Millicent fanned herself in agreement. "Do sit down, Mrs. Millay. Is that where you're from, Scotland? And you, Mr. Kat- Kats-
"Katsubishi. He smiled, with an abrupt deep bow. Then he wrinkled his face in concentration for a moment and managed to say: "I, too-Sukottaland.
Millicent tried not to look astonished but evidently did not succeed. Mrs. Millay explained, "He's from around Kyle of Lochalth, you know. Since Millicent obviously didn't know, she added, "That's the .Japanese colony in northern Scotland, near my own home. In fact. I teach English to Japanese schoolchildren there, since I know the language-my parents were missionaries in Honshu, you see. Didn't you know about the colony'?
Actually, Millicent and Randolph did know about the colony. Or, at least, they almost did, in the way that human beings exposed to forty channels of television and with nothing much to do with their time have heard of, without really knowing much about, almost every concept, phenomenon, event, and trend in human history. In just that way they had heard of the United Kingdom's pact with Japan, allowing large Japanese immigration into an enclave in the north of Scotland. The Japanese made the area bloom both agriculturally and economically. The United Kingdom got a useful injection of Japanese capital and energy, and the Japanese got rid of some of their surplus population without pain. "I wish we'd thought of that, Millicent observed in some envy, but her husband shook his head.
"Different countries, different ways, he said patriotically, "and actually we're doing rather well. I mean, just look at the Lottery Fair! That's American ingenuity for you. Observing that Mrs. Millay was whispering a rapid- fire translation into Mr. Katsubishi's ear, he was encouraged to go on. "Other countries, you see, have their own way of handling their problems. Compulsory sterilization of all babies born in even-numbered years in India, as I'm sure you're aware. The contraceptive drugs they put in the water supply in Mexico-and we won't even talk of what they're doing in, say, Bangladesh. Mrs. Millay shuddered sympathetically as she translated, and the Japanese beamed and bowed then spoke rapidly.
"He says one can learn much, Mrs. Millay translated, "from what foreign countries can do. Even America.
Millicent, glancing at the expression on her husband's face, said brightly: "Well! Let's not let this day go to waste. What shall we do next? At once she got the same answers from the children: "Old cars! "Animals! "No, whined Baby Louisa, "I wanna see the stiffs!
Mr. Katsubishi whispered something in staccato Japanese to Mrs. Miilay, who turned hesitantly to Millieent Baxter. "One doesn't wish to intrude, she said, "but if you are in fact going to see the Hall of Life and Death as your daughter suggests. . . well, we don't seem to be able to find the rest of our tour group, you see, and we would like to go there. After all, it is the theme center for the entire fair, as you might say-
"Why, of course, said Millicent warmly. "We'd be real delighted to have the company of you and Mr. Kats- Kats--
"Katsubishi, he supplied, bowing deeply and showing all his teeth in a smile, and they all seven set off for the Hall of Life and Death, with little Louisa delightedly leading the way.
The hall was a low, white marble structure across the greensward from the Cenotaph, happy picnicking families on the green, gay pavilions all around, ice cream vendors chanting along the roadways, and a circus parade, horses and a giraffe and even an elephant, winding along the main avenue with a band leading them, diddley-boom, diddley-boom, diddley-bang! bang! bang!-all noise, and color, and excitement. But as soon as they were within the Hall they were in another world. The Hall of Life and Death was the only free exhibit at the fair-even the rest rooms were not free. The crowds that moved through the Hall were huge. But they were also reverential. As you came in you found yourself in a great, domed entrance pavilion, almost bare except for seventy-five raised platforms, each spotlighted from a concealed source, each surrounded by an air curtain of gentle drafts. At the time the Baxters came in more than sixty of them were already occupied with the silent, lifeless forms of those who had passed on at the Fair that day. A sweet-faced child here, an elderly woman there, there, side by side, a young pair of newlyweds. Randolph Baxter looked for and found the tall, smiling black man who had died in the line before him. He was smiling no longer, but his face was in repose and almost joyous, it seemed. "He's at peace now, Millicent whispered, touching her husband's arm, and he nodded. He didn't want to speak out loud in this solemn hall, where the whisper of organ music was barely audible above the gentle hiss of chilled air curtains that wafted past every deceased. Hardly anyone in the great crowd spoke. The visitors lingered at each of the occupied biers; but then, as they moved toward the back of the chamber, they didn't linger. Some didn't even look, for every tourist at the Fair could not help thinking, as he passed an empty platform, that before the Fair closed that night it would be occupied.. . by someone.
