Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (34 page)

She parked in front of the library entrance, stepped out, and was about to
enter when her attention was attracted by something across the street. She
peered, hesitated, then glanced down at her jeans and made a face. She
pulled off the pants and hurled them at the pigeons eternally cooing and
courting on the library steps. As they clattered up in fright, she ran
down to Fifth Avenue, crossed, and stopped before a shop window. There was
a plum-colored wool dress on display. It had a high waist, a full skirt,
and not too many moth holes. The price was $79.90.

The girl rummaged through old cars skewed on the avenue until she found a
loose fender. She smashed the plate-glass shop door, carefully stepped
across the splinters, entered, and sorted through the dusty dress racks.
She was a big girl and had trouble fitting herself. Finally she abandoned
the plum-colored wool and compromised on a dark tartan, size 12, $120
reduced to $99.90. She located a salesbook and pencil, blew the dust off,
and carefully wrote:
I.O.U. $99.90. Linda Nielsen.

She returned to the library and went through the main doors, which had
taken her a week to batter in with a sledgehammer. She ran across the
great hall, filthied with five years of droppings from the pigeons
roosting there. As she ran, she clapped her arms over her head to shield
her hair from stray shots. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and
entered the Print Room. As always, she signed the register:
Date—June
20, 1981. Name—Linda Nielson. Address—Central Park Model Boat
Pond. Business or Firm—Last Man on Earth.

She had had a long debate with herself about
Business or Firm
the
last time she broke into the library. Strictly speaking, she was the last
woman on earth, but she had felt that if she wrote that it would seem
chauvinistic; and "Last Person on Earth" sounded silly, like calling a
drink a beverage.

She pulled portfolios out of racks and leafed through them. She knew
exactly what she wanted; something warm with blue accents to fit a
twenty-by-thirty frame for her bedroom. In a priceless collection of
Hiroshige prints she found a lovely landscape. She filled out a slip,
placed it carefully on the librarian's desk, and left with the print.

Downstairs, she stopped off in the main circulation room, went to the back
shelves, and selected two Italian grammars and an Italian dictionary. Then
she backtracked through the main hall, went out to the jeep, and placed
the books and print on the front seat alongside her companion, an
exquisite Dresden china doll. She picked up a list that read:

Jap. print
Italian
20 × 30 pict. fr.
Lobster bisque
Brass polish
Detergent
Furn. polish
Wet mop

She crossed off the first two items, replaced the list on the dashboard,
got into the jeep, and bounced down the library steps. She drove up Fifth
Avenue, threading her way through crumbling wreckage. As she was passing
the ruins of St. Patrick's Cathedral at 50
^th
Street, a man
appeared from nowhere.

He stepped out of the rubble and, without looking left or right, started
crossing the avenue just in front of her. She exclaimed, banged on the
horn, which remained mute, and braked so sharply that the jeep slewed and
slammed into the remains of a No. 3 bus. The man let out a squawk, jumped
ten feet, and then stood frozen, staring at her.

"You crazy jaywalker," she yelled. "Why don't you look where you're going?
D'you think you own the whole city?"

He stared and stammered. He was a big man, with thick, grizzled hair, a
red beard, and weathered skin. He was wearing army fatigues, heavy ski
boots, and had a bursting knapsack and blanket roll on his back. He
carried a battered shotgun, and his pockets were crammed with odds and
ends. He looked like a prospector.

"My God," he whispered in a rusty voice. "Somebody at last. I knew it. I
always knew I'd find someone." Then, as he noticed her long, fair hair,
his face fell. "But a woman," he muttered. "Just my goddamn lousy luck."

"What are you, some kind of nut?" she demanded. "Don't you know better
than to cross against the lights?"

He looked around in bewilderment. "What lights?"

"So all right, there aren't any lights, but couldn't you look where you
were going?"

"I'm sorry, lady. To tell the truth, I wasn't expecting any traffic."

"Just plain common sense," she grumbled, backing the jeep off the bus.

"Hey, lady, wait a minute."

"Yes?"

"Listen, you know anything about TV? Electronics, how they say …"

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"No, this is straight. Honest."

She snorted and tried to continue driving up Fifth Avenue, but he wouldn't
get out of the way.

