Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (3 page)

Foster inexplicably wanted to giggle. Instead, he said, "What if we haul
some of the bodies upstairs and put them outside? It's pretty cold out
there."

"The nights are chilly," said Mardin, "but the days won't be. It's late
June now—we've got most of the summer ahead."

The little group stood silent, watching the cryogenic capsules flicker
with silver fire.

"Well," said Foster finally. "Let's worry about tonight first." He bent
over a foil-wrapped bundle and peered at the tag in the glow from his
candle. "All right, Mardin. Grab Miss Kelly's feet and let's get her up to
the kitchen."

Connie took the candles in her hands as the two men struggled with the
rigid package. "Foster," she said in a low voice. "What are we going to do
when they—when they all go bad?"

Foster smiled ambiguously. "Perhaps we'll live on love alone."

Mardin dreamed:

Briefly.

A three-lobed solid with sharp corners and no straight lines. It had been
a greenish yellow at the beginning, but the red crept across in bands,
like a television screen when the plane flies over. It was somehow
important to him, but progressively less so as it reddened. And then
finally the crimson was total.

One particularly lean day, Mardin attacked Connie in the kitchen. Neither
Foster nor Connie ever knew Mardin's purpose—whether it was sex,
food, both, or neither.

Foster was wandering the halls, leafing idly through an ancient book of
Gahan Wilson cartoons he had found in the visitor's lounge. Then he heard
the commotion in the kitchen. He investigated and found Connie, clothes
shredded, sprawled on her back on the breakfast table while Mardin weakly
battered her head against the formica surface. Foster watched for a
moment, then picked up the useless electric carving knife from the
counter. He slammed the heavy handle against the back of Mardin's head,
stunning the ex-file clerk. Quickly, Foster wound the long vinyl electric
cord around Mardin's neck and garroted him—then unwound some slack
and drew the serrated blade across Mardin's jugular.

Connie moved weakly on top of the table. She gasped for air and moaned.

Foster slowly stood and put the electric carving knife in the dirty sink.
He stepped to the table and looked down at the girl. Connie opened her
eyes and looked back at him.

The final day came when the two survivors stood apart from each other.
They watched without saying, almost as a tableau. Connie was at the top of
the staircase to the observation level. Behind her was the pearl gray of
early morning. The light from the open door made the girl's pale skin
translucent; the outline of her form glowed—the rest of her body was
in shadow. But she was smiling—Foster could see that; her teeth
showed white. Her hands were together in front of her, and something
gleamed there—a blade perhaps; or maybe a silver bracelet.

Foster settled back in his chair, hardly breathing, and looked up the
steps at Connie. On the floor beside him was the electric carving knife,
within grasp-if he wanted to reach it.

"Baby, where now?" The voice whispered from above him, soft. Connie
started down the stairs and the perhaps-a-knife in her hands glittered
again.

"Wait," said Foster. "Listen."

The girl stopped.

"I hear something," said Foster. "Something distant and coming closer. A
buzzing like maybe a rescue helicopter."

"It's a hallucination," said Connie, again starting her descent.

"Perhaps."

"Or one of your rotten jokes."

Outside the building, blackened trunks of pine shivered in the dry wind.

The End

© 1971 by Coronet Communications, Inc. Originally published in
Quark.
Reprinted with permission of the author.

Charles L. Grant

Of all the means of relaxation that I have devised for myself over the
years, most required nothing more strenuous than driving an automobile,
and not one of them had anything remotely to do with murder. Yet there it
was, and now here I am—alone, though not always alone, and
wondering, though not always puzzled. I'm neither in jail nor exile,
asylum nor hospital. Starburst is where I am, and, unless I can straighten
a few things out, Starburst is where I'm probably going to stay.

