Complete Short Fiction, page 464
*
It was 11:32 as Grayson climbed aboard the bus that would take him home. At first, as he settled into his seat, the exhilaration and frustration of the evening alternately pulled him up and pushed him down.
But somewhere during the journey came his moment of confrontation:
He had taken an irrevocable step.
He waited for the shock of disaster to move through him.
But what he felt in its place was irritation. He was a grown man, who didn’t need advice from a Utt female or any other living person.
The hostile reaction stayed with him all the rest of the way to his stop.
The emotion had faded a little by the time he entered his house. Yet the prospect of running into his wife did not really shake him. And that was awesome indeed. A new thought. The idea of a man standing up to a woman’s anger with anger of his own was . . . well . . . there was no clear reaction that he could produce.
But he had seen her on her knees. No matter what happened, he would never forget the implications of that.
Despite his strong attitude, he moved silently. And as he came to the final stretch, where there was no carpet, he took time to remove his shoes.
After all, he argued with himself, why force problems where none need exist?
In his bedroom, with its door shut, he undressed hastily and slipped into bed. As he lay there, then, reviewing the night’s events, he realized that he was having still another and different kind of thought.
Part of his mind was busy plotting.
He was remembering what he had once read in one of those “awful example” stories, so common in the magazines in the days after the Utt females came.
This story had depicted a fifty-year-old managerial type much like himself. In the pre-Utt era—the story had stated—such a man would have had half a dozen mistresses by his age.
Grayson found himself feeling blank. The story (after his near disaster) seemed untrue. Miss Haskett, all by herself, almost had been too much for him.
Would he ever again, now that he knew he might fail, dare take a chance of disgracing himself?
With that . . . moral . . . thought, he must have slept.
*
The following morning Grayson ate breakfast alone as usual. The maid served him his usual meal and he ate hastily, worried his wife might get up and ask questions.
I’m not afraid, he told himself. Let’s just not have problems.
Because he’d gulped his meal, he could catch his regular bus with time to spare.
The bus stop had its average scattering of sad looking males. Everywhere Grayson looked reflected light from spectacles glinted back. Eyes appeared distended behind thick lenses. It was very shocking to him now, for some reason.
As Grayson walked into the lackluster group, an automobile—starting from the curb fifty feet away pulled up opposite Grayson. The large, middle-aged woman inside leaned through the open window and said, “Miss Haskett sent me to pick you up, Dr. Grayson.”
With unusual strength for a woman, she leaned all the way from the driver’s side and pushed open the passenger door from inside.
Grayson was taken by surprise. “Miss Haskett—oh!”
He was appalled by his employer’s indiscretion. Many of the men waiting here for buses were neighbors. He hoped they hadn’t heard what the muffled voice from inside the car had said. As he scrambled in, his one thought was to get on their way before another word was spoken.
“Well, that was easy,” said the driver. Only now he spoke in a man’s baritone. “Welcome to the revolution, doctor!”
The car moved rapidly through traffic, which was light at this hour, consisting essentially of unmarried women going to work.
Grayson’s shock at realizing he was in the presence of a male disguised as a female—subsided. And he began gaining data that would enable him to assess his situation.
“How long have you been driving a car in this disguise?” he asked.
“Long enough,” was the reply.
“Never stopped for a traffic violation?”
“Once.” The big “woman” shrugged. “Had to shoot the officer. Too bad—” The speaker broke off. “Which reminds me. That will be your first assignment. Getting yourself a pistol.”
Grayson scarcely heard. He had realized that he was asking the wrong questions. And that, in fact, he had somehow been avoiding the crux of the matter.
He said now, boldly, “What is Miss Haskett’s role in this?”
The large, pasty face with its artificial cosmetic coloring—to give it a womanly look—grinned. “You were at her place last night, right? We’ve been keeping an eye on you ever since we cracked your glasses with that high-frequency—well, never mind.” Again the grin. “You made it with her, too, didn’t you? That’s what I meant—welcome to the revolution, doctor. When a potential recruit goes after a mistress within forty-eight hours—and has the gumption to carry it through—that’s good enough. You’re in, and there’s no escape.”
A pause. Mostly blankness. Striving to grasp the cruel implication.
It was painfully obvious that the other’s hearty, jovial way of speaking concealed a chilling determination, which Grayson found himself automatically resisting.
He drew a deep breath, after all he had a certain inner power. He was a PH.D., and a working scientist. He said, “Let’s not be too hasty. If you want my goodwill I suggest you try persuasiveness, and reason, and an end to threats.” Having spoken, he considered what he had said, and found it good. “That’s my statement,” he concluded.
The driver shook his middle-aged, womanly head, “Sorry, Doc, if you’ll think about it, you’ll see that we can’t operate that way.”
“You’re already talking better,” urged Grayson quickly.
The man ignored his interruption, “We can’t operate that way because we’d have people who’d try to suck-up to the Utts. So I have to tell you. If we lose confidence, we kill you.” He added quickly, “I don’t have any feeling yet that we can’t trust you, Doc. So don’t be alarmed. But,” gently—“We don’t take chances. When in doubt—” He made a quick gesture across his throat with his finger. “You see how that has to be, don’t you? You’re a logical man.”
