, and the men lifted her to a table. The surface was like glass, black, filmed. A big machine hung above.

Straps. Clamps pulling, stretching limbs apart. The screen with the picture brought in. The men and the woman, more women now. Dr. Hortel in a corner, sitting with his legs crossed, shaking his head.

Mary began to cry above the hum of the mechanical things.

“Shhh. My gracious, such a racket! Just think about your job waiting for you, and all the friends you’ll have and how nice everything will be. No more trouble now.”

The big machine hurtling downward.

“Where will I find me?” Mary screamed, “when it’s all over?”

A long needle slid into rough flesh and the beautiful people gathered around the table.

They turned on the big machine.

Elegy

“Would you mind repeating that?”

“I said, sir, that Mr. Friden said, sir, that he sees a city.”

“A city?”

“Yes sir.”

Captain Webber rubbed the back of his hand along his cheek.

“You realize, of course, that that is impossible?”

“Yes sir.”

“Send Mr. Friden in to see me, at once.”

The young man saluted and rushed out of the room. He returned with a somewhat older man who wore spectacles and frowned.

“Now then,” said Captain Webber, “what’s all this Lieutenant Peterson tells me about a city? Are you enjoying a private little joke, Friden?”

Mr. Friden shook his head emphatically. “No sir.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to explain.”

“Well, sir, you see, I was getting bored and just for something to do, I thought I’d look through the screen⁠—not that I dreamed of seeing anything. The instruments weren’t adjusted, either; but there was something funny, something I couldn’t make out exactly.”

“Go on,” said Captain Webber, patiently.

“So I fixed up the instruments and took another look, and there it was, sir, plain as could be!”

“There what was?”

“The city, sir. Oh, I couldn’t tell much about it, but there were houses, all right, a lot of them.”

“Houses, you say?”

“Yes sir, on an asteroid.”

Captain Webber looked for a long moment at Mr. Friden and began to pace nervously.

“I take it you know what this might mean?”

“Yes sir, I do. That’s why I wanted Lieutenant Peterson to tell you about it.”

“I believe, Friden, that before we do any more talking I’ll see this city for myself.”

Captain Webber, Lieutenant Peterson and Mr. Friden walked from the room down a long corridor and into a smaller room. Captain Webber put his eye to a circular glass and tapped his foot.

He stepped back and rubbed his cheek again.

“Well, you were right. That is a city⁠—or else we’ve all gone crazy. Do you think that we have?”

“I don’t know, sir. It’s not impossible.”

“Lieutenant, go ask Mr. Milton if he can land us on an asteroid. Give him all the details and be back in ten minutes.” Captain Webber sighed. “Whatever it is,” he said, “it will be a relief. Although I never made a special announcement, I suppose you knew that we were lost.”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“And that we ran almost entirely out of fuel several months ago, in fact shortly after we left?”

“We knew that.”

The men were silent.

“Sir, Mr. Milton says he thinks he can land us but he can’t promise exactly where.”

“Tell Mr. Milton that’s good enough.”

Captain Webber waited for the young man to leave, then looked again into the glass.

“What do you make of it, sir?”

“Not much, Friden, not much. It’s a city and that’s an asteroid; but how the devil they got there is beyond me. I still haven’t left the idea that we’re crazy, you know.”

Mr. Friden looked.

“We’re positioning to land. Strange⁠—”

“What is it?”

“I can make things out a bit more clearly now, sir. Those are earth houses.”

Captain Webber looked. He blinked.

“Now, that,” he said, “is impossible. Look here, we’ve been floating about in space for⁠—how long is it?”

“Three months, sir.”

“Exactly. For three months we’ve been bobbling aimlessly, millions of miles from earth. No hope, no hope whatever. And now we’re landing in a city just like the one we first left, or almost like it. Friden, I ask you, does that make any sense at all?”

“No, sir.”

“And does it seem logical that there should be an asteroid where no asteroid should be?”

“It does not.”

They stared at the glass, by turns.

“Do you see that, Friden?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“A lake. A lake and a house by it and trees⁠ ⁠… tell me, how many of us are left?”

Mr. Friden held up his right hand and began unbending fingers.

“Yourself, sir, and myself; Lieutenant Peterson, Mr. Chitterwick, Mr. Goeblin, Mr. Milton and.⁠ ⁠…”

“Great scott, out of thirty men?”

“You know how it was, sir. That business with the Martians and then, our own difficulties⁠—”

“Yes. Our own difficulties. Isn’t it ironic, somehow, Friden? We band together and fly away from war and, no sooner are we off the earth but we begin other wars.⁠ ⁠… I’ve often felt that if Appleton hadn’t been so aggressive with that gun we would never have been kicked off Mars. And why did we have to laugh at them? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t been a very successful captain.”

“You’re in a mood, sir.”

“Am I? I suppose I am. Look! There’s a farm, an actual farm!”

“Not really!”

“Why, I haven’t seen one for twenty years.”

The door flew open and Lieutenant Peterson came in, panting. “Mr. Milton checked off every instruction, sir, and we’re going down now.”

“He’s sure there’s enough fuel left for the brake?”

“He thinks so, sir.”

“Lieutenant Peterson.”