"Please, lady," he persisted. "I got a reason for asking. Do you know?"

"No."

"Damn! I never get a break. Lady, excuse me, no offense, got any guys in
this town?"

"There's nobody but me. I'm the last man on earth."

"That's funny. I always thought I was."

"So all right, I'm the last woman on earth."

He shook his head. "There's got to be other people; there just has to.
Stands to reason. South, maybe you think? I'm down from New Haven, and I
figured if I headed where the climate was like warmer, there'd be some
guys I could ask something."

"Ask what?"

"Aw, a woman wouldn't understand. No offense."

"Well, if you want to head south you're going the wrong way."

"That's south, ain't it?" he said, pointing down Fifth Avenue.

"Yes, but you'll just come to a dead end. Manhattan's an island. What you
have to do is go uptown and cross the George Washington Bridge to Jersey."

"Uptown? Which way is that?"

"Go straight up Fifth to Cathedral Parkway, then over to the West Side and
up Riverside. You can't miss it."

He looked at her helplessly.

"Stranger in town?"

He nodded.

"Oh, all right," she said. "Hop in. I'll give you a lift."

She transferred the books and the china doll to the back seat, and he
squeezed in alongside her. As she started the jeep she looked down at his
worn ski boots.

"Hiking?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you drive? You can get a car working, and there's plenty of gas
and oil."

"I don't know how to drive," he said despondently. "It's the story of my
life."

He heaved a sigh, and that made his knapsack jolt massively against her
shoulder. She examined him out of the corner of her eye. He had a powerful
chest, a long, thick back, and strong legs. His hands were big and hard,
and his neck was corded with muscles. She thought for a moment, then
nodded to herself and stopped the jeep.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Won't it go?"

"What's your name?"

"Mayo. Jim Mayo."

"I'm Linda Nielsen."

"Yeah. Nice meeting you. Why don't it go?"

"Jim, I've got a proposition for you."

"Oh?" He looked at her doubtfully. "I'll be glad to listen, lady—I
mean Linda, but I ought to tell you, I got something on my mind that's
going to keep me pretty busy for a long t …" His voice trailed off
as he turned away from her intense gaze.

"Jim, if you'll do something for me, I'll do something for you."

"Like what, for instance?"

"Well, I get terribly lonesome, nights. It isn't so bad during the day—there's
always a lot of chores to keep you busy—but at night it's just
awful."

"Yeah, I know," he muttered.

"I've got to do something about it."

"But how do I come into this?" he asked nervously.

"Why don't you stay in New York for a while? If you do, I'll teach you how
to drive and find you a car so you don't have to hike south."

"Say, that's an idea. Is it hard, driving?"

"I could teach you in a couple of days."

"I don't learn things so quick."

"All right, a couple of weeks, but think of how much time you'll save in
the long run."

"Gee," he said, "that sounds great." Then he turned away again. "But what
do I have to do for you?"

Her face lit up with excitement. "Jim, I want you to help me move a
piano."

"A piano? What piano?"

"A rosewood grand from Steinway's on Fifty-seventh Street. I'm dying to
have it in my place. The living room is just crying for it."

"Oh, you mean you're furnishing, huh?"

"Yes, but I want to play after dinner, too. You can't listen to records
all the time. I've got it all planned; books on how to play, and books on
how to tune a piano … I've been able to figure everything except
how to move the piano in."

"Yeah, but … but there's apartments all over this town with pianos
in them," he objected. "There must be hundreds, at least. Stands to
reason. Why don't you live in one of them?"

"Never! I love my place. I've spent five years decorating it, and it's
beautiful. Besides, there's the problem of water."

He nodded. "Water's always a headache. How do you handle it?"

"I'm living in the house in Central Park where they used to keep the model
yachts. It faces the boat pond. It's a darling place, and I've got it all
fixed up. We could get the piano in together, Jim. It wouldn't be hard."

"Well, I don't know, Lena …"

"Linda."

"Excuse me, Linda. I—"

"You look strong enough. What'd you do, before?"

"I used to be a pro rassler."

"There! I knew you were strong."