But the Rotunda of Those Who Have Gone Before was only the anteroom to the many inspiring displays the Hall had to offer. Even the children were fascinated. Young Simon stood entranced before the great Timepiece of Living and Dying, watching the hands revolve swiftly to show how many were born and how many died in each minute, with the bottom line always showing a few more persons alive in every minute despite everything the government and the efforts of patriotic citizens could do-but he was more interested, really, in the mechanism of the thing than in the facts it displayed. Millicent Baxter and Mrs. Millay were really thrilled by the display of opulent caskets and cerements, and Randolph Baxter was proud to point out to Mr. Katsubishi the working model of a crematorium, with all of its escaping gases trapped and converted into valuable organic feedstocks. And the girls, Emma and Louisa, stood hand in hand for a long time, shuddering happily as they gazed at the refrigerated display cases that showed a hideous four-month embryo next to the corpse of a fat, pretty two-year-old. Emma moved to put her arm around her mother and whispered, "Mommy, I'm so grateful you didn't abort me. And Millicent Baxter fought back a quick and tender tear.
"I'd never let you die looking like that, she assured her daughter, and they clung together for a long moment. But Randolph Baxter was becoming noticeably ill at ease. When they finally left the Hall of Life and Death his wife took him aside and asked in concern, "Is something the matter, hon?
He shrugged irritably at the foreigners, who were talking together in fast, low-toned Japanese. "Just look at their faces, he complained. And indeed both Mr. Katsubishi and Mrs. Millay's expressions seemed to show more revulsion than respect.
Millicent followed her husband's eyes and sighed- there was a little annoyance in the sigh, too. "They're not Americans, she reminded her husband. "I guess they just don't understand. She smiled distantly at the foreign pair, and then looked around at her offspring. "Well, children, who wants to come with me to the washrooms, so we can get ready for the big fireworks?
They all did, even Randolph, but he felt a need stronger than the urging of his bladder. He remained behind with the foreigners. "Excuse me, he said somewhat formally, "but may I ask what you thought of the exhibit?
She glanced at the Japanese. "Well, it was most interesting, she said vaguely. "One doesn't wish to criticize, of course- And she stopped there.
"No, no, please go on, Randolph encouraged.
She said, "I must say it did seem odd to, well, glory death in that way.
Randolph Baxter smiled, and tried to make it a forgiving smile, though he could feel that he was upset. He said, "Perhaps you miss the point of the Hall of Life and Death- in fact, of the whole Lottery Fair. You see, some of the greatest minds in America have worked on this problem of surplus population-think tanks and government agencies-why, three universities helped design this Fair. Every bit of it is scientifically planned. To begin with, it's absolutely free.
Mrs. Millay left off her rapid-fire sotto vode Japanese translation to ask, "You mean, free as far as money is concerned?
"Yes, exactly. Of course, one takes a small chance at every ticket window, and in that sense there
is a price for everything. A very carefully computed price, Mrs. Millay, for every hotdog, every show, every ride. To get into the Fair in the first place, for instance, costs one decimill-that's one percent of a point zero zero zero one probability of receiving a lethal injection from the ticket cuff. Now, that's not much of a risk, is it? He smiled. "And of course it's absolutely painless, too. As you can see by just looking at the ones who have given their lives inside.
Mr. Katsubishi, listening intently to Mrs. Millay's translation in his ear, pursed his lips and nodded thought- fully. Mrs. Millay said brightly, "Well, we all have our own little national traits, don't we?
"Now, really, Mrs. Millay, said Randolph Baxter, smiling with an effort, "please try to understand. Everything is quite fair. Some things are practically free, like the park benches and the rest rooms and so on; why, you could use some of them as much as a million times before, you know, your number would come up. Or you can get a first-class meal in the Cenotaph for just about a whole millipoint. But even that means you can do it a thousand times, on the average.
