A large anthology of sci.., p.561
A Large Anthology of Science Fiction, page 561
Simone Putnam, her granddaughter; Nina Putnam, her great-granddaughter; the unbroken succession of matriarchs continued, but times the old woman thought that in Simone it was weakened, and she looked at the four-year-old Nina askance, waiting, waiting, for some good sign.
Sometimes one of the Putnam women had given birth to a son, who grew sickly and died, or less often, grew healthy and fled. The husbands were usually strangers to the land, the house, and the women, and spent a lifetime with the long-lived Putnam wives, and died, leaving their strange signs: telephone wires, electric lights, water pumps, brass plumbing.
Sam Harris came and married Simone, bringing with him an invasion of washer, dryer, toaster, mixer, coffeemaster, until the current poured through the walls of the house with more vigor than the blood in the old woman’s veins.
“You don’t approve of him,” Simone said to her grandmother.
“It’s his trade,” Cecily Putnam answered. “Our men have been carpenters, or farmers, or even schoolmasters. But an engineer. Phui!”
Simone was washing the dishes, gazing out across the windowsill where two pink and white Murex shells stood, to the tidy garden beyond where Nina was engaged in her private games.
She dried the dishes by passing her hand once above each plate or glass, bringing it to a dry sparkle. It saved wear on the dishtowels, and it amused her.
“Sam’s not home very much,” she said in a placating voice. She herself had grown terrified, since her marriage, that she wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of her past. She felt its power on her and couldn’t carry it. Cecily had brought her up, after her father had disappeared and her mother had died in an unexplained accident. Daily she saw the reflection of her failure in the face of her grandmother, who seemed built of the same seasoned and secure wood as the old Putnam house. Simone looked at her grandmother, whom she loved, and became a mere vapor.
“He’s not home so much,” Simone said.
HER face was small, with a pointed chin, and she had golden-red hair which she wore loose on her shoulders. Nina, too, had a small face, but it was neither so pale nor so delicate as her mother’s, as if Sam’s tougher substance had filled her out and strengthened her bone structure. If it was true that she, Simone, was a weak link, then Sam’s strength might have poured into the child, and there would be no more Putnam family and tradition.
“People don’t change that easily,” the old woman said.
“But things—” Simone began. The china which had a history of five generations slipped out of her hands and smashed; Sam’s toaster wouldn’t toast or pop up; Simone couldn’t even use the telephone for fear of getting a wrong number, or no number at all.
“Things, things!” her grandmother cried. “It’s blood that counts. If the blood is strong enough, things dissolve. They’re just garbage, all those things, floating on the surface of our history. It’s our history that’s deep. That’s what counts.”
“You’re afraid of Sam,” the young woman accused.
“Not afraid of any man!” Cecily said, straightening her back. “But I’m afraid for the child. Sam has no family tradition, no depth, no talent handed down and perfected. A man with his head full of wheels and wires.”
Simone loved him. She leaned on him and grew about him, and he supported her tenderly. She wasn’t going to give him up for the sake of some abstract tradition—
“—it’s not abstract,” her grandmother said with spirit. “It’s in your blood. Or why don’t you sweep the floors the way other women do? The way Sam’s mother must?”
Simone had begun to clean the house while she was thinking, moving her hand horizontally across the floor, at the height of her hip, and the dust was following the motion of her hand and moving in a small, sun-brightened river toward the trash basket in the kitchen corner. Now Simone raised her hand to her face to look at it, and the river of dust rose like a serpent and hung a foot below her hand.
“Yes,” she agreed, “at least I can clean the house. If I don’t touch the good china, and look where I’m going.”
“Phui,” the old woman said again, angrily. “Don’t feel so sorry for yourself.”
“Not for myself,” Simone mumbled, and looked again toward the garden where her daughter was doing something with three stones and a pie plate full of spring water.
“I do despair of Nina,” Cecily said, as she had said before. “She’s four, and has no appearance. Not even balance. She fell out of the applerose tree, and couldn’t even help herself.” Suddenly the old woman thrust her face close to her granddaughter. It was smooth, round, and sweet as a young kernel of corn. The eyes, sunk down under the bushy grey brows, were cold and clear grey.
