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Authors: John Sladek
Tags: Science-Fiction
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the point of blunting my pens and hiding my paper. I have not discharged it for this disgraceful show, for I am bound to it – yes,
bound
to it by a strange and terrible secret fate that makes me doubt at times which is master and which, man. It reminds one of several old comedies, in which, man and master having changed roles, and maid and mistress likewise, they meet. I mean, of course, in the works of –’
Here the letter proper ended, for the professor could think of no name to fit. After writing, and lining out, ‘Dickens, Dryden, Dostoyevsky, Racine, Rousseau, Camus,’ and a dozen more, his inkwell ran dry. He knew it would be no use to inquire after more ink, for the Machine was dead set against this letter –
Looking out the window, he saw a bright pink-and-yellow striped ambulance. So, the doctor next door was going off to zombie-land, was he? Or, correctly, to the Hospital for the Asocial. In the East, they called them ‘Mussulmen’; here, ‘zombies’, but it all came to the same thing: the living dead, who needed no elaborate houses, games, ink. They needed only intravenous nourishment, and little of that. The drapes drew themselves, so Wattleigh knew the doctor was being carried out then. He finished his interrupted thought.
– and in any case, he was wholly dissatisfied with this letter. He had not mentioned Helena, luncheon, his resuscitator which growled at him, and so much more. Volumes more, if only he had the ink to write, if only his memory would not fail him when he sat down to write, if only –
James stood with his elbow on the marble mantlepiece of Marya’s apartment, surveying the other guests and sizing them up. There was a farmer from Minnesota, incredibly dull, who claimed to have once been an engineer, but who hardly knew what a slide rule was. There was Marya in the company of some muscular young man James disliked at sight, an ex-mathematician named Dewes or Clewes. Marya was about to play chess with a slightly plump Californian, while his girl, a pretty little blonde thing called Helena Hershee, stood by to kibitz.
‘I’m practically a champion,’ explained Wattleigh, setting up the pieces. ‘So perhaps I ought to give you a rook or two.’
‘If you like,’ said Marya. ‘I haven’t played in years. About all I remember is the Fool’s Mate.’
James drifted over to Helena’s side and watched the game.
‘I’m James Fairchild,’ he said, and added almost defiantly, ‘M.D.’
Helena’s lips, too bright with lipstick, parted. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ she murmured. ‘You’re the aggressive Dr Fairchild who runs through friends so fast, aren’t you?’
Marya’s eyes came up from the game. Seemingly her eyes had no pupils, and James guessed she was full of Ritalin. ‘James is not in the least aggressive,’ she said. ‘But he gets mad when you won’t let him psychoanalyse you.’
‘Don’t disturb the game,’ said Wattleigh. He put both elbows on the table in an attitude of concentration.
Helena had not heard Marya’s remark. She had turned to watch the muscular mathematician lecture Lloyd.
‘Hell yes. The Machines got to do all the bearing and raising of children. Otherwise, we’d have a population explosion, you get me? I mean, we’d run out of food –’
‘You really pick ’em, Marya,’ said James. He gestured at the young man. ‘Whatever became of that “writer”? Porter, was it? Christ, I can still hear him saying, “exist, man”!’ James snorted.
Marya’s head came up once more, and tears stood in her pupilless eyes. ‘Porter went to the hospital. He’s a Mussulman, now,’ she said brightly. ‘I wish I could feel something for him, but They won’t let me.’
‘– it’s like Malthus’s law, or somebody’s law. Animals grow faster than vegetables,’ the mathematician went on, speaking to the farmer.
‘Checkmate,’ said Marya, and bounced to her feet. ‘James, have you a Sngarsmoke? Chocolate?’
He produced a bright
bound
to it by a strange and terrible secret fate that makes me doubt at times which is master and which, man. It reminds one of several old comedies, in which, man and master having changed roles, and maid and mistress likewise, they meet. I mean, of course, in the works of –’
Here the letter proper ended, for the professor could think of no name to fit. After writing, and lining out, ‘Dickens, Dryden, Dostoyevsky, Racine, Rousseau, Camus,’ and a dozen more, his inkwell ran dry. He knew it would be no use to inquire after more ink, for the Machine was dead set against this letter –
Looking out the window, he saw a bright pink-and-yellow striped ambulance. So, the doctor next door was going off to zombie-land, was he? Or, correctly, to the Hospital for the Asocial. In the East, they called them ‘Mussulmen’; here, ‘zombies’, but it all came to the same thing: the living dead, who needed no elaborate houses, games, ink. They needed only intravenous nourishment, and little of that. The drapes drew themselves, so Wattleigh knew the doctor was being carried out then. He finished his interrupted thought.
– and in any case, he was wholly dissatisfied with this letter. He had not mentioned Helena, luncheon, his resuscitator which growled at him, and so much more. Volumes more, if only he had the ink to write, if only his memory would not fail him when he sat down to write, if only –
James stood with his elbow on the marble mantlepiece of Marya’s apartment, surveying the other guests and sizing them up. There was a farmer from Minnesota, incredibly dull, who claimed to have once been an engineer, but who hardly knew what a slide rule was. There was Marya in the company of some muscular young man James disliked at sight, an ex-mathematician named Dewes or Clewes. Marya was about to play chess with a slightly plump Californian, while his girl, a pretty little blonde thing called Helena Hershee, stood by to kibitz.
‘I’m practically a champion,’ explained Wattleigh, setting up the pieces. ‘So perhaps I ought to give you a rook or two.’
‘If you like,’ said Marya. ‘I haven’t played in years. About all I remember is the Fool’s Mate.’
James drifted over to Helena’s side and watched the game.
‘I’m James Fairchild,’ he said, and added almost defiantly, ‘M.D.’
Helena’s lips, too bright with lipstick, parted. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ she murmured. ‘You’re the aggressive Dr Fairchild who runs through friends so fast, aren’t you?’
Marya’s eyes came up from the game. Seemingly her eyes had no pupils, and James guessed she was full of Ritalin. ‘James is not in the least aggressive,’ she said. ‘But he gets mad when you won’t let him psychoanalyse you.’
‘Don’t disturb the game,’ said Wattleigh. He put both elbows on the table in an attitude of concentration.
Helena had not heard Marya’s remark. She had turned to watch the muscular mathematician lecture Lloyd.
‘Hell yes. The Machines got to do all the bearing and raising of children. Otherwise, we’d have a population explosion, you get me? I mean, we’d run out of food –’
‘You really pick ’em, Marya,’ said James. He gestured at the young man. ‘Whatever became of that “writer”? Porter, was it? Christ, I can still hear him saying, “exist, man”!’ James snorted.
Marya’s head came up once more, and tears stood in her pupilless eyes. ‘Porter went to the hospital. He’s a Mussulman, now,’ she said brightly. ‘I wish I could feel something for him, but They won’t let me.’
‘– it’s like Malthus’s law, or somebody’s law. Animals grow faster than vegetables,’ the mathematician went on, speaking to the farmer.
‘Checkmate,’ said Marya, and bounced to her feet. ‘James, have you a Sngarsmoke? Chocolate?’
He produced a bright
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