“Yes sir?”

“Come look into this glass, will you.”

The young man looked.

“What do you see?”

“A lot of strange creatures, sir. Are they dangerous? Should we prepare our weapons?”

“How old are you, Lieutenant?”

“Nineteen, Captain Webber.”

“You have just seen a herd of cows, for the most part⁠—” Captain Webber squinted and twirled knobs “⁠—Holsteins.”

“Holsteins, sir?”

“You may go. Oh, you might tell the others to prepare for a crash landing. Straps and all that.”

The young man smiled faintly and left.

“I’m a little frightened, Friden; I think I’ll go to my cabin. Take charge and have them wait for my orders.”

Captain Webber saluted tiredly and walked back down the long corridor. He paused as the machines suddenly roared more life, rubbed his cheek and went into the small room.

“Cows,” said Captain Webber bracing himself.

The fiery leg fell into the cool air, heating it, causing it to smoke; it burnt into the green grass and licked a craterous hole. There were fireflags and firesparks, hisses and explosions and the weary groaning sound of a great beast suddenly roused from sleep.

The rocket landed. It grumbled and muttered for a while on its finny tripod, then was silent; soon the heat vanished also.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes. The rest?”

“All but Mr. Chitterwick. He broke his glasses and says he can’t see.”

Captain Webber swung himself erect and tested his limbs. “Well then, Lieutenant, has the atmosphere been checked?”

“The air is pure and fit to breathe, sir.”

“Instruct the others to drop the ladder.”

“Yes sir.”

A door in the side of the rocket opened laboriously and men began climbing out: “Look!” said Mr. Milton, pointing. “There are trees and grass and⁠—over there, little bridges going over the water.”

He pointed to a row of small white houses with green gardens and stony paths.

Beyond the trees was a brick lodge, extended over a rivulet which foamed and bubbled. Fishing poles protruded from the lodge window.

“And there, to the right!”

A steel building thirty stories high with a pink cloud near the top. And, separated by a hedge, a brown tent with a barbeque pit before it, smoke rising in a rigid ribbon from the chimney.

Mr. Chitterwick blinked and squinted his eyes. “What do you see?”

Distant and near, houses of stone and brick and wood, painted all colors, small, large; and further, golden fields of wheat, each blown by a different breeze in a different direction.

“I don’t believe it,” said Captain Webber. “It’s a park⁠—millions of miles away from where a park could possibly be.”

“Strange but familiar,” said Lieutenant Peterson, picking up a rock.

Captain Webber looked in all directions. “We were lost. Then we see a city where no city should be, on an asteroid not shown on any chart, and we manage to land. And now we’re in the middle of a place that belongs in history-records. We may be crazy; we may all be wandering around in space and dreaming.”

The little man with the thin hair who had just stepped briskly from a treeclump said, “Well, well,” and the men jumped.

The little man smiled. “Aren’t you a trifle late or early or something?”

Captain Webber turned and his mouth dropped open.

“I hadn’t been expecting you, gentlemen, to be perfectly honest,” the little man clucked, then: “Oh dear, see what you’ve done to Mr. Bellefont’s park. I do hope you haven’t hurt him⁠—no, I see that he is all right.”

Captain Webber followed the direction of the man’s eyes and perceived an old man with red hair seated at the base of a tree, apparently reading a book.

“We are from Earth,” said Captain Webber.

“Yes, yes.”

“Let me explain: my name is Webber, these are my men.”

“Of course,” said the little man.

Mr. Chitterwick came closer, blinking. “Who is this that knows our language?” he asked.

“Who⁠—Greypoole, Mr. Greypoole. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Then you are also from Earth?”

“Heavens yes! But now, let us go where we can chat more comfortably.” Mr. Greypoole struck out down a small path past scorched trees and underbrush. “You know, Captain, right after the last consignment something happened to my calendar. Now, I’m competent at my job, but I’m no technician, no indeed: besides, no doubt you or one of your men can set the doodad right, eh? Here we are.”

They walked onto a wooden porch and through a door with a wire screen; Lieutenant Peterson first, then Captain Webber, Mr. Friden and the rest of the crew. Mr. Greypoole followed.

“You must forgive me⁠—it’s been a while. Take chairs, there, there. Now, what news of⁠—home, shall I say?” The little man stared.

Captain Webber shifted uncomfortably. He glanced around the room at the lace curtains, the needlepoint tapestries and the lavender wallpaper.

“Mr. Greypoole, I’d like to ask some questions.”

“Certainly, certainly. But first, this being an occasion⁠—” the little man stared at each man carefully, then shook his head “⁠—ah, do you all like wine? Good wine?”

He ducked through a small door.

Captain Webber exhaled and rose.

“Now, don’t start talking all at once,” he whispered. “Anyone have any ideas? No? Then quick, scout around⁠—Friden, you stay here; you others, see what you can find. I’m not sure I like the looks of this.”

The men left the room.

Mr. Chitterwick made his way along a hedgerow, feeling cautiously and maintaining a delicate balance. When he came to a doorway he stopped, squinted and entered.