And still Grayson resisted. He was like a man who had accidentally walked into a thieves’ hideaway, and as they very reasonably pointed out, they would have to kill him because they couldn’t afford to have an outsider know. The logic was perfect. He just didn’t wish to be a victim, or—in this instance—involved.
His reverie ended abruptly as, beside him, the man held out a card, and said, “Any time you want to reach us, here’s how.” When Grayson hesitated, the man shoved the card into his coat pocket.
Moments after that, the car drew up at the curb. “There’s the Haskett factory. Okay, doc—out!”
Grayson climbed out, then turned, and said protestingly “Look!—”
The automobile gave a lurch. The “woman” leaned across the seat, pulled the door shut; and, as the machine picked up speed, waved—
In the course of the morning, the receptionist put seven calls through to Grayson. “Dr. Pudget on the phone—” she would say. Or, “The factory superintendant on the line—”
“Can you speak to the buyer for Reid, Leigh, and Ufflegay?—” And of course he always could. Because the woman knew very well who he talked to and who could be, or should be, referred elsewhere.
He handled each call by making an initial effort to calm himself, and each time spoke in his usual practical fashion.
He began to feel a lot better.
He was aware of a hardening of his resolve. The truth was, he had been shown a way out from under Utt control, from under female control. And he had experienced the willing feminine body of one who seemed to welcome his attentions.
And both of these he would never forget.
Women and Utts had oppressed men too long.
Now it could be man’s turn again.
There were grievances to be paid for; wrongs for them to atone.
So he was a member of the revolution after all!
1980
THE DREAM OF THE SORCERESS
The scream brought Stulwig awake in pitch darkness. He lay for a long moment stiff with fear. Like any resident of old, decadent Sanctuary his first fleeting thought was that the ancient city, with its night prowlers, had produced another victim’s cry of terror. This one was almost as close to his second-floor, greenhouse residence as—
His mind paused. Realization came, then, in a flickering self-condemnation.
Did it again!
His special nightmare. It had come out of that shaded part of his brain where he kept his one dark memory. Never a clear recall. Perhaps not even real. But it was all he had from the night three years and four moons ago when his father’s death cry had come to him in his sleep.
He was sitting up, now, balancing himself on the side of the couch. And thinking once more, guiltily: if only that first time I had gone to his room to find out.
Instead, it was morning before he had discovered the dead body with its slit throat and its horrifying grimace. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. Which was odd. Because his father at fifty was physically a good example of the healer’s art he and Alten both practiced. Lying there in the light of day after his death, his sprawled body looked as powerful and strong as that of his son at thirty.
The vivid images of that past disaster faded. Stulwig sank back and down onto the sheep fur. Covered himself. Listened in the continuing dark to the sound of wind against a corner of his greenhouse. It was a strong wind; he could feel the bedroom tremble. Moments later, he was still awake when he heard a faraway muffled cry—someone being murdered out there in the Maze?
Oddly, that was the final steadying thought. It brought his inner world into balance with the outer reality. After all, this was Sanctuary where, every hour of each night, a life ended violently like a candle snuffed out.
At this time of early, early morning he could think of no purpose that he could have about anything. Not with those dark, dirty, dusty, windblown streets. Nor in relation to the sad dream that had brought him to shocked awareness. Nothing for him to do, actually, but turn over, and—
He woke with a start. It was daylight. And someone was knocking at his outer door two rooms away.
“One moment!” he called out.
Naturally, it required several moments. A few to tumble out of his night robe. And even more to slip into the tunic, healer’s gown, and slippers. Then he was hurrying through the bright sunlight of the greenhouse. And on into the dimness of the hallway beyond, with its solid door. Solid, that was, except for the vent at mouth level.
Stulwig placed his lips at his end of the slanted vent, and asked, “Who is it?”
The answering voice was that of a woman. “It’s me. Illyra. Alone.”
The seeress! Stulwig’s heart quickened. His instant hope: another chance for her favors. And alone—that was a strange admission this early in the morning.
Hastily, he unblocked the door. Swung it open, past his own gaunt form. And there she stood in the dimness, at the top of his stairway. She was arrayed as he remembered her, in her numerous skirts and S’danza scarfs. But the beautiful face above all those cloth frills was already shaded with creams and powders.
She said, “Alten, I dreamed of you.”
There was something in her tone: an implication of darkness. Stulwig felt an instant chill. She was giving him a sorceress’ signal.
Her presence, alone, began to make sense. What she had to offer him transcended a man’s itching for a woman. And she expected him to realize it.
Standing there, just inside his door, Stulwig grew aware that he was trembling. A dream. The dream of a sorceress.
He swallowed. And found his voice. It was located deep in his throat, for when he spoke it was a husky sound: “What do you want?”
“I need three of your herbs.” She named them: Stypia, gernay, dalin.
