Now Wait for Last Year

  “So you’re content,” Kathy said, in a muffled, bitter voice, “to appear to be successful. When you really aren’t.” And then, sniffling and snuffling, she added, “And you’re terrible in bed.”

  He got up and went into the living room of their conapt and sat alone for a time and then, instinctively, he made his way into his study and placed one of his treasured Johnny Winters tapes into the projector. For a while he sat in misery watching Johnny put on one hat after another and become a different person under each. And then—

  At the doorway Kathy appeared, smooth and naked and slim, her face contorted. “Have you found it?”

  “Found what?” He shut the tape projector off.

  “The tape,” she stated, “that I destroyed.”

  He stared at her, unable to take in what he had heard.

  “A few days ago.” Her tone, defiant, shrilled at him. “I was all alone here in the conapt; I felt blue—you were busy doing some drafk nothing thing for Virgil—and I put on a reel; I put it on exactly right; I followed all the instructions. But it did something wrong. So it got erased.”

  The Mole grunted somberly. “You were supposed to say ‘It doesn’t matter.’ ”

  He had known that; known it then, knew it now. But in a strangled, thick voice he had said, “Which tape?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  His voice rose; it escaped him. “Goddam it, which tape?” He ran to the shelf of tapes; grabbed the first box; tore it open; carried it at once to the projector.

  “I knew,” Kathy said, in a harsh, bleak voice as she watched him with withering contempt, “that your——tapes meant more to you than I do or ever did.”

  “Tell me which tape!” he pleaded. “Please!”

  “No, she wouldn’t say,” the Mole murmured thoughtfully. “That would be the entire point. You’d have to play every one of them before you could find out. A couple days of playing tapes. Clever dame; damn clever.”

  “No,” Kathy said in a low, embittered, almost frail voice. Now her face was peaked with hatred for him. “I’m glad I did it. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to ruin all of them.”

  He stared at her. Numbly.

  “You deserve it,” Kathy said, “for holding back and not giving me all your love. This is where you belong, scrabbling like an animal, a panic-ridden animal. Look at you! Contemptible—trembling and about to burst into tears. Because someone ruined one of your INCREDIBLY important tapes.”

  “But,” he said, “it’s my hobby. My lifetime hobby.”

  “Like a kid pulling its pud,” Kathy said.

  “They—can’t be replaced. I have the only copies of some of them. The one from the Jack Paar show—”

  “So what? You know something, Eric? Do you know, really know, why you like watching men on tape?”

  The Mole grunted; his heavy, fleshy, middle-aged face flinched as he listened.

  “Because,” Kathy said, “you’re a fairy.”

  “Ouch,” the Mole murmured, and blinked.

  “You’re a repressed homosexual. I sincerely doubt if you’re aware of it on a conscious level, but it’s there. Look at me; look. Here I am; a perfectly attractive woman, available to you any time you want me.”

  The Mole said, aside, wryly, “And at no cost.”

  “And yet you’re in here with these tapes and not in the bedroom screwbling with me. I hope—Eric, I hope to God I ruined one that—” She turned away from the door then. “Good night. And have fun playing with yourself.” Her voice—actually and unbelievably—had become controlled, even placid.

  From a crouched position he bolted toward her. Reached for her as she retreated smooth and white and naked down the hall, her back to him. He grabbed her, grabbed firm hold, sank his fingers into her soft arm. Spun her around. Blinking, startled, she faced him.

  “I’m going to—” He broke off. I’m going to kill you, he had started to say. But already in the unstirred depths of his mind, slumbering beneath the frenzy of his hysterical antics, a cold and rational fraction of him whispered its ice-God voice: Don’t say it. Because if you do, then she’s got you. She’ll never forget. As long as you live she’ll make you suffer. This is a woman that one must not hurt because she knows techniques; she knows how to hurt back. A thousandfold. Yes, this is her wisdom, this knowing how to do this. Above all other things.

  “Let—go—of—me.” Her eyes blazed smokily.

  He released her.

  After a pause, while she rubbed her arm, Kathy said, “I want that collection of tapes out of this apartment by tomorrow night. Otherwise we’re finished, Eric.”