The room was dark and quiet and odorous. Mr. Chitterwick groped a few steps, put out his hand and encountered what seemed to be raw flesh; he swiftly withdrew his hand. “Excuse,” he said, then, “Oh!” as his face came against a slab of moist red meat. “Oh my!”

Mr. Chitterwick began to tremble and he blinked furiously, reaching out and finding flesh, cold and hard, unidentifiable.

When he stepped upon the toe of a large man with a walrus mustache, he wheeled, located the sunlight and ran from the butcher shop.⁠ ⁠…

The door of the temple opened with difficulty, which caused Mr. Milton to breathe unnaturally. Then, once inside, he gasped.

Row upon row of people, their fingers outstretched, lips open but immobile and silent, their bodies prostrate on the floor. And upon a strange black altar, a tiny woman with silver hair and a long thyrsus in her right hand.

Nothing stirred but the mosaic squares in the walls. The colors danced here; otherwise, everything was frozen, everything was solid.

Even the air hung suspended, stationary.

Mr. Milton left the temple.⁠ ⁠…

There was a table and a woman on the table and people all around the woman on the table. Mr. Goeblin did not go a great distance from the doorway: he rubbed his eyes and stared.

It was an operating room. There were all the instruments, some old, most old, and the masked men and women with shining scissors and glistening saws in their hands. And up above, the students’ aperture: filled seats, filled aisles.

Mr. Goeblin put his other hand about the doorknob.

A large man stood over the recumbent figure, his lusterless eyes regarding the crimson-puce incision, but he did not move. The nurses did not move, or the students. No one moved, especially the smiling middle-aged woman on the table.

Mr. Goeblin moved.⁠ ⁠…

“Hello!” said Lieutenant Peterson, after he had searched through eight long aisles of books, “Hello!”

He pointed his gun menacingly.

There were many books with many titles and they all had a fine grey dust about them. Lieutenant Peterson paused to examine a bulky volume, when he happened to look above him.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The mottled, angular man perched atop the ladder did not respond. He clutched a book and looked at the book and not at Lieutenant Peterson.

“Come down⁠—I want to talk with you!”

The man on the ladder did nothing unusual: he remained precisely as he had been.

Lieutenant Peterson climbed up the ladder, scowling; he reached the man and jabbed with a finger.

Lieutenant Peterson looked into the eyes of the reading man and descended hastily and did not say goodbye.⁠ ⁠…

Mr. Greypoole reentered the living room with a tray of glasses. “This is apricot wine,” he announced, distributing the glasses, “But⁠—where are the others? Out for a walk? Ah well, they can drink theirs later. Incidentally, Captain, how many Guests did you bring? Last time it was only twelve. Not an extraordinary shipment, either: they all preferred the ordinary things. All but Mrs. Dominguez⁠—dear me, she was worth the carload herself. Wanted a zoo, can you imagine⁠—a regular zoo, with her put right in the birdhouse. Oh, they had a time putting that one up!”

Mr. Greypoole chuckled and sipped at his drink.

“It’s people like Mrs. Dominguez who put the⁠—the life?⁠—into Happy Glades. Or do you find that disrespectful?”

Captain Webber shook his head and tossed down his drink.

Mr. Greypoole leaned back in his chair and crossed a leg. “Ah,” he continued, “you have no idea how good this is. Once in a while it does get lonely for me here⁠—no man is an island, or how does it go? Why, I can remember when Mr. Waldmeyer first told me of this idea. ‘A grave responsibility,’ he said, ‘a grave responsibility.’ Mr. Waldmeyer has a keen sense of humor, needless to say.”

Captain Webber looked out the window. A small child on roller skates stood still on the sidewalk. Mr. Greypoole laughed.

“Finished your wine? Good. Explanations are in order, though first perhaps you’d care to join me in a brief turn about the premises?”

“Fine. Friden, you stay here and wait for the men.” Captain Webber winked a number of times and frowned briefly, then he and Mr. Greypoole walked out onto the porch and down the steps.

Mr. Friden drummed his fingers upon the arm of a chair, surveyed his empty glass and hiccuped softly.

“I do wish you’d landed your ship elsewhere, Captain. Mr. Bellefont was quite particular and, as you can see, his park is hopelessly disfigured.”

“We were given no choice, I’m afraid. The fuel was running out.”

“Indeed? Well then, that explains everything. A beautiful day, don’t you find, sir? Fortunately, with the exception of Professor Carling, all the Guests preferred good weather. Plenty of sunshine, they said, or crisp evening. It helps.”

They walked toward a house of colored rocks.

“Miss Daphne Trilling’s,” said Mr. Greypoole, gesturing. “They threw it up in a day, though it’s solid enough.”

When they had passed an elderly woman on a bicycle, Captain Webber stopped walking.

“Mr. Greypoole, we’ve got to have a talk.”

Mr. Greypoole shrugged and pointed and they went into an office building which was crowded with motionless men, women and children.

“Since I’m so mixed up myself,” the captain said, “maybe I’d better ask⁠—just who do you think we are?”

