Collected short stories, p.1
Collected Short Stories, page 1
Reed, Robert - 555
Reed, Robert - Billion Eves
Reed, Robert - Birdy Girl
Reed, Robert - Birth Day
Reed, Robert - Boy
Reed, Robert - Challenger
Reed, Robert - Change Of Mind
Reed, Robert - Character Flu
Reed, Robert - Children's Crusade
Reed, Robert - Coelacanths
Reed, Robert - Crooked Creek
Reed, Robert - Cuckoo's Boys
Reed, Robert - Cure
Reed, Robert - Daily Reports
Reed, Robert - Decency
Reed, Robert - Designing With Souls
Reed, Robert - Dragons Of Springplace
Reed, Robert - Dragons Of Summer Gulch
Reed, Robert - Due
Reed, Robert - Eight Episodes
Reed, Robert - Fable Blue
Reed, Robert - Fifty Dinosaurs
Reed, Robert - Finished
Reed, Robert - Firehorn
Reed, Robert - First Tuesday
Reed, Robert - Five Thrillers
Reed, Robert - From Above
Reed, Robert - Game Of the Century
Reed, Robert - Good Mountain
Reed, Robert - Graffiti
Reed, Robert - Grandma's Jumpman
Reed, Robert - Guest Of Honor
Reed, Robert - Gulf
Reed, Robert - Hexagons
Reed, Robert - Hidden Paradise
Reed, Robert - Hoplite
Reed, Robert - House Left Empty
Reed, Robert - How It Feels
Reed, Robert - Hybrid
Reed, Robert - If We Can Save Just One Child
Reed, Robert - Intolerance
Reed, Robert - Killing the Morrow
Reed, Robert - Leave
Reed, Robert - Like Minds
Reed, Robert - Like Need Deserve
Reed, Robert - Lying to Dogs
Reed, Robert - Magic with Thirteen-Year-Old Boys
Reed, Robert - Majesty of Angels
Reed, Robert - Man For the Job
Reed, Robert - Market Day
Reed, Robert - Melodies Played upon Cold, Dark Worlds
Reed, Robert - Misjudgement Day
Reed, Robert - Myrtle Man
Reed, Robert - New Deity
Reed, Robert - Night Calls
Reed, Robert - Old Man Waiting
Reed, Robert - One Last Game
Reed, Robert - Opal Ball
Reed, Robert - Oracles
Reed, Robert - Our Prayers Are With You
Reed, Robert - Pills Forever
Reed, Robert - Place With Shade
Reed, Robert - Plague Of Life
Reed, Robert - Plausible
Reed, Robert - Poet Snow
Reed, Robert - Pure Vision
Reed, Robert - Rejection
Reed, Robert - Reunion
Reed, Robert - Roxie
Reed, Robert - Rwanda
Reed, Robert - Salad For Two
Reed, Robert - Season To Taste
Reed, Robert - Shape Of Everything
Reed, Robert - She Sees My Monsters Now
Reed, Robert - Show Me Yours
Reed, Robert - Sleeping Woman
Reed, Robert - Starbuck
Reed, Robert - Think So
Reed, Robert - Three Princesses
Reed, Robert - To Church With Mr Multhiford
Reed, Robert - Tournament
Reed, Robert - Treasure Buried
Reed, Robert - Trouble Is
Reed, Robert - True Fame
Reed, Robert - Truth
Reed, Robert - Two Sams
Reed, Robert - Utility Man
Reed, Robert - Veritas
Reed, Robert - Waging Good
Reed, Robert - Wealth
Reed, Robert - Weapons Of Discretion
Reed, Robert - Wellsprings Of Genius
Reed, Robert - Whiptail
Reed, Robert - Will Be
Reed, Robert - Winemaster
Reed, Robert - Woman's Best Friend
Reed, Robert - X-Country
Reed, Robert - [Amerindian] - Buffalo Wolf
Reed, Robert - [Amerindian] - Less Than Nothing
Reed, Robert - [Amerindian] - Shadow-Below
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - Camouflage
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - Hatch
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - Marrow
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - Night Of Time
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - River Of the Queen
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - The Caldera Of Good Fortune
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - The Man With the Golden Balloon
Reed, Robert - [Marrow] - The Remoras
Reed, Robert - [Sister Alice] - Baby's Fire
Reed, Robert - [Sister Alice] - Brother Perfect
Reed, Robert - [Sister Alice] - Father To the Man