“Simone,” the old woman said. “You didn’t lie to me? You did know she was falling, and couldn’t get back in time to catch her?”
A shudder passed through Simone’s body. There was no blood in her veins, only water; no marrow in her bones, they were empty, and porous as a bird’s. Even the roots of her hair were weak, and now the sweat was starting out on her scalp as she faced her grandmother and saw the bristling shapes of seven generations of Putnam women behind her.
“You lied,” the old woman said. “You didn’t know she was falling.”
Simone was a vapor, a mere froth blowing away on the first breeze.
“My poor dear,” the old woman said in a gentle voice. “But how could you marry someone like Sam? Don’t you know what will happen? He’ll dissolve us, our history, our talents, our pride. Nina is nothing but an ordinary little child.”
“She’s a good child,” Simone said, trying not to be angry. She wanted her child to be loved, to be strong. “Nina isn’t a common child,” she said, with her head bent. “She’s very bright.”
“A man with his head full of wheels, who’s at home with electricity and wires,” the old woman went on. “We’ve had them before, but never allowed them to dominate us. My own husband was such a man, but he was only allowed to make token gestures, such as having the power lines put in. He never understood how they worked.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “Your Sam understands. I’ve heard him talk to the water pump.”
“That’s why you’re afraid of him,” Simone said. “Not because I’m weak, and he might take something away from me, but because he’s strong, and he might give us something. Then everything would change, and you’re afraid of that. Nina might be our change.” She pointed toward the garden.
FOLLOWING the white line of her granddaughter’s finger, Cecily looked out into the garden and saw Nina turn toward them as though she knew they were angry. The child pointed with one finger directly at them in the house. There was a sharp crackle, and something of a brilliant and vibrating blue leaped between the out-stretched fingers of mother and daughter, and flew up like a bird to the power lines above.
“Mommy,” Nina called.
Simone’s heart nearly broke with wonder and fright. Her grandmother contemptuously passed through the kitchen door and emerged on the step outside, but Simone opened the door and left it open behind her. “What was that?” she asked Nina. “Was it a bluebird?”
“Don’t be silly,” Nina said. She picked up the pie plate and brought it toward them. Cecily’s face was white and translucent, one hand went to her throat as the child approached.
Brimfull of crackling blue fire with a fluctuating heart of yellow, the pie plate came toward them, held between Nina’s small, dusty hands. Nina grinned at them. “I stole it out of the wires,” she said.
Simone thought she would faint with a mixture of joy and fear. “Put it back,” she whispered. “Please put it back.”
“Oh Mommy,” Nina said, beginning to whine. “Not now. Not right away. I just got it. I’ve done it lots of times.” The pie plate crackled and hissed in the steady, small hands.
Simone could feel the old woman’s shocked silence behind her. “You mustn’t carry it in a pie plate, it’s dangerous,” Simone said to her child, but she could see Nina was in no danger. “How often have you done this?” She could feel her skirt and her hair billow with electricity.
“Lots of times. You don’t like it, do you?” She became teasing and roguish, when she looked most like Sam. Suddenly she threw back her head and opened her mouth, and tilting up the pie plate she drank it empty. Her reddish gold hair sprang out in crackling rays around her face, her eyes flashed and sparks flew out between her teeth before she closed her mouth.
“Nina!” the old woman cried, and began to crumple, falling slowly against Simone in a complete faint. Simone caught her in trembling hands and lowered her gently. She said to her daughter, “You mustn’t do that in front of Grandy. You’re a bad girl, you knew it would scare her,” and to herself she said: I must stop babbling, the child knows I’m being silly. O isn’t it wonderful, isn’t it awful, O Sam, how I love you.
“Daddy said it would scare you,” Nina admitted. “That’s why I never showed you before.” Her hair was softly falling into place again, and she was gazing curiously at her great-grandmother lying on the doorstep.
“It did scare me,” Simone said. “I’m not used to it, darling. But don’t keep it secret any more.”
“Is Grandy asleep?”
