Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (71 page)

Gingerly he felt his side. There didn't seem to be any broken ribs—just
bruises. A day or so of rest and they would probably discharge him and let
him move on.

A cheerful voice said, "Oh, you're awake, Mr. Niles. Feeling better now?
I'll brew some tea."

He looked up and felt a sudden sharp pang. She was a nurse—twenty-two,
twenty-three, new at the job perhaps, with a flowing tumble of curling
blond hair and wide, clear blue eyes. She was smiling, and it seemed to
Niles it was not merely a professional smile. "I'm Miss Carroll, your day
nurse. Everything okay?"

"Fine," Niles said hesitantly. "Where am I?"

"Central County General Hospital. You were brought in late last
night-apparently you'd been beaten up and left by the road out on Route
32. It's a lucky thing Mark McKenzie was walking his dog, Mr. Niles." She
looked at him gravely. "You remember last night, don't you? I mean
… the shock … amnesia …"

Niles chuckled. "That's the last ailment in the world I'd be afraid of,"
he said. "I'm Thomas Richard Niles, and I remember pretty well what
happened. How badly am I damaged?"

"Superficial bruises, mild shock and exposure, slight case of frostbite,"
she summed up. "You'll live. Dr. Hammond'll give you a full checkup a
little later, after you've eaten. Let me bring you some tea."

Niles watched the trim figure vanish into the hallway.

She was certainly an attractive girl, he thought, fresh-eyed, alert
…
alive.

Old cliché: patient falling for his nurse. But she's not for me,
I'm afraid.

Abruptly the door opened and the nurse reentered, bearing a little
enameled tea tray. "You'll never guess! I have a surprise for you, Mr.
Niles. A visitor. Your mother."

"My moth—"

"She saw the little notice about you in the county paper. She's waiting
outside, and she told me she hasn't seen you in sixteen years. Would you
like me to send her in now?"

"I guess so," Niles said, in a dry, feathery voice.

A second time the nurse departed.
My God!
Niles thought.
If I
had known I was this close to home—

I should have stayed out of Ohio altogether.

The last person he wanted to see was his mother, she who had given him
life. He began to tremble under the covers. The oldest and most terrible
of his memories came bursting up from the dark compartment of his mind
where he thought he had imprisoned it forever. The sudden emergence from
warmth into coolness, from darkness to light, the jarring slap of a heavy
hand on his buttocks, the searing pain of knowing that his security was
ended, that from now on he would be …
alive—

The memory of the agonized birth-shriek sounded in his mind. He could
never forget being born. And his mother was, he thought, the one person of
all he could never forgive, since she had given him forth into the life he
hated. He dreaded the moment when—

"Hello, Tom. It's been a long time."

Sixteen years had faded her, had carved lines in her face and made the
cheeks more baggy, the blue eyes less bright, the brown hair a mousy gray.
She was smiling. And to his own astonishment, Niles was able to smile
back.

"Mother."

"I read about it in the paper. It said a man of about thirty was found
just outside town with papers bearing the name Thomas R. Niles, and he was
taken to Central County General Hospital. So I came over, just to make
sure—and it
was
you."

A lie drifted to the surface of his mind, but it was a kind lie, and he
said it: "I was on my way back home to see you. Hitchhiking. But I ran
into a little trouble en route."

"I'm glad you decided to come back, Tom. It's been so lonely, ever since
your father died, and of course Hank was married, and Marian too—it's
good to see you again. I thought I never would."

He lay back, perplexed, wondering why the upwelling flood of hatred did
not come. He felt only warmth toward her. He was glad to see her.

"How has it been—all these years, Tom? You haven't had it easy. I
can see. I see it all over your face."

"It hasn't been easy," he said. "You know why I ran away?"

She nodded. "Because of the way you are. That thing about your mind—never
forgetting. I knew. Your grandfather had it too, you know."

"My grandfather—but—"

"You got it from him. I never did tell you, I guess. He didn't get along
too well with any of us. He left my mother when I was a little girl and I
never knew where he went. So I always knew you'd go away the way he did.
Only you came back. Are you married?"

He shook his head.

