Ellison Wonderland (11 page)

They realized it too late.

Beneath their feet, the ground swelled, like a bubble bursting, and abruptly opened with a wet, smacking sound . . .

Their screams were cut short as they fell fell fell — and the silver, featureless, spongey ground closed without a break. Without an indication that a ship of space and three men had been there.

In the syrup. Gray and all–consuming. Heaving, tumbling, dragged deeper and deeper, thrust into the maw of a force without form. The allness was about them; they were being . . .

EATEN ALIVE!!

The gray substance held them in a rubbery grip. They could move but slightly. Gray and sparkling, coating their helmets. Breathing was clear, but seemed so oppressive. The planet of gray featurelessness was alive, the entire world was a creature, an entity, and they were in its gut. They turned over and over wishing knowing hoping not caring but knowing that this was all of it down to the bottom without end and without hope and hands out and legs out and their fingers spread and their eyes wide as their throats tensed and tore at the screams that rattled within their helmets . . .

Overhead, the
Circe
swam into view, was there a moment, no longer, and gone out out and out gone again in the silver nothingness that lived held would not release them goodbye.

The trembling was coming again. Suddenly. Then they felt the planet around them heaving, tremors starting low and roiling, spilling, sucking upward. They had no hope. In a few minutes the air must surely give out, for they had been down in the heart of this living world for eons, centuries, eternities, and when the air went, they would die. The pricklings at their skin told them the digestive fluids of the planet were even now trying to assimilate the fabric of the bulky pressure suits. But there was the heaving . . .

And they felt themselves rising, speeding as they rose, and the silver was growing lighter and lighter and with no warning they were

POP!

thrown up and out of the planet, like corks shooting to the surface of a lake, and they fell back to the sponged surface. They were free.

The planet trembled violently, agitated beyond belief. Like pebbles they were flipped and tossed and hurled and thrown, bouncing bouncing bouncing. The
Circe
emerged from the planet, two hundred feet away, lying on its side, being jostled and caromed as they were.

Without hesitation they scrambled madly for the ship, and threw themselves through the lock. Fighting the unending bouncing and jostling movement of the mad planet they got to the controls and the dampers went in and the fire chambers spurted —

The
Circe
blasted off without care of course, the men thanking God for their lives, thanking Providence for the inexplicable release from sure death.

Behind them, the silver planet settled slowly, and the trembling ceased. It was silent and solid once more.

Kradter was still sheet–white.

“We've got to get back into contact with Earth!”

Dembois's voice quavered. “That
thing
is a horror! A menace! We've got to get Earth to burn it out of space!”

Calk's laughter stopped them. They stared at him, for the first real signs of emotion were contorting the Captain's face. His roars of mirth broke against the bulkheads and tinkled like dust motes about them. For a second they thought of hysteria and slapping him, but when Kradter took a step forward, Calk waved him away with a mirth–
weakened hand.

Finally, he stopped, sucking in breath, and clutching his sides. “Oh, you two give me
such
a pain in the ass!” he laughed. Then his face went rigid again. His voice steadied and he looked at them. “Don't you know even yet? Don't you understand what's happened?” They stared at him, uncomprehending.

“All the way out here,” he said, bitterness living in his words, “you've been telling me how great and wonderful man is. How he rules the universe, how it's his job to show eetees the way, or destroy them. As though Man were the end–product of the life race, as though we were at the pinnacle of development. You never could have considered that there was a higher life–form than us.”

“What are you talking about,” Dembois snapped. “Are you crazy?”

Calk's face was angry, really angry, as he said: “You asses! You conceited, self–important asses. Don't you understand what I'm saying?
Homo superior
, ha! That's the joke of the century. You fools, can't you see . . .

“Man has just had the greatest insult of all thrown at him!

“That planet
vomited
us up!”