  “Okay,” he said, nodding.

  “And then,” Kathy said, “I’ll tell you what else I want. I want you to start looking for a higher paying job. At another company. So I won’t run into you every time I turn around. And then … we’ll see. Possibly we can stay together. On a new basis, one fairer to me. One in which you make some attempt to pay attention to my needs in addition to your own.” Astonishingly, she sounded perfectly rational and in control of herself. Remarkable.

  “You got rid of the tapes?” the Mole asked him.

  He nodded.

  “And you spent the next few years directing your efforts toward controlling your hatred for your wife.” Again he nodded.

  “And the hatred for her,” Mole said, “became hatred for yourself. Because you couldn’t stand being afraid of one small woman. But a very powerful person—notice I said ‘person,’ not ‘woman.’ ”

  “Those low blows,” Eric said. “Like her erasing my tape—”

  “The low blow,” the Mole interrupted, “was not her erasing the tape. It was her refusing to tell you which one she had erased. And her making it so clear that she enjoyed the situation. If she had been sorry—but a woman, a person, like that; they never become sorry. Never.” He was silent for a time. “And you can’t leave her.”

  “We’re fused,” Eric said. “The damage is done.” The mutually inflicted pain delivered at night without the possibility of anyone intervening, overhearing and coming to help. Help, Eric thought. We both need help. Because this will go on, get worse, corrode us further and further until at last, mercifully—

  But that might take decades.

  So Eric could understand Gino Molinari’s yearning for death. He, like the Mole, could envision it as a release—the only dependable release that existed … or appeared to exist, given the ignorance, habit patterns, and foolishness of the participants. Given the timeless human equation.

  In fact he felt a considerable bond with Molinari.

  “One of us,” the Mole said, with perception, “suffering unbearably on the private level, hidden from the public, small and unimportant. The other suffering in the grand Roman public manner, like a speared and dying god. Strange. Completely opposite. The microcosm and the macro.”

  Eric nodded.

  “Anyhow,” the Mole said, releasing Eric’s hand and slapping him on the shoulder, “I’m making you feel bad. Sorry, Dr. Sweetscent; let’s drop the topic.” To his bodyguard he said, “Open the door now. We’re done.”

  “Wait,” Eric said. But then he did not know how to go on, to say it.

  The Mole did it for him. “How would you like to be attached to my staff?” Molinari said abruptly, breaking the silence. “It can be arranged; technically you’d be drafted into military service.” He added, “You may take it for granted you’d be my personal physician.”

  Trying to sound casual, Eric said, “I’m interested.”

  “You wouldn’t be running into her all the time. This might be a beginning. A start toward prying the two of you apart.”

  “True.” He nodded. Very true. And very attractive, when thought of that way. But the irony—this consisted of precisely that which Kathy had goaded him toward all these years. “I’d have to talk it over with my wife,” he began, and then flushed. “Virgil, anyhow,” he muttered. “In any case. He’d have to approve.”

 
Regarding him with brooding severity, the Mole said in a slow, dark voice, “There is one drawback. You would not see so much of Kathy; true. But by being with me you’d see a great deal of our—” He grimaced. “The ally. How do you suppose you’d enjoy yourself surrounded by ’Starmen? You might find yourself having a few spasms of the gut late at night yourself … and perhaps worse—other—psychosomatic disorders, some you may not anticipate, despite your profession.”

  Eric said, “It’s bad enough for me late at night as it is. This way I might have some company.”

  “Me?” Molinari said. “I wouldn’t be company, Sweetscent, for you or anybody else. I’m a creature that’s flayed alive at night. I retire at ten o’clock and then I’m back up, usually by eleven; I—” He broke off, meditatively. “No, night is not a good time for me; not at all.”

  It could clearly be seen in the man’s face.

  5

  On the night of his return from Wash-35 Eric Sweetscent encountered his wife at their conapt across the border in San Diego. Kathy had arrived before him. The meeting, of course, was inevitable.