I had long ago come to the conclusion that every so often the world simply
had to thumb its nose at me and wink obscenely as if it knew what the hell
was making things tick and for spite wasn't about to let me in on the
secret. When that happens, I succumb to the lure of Huck Finn's advice and
light out for the territory: in my case, that turns out to be Starburst.
Where the luncheonette is called The Luncheonette, the hotel is The Hotel,
and so on in understated simplicity. Where the buildings, all of them,
rise genteelly from well-kept lawns on full-acre lots, painted sunrise-new
and no two the same shape or shade—a half-moon-fashioned community
that prides itself on its seclusion and its ability to sponge out the
world from transients like me. It's a place that not many can stand for
too long, but it's a breather from every law that anyone ever thought of.

At least that's what I thought when I came down last May.

It was a bit warm for the season, but not at all uncomfortable. Wednesday,
and I was sitting on the grey sand beach that ribboned the virtually
waveless bay they had christened Nova. The sun was pleasantly hot, the
water cool, and the barest sign of a breeze drifted down from the misted
mountains that enclosed the town. I had just dried myself off and was
about to roll over onto my stomach to burn a little when a thin and
angular boy about fifteen or so dashed in front of me, kicking up crests
of sand and inadvertently coating me and my blanket as he pursued some
invisible, swift quarry. I was going to protest when there was a sudden
shout and he stumbled to a halt, turning around immediately, his arms
dejectedly limp at his sides. Curious, I followed his gaze past me to a
middle-aged couple huddled and bundled under a drab beach umbrella. The
woman, hidden by bonnet, dark glasses, and a black, long-sleeved sweater,
beckoned sharply. The boy waved in return and retraced his steps at a
decidedly slower pace. As he passed me, looking neither left nor right, I
only just happened to notice the tiny and blurred sequence of digits
tattooed on the inside of his left forearm.

I'm sure my mouth must have opened in the classic gesture of surprise, but
though I've seen them often enough in the city, for some reason I didn't
expect to see an android in Starburst.

I continued to stare rather rudely until the boy reached the couple and
flopped facedown on the sand beside them, his lightly tanned skin pale
against the grey. The beach was quietly deserted, and the woman's voice
carried quite easily. Though her words were indistinct, her tone was not:
boy or android, the lad was in trouble. I supposed he was being told to
stay close, paying for his minor act of rebellion.

I smiled to myself and lay back with my cupped hands serving as a pillow.
Poor kid, I thought, all he wanted was a little fun. And then I had to
smile at myself for thinking the boy human. It was a common mistake,
though one I usually don't make, and I forgot about it soon enough as I
dozed. And probably would never have thought of it again if I hadn't
decided to indulge myself in a little fancy dining that evening.

Though my stays are irregular, they have been frequent enough to educate
the hotel staff to my unexciting habits, and I had little difficulty in
reserving my favorite table: a single affair by the dining room window
overlooking the park, overlooking, in point of fact, most of the town,
since the hotel was the only structure in Starburst taller than two
stories, and it was only six. The unadorned walls of the circular room
were midnight green starred with white, a most relaxing, even seductive
combination, and its patrons were always suitably subdued. I was just
getting into my dessert when I noticed the boy from the beach enter with
the couple I had assumed were his parents. They huddled with the maitre d'
and were escorted to a table adjacent to my own. The boy was exceptionally
polite, holding the chair for mother, shaking hands with father before
sitting down himself. When he happened to glance my way, I smiled and
nodded, but the gesture quickly turned to a frown when I heard someone
mutter, "Goddamned humie."

The threesome were apparently ignoring the remark, but I was annoyed
enough to scan the neighboring tables. Nothing. I was going to shrug it
off to bad manners when suddenly an elderly man and his wife brusquely
pushed back their chairs and left without any pretense of politeness. As
they threaded between me and the boy, the old man hissed "robie" just loud
enough. Perhaps I should have said something in return, or made overtures,
gestures, something of an apology to the boy. But I didn't. Not a thing.

Instead, I ordered a large brandy and turned to watch the darkness outside
the uncurtained window. And in the reflection of the room, I saw the boy
glaring at his empty plate.