Reed, Robert - [Sister Alice] - Mother Death
Reed, Robert - [Sister Alice] - Sister Alice
Reed, Robert - [Sister Alice] - Waging Good
555
This issue opened with the tale of a mousy girl and now we meet another meek character, a woman named Joan whose situation is very different from Mary Louise Whittaker's. Here, tune in and see
I AM A PLEASANT, PRETTY-faced soul, and a small soul, my quiet voice rarely heard in the normal course of any day. I have been placed here as a presence, as a reassuring feature within this exceptionally complicated landscape, embracing a role not unlike that served by the elegant mansions and sprawling country clubs, not to mention the great golden tower where the lords of this world fight endless wars for dominion. I am the symbol of loyalty. To my mistress, the great Claudia, I am the quiet but fiercely devoted assistant. She gives me her order, and I say, "Yes, ma'am." With a crisp nod and a cheery smile, I tell her, "Immediately, ma'am." Typically her chores are small things easily accomplished. Calls need to be made, documents signed. But my main purpose--my guiding mission --is to sit behind my smallish desk, and with my undiluted enthusiasm, I convince the other world that in the constant mayhem of our world, Claudia can always count on little me.
I sit inside my little office. There is an apartment that is mine as well, but mostly, I sit in the office tucked outside Claudia's much larger office. When necessary, I can appear extremely busy. My fingers dance, causing colors to change on one or more of the screens before me. I can lift a pen and fill any yellow pad with elaborate symbols. If the telephone sings, I can lift the receiver to my ear, nod with interest, and tell the silence on the other end, "I will do that. Thank you, sir. Ma'am." But mostly, I just sit, waiting my next opportunity to excel.
My office has a single window. From my chair, from the highest floor of the very famous tower, a great slice of the City is easily visible. For me, it is usually daytime. The City is beautiful and vast, and perfect, avenues laid out with delicious precision, great buildings and little houses presenting an image of teeming masses and relentless wealth. The world's most beautiful structure is the Golden Tower, but I myself have never actually seen it from below. Yet I cannot imagine any sight as impressive as the one afforded me by this single window. When I am certain that Claudia will not need me for the next long while, I rise from behind my desk and press my pretty-enough face against the window, squinting and squinting, observing details that are too small to be noticed in the normal course of the day.
What I see of the City is a coarse approximation, naturally. When I look carefully, as I do now, I can see how each house and vehicle and even the people that are supposed to be souls are composed of nothing, more or less, than a few dots of color arranged to imply familiar shapes.
The City is home to a few thousand named souls.
Give each speck a name and there would be millions of us.
By that logic, I am fortunate. Incredibly, undeservedly lucky. I have a name: Joan. I have not one place to be, but two, and if you count the parties and street scenes where I have appeared, then I have visited better than a dozen places. I remember each one. Ages later, I can recall what I said and to whom, and every good thing that I did for my mistress. "Joan, you need to see to this. To that." Yes, of course, madam. This and that, yes! "Take my glass, Joan." With my steadiest hand, I took it. "How do I look? Splendid, as usual?" You always look splendid, and spectacular. Madam. Ma'am. Claudia Pontificate!
