I referred the matter to Azazal, who was by no means pleased. He said, 'You keep asking for abstractions.'
I said, 'Not at all. I ask for a simple photograph. All you have to do is materialize it.'
'Oh, is that all I have to do? If it's that simple, you do it. I trust you understand the nature of mass-energy equivalence.'
'Just one photograph.'
'Yes, and with an expression of something you can't even define or describe.'
'I've never seen him look at me the way he would look at his wife, naturally. But I have infinite faith in your ability.'
I rather expected that a helping of sickening praise would fetch him round. He said, sulkily, 'You'll have to take the photograph.'
'I couldn't get the proper--'
'You don't have to. I'll take care of that, but it would be much easier if I had a material object on which to focus the abstraction. A photograph, in other words; one of the most inadequate kind, even; the sort I would expect of you. And only one copy, of course. I cannot manage more than that and I will not sprain my subjunctival muscle for you or for any other pinheaded being in your world.'
Oh, well, he's frequently crotchety. I expect that's simply to establish the importance of his role and impress you with the fact that you must not take him for granted.
I met the O'Donnells the next Sunday, on their way back from Mass. (I lay in wait for them actually.) They were willing to let me snap a picture of them in their Sunday finery. She was delighted and he looked a bit grumpy about it. After that, just as unobtrusively as possible, I took a head shot of Kevin. There was no way I could get him to smile or dimple or crinkle or whatever it was that Rosie found so attractive, but I didn't feel that mattered. I wasn't even sure that the camera was focused correctly. After all, I'm not one of your great photographers.
I then visited a friend of mine who was a photography wiz. He developed both snaps and enlarged the head shot to an eight by eleven.
He did it rather grumpily, muttering something about how busy he was, though I paid no attention to that. After all, what possible value can his foolish activities have in comparison to the important matters that occupied me? I'm always surprised at the number of people who don't understand this.
When he completed the enlargement, however, he changed his attitude entirely. He stared at it and said, in what I can only describe as a completely offensive tone, 'Don't tell me you managed to take a photo like this.'
'Why not?' I said, and held out my hand for it, but he made no move to give it to me.
'You'll want more copies,' he said.
'No, I won't,' I said, looking over his shoulder. It was a remarkably clear photograph in brilliant colour. Kevin O'Donnell was smiling, though I didn't remember such a smile at the time I snapped it. He seemed good-looking and cheerful, but I was rather indifferent to that. Perhaps a woman might observe more, or a man like my photographer friend - who, as it happened, did not have my firm grasp on masculinity - might do so.
He said, 'Just one more - for me.'
'No,' I said firmly, and took the picture, grasping his wrist to make sure he would not withdraw it. 'And the negative, please. You can keep the other one - the distance shot.'
'I don't want that,' he said, petulantly, and was looking quite woebegone as I left.
I framed the picture, put it on my mantelpiece, and stepped back to look at it. There was, indeed, a remarkable glow about it. Azazal had done a good job.
What would Rosie's reaction be, I wondered. I phoned her and asked if I could drop by. It turned out that she was going shopping but if I could be there within the hour--
I could, and I was. I had the photo gift-wrapped, and handed it to her without a word.
'My goodness!' she said, even as she cut the string and tore off the wrapping. 'What is this? Is there some celebration, or--'
By then she had it out, and her voice died away. Her eyes widened and her breath became shorter and more rapid. Finally, she whispered, 'Oh, my!'
She looked up at me. 'Did you take this photograph last Sunday?'
I nodded.
'But you caught him exactly. He's adorable. That's just the look. Oh, may I please keep it?'
'I brought it for you,' I said, simply.
She threw her arms about me and kissed me hard on the lips. Unpleasant, of course, for a person like myself who detests sentiment, and I had to wipe my moustache afterwards, but I could understand her inability to resist the gesture.
I didn't see Rosie for about a week afterwards.
