Can and Can'tankerous (12 page)
Read Can and Can'tankerous Online
Authors: Harlan Ellison (R)
The next day, Monday, Susan and my associate
went out to buy a computer. I went out, got the
mail, walked back in to the foyer. I’m standing
there, perfectly cogent, looking at the mail.
The next second, I’m lying there
looking up at the art deco wooden ceiling.
No pain. No cracking of the head.
No blood. No blurring of vision.
No slurring of my tongue.
Everything absolutely the same. In an instant—BAM!
I checked the wrist watch on my left arm.
No panic. No fright.
Too stupid to be frightened,
not knowing what has happened.
Introductory Note:
The Toad Prince, or,
Sex Queen of the Martian
Pleasure-domes
A Novella of Manners
This is THE GREAT MIND-SHATTERING “LOST!!” HARLAN ELLISON STAR-SPANNING NOVELLA OF 1940s THRILL-BLASTING SPACE ADVENTURE, YO! and it’s perhaps not so much “lost” as really and seriously misplaced. Not once, not twice, not even three times, but…well, let me tell you how it went.
It was a harsher time. The Galactic Confederation had given sway to the gibbering, malevolent hordes of the Diphthong Parallax. Here at home, tsunamis had swallowed Portland and Wilkes-Barre.
Ah, but I jest.
Forgive me my jackanapery. (At my age, all I pray is that the wit and vocabulary don’t desert me; for when they do, I then instantly become only a crazed geezer who thinks he’s a whole lot funnier than he actually is.)
It was 1957. I was about to get my ass drafted into the U.S. Army, but I didn’t know it. I was writing pulp fiction at a penny-a-word for every genre ever conceived, except spicy Asiatic Menace horror-mysteries. At a penny a word, one did a plethora of stuff, some good, some awful, some competent and workmanlike. Occasionally, something better than you knew you had in you…whatever it would be that eventually freed you and let you become a writer able to stand the gaff for more than fifty years.
But then, at that moment, it was 1957, February or March, if I recall. I was writing 10,000 words a night for Paul Fairman at
Amazing Stories
and
Fantastic Adventures.
We wrote a lot of those stories—the rest of the ’50s cadre and I—fast, formulaically, and festooned with “he said, grinning around the thick, fat stub of the Cuban cigar,” instead of just “he said,” because
he said
was only 2¢ and the prolix prose was 12¢ and counting. Always counting. We did a lot of those stories around (and to fit) already-painted, lurid canvases, mostly by Ed Valigursky. I did one around a cover for something called “Blonde Cargo.” It was, as Typhoid Mary is recorded as having said, “not my finest hour.” You could look it up. FaceBook. Or ButtBook.
Nonetheless, I wrote it. And what happened thereafter neither I nor the Eldritch Gods can say. It disappeared. I think I got paid for it. In fact, I
know
I got paid for it, because my impeccable career records list the sale to
Amazing Stories
, and I got $150.00 for the 15,000 words. (The records also show that I was already
in
the Army when I wrote it. At Ft. Knox, in Kentucky.
Anyhow…
The story went
somewhere
and was never seen again.
Until! (And this is where it gets interesting!) Three decades flash by in an instant, I learned to write a
lot
better and I was reborn. And “Blonde Cargo” surfaced, I can’t remember how or exactly the moment of why. But it was presumably written by me mine ownself either some years before I was born, or written recently in a pathetic spasm of nostalgia for the wild crap I enjoyed reading when I was a little kid. Either way, it got written to be published
exactly
as simulacrum of the original pulp magazine style and format. What I mean,
Planet Stories
or
Thrilling Wonder
or, yes,
Amazing
back before there was an Internet or voice mail or Britney Spears.
Along about 1990, I sat down one day to write this bit of tomfoolery. Or maybe it was 1958, when I was stuck in Fort Knox. No, I think it was 1970, after I’d won my first few Hugos. Eighty-two, it was definitely 1982, when Shawna McCarthy was still at
Asimov’s
and offered me a lot of money to write a lead story for the magazine. No, it was fer shure either sometime before 1934 when I got borned, or it was 1991, when I actually sat down and wrote this story, and sent it to Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith at
Pulphouse.
May Allah praise their names! And I lied, and told them it was a new story, but a parody of pulp writing. I am a bad person.
