A wind had risen, and it took Orth a good solid slam to close the door after Mathwick. Orth’s heart thumped an echo. Sure enough, in answer to his listening he heard the springs of Lucy’s bed and her drugged footsteps moving to the door of her room.
“Who was that you were talking to?” she asked.
“Santa Claus.”
One thing Lucy lacked was a sense of humor. He hadn’t expected her to laugh, and she didn’t; he had expected her to go on talking, and she did. Her tone was querulous; he wasn’t listening to her words.
His free hand still held the feel of the hilt; he rubbed it against his thigh. He had to find a safe place for the bonds and the note before the police came for him or he turned himself in. The sheaf grew heavy in his hand, but its heaviness took a weight off his mind. A million dollars.
A million dollars could buy Lucy the best medical care. A million dollars could buy him a new life after he served his time.
Thomas Orth looked at the star on the tree without seeing it. He saw himself touching Judith Hillerin’s look-how-I’m-put-together shape, saw himself trying to kiss Judith Hillerin’s I-dare-you-to-slap-me face, heard Judith Hillerin’s mocking voice, saw red, then saw blood, and lastly saw his hand drawing away from the letter opener in Judith Hillerin’s body.
A million dollars could even buy the truth.
Ms. Found by a Patrolman
by Carole Rosenthal
Here, one must recall Scott’s admonition:
And many a word, at random spoken,
May soothe or wound a heart that’s broken!
I confess I’m slightly confused by Lila Potterman’s attitude, even a bit dizzied by her complete about-face. Because I am that truly unique creature in these chaotic times — the RATIONAL human being — I am writing down this objective account of our evening together so that I can figure out her puzzling behavior.
First, without false modesty, let me declare that I am an eligible bachelor. I have no trouble meeting and attracting women. This account is in no way a traditional Lover’s Lament.
I am tall, dark and, yes — I admit it — even handsome. Then too, I am a noted doctor, which by itself assures my social success.
These qualifications, however, meant nothing to Lila Potterman. She has the true scientific mind that cuts through sentimental garbage masquerading as fact in our society; but perhaps to understand my admiration for her I should begin with an account of my life’s dedication, a dedication that stops at nothing.
I am a man of strong principles, devoted to abolishing dangerous traditions. Not as a profession, of course — the world isn’t ready for that yet — but as a hobby. As a scientist, I have seen that certain outmoded concepts of honor and humanity spread across the earth like contagious diseases, and hold back the progress of the human race.
Love, Piety of Motherhood, Freedom, Mans Dignity — all false issues; look at the facts of war, overcrowding, crime.
We have to change the people who carry diseased traditions (primarily mothers), and start anew with enlightened people to create a more thoughtful world, Reconditioning; possibly we will even have to eliminate large groups of incurables.
What does this have to do with Lila Potterman? Well, let me explain.
The creation of a new world is a mammoth project, involving changes in the entire social structure. Frankly, it’s tiring. Like other men with far-reaching goals, I want companionship; a helpmate to comfort me, physically and intellectually; a wife.
Where would I find one? Oh, I knew plenty of women. They flocked to me, honestly. I could practically see their lips moving to practice the magic phrase: “My husband, the doctor.” Disgusting! Stupid perpetuators of tradition! When you considered that these women were also potential mothers — well, you can plainly see where that leads.
I wanted a rational woman, someone who understood me, who wouldn’t cringe from reality; a woman who could help, in some small way, with my plans for a new world. In short, someone exactly like myself — only female, of course.
How was I to meet this woman? Clearly, trusting to chance and circumstances was too much a hit-or-miss operation. These women — if they existed — must be rare. One could not meet them at parties or bars or even at dull scientific conventions. You couldn’t spot them on the street, and grateful uncles recuperating from bladder operations — no matter how well-meaning — never provided them when they hooted: “What, a good-looking young guy like you not married yet? Have I got a niece for you...”
I had just finished eating dinner several months ago, and was turning the problem over once again in my mind as I settled down with my pipe and newspaper. Would cloning work, I wondered? Growing a complete duplicate of myself from one of my cells certainly had a strong appeal, no doubt about it. Still, even if the technique were perfected soon, could I wait twenty-odd years for my double to grow up? And he’d be male besides.
Suddenly my eyes lit upon a small heavily-bordered display ad in the back section of the newspaper.
“Computer-Mater!” it said in bold letters. “The scientific method of matching minds! Our complete data-processing technique finds your perfect partner through the most up-to-date technology. Absolutely confidential!”
I read the ad three times. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? With the help of a totally rational machine, using systematically collected facts as raw data, I could find my female counterpart. I was so excited that I tossed restlessly in bed all night, and telephoned for an application form as soon as I got up in the morning.
However, two days later, when the form arrived in the afternoon mail, I eyed it with some dismay. A puffy pink cupid in the lower left-hand corner of the envelope was unleashing several crooked arrows at my name (misspelled) and address. I tore it open and read it in the elevator:
“Do you prefer a blonde, brunette, or redhead? Check one.
Do you prefer a mate in professions or in the arts? Check one.
Is your partner’s I.Q. important? If so, check one: 100,110,120,130...”
I snorted to myself and turned my front door key sharply. I.Q. indeed! What about the T.Q.? Tradition Quotient! That’s what will turn the world from madness and destruction. Have useless old attitudes and responses been extinguished?
Remember, before you think that I abandoned the idea, that I hardly expected better from a commercial operation, designed to appeal to the general public. Therefore I had already prepared another, deeply-probing questionnaire, together with several pages of instruction for use. I attached these to a check and sent them off. Maybe...
A week later my bank informed me that Computer-Mater had cashed my check, and a letter arrived, promising partner-appraisal information soon. So the “maybe” became a “probably” in my mind, then, unaccountably, a “definitely.”
I began to count on Computer-Mater. Images of my matching opposite spun through my head. I spent hours composing our dialogues, our dinner anecdotes, even our lovemaking. I was completely exhilarated, perhaps even a bit carried away, for I decided to put my theories into practice. I would convert the women I already knew to rationality or... follow out the logical conclusion.
Unfortunately they were incurable, low T.Q.’s in every single case. No amount of patient reasoning could penetrate their foggy minds.
The first was an imaginary thread-lifter, who plucked, cooing, at my lapels and cut her eyes sideways at me incessantly. The second, plain and dumpy, kept talking about “security.” The third — probably the worst of the lot and the one with whom I tried hardest — was a lanky sophisticate who kept gold-plated “His” and “Hers” ash trays in the bathroom. All tragic terminal cases.