This was the bargaining moment. And in the world of Sanctuary there were few victims at such a time. From his already long experience, Stulwig made his offer: “The stypia and the gernay for the dream. For the dalin one hour in my bed tonight for an assignation.”
Silence. The bright eyes seemed to shrink.
“What’s this?” asked Stulwig. “Is it possible that with your seeress’ sight you believe that this time there will be no evasion?”
Twice before, she had made reluctant assignation agreements. On each occasion, a series of happenings brought about a circumstance whereby he needed her assistance. And for that, release from the assignation was her price.
Stulwig’s voice softened to a gentler tone: “Surely, it’s time, my beautiful, that you discover how much greater pleasure it is for a woman to have lying on her the weight of a normal man rather than that monstrous mass of blacksmith’s muscles, the possessor of which by some mysterious power captured you when you were still too young to know any better. Is it a bargain?”
She hesitated a moment longer. And then, as he had expected after hearing the name of the third drug, she nodded.
A business transaction. And that required the goods to be on hand. Stulwig didn’t argue. “Wait!” he admonished.
Himself, he did not wait. Instead, he backed quickly out of the hallway and into the greenhouse. He presumed that, with her seeress’ sight, she knew that he knew about the very special person who wanted the dalin. He felt tolerant. That prince—he thought. In spite of all the advice the women receive as to when they are, and are not, capable of accepting the male seed, the youthful governor evidently possesses his concubines so often that they are unable to divert his favors away from the one who—by sorceress’ wisdom—is most likely in the time of pregnancy capability.
And so—a miscarriage was needed. An herb to bring it on.
Suppressing excitement, the dream almost forgotten in his state of overstimulation, the healer located all three herbs, in turn. The stypia came from a flowering plant that spread itself over one entire end of his big, bright room. Someone would be using it soon for a persistent headache. The gernay was a mixture of two roots, a flower, and a leaf, all ground together, to be made into a tea with boiling water, steeped, and drunk throughout the day. It was for constipation.
While he worked swiftly, deftly, putting each separately into a small pouch, Stulwig pictured Illyra leaving her little stall. At the opportune moment she had pushed aside the black curtains that blocked her away from the sight of curious passersby. His mental image was of a one-room dwelling place in a dreary part of the Maze. Coming out of that flimsy shelter at this hour of the morning was not the wisest act even for a seeress. But, of course, she would have some knowing to guide her. So that she could dart from one concealment to another at exactly the right moments, avoiding danger. And then, naturally, once she got to the narrow stairway leading up to his roof abode, there would be only the need to verify that no one was lurking on the staircase itself.
He brought the three bags back to the hallway, and placed two of them into her slender hands. And with that, there it was again, the reason for her visit. The special dream. For him.
He waited, not daring to say anything for, suddenly, there was that tenseness again.
She seemed not to need prompting. She said simply, “In my dream, Ils came to me in the form of an angry young man and spoke to me about you. His manner was ferocious throughout; and my impression is that he is displeased with you.” She finished, “In his human form he had jet black hair that came down to his shoulders.”
There was silence. Inside Stulwig, a blankness spread from some inner center of fear. A numbness seemed to be in all locations.
Finally: “Ils!” he croaked.
The impossible!
There were tales that reported the chief god of old Ilsig occasionally interfering directly in human affairs. But that he had done so in connection with Alten Stulwig brought a sense of imminent disaster.
Illyra seemed to know what he was feeling. “Something about your father,” she said, softly, “is the problem.”
Her hand and arm reached out. Gently, she took hold of the third pouch; tugged at it. Stulwig let go. He watched numbly, then as she turned and went rapidly down the stairway. Moments later there was a flare of light as the bottom door opened—and shut. Just before it closed he had a glimpse of the alley that was there, and of her turning to go left.
Ils!
All that morning, after the sick people started to arrive, Stulwig tried to put the thought of the god out of his mind. There were several persons who talked excessively about their ailments; and for a change he let them ramble on. The sound of each person’s voice, in turn, distracted him for a precious time from his inner feeling of imminent disaster. He was accustomed to pay attention, to compare, and decide. And, somehow, through all the numbness he managed to hold onto that ability.
A persistent stomach ache—“What have you been eating?” The flower of the agris plant was exchanged for a silver coin.
A pain in the chest. “How long? Where, exactly?” The root of the dark melles was eaten and swallowed while he watched, in exchange for one small Rankan gold piece.
Persistently bleeding gums. The flower and seeds of a rose, and the light brown grindings from the husk of grain were handed over, with the instruction: “Take a spoonful of each morning and night.”
There were a dozen like that. All were anxious and disturbed. And they took up his time until the morning was almost over. Suddenly, the visitors ceased to come. At once, there was the awful thought of Ils the Mighty, angry with him.
“What could he want of me?”
That was the persistent question. Not, what purpose could Alten Stulwig have in this awful predicament? But what intention did the super-being have in relation to him? Or what did he require of him?
It was almost the noon hour before the second possibility finally penetrated the madness of merely waiting for further signals. And the more personal thought took form.