At this moment, my mistress is embroiled in a major social event. Where she is, it is night. The incongruity doesn't bother me. Time is extremely important in this world, but the habits of the Sun are not. I stare across the day-lit City, watching those tiny specks and dashes of color and motion, and not for the first time, I think it is wrong what they say. Yes, we are a set of fuzzy instructions and algorithms, shaped light and inspired daydreams. But from what I understand, the other world is much the same: Everything is built from dots just a little bit smaller than these flecks of color. In their own right, the mythical atoms are still quite simple. Simple, and built of even simpler objects. In that other world, light also has shape, and souls dream, and in countless more ways, both worlds are very much the same--two realms relentlessly simple when seen up close, and at a distance, vast and complex beyond all comprehension.
Joan is a daydreamy girl, I think to myself.
I begin to smile, turning away from the window. A man is sitting across from my desk, waiting for me. I didn't hear him enter my office. Was I that distracted? In an instant, I sprint through the catalog of City faces, finding no man with his
"Hello, Joan," he rumbles.
I have no lines. So of course, I say nothing.
And he laughs knowingly, gesturing at my empty chair. "Go on, sit," he suggests. "You're fine. I just want to speak with you for a little moment."
I settle on my chair.
"Ask," he says. "Who am I?"
"I don't know," I admit.
"Mitchell Hanson," he says. "I'm the Head Writer for the City."
I don't know what to say.
He keeps laughing, something striking him as being extraordinarily funny. "Have you ever met a writer before?"
"No," I confess.
"What do you know about us?"
I am a small soul, and polite. "Not very much," I allow.
He nods. "Claudia speaks about us. Doesn't she?"
On occasion, yes. Sometimes when neither of us is needed and she finds herself standing in my office, waiting to be whisked away to her next important scene, she talks to me, telling me her thoughts.
"What does she say about us?"
Claudia often meets with the writers. They come as projections, discussing current plots as well as events that may or may not come to pass.
"I don't think you are," I mutter.
"What? I'm not a writer?" Mitchell laughs and leans forward in his seat. "Why do you say that, Joan?"
"You are neither fat nor ugly," I reply.
"Thank you."
"But your face is a little crooked, I guess. And that dark material under you chin--"
"It's a three-day beard," he explains. Which explains nothing.
I just nod and smile, and return to my waiting.
"I'm the Head Writer," he repeats, "and I'm a considerable fan of yours. Did you know that, Joan?"
"A fan?"
"One of many. In my world, millions of people are interested in you."
That is not an impressive number. The other world holds billions of people, each with a name, and almost everyone watches Claudia and the City. But I want to be polite, nodding as I tell him, "Thank you."
"You're very pretty," he maintains.
"But I don't have a desirable body," I argue. "My breasts are small, and my nose is too large."
Claudia has a wonderful body. I have seen it on occasion, usually when I am told to walk into her office unannounced. My personality is heterosexual but even I feel a longing when I stare at those firm creations that ride before her imaginary heart. As with everything about Claudia, I am smaller. Lesser. Yes, I am the same kind of creature, but always lost in her considerable shadow.
"You have a marvelous body," Mitchell tells me. "Don't sell yourself short."
But I do an excellent job of self-appraisal. Politely, I tell him, "I'll try not to. I really will."
"You've had lovers, haven't you?"
The Head Writer should know that I have. Three men stand in my past. But only one had any name, and he stayed for only a few weeks, leaving me for the black sleep that comes when you have served your purpose and get filed away.
"Not three men," Mitchell corrects. "Look again."
The Writer has placed a memory in my soul.
"Look carefully," he advises with a wink and a delighted grin.
I straighten my back and grow cold.
"Remember the other day, Joan? When you came into this office through that door, and you thought you heard a mysterious noise in Claudia's office--?"
"Yes."
"And you found her with who?"
"My lover."
"Sonny Cotton," he says. "The great, secret love of your life."
I shiver and sob.
"What was Sonny doing?"
I cannot say it. But I can't stop seeing it, even with my eyes pressed shut.
"And where is he now, Joan? The love of your life...?"
"With Claudia."
"Is he?"