You know the world is going to end. There's no question about it, no supposition, no ravings from a bushy–bearded fanatic that may prove false . . . this is the real thing, we all go
splat
a week from next Wednesday. What do you do? What if you were a young man who had never enjoyed the manifest pleasures of a woman's body? What if you had been hidebound and stultified all your days, when you got wind of the coming Boom? What then? Why, perhaps you would follow a course of action similar to the hero of this little piece, in which I tried to say that everything is relative, and even dross, under the proper conditions, can be as good as gold. And you know, it's indicative of our current Clipster Culture that very often the ones who would rob are the ones who
get
robbed, the fleecers
get
fleeced, and hyprocrisy counts for nothing when the chips are down. In other words, the love of a less than kindly
creature
can be the single most important possession in the universe, on

Finally, he knew the world was going to end. It had grown in certainty with terrible slowness. His was not a perfect talent; but rather, a gem with many small flaws in it. Had he been able to see the future clearly, had he not been a
partial
clairvoyant, his life might not have come to what it had.

His hunger would not have been what it was.

Yet the brief, fogged glimpses were molded together, and he knew the Earth was about to end. By the same rude certainty that told him it was going to end, he knew it was not self–deception — it was not merely
his
death. It was the final, irrevocable finis of his world, with every life upon it. This he saw in a shattered fragment of clarity, and he knew it would come in two weeks, on a Thursday night.

His name was Arthur Fulbright, and he wanted a woman.

How strange or odd. To know the future. To know it in that most peculiar of fashions: not as a unified whole, as a superimposed something on the image of now, but in bits and snatches, in fits and starts. In humming, deliberate quicknesses (
a truck will come around the corner in a moment
) making him (
Carry Back will win
) almost a denizen of two worlds (
the train will leave ten minutes early
) he saw the future through a glass darkly (
you will find your other cuff link in the medicine cabinet
) and was hardly aware of what this power promised.

For years, a soft, brown shambling man all hummed words and gentle glances, living with his widowed mother in an eight room house set about with honeysuckle and sweet pea. For years, to work in a job of unidentifiable type and station; for years, returning to the house and the comforting pastel of Mother.

Years that held little change, little activity, little of note or importance. Yet good years, smooth years, and silent.

Then Mother had died. Sighing in the night, she had slowed down like a phonograph, like the old crank phonograph covered under a white sheet in the attic, and had died. Life had played its melody for her, and just as naturally, ended.

For Arthur it had meant changes, and most of all, it had meant emptiness.

Now no more the nights of sound sleep, the evenings of quiet discussion and backgammon or whist, the afternoons of lunch prepared in time for a return to the office, the mornings with cinammon toast and orange juice ready. Now it was a single lane highway, that he had to travel alone.

Learning to eat in restaurants, learning where the fresh linens were kept, sending his clothes out to be mended and cleaned.

And most of all, coming to realize in the six years since Mother's death, that he could see the future once in a while. It was in no way alarming, nor even — after living with it so long — surprising. The word terrifying, in connection with his sight of the future, would never have occurred to him, had he not seen that night of flame and death, the end of the world.

But he did see it, and it made a difference.

Because now that he was about to die, now that he had two weeks and no more, he had to find a purpose. There had to be a reason to die without regret. Yet here he sat, in the high–backed wing chair in the darkened living room, with the empty eight room house around him, and there was no purpose. He had not considered his own demise; Mother's going had been hard enough to reconcile, but he had known it would come some day (though the ramifications of her death had never dawned on him). His own death was something else.

“How can a man come to forty–four years old, and have nothing?” he asked himself. “How can it be?”

It was true, of course. He had nothing. No talent, no mark to leave on affairs, no wake, no purpose.

And with the tallying of his lacks, he came to the most important one of all. The one marking him as not yet a man, no matter what he thought. The lack of a woman. He was a virgin, he had never had a woman.

With two weeks left on Earth, Arthur Fulbright knew what he wanted, more than anything, more than fame or wealth or position. His desire for his last days on Earth was a simple one, an uncluttered one.

Arthur Fulbright wanted a woman.

There had been a little money. Mother had left over two thousand dollars in cash and savings bonds. He had been able to put away another two thousand in his own account. That made four thousand dollars, and it became very important, but not till later.