“I’d thought you to be the men from the Glades of course.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. We’re from the planet Earth. They were going to have another war, the ‘Last War’ they said, and we escaped in that rocket and started off for Mars. But something went wrong⁠—fellow named Appleton pulled a gun, others just didn’t like the Martians⁠—we needn’t go into it; they wouldn’t have us so Mars didn’t work out. Something else went wrong then, soon we were lost with only a little store of fuel and supplies. Then Mr. Friden noticed this city or whatever it is and we had enough fuel to land so we landed.”

Mr. Greypoole nodded his head slowly, somehow, sadder than before.

“I see.⁠ ⁠… You say there was a war on Earth?”

“They were going to set off X-Bomb; when they do, everything will go to pieces. Or everything has already.”

“What dreadful news! May I inquire, Captain, when you have learned where you are⁠—what do you intend to do?”

“Why, live here, of course!”

“No, no⁠—try to understand. You could not conceivably fit in here with us.”

Captain Webber glanced at the motionless people. “Why not?” Then he shouted, “What is this place? Where am I?”

Mr. Greypoole smiled.

“Captain, you are in a cemetery.”

“Good work, Peterson!”

“Thanks, sir. When we all got back and Friden didn’t know where you’d gone, well, we got worried. Then we heard you shouting.”

“Hold his arms⁠—there. You heard this, Friden?”

Mr. Friden was trembling slightly. He brushed past a man with a van Dyke beard and sat down on a leather stool. “Yes sir, I did. That is, I think I did. What shall we do with him?”

“I don’t know, yet. Take him away, Lieutenant, for now. I want to think a bit. We’ll talk to Mr. Greypoole later on.”

Lieutenant Peterson pulled the smiling little man out into the street and pointed a gun at him.

Mr. Chitterwick blinked into the face of a small child.

“Man’s insane, I guess,” said Mr. Milton, pacing.

“Yes, but what about all this?” Mr. Goeblin looked horrified at the stationary people.

“I think I can tell you,” Mr. Friden said. “Take a look, Captain.”

The men crowded about a pamphlet which Mr. Friden had placed on the stool.

Toward the top of the pamphlet and in the center of the first page was a photograph, untinted and solemn; it depicted a white cherub delicately poised on a granite slab. Beneath the photograph, were the words: Happy Glades.

Captain Webber turned the pages and mumbled, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while.

“What is it, sir?” asked Mr. Chitterwick of a frozen man in a blue suit with copper buttons.

“It’s one of those old level cemeteries!” cried Mr. Milton. “I remember seeing pictures like it, sir.”

Captain Webber read aloud from the pamphlet.

“For fifty years,” he began, “an outstanding cultural and spiritual asset to this community, Happy Glades is proud to announce yet another innovation in its program of post-benefits. Now you can enjoy the afterlife in surroundings which suggest the here-and-now. Never before in history has scientific advancement allowed such a plan.”

Captain Webber turned the page.

“For those who prefer that their late departed have really permanent, eternal happiness, for those who are dismayed by the fragility of all things mortal, we of Happy Glades are proud to offer:

1. “The permanent duplication of physical conditions identical to those enjoyed by the departed on Earth. Park, playground, lodge, office building, hotel or house, etc., may be secured at varying prices. All workmanship and materials specially attuned to conditions on Asteroid K₇ and guaranteed for permanence.

2. “Permanent conditioning of late beloved so that, in the midst of surroundings he favored, a genuine Eternity may be assured.

3. “Full details on Happy Glades’ newest property, Asteroid K₇, may be found on page 4.”

The captain tossed the pamphlet to the floor and lit a cigarette. “Did anyone happen to notice the date?”

Mr. Milton said, “It doesn’t make any sense! There haven’t been cemeteries for ages. And even if this were true, why should anyone want to go all the way through space to a little asteroid? They might just as well have built these things on Earth.”

“Who would want all this when they’re dead, anyway?”

“You mean all these people are dead?”

For a few moments there was complete and utter silence in the lobby of the building.

“Are those things true, that we read in your booklet?” asked Captain Webber after Lieutenant Peterson had brought in the prisoner.

“Every word,” said the little man bowing slightly, “is monumentally correct.”

“Then we want you to begin explaining.”

Mr. Greypoole tushed and proceeded to straighten the coat of a middle-aged man with a cigar.

Mr. Goeblin shuddered.

“No, no,” laughed Mr. Greypoole, “these are only imitations. Mr. Conklin upstairs was head of a large firm; absolutely in love with his work, you know⁠—that kind of thing. So we had to duplicate not only the office, but the building and even replicas of all the people in the building. Mr. Conklin himself is in an easy chair on the twentieth story.”

“And?”

“Well, gentlemen, as you know, Happy Glades is the outstanding mortuary on Earth. And, to put it briefly, with the constant explorations of planets and moons and whatnot, our Mr. Waldmeyer hit upon this scheme: Seeking to extend the ideal hereafter to our Guests, we bought out this little asteroid. With the vast volume and the tremendous turnover, as it were, we got our staff of scientists together and they offered this plan⁠—to duplicate the exact surroundings which the Guest most enjoyed in Life, assure him privacy, permanence (a very big point, as you can see), and all the small things not possible on Earth.”

“Why here, why cart off a million miles or more when the same thing could have been done on Earth?”