Simone said hastily, “Oh yes, she’s taking a nap. She is old, you know, and likes to take naps.”
“That’s not a nap,” Nina said, leaning over and patting the old woman’s cheek, “I think she’s having a bad dream.”
Simone carried her grandmother into the house. If that old, tired heart had jumped and floundered like her own, there must be some damage done to it. If anything happened to her grandmother, the world would end, Simone thought, and was furious with Nina, and at the same time, full of joy for her.
Cecily Putnam opened her eyes widely, and Simone said, “It does change, you see. But it’s in the family, after all.”
The old woman sat upright quickly. “That wicked child!” she exclaimed. “To come and frighten us like that. She ought to be spanked.” She got up with great strength and rushed out to the garden.
“Nina!” she called imperiously. The child picked up one of the small stones from the pie plate now full of spring water, and came to her great-grandmother.
“I’ll make something for you, Grandy,” she said seriously. She put the stone in the palm of her hand, and breathed on it, and then held out her hand and offered the diamond.
“It’s lovely. Thank you,” the old woman said with dignity, and put her hand on the child’s head. “Let’s go for a walk and I’ll show you how to grow rose-apples. That’s more becoming to a young lady.”
“You slept on the step.”
“Ah! I’m old and I like to take little naps,” Cecily answered.
Simone saw them disappear among the applerose trees side by side. She was still trembling, but gradually, as she passed her hand back and forth, and the dust followed, moving in a sparkling river toward the trash basket, Simone stopped trembling and began to smile with the natural pride of a Putnam woman. THE END
CODE THREE
Rick Raphael
The cars on high-speed highways must follow each other like sheep. And they need shepherds. The highway police cruiser of tomorrow however must be massively different—as different as the highways themselves!
The late afternoon sun hid behind gray banks of snow clouds and a cold wind whipped loose leaves across the drill field in front of the Philadelphia Barracks of the North American Continental Thruway Patrol. There was the feel of snow in the air but the thermometer hovered just at the freezing mark and the clouds could turn either into icy rain or snow.
Patrol Sergeant Ben Martin stepped out of the door of the barracks and shivered as a blast of wind hit him. He pulled up the zipper on his loose blue uniform coveralls and paused to gauge the storm clouds building up to the west.
The broad planes of his sunburned face turned into the driving cold wind for a moment and then he looked back down at the weather report secured to the top of a stack of papers on his clipboard.
Behind him, the door of the barracks was shouldered open by his junior partner, Patrol Trooper Clay Ferguson. The young, tall Canadian officer’s arms were loaded with paper sacks and his patrol work helmet dangled by its strap from the crook of his arm.
Clay turned and moved from the doorway into the wind. A sudden gust swept around the corner of the building and a small sack perched atop one of the larger bags in his arms blew to the ground and began tumbling towards the drill field.
“Ben,” he yelled, “grab the bag.”
The sergeant lunged as the sack bounded by and made the retrieve. He walked back to Ferguson and eyed the load of bags in the blond-haired officer’s arms.
“Just what is all this?” he inquired.
“Groceries,” the youngster grinned. “Or to be more exact, little gourmet items for our moments of gracious living.”
Ferguson turned into the walk leading to the motor pool and Martin swung into step beside him. “Want me to carry some of that junk?”
“Junk,” Clay cried indignantly. “You keep your grimy paws off these delicacies, peasant. You’ll get yours in due time and perhaps it will help Kelly and me to make a more polished product of you instead of the clodlike cop you are today.”
Martin chuckled. This patrol would mark the start of the second year that he, Clay Ferguson and Medical-Surgical Officer Kelly Lightfoot had been teamed together. After twenty-two patrols, cooped up in a semiarmored vehicle with a man for ten days at a time, you got to know him pretty well. And you either liked him or you hated his guts.
As senior officer, Martin had the right to reject or keep his partner after their first eleven-month duty tour. Martin had elected to retain the lanky Canadian. As soon as they had pulled into New York Barracks at the end of their last patrol, he had made his decisions. After eleven months and twenty-two patrols on the Continental Thruways, each team had a thirty-day furlough coming.