"Time you got started, then, Tom. You're near thirty."

The room door opened and an efficient-looking doctor appeared. "Afraid
your time's up, Mrs. Niles. You'll be able to see him again later. I have
to check him over, now that he's up."

"Of course, Doctor." She smiled at him, then at Niles. "I'll see you
later, Tom."

"Sure, Mother."

Niles lay back frowning as the doctor poked at him here and there.
I
didn't hate her.
A growing wonderment rose in him, and he realized he
should have come home long ago. He had changed, inside, without even
knowing it.

Running away was the first stage in growing up, and a necessary one. But
coming back came later, and that was the mark of maturity. He was back.
And suddenly he saw he had been terribly foolish all his bitter adult
life.

He had a gift, a great gift, an awesome gift. It had been too big for him
until now. Self-pitying, self-tormented, he had refused to allow for the
shortcomings of the forgetful people about him and had paid the price of
their hatred. But he couldn't keep running away forever. The time would
have to come for him to grow big enough to contain his gift, to learn to
live with it instead of moaning in dramatic self-inflicted anguish.

And now was the time. It was long overdue.

His grandfather had had the gift; they had never told him that. So it was
genetically transmissible.

He could marry, have children, and they too would never forget.

Or did it skip a generation every time? Or was it sex-linked, like
hemophilia, with women as carriers? It didn't matter: the mechanics were
something to be learned, like the use of it.

What did count was that his gift would not die with him. Others of his
kind, less sensitive, less thin-skinned, would come after, and they too
would know how to recall a Beethoven symphony or a decade-old wisp of
conversation. For the first time since that fourth birthday party, he felt
a hesitant flicker of happiness. The days of running were ended; he was
home again.
If I learn to live with others, maybe they'll be able to
live with me.

He saw the things he yet needed : a wife, a home, children—

"—a couple of days' rest, plenty of hot liquids, and you'll be as
good as new, Mr. Niles," the doctor was saying. "Is there anything you'd
like me to bring you now?"

"Yes," Niles said, "Just send in the nurse, will you? Miss Carroll, I
mean."

The doctor grinned and left. Niles waited expectantly, exulting in his new
self. He switched on act 3 of
Die Meistersinger
as a kind of
jubilant backdrop music in his mind and let the warmth sweep up over him.
When she entered the room he was smiling and wondering how to begin.

The End

© 1957 by Fantasy House, Inc. © Renewed 1985 by Agberg, Ltd.

Alfred Bester

The man in the car was thirty-eight years old. He was tall, slender, and
not strong. His cropped hair was prematurely gray. He was afflicted with
an education and a sense of humor. He was inspired by a purpose. He was
armed with a phone book. He was doomed.

He drove up Post Avenue, stopped at No. 17, and parked. He consulted the
phone book, then got out of the car and entered the house. He examined the
mailboxes and then ran up the stairs to apartment 2-F. He rang the bell.
While he waited for an answer, he got out a small black notebook and a
superior silver pencil that wrote in four colors.

The door opened. To a nondescript middle-aged lady, the man said, "Good
evening. Mrs. Buchanan?"

The lady nodded.

"My name is Foster. I'm from the Science Institute. We're trying to check
some flying saucer reports. I won't take a minute." Mr. Foster insinuated
himself into the apartment. He had been in so many that he knew the layout
automatically. He marched briskly down the hall to the front parlor,
turned, smiled at Mrs. Buchanan, opened the notebook to a blank page, and
poised the pencil.

"Have you ever seen a flying saucer, Mrs. Buchanan?"

"No. And it's a lot of bunk, I—"

"Have your children ever seen them? You do have children?"

"Yeah, but they—"

"How many?"

"Two. Them flying saucers never—"

"Are either of school age?"

"What?"

"School," Mr. Foster repeated impatiently. "Do they go to school?"

"The boy's twenty-eight," Mrs. Buchanan said. "The girl's twenty-four.
They finished school a long—"

"I see. Either of them married?"

"No. About them flying saucers, you scientist doctors ought to—"

"We are," Mr. Foster interrupted. He made a tic-tac-toe in the notebook
then closed it and slid it into an inside pocket with the pencil. "Thank
you very much, Mrs. Buchanan," he said, turned, and marched out.

