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Authors: Frederik Pohl
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a pudgy arm around Mitzi’s waist—as far around as it would go: “Well, that’s the first bag. Probably not more than another twenty or so, eh?”
“No, that’s the only one. I like to travel light,” she said, and moved away from his arm.
Dambois looked up at her reproachfully. “You’ve changed a lot,” he complained. “I think you even got taller.”
“Comes from being on a lighter planet.” That was a joke, of course. Venus is only minutely smaller than the Earth. But I didn’t laugh, because I was puzzling over why it was that Mitzi had got herself a whopping chunk of change and I hadn’t—then that was driven out of my mind as I saw what was coming down the conveyor.
“Aw, shit,” I cried. It was the bag I had marked Delicate Handling—the steamer trunk, with sturdy sides and a double lock. They hadn’t been enough to save it. The trunk looked as if somebody had run one of the spacecraft tractors over a corner of it. One side was squashed like a fallen soufflé, and it was leaking an aromatic slop of liquor, colognes, toothpaste and god-knows-what. Naturally I had put all the breakables in it.
“What a mess,” Dambois complained. He tsked impatiently a couple of times and glanced at his watch. “I was going to offer you a lift,” he said, “but really—that stuff in my car would smell it up for weeks—and I suppose you’ve got other bags—”
I knew my lines. “Go ahead,” I said glumly. “I’ll take a taxi.” I watched them go, wondering a lot about why I hadn’t been allowed to get in on the damage suit, but actually wondering even more just then whether I should hightail it for the baggage claim office or wait for the rest of my stuff.
I made the wrong decision. I decided to wait. After the last visible bag had long since been removed and the conveyor had stopped running I realized I had a problem.
When I reported the problem the superintendent in charge of denying all responsibility for anything, ever, told me that he’d check out the missing pieces, if I wanted him to, while I filled out the claim forms, if I thought that was worthwhile—although it looked a lot to him, he said, as though the damage to my case was old stuff.
He had plenty of time to check, because there was plenty to fill out. When I turned in the claims he kept me waiting only another half-hour or so. I called the Agency to say I’d be delayed. It didn’t seem to worry them. They gave me the address of the housing they’d lined up for me, told me to settle in and said I wasn’t expected until tomorrow morning anyway. It is nice to be missed. Then the claims superintendent reported that the rest of my bags seemed to have gone either to Paris or Rio de Janeiro, and in neither case was I likely to see them for a while.
So, bagless, I joined the glum queue waiting for the next city subline.
Half an hour later, finally at the head of the line, I realized I hadn’t changed any Veenie currency and so I didn’t have enough cash for the fare—found a cash machine, punched in my I.D., got a bodiless voice cooing, “I am deeply sorry, sir or madam, but this Kwik-Check One-Stop Anytime cash dispenser terminal is temporarily out of service. Please consult map for nearest alternate location.” But when I looked around the booth there wasn’t any map. Welcome home, Tenn!
II
New York, New York. What a wonderful town! All my fretful annoyances were submerged, even the one about why Mitzi cut me out of the gravy train. Ten years didn’t seem to have changed the tall buildings that disappeared into the gray, flaky air. The cold, gray, flaky air. It had gone winter again; there were patches of dirty snow in corners, and an occasional consumer furtively scooping them up to take home to avoid the freshwater tax. After Venus, it was heaven! I gawked like a Wichita tourist at the Big Apple. I walked liked one, too, bumping into scurrying pedestrians, and things worse than pedestrians. My traffic skills were
“No, that’s the only one. I like to travel light,” she said, and moved away from his arm.
Dambois looked up at her reproachfully. “You’ve changed a lot,” he complained. “I think you even got taller.”
“Comes from being on a lighter planet.” That was a joke, of course. Venus is only minutely smaller than the Earth. But I didn’t laugh, because I was puzzling over why it was that Mitzi had got herself a whopping chunk of change and I hadn’t—then that was driven out of my mind as I saw what was coming down the conveyor.
“Aw, shit,” I cried. It was the bag I had marked Delicate Handling—the steamer trunk, with sturdy sides and a double lock. They hadn’t been enough to save it. The trunk looked as if somebody had run one of the spacecraft tractors over a corner of it. One side was squashed like a fallen soufflé, and it was leaking an aromatic slop of liquor, colognes, toothpaste and god-knows-what. Naturally I had put all the breakables in it.
“What a mess,” Dambois complained. He tsked impatiently a couple of times and glanced at his watch. “I was going to offer you a lift,” he said, “but really—that stuff in my car would smell it up for weeks—and I suppose you’ve got other bags—”
I knew my lines. “Go ahead,” I said glumly. “I’ll take a taxi.” I watched them go, wondering a lot about why I hadn’t been allowed to get in on the damage suit, but actually wondering even more just then whether I should hightail it for the baggage claim office or wait for the rest of my stuff.
I made the wrong decision. I decided to wait. After the last visible bag had long since been removed and the conveyor had stopped running I realized I had a problem.
When I reported the problem the superintendent in charge of denying all responsibility for anything, ever, told me that he’d check out the missing pieces, if I wanted him to, while I filled out the claim forms, if I thought that was worthwhile—although it looked a lot to him, he said, as though the damage to my case was old stuff.
He had plenty of time to check, because there was plenty to fill out. When I turned in the claims he kept me waiting only another half-hour or so. I called the Agency to say I’d be delayed. It didn’t seem to worry them. They gave me the address of the housing they’d lined up for me, told me to settle in and said I wasn’t expected until tomorrow morning anyway. It is nice to be missed. Then the claims superintendent reported that the rest of my bags seemed to have gone either to Paris or Rio de Janeiro, and in neither case was I likely to see them for a while.
So, bagless, I joined the glum queue waiting for the next city subline.
Half an hour later, finally at the head of the line, I realized I hadn’t changed any Veenie currency and so I didn’t have enough cash for the fare—found a cash machine, punched in my I.D., got a bodiless voice cooing, “I am deeply sorry, sir or madam, but this Kwik-Check One-Stop Anytime cash dispenser terminal is temporarily out of service. Please consult map for nearest alternate location.” But when I looked around the booth there wasn’t any map. Welcome home, Tenn!
II
New York, New York. What a wonderful town! All my fretful annoyances were submerged, even the one about why Mitzi cut me out of the gravy train. Ten years didn’t seem to have changed the tall buildings that disappeared into the gray, flaky air. The cold, gray, flaky air. It had gone winter again; there were patches of dirty snow in corners, and an occasional consumer furtively scooping them up to take home to avoid the freshwater tax. After Venus, it was heaven! I gawked like a Wichita tourist at the Big Apple. I walked liked one, too, bumping into scurrying pedestrians, and things worse than pedestrians. My traffic skills were
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