“My communication system went bad, I fear, so I haven’t heard from the offices in some while⁠—but, I am to understand there is a war beginning? That is the idea, Captain; one could never really be sure of one’s self down there, what with all the new bombs and things being discovered.”

“Hmm,” said Captain Webber.

“Then too, Mr. Waldmeyer worried about those new societies with their dreadful ideas about cremation⁠—you can see what that sort of thing could do to the undertaking business? His plan caught on, however, and soon we were having to turn away Guests.”

“And where do you fit in, Mr. Greypoole?”

The little man seemed to blush; he lowered his eyes. “I was head caretaker, you see. But I wasn’t well⁠—gastric complaints, liver, heart palpitations, this and that; so, I decided to allow them to⁠ ⁠… change me. They turned all manner of machines on my body and pumped me full of fluids and by the time I got here, why, I was almost, you might say, a machine myself! Fortunately, though, they left a good deal of Greypoole. All I know is that whenever the film is punctured, I wake and become a machine, do my prescribed duties in a complex way and⁠—”

“The film?”

“The covering that seals in the conditioning. Nothing can get out, nothing get in⁠—except things like rockets. Then, it’s self-sealing, needless to say. But to get on, Captain. With all the technical advancements, it soon got to where there was no real work to be done here; they threw up the film and coated us with their preservative or, as they put it, Eternifier, and⁠—well, with the exception of my calendar and the communications system, everything’s worked perfectly, including myself.”

No one said anything for a while. Then Captain Webber said, with great slowness, “You’re lying. This is all a crazy, hideous plot.” The little man chuckled at the word plot.

“In the first place, no cemetery or form of cemetery has existed on Earth for⁠—how long, Friden?”

Mr. Friden stared at his fingers. “Years and years.”

“Exactly. There are communal furnaces now.”

Mr. Greypoole winced.

“And furthermore,” continued the captain, “this whole concept is ridiculous.”

Mr. Chitterwick threw down the pamphlet and began to tremble. “We should have stayed home,” he remarked to a young woman who did not answer.

“Mr. Greypoole,” Webber said, “I think that you know more than you’re saying. You didn’t seem very surprised when you learned we weren’t the men you expected; you don’t seem very surprised now that I tell you that your ‘Happy Glades’ and all the people connected with it have been dead for ages. So, why the display of interest in our explanations, why⁠—”

The faint murmur, “A good machine checks and double checks,” could be heard from Mr. Greypoole, who otherwise said nothing.

“I speak for my men: we’re confused, terribly confused. But whatever this is, we’re stuck, can’t you see? All we want is a place to begin again⁠—” Captain Webber paused, looked at the others and went on in a softer tone. “We’re tired men, Mr. Greypoole; we’re poorly equipped, but we do have weapons and if this is some hypnotic kind of trap.⁠ ⁠…”

The little man waved his hand, offendedly.

“There are lakes and farms and all we need to make a new start⁠—more than we’d hoped for, much more.”

“What had you hoped for, Captain?”

“Something. Nothing. Just escape⁠—”

“But I see no women⁠—how could you begin again, as you suggest?”

“Women? Too weak; they would not have lasted. We brought along eggs and machines⁠—enough for our needs.”

Mr. Greypoole clucked his tongue. “Mr. Waldmeyer certainly did look ahead,” he muttered, “he certainly did.”

“Will we be honest now? Will you help us?”

“Yes, Captain, I will help you. Let us go back to your rocket.” Mr. Greypoole smiled. “Things will be better there.”

Captain Webber signaled. They left the building and walked by the foot of a white mountain.

They passed a garden with little spotted trees and flowers, a brown desert of shifting sands and a striped tent; they walked by strawberry fields and airplane hangars and coal mines; tiny yellow cottages, cramped apartments, fluted houses and Tudor houses and houses without description.⁠ ⁠…

Past rock pools and a great zoo full of animals that stared out of vacant eyes; and everywhere, the seasons changing gently: crisp autumn, cottony summer, windy spring and winters cool and white.⁠ ⁠…

The six men in uniforms followed the little man with the thin hair. They did not speak as they walked, but looked around, stared, craned, wondered.⁠ ⁠…

And the old, young, middle-aged, white, brown, yellow people who did not move wondered back at the men with their eyes.⁠ ⁠…

“You see, Captain, the success of Mr. Waldmeyer’s plan?”

Captain Webber rubbed his cheek.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“But you do see, all of you, the perfection here, the quality of Eternal Happiness which the circular speaks of?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… we see that.”

“Here we have happiness and brotherhood, here there have never been wars or hatreds or prejudices. And now you who were many and left Earth to escape war and hatred, who were many by your own word and are now only six, you want to begin life here?”

Cross-breezes ruffled the men’s hair.

“To begin, when from the moment of your departure you had wars of your own, and killed, and hurled mocking prejudice against a race of people not like you, a race who rejected and cast you out into space again! From your own account! No gentlemen, I am truly sorry. It may be that I misjudged those of you who are left, or rather, that Happy Glades misjudged you. You may mean well, after all⁠—and, of course, the location of this asteroid was so planned by the Board as to be uncharted forever. But⁠—oh, I am sorry.” Mr. Greypoole sighed.