Downstairs, Mr. Foster got into the car, opened the telephone directory,
turned to a page, and ran his pencil through a name. He examined the name
underneath, memorized the address, and started the car. He drove to Fort
George Avenue and stopped the car in front of No. 800. He entered the
house and took the self-service elevator to the fourth floor. He rang the
bell of apartment 4-G. While he waited for an answer, he got out the small
black notebook and the superior pencil.

The door opened. To a truculent man, Mr. Foster said, "Good evening. Mr.
Buchanan?"

"What about it?" the truculent man said.

Mr. Foster said, "My name is Davis. I'm from the Association of National
Broadcasters. Were preparing a list of names for prize competitors. May I
come in? Won't take a minute."

Mr. Foster/Davis insinuated himself and presently consulted with Mr.
Buchanan and his redheaded wife in the living room of their apartment.

"Have you ever won a prize in radio or television?"

"No," Mr. Buchanan said angrily. "We never got a chance. Everybody else
does but not us."

"All that free money and iceboxes," Mrs. Buchanan said. "Trips to Paris
and planes and—"

"That's why we're making up this list," Mr. Foster/Davis broke in. "Have
any of your relatives won prizes?"

"No. It's all a fix. Put-up jobs. They—"

"Any of your children?"

"Ain't got any children."

"I see. Thank you very much." Mr. Foster/Davis played out the tic-tac-toe
game in his notebook, closed it, and put it away. He released himself from
the indignation of the Buchanans, went down to his car, crossed out
another name in the phone book, memorized the address of the name
underneath, and started the car.

He drove to No. 215 East Sixty-Eighth Street and parked in front of a
private brownstone house. He rang the doorbell and was confronted by a
maid in uniform.

"Good evening," he said. "Is Mr. Buchanan in?"

"Who's calling?"

"My name is Hook," Mr. Foster/Davis said. "I'm conducting an investigation
for the Better Business Bureau."

The maid disappeared, reappeared, and conducted Mr. Foster/Davis/Hook to a
small library where a resolute gentleman in dinner clothes stood holding a
Limoges demitasse cup and saucer. There were expensive books on the
shelves. There was an expensive fire in the grate.

"Mr. Hook?"

"Yes, sir," the doomed man replied. He did not take out the notebook. "I
won't be a minute, Mr. Buchanan. Just a few questions."

"I have great faith in the Better Business Bureau," Mr. Buchanan
pronounced. "Our bulwark against the inroads of—"

"Thank you, sir," Mr. Foster/Davis/Hook interrupted. "Have you ever been
criminally defrauded by a businessman?"

"The attempt has been made. I have never succumbed."

"And your children? You do have children?"

"My son is hardly old enough to qualify as a victim."

"How old is he, Mr. Buchanan?"

"Ten."

"Perhaps he has been tricked at school? There are crooks who specialize in
victimizing children."

"Not at my son's school. He is well protected."

"What school is that, sir?"

"Germanson."

"One of the best. Did he ever attend a city public school?"

"Never."

The doomed man took out the notebook and the superior pencil. This time he
made a serious entry.

"Any other children, Mr. Buchanan?"

"A daughter, seventeen."

Mr. Foster/Davis/Hook considered, started to write, changed his mind, and
closed the notebook. He thanked his host politely and escaped from the
house before Mr. Buchanan could ask for his credentials. He was ushered
out by the maid, ran down the stoop to his car, opened the door, entered,
and was felled by a tremendous blow on the side of his head.

When the doomed man awoke, he thought he was in bed suffering from a
hangover. He started to crawl to the bathroom when he realized he was
dumped in a chair like a suit for the cleaners. He opened his eyes. He was
in what appeared to be an underwater grotto. He blinked frantically. The
water receded.

He was in a small legal office. A stout man who looked like an unfrocked
Santa Claus stood before him. To one side, seated on a desk and swinging
his legs carelessly, was a thin young man with a lantern jaw and eyes
closely set on either side of his nose.

"Can you hear me?" the stout man asked.

The doomed man grunted.