Then I met her outside the butcher's shop one afternoon, and it would have been impolite not to offer to carry the shopping bag home for her. Naturally, I wondered whether that would mean another kiss and I decided it would be rude to refuse if the dear little thing insisted. She looked somewhat downcast, however.
'How's the photograph?' I asked, wondering whether, perhaps, it had not worn well.
She cheered up at once. 'Perfect! I have it on my record player stand, at an angle such that I can see it when I'm at my chair at the dining room table. His eyes just look at me a little slantwise, so roguishly and his nose has just the right crinkle. Honestly, you'd swear he was alive. And some of my friends can't keep their eyes off it. I'm thinking I should hide it when they come, or they'll steal it.'
'They might steal him,' I said, jokingly.
The glumness returned. She shook her head and said, 'I don't think so.'
I tried another tack. 'What does Kevin think of the photo?'
'He hasn't said a word. Not a word. He's not a visual person, you know. I wonder if he sees it at all.'
'Why don't you point it out and ask him what he thinks?'
She was silent while I trudged along beside her for half a block, carrying that heavy shopping bag and wondering if she'd expect a kiss in addition.
'Actually,' she said, suddenly, 'he's having a lot of tension at work so it wouldn't be a good time to ask him. He gets home late and hardly talks to me. Well, you know how men are.' She tried to put a tinkle in her laughter, but failed.
We had reached her apartment house and I turned the bag over to her. She said, wistfully, 'But thank you once again, and over and over, for the photograph.'
Off she went. She didn't ask for a kiss, and I was so lost in thought that I didn't notice that fact till I was halfway home and it seemed silly to return merely to keep her from being disappointed.
About ten more days passed, and then she called me one morning. Could I drop in and have lunch with her? I held back and pointed out that it would be indiscreet. What would the neighbours think?
'Oh, that's silly,' she said. 'You're so incredibly old - I mean, you're such an incredibly old friend, that they couldn't possibly - besides, I want your advice.' It seemed to me she was suppressing a sob as she said that.
Well, one must be a gentleman, so I was in her sunny little apartment at lunch time. She had prepared ham and cheese sandwiches and slivers of apple pie, and there was the photograph on the record player as she had said.
She shook hands with me and made no attempt to kiss me, which would have relieved me were it not for the fact that I was too disturbed at her appearance to feel any relief. She looked absolutely haggard. I ate half a sandwich waiting for her to speak and when she didn't, I was forced to ask outright for the reason, there was such a heavy atmosphere of gloom about her.
I said, 'Is it Kevin?' I was sure it was.
She nodded and burst into tears. I patted her hand and wondered if that were enough. I stroked her shoulder abstractedly and she finally said, 'I'm afraid he's going to lose his job.'
'Surely not. Why?'
'Well, he's so savage; even at work, apparently. He hasn't smiled for ages. He hasn't kissed me, or said a kind word, since I don't remember when. He quarrels with everyone, and all the time. He won't tell me what's wrong, and he gets furious if I ask. A friend of ours, who works at the airport with Kevin, called up yesterday. He says that Kevin is acting so sullen and
unhappy at the job that the higher-ups are noticing. I'm sure he'll lose his job, but what can I do?' I had been expecting something like this ever since our last meeting, actually, and I knew I would simply have to tell her the truth - damn that Azazal. I cleared my throat. 'Rosie - the photograph--'
'Yes, I know,' she said, snatching it up and hugging it to her breasts. 'It's what keeps me going. This is the real Kevin, and I'll always have him, always, no matter what happens.' She began to sob.
I found it very hard to say what had to be said, but there was no way out. I said, 'You don't understand, Rosie. It's the photograph that's the problem. I'm sure of it. All that charm and cheerfulness in the photograph had to come from somewhere. It had to be scraped off Kevin himself. Don't you understand?'
Rosie stopped sobbing, 'What are you talking about? A photograph is just the light being focused, and film, and things like that.'