  “Back from little red Mars,” she observed as he shut the living room door after him. “Two days doing what? Shooting your agate into the ring and beating all the other boys and girls? Or exposing sun pictures of Tom Mix?” Kathy sat in the center of the couch, a drink in one hand, her hair swept back and tied, giving her the look of a teenager; she wore a plain black dress and her legs were long and smooth, strikingly tapered at the ankles. Her feet were bare and each toenail bore a shiny decal depicting—he bent to see—a scene in color of the Norman Conquest. The smallest nail on each foot glittered with a picture too obscene for him to contemplate; he went to hang his coat in the closet.

  “We pulled out of the war,” he said.

  “Did we? You and Phyllis Ackerman? Or you and someone else?”

  “Everybody was there. Not just Phyllis.” He wondered what he could fix for dinner; his stomach was empty and in a state of complaint. As yet, however, there were no pains. Perhaps that came later.

  “Any special reason why I wasn’t asked along?” Her voice snapped like a lethal whip, making his flesh cringe; the natural biochemical animal in him dreaded the exchange which was in store for him—and also for her. Obviously she, like himself, was compelled to press head-on; she was as much caught up and helpless as he.

  “No special reason.” He wandered into the kitchen, feeling a little dulled, as if Kathy’s opening had flattened his senses. Many such encounters had taught him to shield himself on the somatic level, if at all possible. Only old husbands, tired, experienced husbands, knew to do this. The newcomers … they’re forced on by diencephalic responses, he reflected. And it’s harder on them.

  “I want an answer,” Kathy said, appearing at the door. “As to why I was deliberately excluded.”

  God, how physically appealing his wife was; she wore nothing, of course, under the black dress and each curved line of her confronted him with its savory familiarity. But where was the smooth, yielding, familiar mentality to go with this tactile form? The furies had seen to it that the curse—the curse in the house of Sweetscent, as he occasionally thought of it—had arrived full force; he faced a creature which on a physiological level was sexual perfection itself and on the mental level—

  Someday the hardness, the inflexibility, would pervade her; the anatomical bounty would calcify. And then what? Already her voice contained it, different now from what he remembered of a few years back, even a few months. Poor Kathy, he thought. Because when the death-dealing powers of ice and cold reach your loins, your breasts and hips and buttocks as well as your heart—it was already deep in her heart, surely—then there will be no more woman. And you won’t survive that. No matter what I or any man chooses to do.

  “You were excluded,” he said carefully, “because you’re a pest.”

  Her eyes flew open wide; for an instant they filled with alarm and simple wonder. She did not understand. Fleetingly, she had been brought back to the level of the merely human; the goading ancestral pressure in her had abated.

  “Like you are now,” he said. “So leave me alone; I want to fix myself some dinner.”

  “Get Phyllis Ackerman to fix it for you,” Kathy said. The super-personal authority, the derision conjured up from the malformed crypto-wisdom of the ages, had returned. Almost psionically, with a woman’s talent, she had intuited his slight romantic brush with Phyllis on the trip to Mars. And on Mars itself, during their overnight stay—

  Calmly, he assumed that her heightened faculties could not genuinely ferret out that. Ignoring her, he began, in a methodical manner, to heat a frozen chicken dinner in the infrared oven, his back to his wife.

  “Guess what I did,” Kathy said. “While you were gone.”

  “You took on a lover.”

  “I tried a new hallucinogenic drug. I got it from Chris Plout; we had a jink session at his place and none other than the world-famous Marm Hastings was there. He made a pass at me while we were under the influence of the drug and it was—well, it was a pure vision.”

  “Did he,” Eric said, setting a place for himself at the table.

  “How I’d adore to bear his child,” Kathy said.

  “ ‘Adore to.’ Christ, what decadent English.” Ensnared, he turned to face her. “Did you and he—”

  Kathy smiled. “Well, maybe it was a hallucination. But I don’t think so. I’ll tell you why. When I got home—”

  “Spare me!” He found himself shaking.

  In the living room the vidphone chimed.

  Eric went to get it and when he lifted the receiver he saw on the small gray screen the features of a man named Captain Otto Dorf, a military adviser to Gino Molinari. Dorf had been at Wash-35, assisting in security measures; he was a thin-faced man with narrow, melancholy eyes, a man utterly dedicated to the protection of the Secretary. “Dr. Sweetscent?”