"Oh, I'm not a rassler anymore. I became a bartender and went into the
restaurant business. I opened The Body Slam up in New Haven. Maybe you
heard of it?"

"I'm sorry."

"It was sort of famous with the sports crowd. What'd you do before?"

"I was a researcher for BBDO."

"What's that?"

"An advertising agency," she explained impatiently. "We can talk about
that later, if you'll stick around. And I'll teach you how to drive, and
we can move in the piano, and there're a few other things that I—but
that can wait. Afterward you can drive south."

"Gee, Linda, I don't know …"

She took Mayo's hands. "Come on, Jim, be a sport. You can stay with me.
I'm a wonderful cook, and I've got a lovely guest room …"

"What for? I mean, thinking you was the last man on earth."

"That's a silly question. A proper house has to have a guest room. You'll
love my place. I turned the lawns into a farm and gardens, and you can
swim in the pond, and we'll get you a new Jag … I know where
there's a beauty up on blocks."

"I think I'd rather have a Caddy."

"You can have anything you like. So what do you say, Jim? Is it a deal?"

"All right, Linda," he muttered reluctantly. "You've a deal."

It was indeed a lovely house with its pagoda roof of copper weathered to
verdigris green, fieldstone walls, and deep recessed windows. The oval
pond before it glittered blue in the soft June sunlight, and mallard ducks
paddled and quacked busily. The sloping lawns that formed a bowl around
the pond were terraced and cultivated. The house faced west, and Central
Park stretched out beyond like an unkempt estate.

Mayo looked at the pond wistfully. "It ought to have boats."

"The house was full of them when I moved in," Linda said.

"I always wanted a model boat when I was a kid. Once I even—" Mayo
broke off. A penetrating pounding sounded somewhere; an irregular sequence
of heavy knocks that sounded like the dint of stones under water. It
stopped as suddenly as it had begun. "What was that?" Mayo asked.

Linda shrugged. "I don't know for sure. I think it's the city falling
apart. You'll see buildings coming down every now and then. You get used
to it." Her enthusiasm rekindled. "Now come inside. I want to show you
everything."

She was bursting with pride and overflowing with decorating details that
bewildered Mayo, but he was impressed by her Victorian living room. Empire
bedroom, and country kitchen with a working kerosene cooking stove. The
colonial guest room, with four-poster bed, hooked rug, and tole lamps,
worried him.

"This is kind of girlie-girlie, huh?"

"Naturally, I'm a girl."

"Yeah. Sure. I mean …" Mayo looked around doubtfully. "Well, a guy
is used to stuff that ain't so delicate. No offense."

"Don't worry, that bed's strong enough. Now remember, Jim, no feet on the
spread, and remove it at night. If your shoes are dirty, take them off
before you come in. I got that rug from the museum, and I don't want it
messed up. Have you got a change of clothes?"

"Only what I got on."

"We'll have to get you new things tomorrow. What you're wearing is so
filthy it's not worth laundering."

"Listen," he said desperately, "I think maybe I better camp out in the
park."

"Why on earth?"

"Well, I'm like more used to it than houses. But you don't have to worry,
Linda. I'll be around in case you need me."

"Why should I need you?"

"All you have to do is holler."

"Nonsense," Linda said firmly. "You're my guest and you're staying here.
Now get cleaned up; I'm going to start dinner. Oh damn! I forgot to pick
up the lobster bisque."

She gave him a dinner cleverly contrived from canned goods and served on
exquisite Fornasetti china with Danish silver flatware. It was a typical
girl's meal, and Mayo was still hungry when it was finished, but too
polite to mention it. He was too tired to fabricate an excuse to go out
and forage for something substantial. He lurched off to bed, remembering
to remove his shoes but forgetting all about the spread.

He was awakened next morning by a loud honking and clattering of wings. He
rolled out of bed and went to the windows just in time to see the mallards
dispossessed from the pond by what appeared to be a red balloon. When he
got his eyes working properly, he saw that it was a bathing cap. He
wandered out to the pond, stretching and groaning. Linda yelled cheerfully
and swam toward him. She heaved herself up out of the pond onto the
curbing. The bathing cap was all that she wore. Mayo backed away from the
splash and spatter.