“What does he mean by that?” asked Mr. Friden and Lieutenant Peterson.

Captain Webber was gazing at a herd of cows in the distance.

“What do you mean, you’re ‘sorry’?” demanded Mr. Friden.

“Well.⁠ ⁠…”

“Captain Webber!” cried Mr. Chitterwick, blinking.

“Yes, yes?”

“I feel queer.”

Mr. Goeblin clutched at his stomach.

“So do I!”

“And me!”

Captain Webber looked back at the fields, then at Mr. Greypoole. His mouth twitched in sudden pain.

“We feel awful, Captain!”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen. Follow me to your ship, quickly.” Mr. Greypoole motioned curiously with his hands and began to step briskly.

They circled a small pond where a motionless boy strained toe-high on an extended board. And the day once again turned to night as they hurried past a shadowed cathedral.

When they were in sight of the scorched trees, Mr. Milton doubled up and screamed.

“Captain!”

Mr. Goeblin struck his forehead. “I told you, I told you we shouldn’t have drunk that wine! Didn’t I tell you?”

“It was the wine⁠—and we all drank it. He did it, he poisoned us!”

“Follow me!” cried Mr. Greypoole, making a hurried gesture and breaking into a run. “Faster!”

They stumbled hypnotically through the park, over the Mandarin-bridges to the rock.

“Tell them, Captain, tell them to climb the ladder.”

“Go on up, men.”

“But we’re poisoned, sir!”

“Hurry! There’s⁠—an antidote in the ship.”

The crew climbed into the ship.

“Captain,” invited Mr. Greypoole.

Captain Webber ascended jerkily. When he reached the open lock, he turned. His eyes swept over the hills and fields and mountains, over the rivers and houses and still people. He coughed and pulled himself into the rocket.

Mr. Greypoole followed.

“You don’t dislike this ship, do you⁠—that is, the surroundings are not offensive?”

“No; we don’t dislike the ship.”

“I am glad of that⁠—if only I had been allowed more latitude! But everything functions so well here; no real choice in the matter, actually. No more than the Sealing Film. And they would leave me with these human emotions! I see, of course, why the communications system doesn’t work, why my calendar is out of commission. Kind of Mr. Waldmeyer to arrange for them to stop when his worst fears finally materialized. Are the men all seated? No, no, they mustn’t writhe about the floor like that. Get them to their stations⁠—no, to the stations they would most prefer. And hurry!”

Captain Webber ordered Mr. Chitterwick to the galley, Mr. Goeblin to the engineering chair, Mr. Friden to the navigator’s room.⁠ ⁠…

“Sir, what’s going to happen? Where’s the antidote?”

Mr. Milton to the pilot’s chair.⁠ ⁠…

“The pain will last only another moment or so⁠—it’s unfortunately part of the Eternifier,” said Mr. Greypoole. “There, all in order? Good, good. Now, Captain, I see understanding in your face; that pleases me more than I can say. My position is so difficult! But you can see, when a machine is geared to its job⁠—which is to retain permanence on Happy Glades⁠—well, a machine is a machine. Where shall we put you?”

Captain Webber leaned on the arm of the little man and walked to the open lock.

“You do understand?” asked Mr. Greypoole.

Captain Webber’s head nodded halfway down, then stopped; and his eyes froze forever upon the City.

“A pity.⁠ ⁠…”

The little man with the thin hair walked about the cabins and rooms, straightening, dusting; he climbed down the ladder, shook his head and started down the path to the wooden house.

When he had washed all the empty glasses and replaced them, he sat down in the large leather chair and adjusted himself into the most comfortable position.

His eyes stared in waxen contentment at the homely interior, with its lavender wallpaper, needlepoint tapestries and tidy arrangement.

He did not move.

Traumerei

At the sound, Henry Ritchie’s hand jerked. Most of the martini sloshed out over his robe. He jumped up, swabbing furiously at the spots. “Goddam it!”

“Hank!” His wife slammed her book together.

“Well, what do you expect? That confounded buzzer⁠—”

“⁠—is a perfectly natural normal buzzer. You’re just terribly upset, dear.”

“No,” Mr. Ritchie said, “I am not ‘just terribly upset, dear’⁠—for seven years I’ve been listening to that banshee’s wail every time somebody wants in. Well, I’m through. Either it goes⁠—”

“All right, all right,” Mrs. Ritchie said. “You don’t have to make a production out of it.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

Mr. Ritchie sighed ponderously, glared at his wife, set what was left of the martini down on a table and went to the door. He slipped the chain.

“Be this the marster of ’arfway ’ouse?”

Mr. Ritchie opened the door. “Max⁠—what the devil are you doing up at this hour?”

A large man, well built, in his forties, walked in, smiling. “I could ask you the same question,” he said, flinging his hat and scarf in the direction of a chair, “but I’m far too thoughtful.”

They went back into the living room. Mrs. Ritchie looked up, frowned. “Oh, swell,” she said. “Dandy. All we need now is a bridge four.”

“Ruth’s just terribly upset,” Mr. Ritchie said.

“Well,” the large man said, “it’s nice to see unanimity in this house for once anyway. Hi, Ruth.” He walked over to the bar and found the martini mix and drained the jar’s contents into a glass. Then he drained the glass.