In spite of the ground that fact and fiction have covered in exploring the
myriad possibilities of societies integrated with the sometimes too-human
android, the reality seemed to have come as a surprise to most people. For
some it was a pleasant one; androids were androids: pleasant company,
tireless workers, expensive but economical. Their uses were legion, and
their confusion with actual humans minimal. For others, however, and
predictably, androids were androids: abominations, blasphemies, monsters,
and all the horrid rest of it.

They had become, in fact, the newest minority that nearly everyone could
look down upon if they were closed-minded enough. Ergo, the tattoos and
serial numbers. For people not sensitive enough to detect the subtle
differences, the markings served as some sort of self-gratifying
justification, though for what I've never been able to figure out exactly.
I have a friend in London who has replaced all his servants with androids
and has come to love them almost as brothers and sisters. Then, too,
there's another friend who speaks of them as he would of his pets.

It's true they haven't brought about the Utopia dreamed of in centuries
past: they are strictly regulated in the business community—always
clannish, job preference still goes to the human, no matter how much more
efficient the simulacrum might be. Still and all, I thought as I emptied
my glass and rose to leave, there's something to be said for them: at
least they have unfailing manners.

So I smiled as graciously as I could as I passed their table. The boy
smiled back, the parents beamed. The lad was obviously their surrogate
son, and I was slightly saddened and sorry for them.

I spent the rest of the evening closeted in my room, alternately reading
and speculating on the reasons for their choice. Death, perhaps, or a
runaway: as I said, the androids' uses are legion. It puzzled me, however,
why the parents hadn't kept the boy covered on the beach. It would have at
least avoided the scene in the dining room. Then I told myself to mind my
own stupid business, and for the last time I slept the sleep of the just.

The following morning my door was discreetly knocked upon, and I found
myself being introduced to the local detective-in-chief by Ernie Wills,
the manager. I invited them in and sat myself on the edge of the
still-unmade bed. "So. What can I do for you, Mr. Harrington?"

The policeman was a portly, pale-faced man with a hawk nose and
unpleasantly dark eyes. Somehow he managed to chew tobacco throughout the
entire interview without once looking for a place to spit. I liked the man
immediately.

"Did you know the Carruthers family very well?" His voice matched his
size, and I was hard put not to wince.

I looked blank. "Carruthers? I don't know them at all. Who are they?"

Harrington just managed a frown. "The couple sitting next to you last
night at dinner. The boy. I was under the impression that you knew them."

"Not hardly," I said. "I saw them once on the beach yesterday afternoon,
and again at dinner." I spread my hands. "That's all."

"Some of the other guests said you were rather friendly to them."

By that time I was completely puzzled and looked to Ernie for some
assistance, but he only shrugged and tipped his head in Harrington's
direction. It's his show, the gesture said. And for the first time, I
noticed how harassed he seemed.

"In a detective novel," I said as lightly as I could, "the hero usually
says, 'You have me at a disadvantage.' I'm sorry, Mr. Harrington, but I
haven't the faintest idea what in God's name you're talking about."

Harrington grinned. His teeth were stained. "Touché. And I
apologize, okay? I didn't mean to be so damned mysterious, but sometimes I
like to play the role. I read those books too." He settled himself more
deeply into the only armchair in the room and reached into a coat pocket
for a handkerchief, which he used to wipe his hands. "You see, there's
been a murder in the hotel."

I looked at him patiently, but he didn't say anything else, apparently
waiting for my reaction. I almost said, So what? but I didn't. "Am I
supposed to guess who was murdered, or who did it? My God, it wasn't one
of the Carrutherses, was it?"

Harrington shook his head.

Ernie swallowed hard.

"Well, surely you don't suspect one of them?"

"Wish I knew," Harrington said. "An old man was found outside his door on
the third floor about three o'clock this morning. His throat was, well,
not exactly torn … more like yanked out. Like somebody just grabbed
hold and pulled."

That I understood, and the unbidden image that flashed into my mind was
enough to swear me off breakfast, and probably lunch. I shuddered.

"Some people," the detective continued, "said they heard this old guy call
the boy 'robie.' Did you hear it?"