Because, you see, they had this odd co-.publication deal with Bantam Books, where
Pulphouse
would do cunning li’l hardcover volumes of cunning li’l novelettes, and then Bantam would reprint them as attractive, thin li’l paperbacks. And Kris/Dean said they
loved
it, just loved the gag—doing a modern straight-faced version of ’40s space opera—with art and typography unaltered—and they sent it on to the editor at Bantam who was ramrodding this series of novelette slimjims. And
she
loved it. But though she was ga-ga over the rip-roaring action-adventure of it all, she couldn’t figure out why Ellison and Kris/Dean wanted to muck it up with all that ridiculous ’40s-’50s nonsense. “Why act so disrespectful to such a serious piece of writing?” she wanted to know.
Over the telephone, Kris/Dean in Oregon, me in California, the three of us looked at each other, with disbelief…say
what!?
Didn’t she
understand
this was a
joke
, a parody, a lovingly nostalgic practical joke in honor of a style and a time long gone, never to return? In short, didn’t she
get
it? (Forget that I was lying.)
Well, no, she didn’t. And I guess my stunted ethics kicked in, I couldn’t, just could
not
validate the lie in such a duplicity. So I gave a pass to that payday—and it was a substantial one— because I had presumably written this as a funny, and how the hell could I defend writing it in the style of Ellison 1957, when I was now writing as Ellison 1991? So it sat there, lost and forlorn, my poor li’l love-child of a story, and the next thing I knew that poltroon Allen Steele had written just this kind of gag for
Asimov’s
(though the cover wasn’t nearly authentic enough), and he even won awards for it.
Oh me, oh my, I lamented, in a lamentable sort of way, now if “The Toad Prince” ever sees print, everyone will think I’m emulating that blackguard Steele.
But, as it must to all Good Souls, the divine moment came to me when the editor of
Amazing Stories
—which was, ironically, the absolutely correct venue for this exercise—came to me and said, “Oh great and wise Scrivener, dost thou have in thy kick somewhere a story that wouldst do us honor as includee in the big Millennium issue of the world’s oldest living sf magazine?”
And I said, yes, I had such a dollop of tastiness, and I sold it, and they ran it on the cover, and that’s more than a decade ago, and so it is in this fine volume, as bright and shiny as one of the pennies I originally received for creating Sarna, my very own, apparently indestructible, sex queen of the Martian pleasure-domes.
Here she is, naked and unashamed, and I only wish I’d lived to see it in print. You could look me up (as Dorothy Parker wrote).
The Toad Prince,
or,
Sex Queen of the Martian
Pleasure-domes
A Novella of Manners
O
nce upon a time,
in a golden kingdom far away, a kingdom dreaming of never-was but should-have-been, on an especially lovely day, a most exceptionally comely blonde princess, with eyes the color of skies toward which the noblest eagles yearn, chose to take a leisurely stroll at the veriest verge of the vast grounds bounding her father’s palace. This princess was heralded throughout the kingdom for her purity and compassion, her sagacity and sweetness of manner, as well as her breathtaking beauty. For many hours did the sweet creature walk the woods and meads of the palace wold; and when at last she came to the southernmost tip of the king’s gardens she found herself at the brink of a murky fen. As this slough was dark and most sorely troubling, the princess did make to turn and hasten back to the palace. It was at that very moment she heard a loud croak that arrested her attention and, casting about for its source, she did espy sitting on a blasted tree stump a huge and most hideous toad. “Ah,” the lovely princess said, “a vocal member of the family
Bufonidae
. Good morn to you, sir flycatcher.” Yet before she could make to leave, the creature croaked again, and then said, very distinctly, “Oh, most exquisite of all princesses, please save me.” The princess was taken aback for never, in all that brief number of years that had been her pleasant existence, amid all the marvels of the court, had she ever heard tales of, or indeed encountered, a toad or frog with the gift of human speech. Moving near, for her curiosity as you may imagine had been piqued, the princess saw the toad was staring directly at her with gaze unwavering. “I beg your pardon?” the princess said, for though the sight of the creature made her succulent lower lip tremble and a gelid spasm climb her spine, she had been reared in the royal fashion and had been tutored always to speak politely, no matter to whom the address. “I am not truly a frog,” the creature said, arching in a frightful fashion. “To be sure,” the princess replied, asseverating, “a frog and a toad are members of entirely different sub-orders.” The toad stared at her for a long moment, as if reconsidering its options. “Whatever,” it said. “In any event: because of runes toss’t and a magical spell cast upon me by an extremely cranky, not to mention demented, witch, I who was once a handsome prince have been changed into this monstrous warty thing you see before you. And so will I remain, lovely one, until that precise moment when a beautiful woman of pure lineage and unblemished goodness kisses me. Of her own free will.” Startled, the princess asked, “And shall you then be freed of this hideous curse, and be recongealed in the presentable form e’er held previously?” The toad croaked affirmation. And then—because in that golden land many strange and wonderful things did occur fairly regularly—the comely maiden stooped and, shuddering at the chill, clammy touch of the creature, did take the odious beast between thumb and forefinger, did lift the toad to her pouting, ruby lips, did close her eyes and, holding her breath against the fetid odor of its slimy body, did plant on its lipless mouth a sweet, warm kiss…
Chapter One
When Earthmen had settled Mars, they had called it the golden land, partially because there was gold in rich deposits all across the planet, and partially because of the yellow pigmentation of its natives, who were eulogized by Terran poets as The Golden People.