The idea of buying a woman came to him after many other considerations. The first attempt was with a young woman of his acquaintance, who worked as a stenotypist in the office, in the billing section.

“Jackie,” he asked her, having passed time on occasion, “would you — uh — how would you like to go to a — uh — show with me tonight . . . or something?”

She stared at him curiously, seeing a cipher; and having mentally relegated the evening to Scrabble with a girl friend, accepted.

That evening she doubled her fist and gave him such a blow beneath his rib cage, that his eyes watered and his side hurt for almost an hour.

The next day he avoided the girl with the blond, twirled pony–tail who was browsing in the HISTORICAL NOVELS section of the Public Library. He had had a glimpse often enough — of the future — to know what this one meant. She was married, despondent, and did not wear her ring through hostility of her husband. He saw himself in an unpleasant situation, involving the girl, the librarian, and the library guard. He avoided the library.

As the week wore through, as Arthur realized he had never developed the techniques other men used to snare girls, he knew his time was running out. As he walked the streets, late at night, passing few people, but still people who were soon to perish in a flaming death, he knew his time was slipping away with terrible swiftness.

Now it was no mere desire. Now it was a drive, an urge within him that consumed his thoughts, that motivated him as nothing else in life ever had. And he cursed Mother for her fine, old Southern ways, for her white flesh that had bound him in umbilical attention. Her never–
demanding, always–pleasant ways, that had made it so simple to live on in that pastel world of strifeless, effortless complacency.

To die a–flaming with the rest of the world . . . empty.

The streets were chill, and the lampposts had wavering, unearthly halos about them. From far off came the sound of a car horn, lost in the darkness; and a truck, its diesel gut rumbling, shifted into gear as a stoplight changed, and coughed away. The pavement had the sick pallor of rotting flesh, and the stars were lost in inkiness on a moonless night. He bunched himself tightly inside his topcoat, and bent into the vague, leaf–picking breeze slanting toward him. A dog somewhere howled briefly, and a door slammed on another block. Abruptly, he was ultra–sensitive to these sounds, and wanted to be part of them, inside with the love and humor of a home. But had he been a pariah, a criminal, a leper, he could not have been more alone. He reviled the inhumanity of his culture, that allowed men such as himself to mature without direction, without hope, without love.

At the intersection, halfway down the block, a girl emerged from shadows, her high heels tock tock tocking rhythmically on the sidewalk, then the street, as she stepped across, and went her way.

He was cutting across the lawn of a house, and converging on her from right angles before he realized what he was doing, what his intentions were. By then, his momentum had carried him.

Rape.

The word flowered in his mind like a hot–house flower, with blood–
red petals, grew to monstrous proportions, and withered, black at the edges, even as he scooted briskly, head down and hands in coat pockets, in her direction.

Could he do it? Could he carry it off? She was young and beautiful, desirable, he knew. She would have to be. He would take her down on the grass, and she would not scream, but would be pliant and acquiescent. She had to be.

He raced ahead of where she would meet him, and he lay down on the moist, brown earth, within the cover of bushes, to wait for her. In the distance he could hear her heels counting off the steps till he was upon her.

Then, even as his desire ate at him, other pictures came. A twisted, half–naked body lying in the street, a mob of men screaming and brandishing a rope, a picture of Mother, her face ashen and transfigured with horror. He crammed his eyes shut, and pressed his cheek to the ground. It was the all–mother, consoling him. He was the child who had done wrong, and his need was great. The all–mother comforted him, directed him, caressed him with propriety and deep devotion. He lay there as the girl clacked past.

The heat in his face died away, and it was the day of the end, before he fully returned to sanity and a sense of awareness.

He had escaped bestiality, perhaps at the cost of his soul.

It was. It was, indeed. The day it would happen. He had several glimpses that day, so shocking, so brilliant in his mind, that he reaffirmed his knowledge of the coming of the event. Today it would come. Today the world would go off and burn.

One vision showed great buildings, steel and concrete, flashing like magnesium flares, burning as though they were crepe paper. The sun was raw looking, as though it might have been a socket from which someone had gouged an offending eye. The sidewalks ran like butter, and charred, smoldering shapes lay in the gutters and on the rooftops. It was hideous, and it was now.