Martin and Ferguson had headed for the city the minute they put their signatures on the last of the stack of reports needed at the end of a tour. Then, for five days and nights, they tied one on. MSO Kelly Lightfoot had made a beeline for a Columbia Medical School seminar on tissue regeneration. On the sixth day, Clay staggered out of bed, swigged down a handful of antireaction pills, showered, shaved and dressed and then waved good-by. Twenty minutes later he was aboard a jet, heading for his parents’ home in Edmonton, Alberta. Martin soloed around the city for another week, then rented a car and raced up to his sister’s home in Burlington, Vermont, to play Uncle Bountiful to Carol’s three kids and to lap up as much as possible of his sister’s real cooking.
While the troopers and their med officer relaxed, a service crew moved their car down to the Philadelphia motor pool for a full overhaul and refitting for the next torturous eleven-month tour of duty.
The two patrol troopers had reported into the Philadelphia Barracks five days ago—Martin several pounds heavier courtesy of his sister’s cooking; Ferguson several pounds lighter courtesy of three assorted, starry-eyed, uniform-struck Alberta maidens.
They turned into the gate of the motor pool and nodded to the sentry at the gate. To their left, the vast shop buildings echoed to the sound of body-banging equipment and roaring jet engines. The darkening sky made the brilliant lights of the shop seem even brighter and the hulls of a dozen patrol cars cast deep shadows around the work crews.
The troopers turned into the dispatcher’s office and Clay carefully placed the bags on a table beside the counter. Martin peered into one of the bags. “Seriously, kid, what do you have in that grab bag?”
“Oh, just a few essentials,” Clay replied. “Pate de foie gras, sharp cheese, a smidgen of cooking wine, a handful of spices. You know, stuff like that. Like I said—essentials.”
“Essentials,” Martin snorted, “you give your brains to one of those Alberta chicks of yours for a souvenir?”
“Look, Ben,” Ferguson said earnestly, “I suffered for eleven months in that tin mausoleum on tracks because of what you fondly like to think is edible food. You’ve got as much culinary imagination as Beulah. I take that back. Even Beulah turns out some better smells when she’s riding on high jet than you’ll ever get out of her galley in the next one hundred years. This tour, I intend to eat like a human being once again. And I’ll teach you how to boil water without burning it.”
“Why you ungrateful young—” Martin yelped.
The patrol dispatcher, who had been listening with amused tolerance, leaned across the counter.
“If Oscar Waldorf is through with his culinary lecture, gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps you two could be persuaded to take a little pleasure ride. It’s a lovely night for a drive and it’s just twenty-six hundred miles to the next service station. If you two aren’t cooking anything at the moment, I know that NorCon would simply adore having the services of two such distinguished Continental Commandos.”
Ferguson flushed and Martin scowled at the dispatcher. “Very funny, clown. I’ll recommend you for trooper status one of these days.”
“Not me,” the dispatcher protested. “I’m a married man. You’ll never get me out on the road in one of those blood-and-gut factories.”
“So quit sounding off to us heroes,” Martin said, “and give us the clearances.”
The dispatcher opened a loose-leaf reference book on the counter and then punched the first of a series of buttons on a panel. Behind him, the wall lighted with a map of the eastern United States to the Mississippi River. Ferguson and Martin had pencils out and poised over their clipboards.
The dispatcher glanced at the order board across the room where patrol car numbers and team names were displayed on an illuminated board. “Car 56—Martin-Ferguson-Lightfoot,” glowed with an amber light. In the column to the right was the number “26-W.” The dispatcher punched another button. A broad belt of multi-colored lines representing the eastern segment of North America Thruway 26 flashed onto the map in a band extending from Philadelphia to St. Louis. The thruway went on to Los Angeles on its western segment, not shown on the map. Ten bands of color—each five separated by a narrow clear strip, detailed the thruway. Martin and Ferguson were concerned with the northern five bands; NAT 26-westbound. Other unlighted lines radiated out in tangential spokes to the north and south along the length of the multi-colored belt of NAT 26.