“Hey, take it easy!”

Max Kaplan turned to face his hosts. He looked quite a bit older than usual: the grin wasn’t boyish now. “Dear folkses,” he said, “when I die, I don’t want to see any full bottles around.”

“Oh, ha-ha, that’s just so very deliriously funny,” Mrs. Ritchie said. She was massaging her temples.

“I am glad to see her ladyship amused.” Kaplan followed Mr. Ritchie’s gaze. “Hickory dickory dock, the mice looked at the clock.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Oop, sorry.” The big man mixed up a new batch silently, then refilled the three glasses. He sat down. The clock’s tick, a deep sharp bass sound, got louder and louder in the room. Kaplan rested his head on the couch arm. “Less than an hour,” he said. “Not even an hour⁠—”

“I knew it.” Mrs. Ritchie stood up. “I knew it the minute you walked in. We’re not nervous enough, oh, no, now we’ve got to listen to the great city editor and his news behind the news.”

“Very well!” Kaplan rose shakily. He was drunk; it showed now. “If I’m not welcome here, then I shall go elsewhere to breathe my last.”

“Never mind,” Mrs. Ritchie said. “Sit down. I’ve had a stomach full of this wake. If you two insist on sitting up until X-hour like a couple of ghouls, well, that’s your business. I’m going to bed. And to sleep.”

“What a woman,” Kaplan muttered, polishing off the martini. “Nerves of chilled steel.”

Mrs. Ritchie looked at her husband for a moment. Then she said, “Good night, dear,” and started for the door.

“See you in the morning,” Mr. Ritchie said. “Get a good sleep.”

Then Max Kaplan giggled. “Yeah, a real good sleep.”

Mrs. Ritchie left the room.

The big man fumbled for a cigarette. He glanced at the clock. “Hank, for Chrissake⁠—”

Henry Ritchie sighed and slumped in the chair. “I tried, Max.”

“Did you? Did you try⁠—I mean with everything?”

“With everything. Might as well face it: the boy’s going to burn, right on schedule.”

Kaplan opened his mouth.

“Forget it. The governor isn’t about to issue a commutation. With the public’s blood up the way it is, he knows what it would mean to his vote. We were stupid even to try.”

“Lousy vultures.”

Ritchie shrugged. “They’re hungry, Max. You forget, there hasn’t been an execution in this state for over two years. They’re hungry.”

“So a poor dumb kid’s got to fry alive in order for them to get their kicks.⁠ ⁠…”

“Wait a second now. Don’t get carried away. This same poor dumb kid is the boy who killed George Sanderson in cold blood and then raped his wife, not too very long ago. If I recall, your word for him then was Brutal Murderer.”

“That was the paper. This is you and me.”

“Well, get that accusatory look off your face. Murder and rape⁠—those are stiff raps to beat, pal.”

“You did it with Beatty, you got him off,” Kaplan reminded his friend.

“Luck. Public mood⁠—Beatty was an old man, feeble. Look, Max⁠—why don’t you stop beating around the bush?”

“Okay,” Kaplan said slowly. “They⁠—let me in this afternoon. I talked with him again.”

Ritchie nodded. “And?”

“Hank, I’m telling you⁠—it gives me the creeps. I swear it does.”

“What did he tell you?”

Kaplan puffed on his cigarette nervously, kept his eyes on the clock. “He was lying down when I went in, curled up tight. Trying to sleep.”

“Go on.”

“When he heard me, he came to. ‘Mr. Kaplan,’ he says, ‘you’ve got to make them believe me, you’ve got to make them understand⁠—’ His eyes got real big then, and⁠—Hank, I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Just him, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“He carrying the same line?”

“Yeah. But worse this time, more intense somehow.⁠ ⁠…”

Ritchie tried to keep the smile. He remembered, all right. Much too well. The whole story was crazy, normally enough to get the kid off with a life sentence in the criminally insane ward. But it was a little too crazy, so the psychiatrists wouldn’t buy.

“Can’t get his words out of my mind,” Kaplan was saying. His eyes were closed. “ ‘Mister, tell them, tell them. If you kill me, then you’ll all die. This whole world of yours will die.⁠ ⁠…’ ”

Because, Ritchie remembered, you don’t exist, any of you, except in my mind. Don’t you see? I’m asleep and dreaming all this. You, your wives, your children, it’s all part of my dream⁠—and when you kill me then I’ll wake up and that will be the end of you.⁠ ⁠…

“Well,” Ritchie said, “it’s original.”

Kaplan shook his head.

“Come on, Max, snap out of it. You act like you never listened to a lunatic before. People have been predicting the end of the world ever since Year 1.”

“Sure, I know. You don’t have to patronize me. It’s just that⁠—well, who is this particular lunatic anyway? We don’t know any more about him than the day he was caught. Even the name we had to make up. Who is he, where’d he come from, what’s his home?”

My home⁠ ⁠… a world of eternities, an eternity of worlds.⁠ ⁠… I must destroy, hurt, kill before I wake always⁠ ⁠… and then once more I must sleep⁠ ⁠… always, always.⁠ ⁠…

“Look, there’s a hundred vagrants in every city. Just like our boy: no name, no friends, no relatives.”