He knew his time was up.

Then the idea of the money came to him. He withdrew every cent. Every penny of the four thousand dollars. The vice president of the bank had a peculiar expression on his face, and he asked if everything was all right. Arthur answered him in epigram, and the vice president was unhappy.

All that day at the office — of course he went to work, he would not have known any other way to spend that last day of all days — he was on edge. He continually turned at his desk to stare out the window, waiting for the blood red glaze that would paint the sky. But it did not come.

Shortly after the coffee break that afternoon, he found the impression of nausea growing in him. He went to the men's room and locked himself into one of the cubicles. He sat down on the toilet with its top closed, and held his head in his hands.

A glimpse was coming to him.

Another glimpse, vaguely connected to the ones of the holocaust, but now — like a strip of film, running backward — he saw himself entering a bar.

There were words in twisting neon outside, and repeated again on the small dark–glass window. The words said: THE NITE OWL. He saw himself in his blue suit, and he knew the money was in his pocket.

There was a woman at the bar.

Her hair was faintly auburn in the dim light of the bar. She sat on the bar stool, her long legs gracefully crossed, revealing a laced edge of slip. Her face was held at an odd angle, half–up toward the concealed streamer of light over the bar mirror. He could see the dark eyes, and the heavy makeup that somehow did not detract from the sharp, unrelieved lines of her face. It was a hard face, but the lips were full, and not thinned. She was staring at nothing.

Then, as abruptly as it had come, the vision passed, and his mouth was filled with the slippery vileness of his nausea.

He got to his feet and flipped open the toilet. Then he was thoroughly sick, but not messy.

Afterwards, he went back to the office, and found the yellow pages of the phone book. He turned to “Bars” and ran his finger down the column till he came to “The Nite Owl” on Morrison and 58th Streets.

He went home especially to freshen up . . . to get into his blue suit.

She was there. The long legs in the same position, the edge of slip showing, the head at that strange angle, the hair and eyes as he had seen them.

It was almost as though he were reliving a dramatic part he had once played; he walked up to her, and slid onto the empty stool next. “May I, may I buy you a drink, Miss?”

She only acknowledged his presence and his question with a half–nod and soft grunt. He motioned to the black–tied bartender and said, “I'd like a glass of ginger ale. Give the young lady whatever she uh she wants, please.”

The woman quirked an eyebrow and mumbled, “Bourbon and water, Ned.” The bartender moved away. They sat silently till he returned with the drinks and Arthur had paid him.

Then the girl said, “Thanks.”

Arthur nodded, and moved the glass around in its own circle of moisture. “I like ginger ale. Never really got to like alcohol, I guess. You don't mind?”

Then she turned, and stared at him. She was really quite attractive, with little lines in her neck, around her mouth and eyes. “Why the hell should I care if you drink ginger ale? You could drink goat's milk and I couldn't care less.” She turned back.

Arthur hurriedly answered, “Oh, I didn't mean any offense. I was only — ”

“Forget it.”

“But I — ”

She turned on him with vehemence. “Look, mac, you on the make, or what? You got a pitch? Come on, it's late, and I'm beat.”

Now, confronted with it, Arthur found himself terrified. He wanted to cry. It wasn't the way he had thought it would be. His throat had a choke lost in it. “I — I, why I — ”

“Oh, Jeezus, wouldn't'cha know it. A fink. My luck, always my luck.” She bolted the rest of her drink and slid off the stool. Her skirt rode up over her knees, then fell again, as she moved toward the door.

Arthur felt panic rising in him. This was the last chance, and it was important, how important! He spun on the stool and called after her, “Miss — ”

She stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

“I thought we might, uh, could I speak to you?”

She seemed to sense his difficulty, and a wise look came across her features. She came back and stopped very close to him. “What now, what is it?”

“Are you, uh, are you do, doing anything this evening?”

Her sly look became businesslike. “It'll cost you fifteen. You got that much?”