  “Yes,” Eric said. “But I haven’t—”

  “Will an hour be enough? We’d like to send a ’copter to pick you up at eight o’clock your time.”

  “An hour will do,” Eric said. “I’ll have my things packed and will be waiting in the lobby of my conapt building.”

  After he had rung off he returned to the kitchen.

  Kathy said, “Oh my God. Oh Eric—can’t we talk? Oh dear.” She slumped at the table and buried her head in her arms. “I didn’t do anything with Marm Hastings; he is handsome and I did take the drug, but—”

  “Listen,” he said, continuing to prepare his meal. “This was all arranged earlier today at Wash-35. Virgil wants me to do it. We had a long, quiet talk. Molinari’s needs are at present greater than Virgil’s. And actually I can still serve Virgil in org-trans situations but I’ll be stationed at Cheyenne.” He added, “I’ve been drafted; as of tomorrow I’m a medic in the UN military forces, attached to Secretary Molinari’s staff. There’s nothing I can do to change it; Molinari signed the decree to that effect last night.”

  “Why?” Terror-stricken, she gazed up at him.

  “So I can get out of this. Before one of us—”

  “I won’t spend any more money.”

  “There’s a war on. Men are being killed. Molinari is sick and he needs medical help. Whether you spend money or not—”

  “But you asked for this job.”

  Presently he said, “I begged for it, as a matter of fact. I gave Virgil the greatest line of hot fizz ever strung together at one time in one place.”

  She had drawn herself together now; she had become poised. “What sort of pay will you receive?”

  “Plenty. And I’ll continue to draw a salary from TF&D, too.”

  “Is there a way I can come with you?”

  “No.” He had seen to that.

  “I knew you’d dump me when you finally became a success—you’ve been trying to extricate yourself ever since we met.” Kathy’s eyes filled with tears. “Listen, Eric; I’m afraid that that drug I took is addicti
ve. I’m terribly scared. You have no idea what it does; I think it comes from somewhere off Earth, maybe Lilistar. What if I keep taking it? What if because of your leaving—”

  Bending, he picked her up in his arms. “You ought to keep away from those people; I’ve told you so goddam many times—” It was futile talking to her; he could see what lay ahead for both of them. Kathy had a weapon by which she could draw him back to her once more. Without him she would be destoyed by her involvement with Plout, Hastings, and company; leaving her would simply make her situation worse. The sickness that had entered them over the years could not be nullified by the act he had in mind, and only in the Martian babyland could he have imagined otherwise.

  He carried her into the bedroom and set her gently on the bed.

  “Ah,” she said, and shut her eyes. “Oh Eric—” She sighed.

  However, he couldn’t. This, too. Miserably, he moved from her, sat on the edge of the bed. “I have to leave TF&D,” he said presently. “And you have to accept it.” He stroked her hair. “Molinari is cracking up; maybe I can’t help him but at least I can try. See? That’s the real—”

  Kathy said, “You’re lying.”

  “When? In what way?” He continued stroking her hair but it had become a mechanical action, without volition or desire.

  “You would have made love to me just now, if that was why you were leaving.” She rebuttoned her dress. “You don’t care about me.” Her voice held certitude; he recognized the drab, thin tone. Always this barrier, this impossibility of getting through. This time he did not waste his time trying; he simply went on stroking her, thinking, It’ll be on my conscience, whatever happens to her. And she knows it, too. So she’s absolved of the burden of responsibility, and that, for her, is the worst thing possible.

  Too bad, he thought, I wasn’t able to make love to her.

  “My dinner’s ready,” he said, rising.

  She sat up. “Eric, I’m going to pay you back for leaving me.” She smoothed her dress. “You understand?”

  “Yes,” he said, and walked into the kitchen.

  “I’ll devote my life to it,” Kathy said, from the bedroom. “Now I have a reason for living. It’s wonderful to have a purpose at last; it’s thrilling. After all these pointless ugly years with you. God, it’s like being born all over again.”