'Ordinarily, yes, but this photograph--' I gave up. I knew Azazal's shortcomings. He couldn't create the magic of the photograph out of nothing, but I wasn't sure I could explain the science of it, the law of conservation of merriment, to Rosie.
'Let me put it this way,' I said. 'As long as that photograph sits .there, Kevin will be unhappy, angry and bad-tempered.'
'But it certainly will sit there,' said Rosie, putting it firmly back in its place, 'and I can't see why you're saying such crazy things about the one wonderful object - here, I'll make some coffee.' She flounced off to the kitchen and I could see she was in a most offended state of mind.
I did the only thing I could possibly do. After all, I had been the one who had snapped the photograph. I was responsible - through Azazal - for its arcane properties. I snatched up the frame quickly, carefully removed the backing, then the photo itself. I tore the photograph across into two pieces - four - eight - sixteen, and placed the final scraps of paper in my pocket.
The telephone rang just as I finished, and Rosie bustled into the living room to answer. I restored the backing and set the frame back in place. It sat there, blankly empty.
I heard Rosie's voice squealing with excitement and happiness. 'Oh, Kevin,' I heard her say, 'how wonderful! Oh, I'm so glad! But why didn't you tell me? Don't you ever do that again!'
She came back, pretty face glowing. 'Do you know what that terrible Kevin did? He's had a kidney stone for nearly three weeks now - seeing a doctor and all - and in terrible, nagging pain, and facing possible surgery - and he wouldn't tell me for fear it would cause me worry. The idiot! No wonder he was so miserable, and it never once occurred to him that his misery made me far more unhappy than knowing about it would have. Honestly! A man shouldn't be allowed out without a keeper.'
'But why are you so happy now?'
'Because he passed the stone. He just passed it a little while ago and the first thing he did was to call me, which was very thoughtful of him - and about time. He sounded so happy and cheerful. It was just as though my old Kevin had come back to me. It was as though he had become exactly like the photograph that--'
Then, in half a shriek, 'Where's the photograph?' I was on my feet, preparing to leave. I was walking rather briskly towards the door, saying, 'I destroyed it. That's why he passed the stone. Otherwise--'
'You destroyed it? You--'
I was outside the door. I didn't expect gratitude, of course, but what I was expecting was murder. I didn't wait for the elevator but hastened down the stairs as quickly as I reasonably could, the sound of her long wail penetrating the door and reaching my ears for a full two flights.
I burned the scraps of the photograph when I got home.
I have never seen her since. From what I have been told, Kevin has been a delightful and loving husband and they are most happy together, but the one letter I received from her - seven pages of small writing, and nearly incoherent -made it plain that she was of the opinion that the kidney stone was the full explanation of Kevin's ill-humour, and that its arrival and departure in exact synchronization with the photograph was sheer coincidence.
She made some rather injudicious threats against my life and, quite anticlimactically, against certain portions of my body, making use of words and phrases I would have sworn she had never heard, much less employed.
And I suppose she will never kiss me again, something I find, for some odd reason, disappointing.
Introduction to SURE THING
Here's another (the fourth and last) of the vignettes in this book. This one, actually, is my favourite among the four, and very nearly my favourite among all the short-shorts I have ever written. If you don't sprain your diaphragm groaning, and snorting, and making unfavourable noises when you're finished, I shall be vastly disappointed.
19
Sure Thing
As is well known, in this thirtieth century of ours, space travel is fearfully dull and time-consuming. In search of diversion many crew members defy the quarantine restrictions and pick up pets from the various habitable worlds they explore.
Jim Sloane had a rockette, which he called Teddy. It just sat there looking like a rock but sometimes it lifted a lower edge and sucked in powdered sugar. That was all it ate. No one ever saw it move but every once in a while it wasn't quite where people thought it was. There was a theory it moved when no one was looking.
Bob Laverty had a heli-worm he called Dolly. It was green and carried on photosynthesis. Sometimes it moved to get into better light and when it did so it coiled its wormlike body and inched along very slowly like a turning helix.