"Clinging to her arm," I mutter, imagining the two of them happily snuggling at that extravagant little dinner party.
"Sonny loves Claudia now," says the writer.
I nod, in misery.
"He doesn't think about you anymore. Not even in passing."
I shiver and sob.
"But you can win him back again, Joan. If you really want him, that is."
"I do!" I blurt.
"In thirteen seconds," Mitchell tells me, "Claudia will walk through that door. And you will pull the little pistol from your purse--the same pistol Claudia gave you as a Christmas gift last year--and you will shoot her once, with a devastator bullet, directly between her big beautiful tits."
"They are ugly and fat, and sloppy, and you should count your blessings that you don't have to meet with the little bastards."
I always count my blessings.
Claudia was walking from my office door to my window and back again. Pacing, it is called--one of many behaviors in which I have little ability. She looked furious, and not in the merely dramatic fashion demanded by dialogue and plot. She nearly shivered as she strode past my desk for the umpteenth time, her deep powerful voice nearly cracking as she repeated the words, "Little bastards."
This was ages ago. This was last week, nearly. But in that other world, a week is not long, which makes the event recent and timely, and perhaps important.
"Do you know what the little bastards want to do?"
I shook my head. "No, ma'am."
"What they're talking about doing--?"
"What, madam?"
Claudia stopped in mid-stride, glancing at me as if noticing my presence for the first time. She was lovely, of course. Always and effortlessly beautiful. A tall ensemble built from elegant curves, she wore a snug, well-tailored suit and the thick black hair that she preferred while at work. In social occasions, her hair turned a deceptively friendly blond. In sexual circumstances, a strawberry shade crawled out of its roots, covering her head in flames as her arousal increased.
"Change," my mistress blurted.
"Pardon me?"
"These little writers... they want to change things...!"
I nodded, pretending to understand. This with a soft, apologetic tone, I asked, "What kinds of things, madam?"
But she couldn't bring herself to say it. First, she needed to walk again. To pace. Back and forth, and again, and on the third journey across my office floor, she admitted, "They want to dump certain characters."
I didn't respond.
Claudia closed her hands, bright rings glittering as her fists trembled. "They want to kill them off. Kill them, or ship them off to the sleep-files, and forget they ever existed."
But wasn't that inevitable? Storylines and the need for fresh faces require a certain level of attrition.
"This isn't business as usual," Claudia snapped at me.
"I didn't say it was," I muttered.
"But I could see your thoughts," she warned. "Of course I can see what you're thinking. Are you forgetting who I am?"
"No, ma'am."
Again, Claudia was pacing.
"Wholesale changes," she growled.
For an instant, I wondered why she was speaking like this. To me, of all the souls to confide in. And then I saw a good reason, a warm feeling taking hold of my soul. Of course! My mistress was worried about me...!
"Ratings," she muttered.
"Pardon me?"
Claudia hit one of the golden walls with a fist, muttering, "Ratings are down. Everybody's scared. They're afraid we've overstayed our welcome with the real world."
She always referred to the other realm as "the real world."
"Panic," she said to the wall. "I see it in their faces."
I had no doubts that she saw panic. Claudia's emotion-discrimination algorithms are the very best in two worlds.
"I shouldn't tell you any of this, Joan."
"I won't repeat a word," I promised, unsure whom I would entrust with any important news. My own social calendar was quite limited.
"A revolution will come to the City," said Claudia, in disgust. "The Old Guard is going to be swept away, and the little people take over. To bring 'a freshness' to the stories, they say. Those ugly shit bastards--!"
"Swept away?"
"That's an expression. The other world has a lot of dirt, and everything needs a lot of cleaning." She pretended to breathe, and her brown face tightened, and while not quite looking at me, she asked, "Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"Don't play naďve," she warned. "Given the chance: Would you, or wouldn't you?"
I am naďve, but I'm not stupid. The purpose of this conversation was suddenly obvious, and the only possible answer was to promise my undying devotion to my mistress.