Mr. Katsubishi listened to the end of Mrs. Millay's translation and then struggled to get out a couple of English words. "Not-us, he managed, pointing to himself and Mrs. Millay.
"Certainly not, Baxter agreed. "You're foreign tourists. So you buy your tickets in your own countries for cash, and of course you don't have to risk your lives. It wouldn't help the American population problem much if you did, would it? He smiled. "And your tour money helps pay the cost of the Fair. But the important thing to remember is that the Lottery Fair is entirely voluntary. No one has to come. Of course, he admitted with a self- deprecatory grin, "I have to admit that I really like the job lotteries. I guess I'm just a gambler at heart, and when you've spent as much time on welfare as Mrs. Baxter and I have, those big jobs are just hard to resist! And they're better here than at the regular city raffles.
Mrs. Millay cleared her throat. Good manners competed with obstinacy in her expression. "Really, Mr. Baxter, she said, "Mr. Katsubishi and I understand that- heavens, we've had to do things in our own countries! We certainly don't mean to criticize yours. What's hard to understand, I suppose, is, actually, that fetus. She searched his face with her eyes, looking for understanding. "It just seems strange. I mean, that you'd prefer to see a child born and then perhaps die in a lottery than to abort him ahead of time.
Mr. Baxter did his very best to maintain a pleasant expression, but he knew he was failing. "It's a difference in our national philosophies, I guess, he said. "See, we don't go in for your so-called birth control' here. No abortion. No contraception. We accept the gift of life when it is given. We believe that every human being, from the moment of conception on, has a right to a life-although, he added, "not necessarily a long one. He eyed the abashed foreigners sternly for a moment, then relented. "Well, he said, glancing at his watch, "I wonder where my family can be? They'll miss the fireworks if they don't get back. I bet Mrs. Baxter's gone and let the children pick out souvenirs-the little dickenses have been after us about them all day. Anyway, Mrs. Millay, Mr. Katsubishi, it's been a real pleasure meeting the two of you and having this chance to exchange views-
But he broke off, suddenly alarmed by the expression on Mr. Katsubishi's face as the man looked past him. "What's the matter? he demanded roughly.
And then he turned, and did not need an answer. The answer was written on the strained, haggard, tear-streaked face of his wife as she ran despairingly toward him, carrying in her hands a plastic cap, a paperweight, and a helium-filled balloon in the shape of a pig's head, but without Emma and without Simon and even without little Louisa.
SECOND COMMING
All the good science-fiction editors I knew when I was trying to learn the trade spent a lot of their time thinking of tricks, devices, and subtle manipulations designed to get writers to write stories for them that might not otherwise have got written. You might think they didn't have to do that. After all, writers are in the business of writing; why not just let them get on with it and take what comes as it comes? Because they might be spending their time writing something unsuitable, for one reason. Because they might be writing it for Someone Else is the other. So John Campbell, Horace Gold, Bob Lowndes, Don Wollheim-and I-would pass out story ideas, mail off Xeroxes of covers that needed stories written around them, dream up "theme' issues-anything at all that would prod a lazy writer into producing a story instead of whatever else he had planned to do with his time that day. The art has not been lost. Ellen Datlow, fiction editor of Omni, wasn't even born when John Campbell began practicing that art, but she has thought of devices even the Master never knew. Not long ago, for instance, she called up half a dozen of her favorite writers to announce that she was going to publish a special fiction issue containing a story by each of them, all limited to a maximum of five hundred words. Five hundred words! It takes me five hundred words to answer the phone! However, these little behavior-modification tricks do work their magic, and so I sat down to try. I tried at least half a dozen story ideas without luck, because after the first page and a half each one of them convinced me that it wanted to be a full-sized story if not indeed a three volume novel sequence. Then my son, Fred the Fourth, out of the kindness of his heart, gave me an opening sentence, and the other 469 words followed easily after.