One day, Jim Sloane challenged Bob Laverty to a race. 'My Teddy', he said, 'can beat your Dolly.'
'Your Teddy', scoffed Laverty, 'doesn't move.'
'Bet!' said Sloane.
The whole crew got into the act. Even the captain risked half a credit. Everyone bet on Dolly. At least it moved.
Jim Sloane covered it all. He had been saving his salary through three trips and he put every millicredit of it on Teddy.
The race started at one end of the Grand Salon. At the other end, a heap of sugar had been placed for Teddy and a spotlight for Dolly. Dolly formed a coil at once and began to spiral its way very slowly towards the light. The watching crew cheered it on.
Teddy just sat there without budging.
'Sugar, Teddy. Sugar,' said Sloane, pointing. Teddy did not move. It looked more like a rock than ever, but Sloane did not seem concerned.
Finally, when Dolly had spiralled halfway across the salon, Jim Sloane said casually to the rockette, 'If you don't get out there, Teddy, I'm going to get a hammer and chip you into pebbles.'
That was when people first discovered that rockettes could read minds. That was also when people first discovered that rockettes could teleport.
Sloane had no sooner made his threat when Teddy simply disappeared from its place and reappeared on top of the sugar.
Sloane won, of course, and he counted his winnings slowly and luxuriously.
Laverty said, bitterly, 'You knew the damn thing could teleport.'
'No, I didn't,' said Sloane, 'but I knew he would win. It was a sure thing.'
'How come?'
'It's an old saying everyone knows. Sloane's Teddy wins the race.'
Introduction to TO TELL AT A GLANCE
In February 1976, at the request of the magazine Seventeen, I agreed to write a science fiction mystery which would have a bicentennial angle. In response to that request, I wrote 'To Tell at a Glance', making use of the same social background I had used in 'Good Taste' (which appears in this collection) just a month earlier. I thought the results were highly satisfactory but I, alas, am not the editor. I don't make the decisions in such cases. Seventeen was not satisfied and regretfully handed the story back to me. I was left in a quandary. I had written what I imagined to be a story that would appeal to young women and I was reluctant to chance the standard science fiction magazines with it. Finally, I cut it in half and sent it to the Saturday Evening Post, which took it and ran it in their February 1977 issue. The cutting, however, induc
ed a deep melancholy in me, for, despite Seventeen's decision, I had a great fondness for the original story, and this is my opportunity to present it as it was to begin with.
20
To Tell at a Glance
1
Elaine Metro waited with considerable composure. She had been a tourists' guide for two years now - almost - and having to handle men, women, and children from a dozen different worlds (to say nothing of Earth itself), keeping them happy and safe, answering their questions and meeting instant emergencies with instant action, gives one composure.
Either composure or breakdowns, that is, and Elaine had never broken down. She never expected to.
So she sat there and practised, as she often did, being aware of her surroundings. The calendar gleamed the date at her - 25 February 2076 - which meant that she was six days past her twenty-fourth birthday.
The mirror beside it reflected her face, or would if she just stretched a little to one side, and gave it a faint golden glow. That masked the natural paleness of her skin, and gave her blue eyes the illusion of light hazel, and her brown hair, the illusion of a touch of blonde. Rather flattering on the whole, she thought.
The news strip flashed on and off occasionally. There seemed nothing vital going on in the Orbit. A fourteenth colony was under construction, but that was nothing extraordinary.
There was a drought in Africa, back on Earth, but that was nothing extraordinary, either. Imagine a world that had no way of controlling its weather. Primitive!
But Earth was huge! - Like a million real worlds smashed together.
And yet it had so little room. Even Gamma, where Elaine had been born and where she lived - even Gamma was a little too crowded. Fifteen thousand people and--
The door opened and Janos Tesslen came out. He was the Assembly Chairman and a good one, Elaine thought. At least, she had voted for him.