Golden, as the Samoans, the Melanesians, had been…long ago on Earth. And as with those ancient peoples, the reavers had taken more than just the innocence of the alien culture: they had raped and dominated, savaged and strip-mined both Mars and its Golden People. Now, because of the mass rapes, there were two distinct social levels of Martian skin-tone.
The half-breeds were merely yellow, no longer Golden.
But that had been many years before. Now Mars was spotted by breather Domes, by Terran business enterprises, and by industry. The Golden People were simply called marties now, the term gooks having fallen into disuse.
All the waves of explorers, entrepreneurs, and settlers had come and used Mars, and now it was “civilized.”
There were even places like the Red Dog House.
And there were women like Sarna.
Sarna was not a Martian by birth, though she worked in what might loosely be termed a “home industry.” She was what the other girls in the house referred to as an imp. An imported prostitute from Earth. At first they had not liked her, for her beauty was a clear, clean thing and her manner was not yet sullied by the stains the profession soon brought. Her skin was pink, like an imp, not yellow, like a martie. Also, she drew more customers, and that cut the individual profits for the other girls. But soon they grew to respect her, for she respected herself. There were reasons why she was in the Red Dog House, and she kept them to herself, silently, secretly—not whining and shrilly cursing, as all the other girls did when in their cups, or after a rough miner from Delgamarville had left, or when business was dead and they had not gotten their fix-ration—but respecting herself, despite her profession. She was what she was, and she was in no way ashamed of it. So soon they learned to like her, even as they respected her.
Her name was Sarna. She worked on Mars. Her profession was the oldest in the universe.
A Yellow died in her bed one night, by unnatural causes, and that was what started her search for the Six.
It was chilly, even for the Dome. Somehow, the weather had fluffed up after the midday rain, and the Dome had gone colder than usual. For Sarna, who had been born in Ft. Lauderdale, and who had never known a cold streak—a
really
cold snap—till she worked a café in St. Paul one winter, Mars was a deep freeze. She constantly wore a Spanish shawl about her shoulders, and though her dresses were as skimpy and erotic as those of the other girls, she wore black mesh hose that kept her legs from chilling.
For all her strange ways and despite the fact that her skin was a pinkish-white and not the normal hue of yellow natural to marties, her clientele was growing daily.
Today had brought a Common Space Law student from Center U.; a grizzled prospector fresh from the radium licks out beyond Grosvenor Pass in the Telemites; a couple of jockeys off the mail ship from Asteroid 774; and a few marties, their whip antennae rigid with passion. It had been a steady day, hardly any time to think.
When the Yellow came in, his face drawn with an expression strange, even for a martie, Sarna was the only one of the girls who did not shy away. She always felt an odd pang of near pity for the low half-breed martie Yellows. The other girls, all of them upper martie with that inbred prejudice against the jaundiced-flesh Yellow, or lower, marties, turned their backs to him, conversed among themselves.
Thus, Sarna received the dubious honor of making the odd sort of love the Yellows demanded.
He was somewhat under five feet, his legs and arms horny-shelled and thin as copper tubing. His skin was at least eight shades darker than that of the girls, and his eyes were big as saucers, without lids. His antennae were rigid—but it was not from passion. It seemed to be fear, and the tiny Yellow’s bony chest sucked in and out with the labors of fright.
“Looking for a good time, Mister?” Sarna made the usual overtures. The little Yellow leaped at her voice.
“I said: are you looking for—”
He cut her off with a slashing movement of his spadelike hand. His voice was a deep rumble, hardly fitting the weak body. “You got back room in there, hah?”
His Terra-pidge was terrible. Sarna immediately catalogued him as a rustic. He was more than likely from the area near the Telemite Mountains, where Center had set up lichen-farms. More and more these days, the rustics from out there were filtering into the Dome. She had even been surprised (though not outraged as the other girls) to see several of them in the Red Dog House during the past month.
He repeated himself, urgently. “Back room, you got, hah?”