“Then he doesn’t seem in the least odd to you, is that it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“So he’s odd! I never met a murderer that wasn’t!” Ritchie recalled the lean hairless face, the expressionless eyes, the slender youthful body that moved in strange hesitant jerks, the halting voice.

The clock bonged the quarter hour. Fifteen to twelve. Max Kaplan wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“And besides,” Ritchie said, somewhat too loudly, “it’s plain ridiculous. He says⁠—what? We’re a dream he’s having, right? Okay⁠—then what about our parents, and their parents, everybody who never heard of the kid?”

“First thing I thought of. And you know his answer.”

Ritchie snorted.

“Well, think it over, for God’s sake. He says every dream is a complete unit in itself. You⁠—haven’t you ever had nightmares about people you’d never seen before?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but⁠—”

“All right, even though they were projections of your subconscious⁠—or whatever the hell it’s called⁠—they were complete, weren’t they? Going somewhere, doing something, all on their own?”

Ritchie was silent.

“Where were they going, what were they doing? See? The kid says every dream, even ours, builds its own whole world⁠—complete, with a past and⁠—as long as you stay asleep⁠—a future.”

“Nonsense! What about us, when we sleep and dream? Or is the period when we’re unconscious the time he’s up and around? And keep in mind that everybody doesn’t sleep at the same time⁠—”

“You’re missing the point, Hank. I said it was complete, didn’t I? And isn’t sleeping part of the pattern?”

“Have another drink, Max. You’re slipping.”

“What will you wake up to?”

“My home. You would not understand.”

“Then what?”

“Then I sleep again and dream another world.”

“Why did you kill George Sanderson?”

“It is my eternal destiny to kill and suffer punishment.”

“Why? Why?”

“In my world I committed a crime; it is the punishment of my world, this destiny.⁠ ⁠…”

“Then try this on for size,” Ritchie said. “That kid’s frozen stiff with fear. Since he’s going to have to wake up no matter what, then why not sit back and enjoy it?”

Kaplan’s eyes widened. “Hank, how soundly do you sleep?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I mean, do you ever dream?”

“Of course.”

“Ever get hold of any particularly vivid ones? Falling downstairs like, being tortured, anything like that?”

Ritchie pulled at his drink.

“Sure you have.” Kaplan gazed steadily at the clock. Almost midnight. “Then try to remember. In that kind of dream, isn’t it true that the pleasure⁠—or pain⁠—you feel is almost as real as if you were actually experiencing it? I remember once I had a nightmare about my old man. He caught me in the basement with a cigarette⁠—I was eight or nine, I guess. He took down my pants and started after me with his belt. Hank⁠—that hurt, bad. It really hurt.”

“So what’s the point?”

“In my dream I tried to get away from my old man. He chased me all over that basement. Well, it’s the same with the kid⁠—except his dream is a hundred times more vivid, that’s all. He knows he’ll feel that electric chair, feel the jolts frying into him, feel the death boiling up in his throat just as much as if he were honest-to-God sitting there.⁠ ⁠…”

Kaplan stopped talking. The two men sat quietly watching the clock’s invisible progress. Then Ritchie leaped up and stalked over to the bar again. “Doggone you, Max,” he called. “You’re getting me fidgety now.”

“Don’t kid me,” Kaplan said. “You’ve been fidgety on your own for quite a while. I don’t know how you ever made the grade as a criminal lawyer⁠—you don’t know the first thing about lying.”

Ritchie didn’t answer. He poured the drink slowly.

“Look at you and Ruth, screaming at each other. And then there was the other tip-off. The way you defended the kid⁠—brilliantly, masterfully. You’d never have done that for a common open-and-shut little killer.”

“Max,” Ritchie said, “you’re nuts. Tell you what: at exactly 12:01 I’ll take you out for the biggest, juiciest, rarest steak you ever saw. On me. Then we’ll get loaded and fall all over ourselves laughing⁠—”

Ritchie fought away the sudden picture of steak, rare steak, with the blood sputtering out, sizzling on an electric stove.

The clock began to strike. Henry Ritchie and Max Kaplan stood very still.

He uncoiled. The dry pop of hardened joints jabbed wakefulness into him until finally the twenty-foot long shell lay straight upon the steaming rocks. He opened his eyes, all of them, one by one.

Across the bubbling pools, far away, past the white stone geysers, he could see them coming. Many of them, swiftly, giant slithering things with many arms and many legs.

He tried to move, but rock grew over him and he could not move. By looking around he could see the cliff’s edge, and he remembered the thousand bottomless pits below. Gradually the rest formed, and he remembered all.

He turned to the largest creature. “Did you tell them?” He knew this would be a horrible punishment, worse than the last, the burning, far worse. Fingers began to unhinge the thick shell, peel it from him, leaving the viscous white tenderness bare to the heat and pain. “Tell them, make them understand, this is only a dream I’m having⁠—”

They took the prisoner to the precipice, lingered a moment to give him a view of the dizziness and the sucking things far below. Then nervous hands pressed him forward into space.

He did not wake for a long time.