All the good science-fiction editors I knew when I was trying to learn the trade spent a lot of their time thinking of tricks, devices, and subtle manipulations designed to get writers to write stories for them that might not otherwise have got written. You might think they didn't have to do that. After all, writers are in the business of writing; why not just let them get on with it and take what comes as it comes? Because they might be spending their time writing something unsuitable, for one reason. Because they might be writing it for Someone Else is the other. So John Campbell, Horace Gold, Bob Lowndes, Don Wollheim-and I-would pass out story ideas, mail off Xeroxes of covers that needed stories written around them, dream up "theme' issues-anything at all that would prod a lazy writer into producing a story instead of whatever else he had planned to do with his time that day. The art has not been lost. Ellen Datlow, fiction editor of Omni, wasn't even born when John Campbell began practicing that art, but she has thought of devices even the Master never knew. Not long ago, for instance, she called up half a dozen of her favorite writers to announce that she was going to publish a special fiction issue containing a story by each of them, all limited to a maximum of five hundred words. Five hundred words! It takes me five hundred words to answer the phone! However, these little behavior-modification tricks do work their magic, and so I sat down to try. I tried at least half a dozen story ideas without luck, because after the first page and a half each one of them convinced me that it wanted to be a full-sized story if not indeed a three volume novel sequence. Then my son, Fred the Fourth, out of the kindness of his heart, gave me an opening sentence, and the other 469 words followed easily after.
I guess, just as with the Kennedy assassination, everybody can remember exactly where he was and what he was doing on the day the space people brought Jesus back to Earth.
I was aboard Air Force One with the President-I'm Secret Service-and when Major Manley radioed the unbelievable message from the orbiting space shuttle we turned right around and headed straight for California. Beat the shuttle down, and waited, parked at the end of the landing strip, watching TV.
Of course, business had stopped all over the world. Everybody was watching the pictures from the big telescope on Mauna Kea-what a brute that spaceship was, half a mile long!-and listening to replays of Manley's message.
Well, the shuttle made its turn and came down, and they got the crew out and into Air Force One while the ground people were still purging the fuel vapors. "You sure it's Jesus? the President demanded.
"That's what they say, Mr. President. I took a picture of Him-see for yourself. And he passed over a Polaroid.
The President winced. "I didn't think He'd look l
ike that."
"Well, He's Jewish, you know-"
"No, I mean He's so young. It's been nearly two thousand years !" Major Manley explained, "They were traveling at light speed almost all this time-you know, time dilatation? After they rolled away the stone and took Him out of the cave- "
They kidnapped Jesus?
"They don't look at it that way, Mr. President. He was not in very good shape. They figured we were through with Him. So they took Him to their planet, where they have a place to keep specimens of life forms from all over the galaxy-
"They put Jesus in a zoo? Manley shrugged. "What's He doing now? the President asked.
"They say He's watching TV mostly. Doesn't much like what He sees, they say, but I didn't talk to Him myself-I don't speak Aramaic. Anyway, I was glad to get out of there, because that ship's pretty scary. You just wouldn't believe all the nasty kinds of weapons they've got!
The President's eyes gleamed, and the secretary of defense exulted. "New weapons! What a bargaining chip!
The President glanced around the room, and the expressions of delight were unanimous. There remained only one thing to do. He crooked a finger and his secretary turned on her recorder. "Take a decree, Mabel. I, the President, and so on, do hereby proclaim that Jesus Christ is come again, and-uh-
"And He's ours! the secretary finished. And then, raptly, "Thank God.
It looked pretty good there. Of course, the other countries were screeching their heads off. Pravda raged. The Chicoms canceled a trip by their soccer team, and the Israeli ambassador practically had a heart attack trying to argue that He was, after all, one of their nationals by birth. That didn't matter; we were first, and NASA cleared the Canaveral runways for His landing. But He requested all three networks to provide thirty minutes for a primetime telecast, and that was when it all went sour. Never mind He didn't look right. Never mind He spoke in Aramaic, which practically nobody understood. It was what He said that was the bad part-that, and the fact that before we got the translation, there was a priority call from the Mauna Kea telescope people to say the ship was breaking out of orbit and heading back out into space. "But what did He say? moaned the President, and the translator, sweating, shook his head.