She nodded slowly, not wanting to reveal her confusion at his imperative tones. And she had to steer him to the bar if she could. “Sure, sure, Mister. I got a nice room with a soft bed, an lots of fun, but how’s about a drink first. I’m real thirsty, ain’t you? How about a nice pony of RealSkotch?”
He stared at her mutely for a moment, confusion swirling in his owl eyes. “No,” he finally blurted emphatically, “no drink. Room, away, back, now. Hah?”
Sarna shrugged within her shawl, letting it slip off one smooth, white shoulder. She was resigned he wanted bed and no booze. “You got eight credits?” she asked bluntly.
No sense fooling with a drifter, no matter how sorry she felt for the little Yellow.
He grubbed around for a moment in the pouch slung from one bony shoulder, an expression on his face that said
You
,
too
,
hah? You want my credits
,
too.
As he fumbled, Sarna read that expression, and for a moment she was feeling herself ready to say forget the money, it’s a free go. But she caught herself: that was no kind of attitude for this business. She bumped herself inside; was she getting soft in the head, or just too sweet for this game?
Her thoughts were interrupted as the Yellow came up with five crumpled credit plasts and a fistful of change. He dumped them into her cupped hands and made shoving motions. It was hers.
“Back room, hah? Back room?”
She did not count it, but it looked like ten, perhaps twelve credits there. For a second she considered giving him his change; then it struck her about never giving a sucker etcetera, and wouldn’t she look like a sappo handing a guy change in a house like this. She shoved it into her crotch-bag slit and turned, leading him down the corridor toward her room.
She opened the door and walked in. He followed quickly, closing it and making sure it was locked. It was locked as far as he was concerned, but had she wanted to get away from a rough customer in a hurry, Sarna knew the secret knob-twist that would open it the reverse way on its hinges.
She smiled to herself and started to undress.
He turned around—his pointed, elflike ear had been pressed to the door, listening—and his saucer eyes grew wider and whiter.
“No,” he said, motioning with his spade hands. “No like that. No. Nothing. Not want woman. No.”
Right away she knew what he meant. And it floored her. He wasn’t here for business. The little guy didn’t want to go to bed; she honestly thought he— Oh no, for crine out loud, that was
ridiculous
!
But it seemed he wanted to hide. She stared at him, standing there as she was, nearly naked, her skimpy thigh-length dress clutched to her body, and she saw the fear that rode him.
It was chillier than usual in the Dome. She felt her teeth begin to chatter. The little Yellow stared at her pitifully. She felt awkward standing there. Awkward in her nudity for the first time since that first time. She looked around self-consciously, and then threw the dress over the chair in the corner. She pulled down the sheets and blankets and climbed into bed.
There was no invitation or subterfuge in her action…it was cold in the Red Dog House. She pulled the thermal covers up to her chin and lay there looking at him.
He was a pathetic sight, in his homespuns and his fear.
She stared at him openly, and since he could not lower his eyes, his lidless eyes, he stared back. But there was a something swimming to be free in his eyes, and she silently asked him what. Tell me, what is it, little martie Yellow, can you tell someone? Then tell me.
For no good reason, but she knew she had to ask.
“Are you in trouble?”
Her voice was soft and honest. He nodded his big head briskly. “Big troub’l. Big. Six.”
“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
The little Yellow walked to the edge of the bed, as though his thoughts were kilometers away, and sat down. His terribly narrow back, its strange spiked vertebrae sticking out; his thin body curved; he slumped, head in spadelike hands. “Oh, so too troub’l. So big. The Six.”
He said the last word as though it was the key to everything.
Sarna reached out from under the covers and touched his back. He started at her touch, but her hand was warm, and he looked away again, the fear sinking like dark sediment in the wide white pools of his eyes.
“Tell me,” she urged him. “Maybe I can help you.”
He shook his head. It was no use. It was no good. No one could help. His head-shake said all that, and more. Much more. The fear again.
“Where are you from?” Sarna primed him.
He glanced long over his right shoulder. He glanced longer than a glance, and he was silently asking
Can I trust you? Can I tell you what has me so frightened? Or are you here to betray me
,
too?
“Tellemize,” he answered, waving his wide yellow hand in the general direction of the towering ebony mountains. “Lich farm, farm for bosso. Farm good, no troub’l no time. Get pay
siguel siutash fee orlasiutash
,” he lapsed into Mart, then broke off at her look of confusion. “I good work. I pull lich alla time, no troub’l. Make coata.” Her look grew bewildered again, and he restated: “Coata. Make coata, alla much I s’pose have each day, hah? Coata? Know coata?”