Short Fiction

Mary sat quietly and watched the handsome man’s legs blown off; watched further as the great ship began to crumple and break into small pieces in the middle of the blazing night. She fidgeted slightly as the men and the parts of the men came floating dreamily through the wreckage out into the awful silence. And when the meteorite shower came upon the men, gouging holes through everything, tearing flesh and ripping bones, Mary closed her eyes.

“Mother.”

Mrs. Cuberle glanced up from her magazine.

“Hmm?”

“Do we have to wait much longer?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

Mary said nothing but looked at the moving wall.

“Oh, that.” Mrs. Cuberle laughed and shook her head. “That tired old thing. Read a magazine, Mary, like I’m doing. We’ve all seen that a million times.”

“Does it have to be on, Mother?”

“Well, nobody seems to be watching. I don’t think the doctor would mind if I switched it off.”

Mrs. Cuberle rose from the couch and walked to the wall. She depressed a little button and the life went from the wall, flickering and glowing.

Mary opened her eyes.

“Honestly,” Mrs. Cuberle said to a woman sitting beside her, “you’d think they’d try to get something else. We might as well go to the museum and watch the first landing on Mars. The Mayoraka Disaster⁠—really!”

The woman replied without distracting her eyes from the magazine page. “It’s the doctor’s idea. Psychological.”

Mrs. Cuberle opened her mouth and moved her head up and down knowingly.

“Ohhh. I should have known there was some reason. Still, who watches it?”

“The children do. Makes them think, makes them grateful or something.”

“Ohhh.”

“Psychological.”

“With Mary? Everything, of course. Mary, like half the sixteen, seventeen and eighteen year olds today, has begun to feel acutely self-conscious. She feels that her body has developed sufficiently for the Transformation⁠—which of course it has not, not quite yet⁠—and she cannot understand the complex reasons that compel her to wait until some future date. Mary looks at you, at the women all about her, at the pictures, and then she looks into a mirror. From pure perfection of body, face, limbs, pigmentation, carriage, stance, from simon-pure perfection, if I may be allowed the expression, she sees herself and is horrified. Isn’t that so, my dear child? Of course⁠—of course. She asks herself, why must I be hideous, unbalanced, oversize, undersize, full of revolting skin eruptions, badly schemed organically? In short, Mary is tired of being a monster and is overly anxious to achieve what almost everyone else has already achieved.”

“But⁠—” said Mrs. Cuberle.

“This much you understand, doubtless. Now, Mary, what you object to is that our society offers you, and the others like you, no convincing logic on the side of waiting until age nineteen. It is all taken for granted, and you want to know why! It is that simple. A nontechnical explanation will not suffice⁠—mercy no! The modern child wants facts, solid technical data, to satisfy her every question. And that, as you can both see, will take a good deal of reorganizing.”

“Of course, yes, very wise. Er⁠—does she also do odd things?”

“Well, I found her on the second level one night. She was lying on the floor and when I asked her what she was doing, she said she was trying to sleep.”

Mary flinched. She was sorry, in a way, that Mother had found that out.

“To⁠—did you say ‘sleep’?”

“That’s right.”

“Now where could she have picked that up?”

“No idea.”

“Mary, don’t you know that nobody sleeps anymore? That we have an infinitely greater lifespan than our poor ancestors now that the wasteful state of unconsciousness has been conquered? Child, have you actually slept? No one knows how anymore.”

“No sir, but I almost did.”

The doctor sighed. “But, it’s unheard of! How could you begin to try to do something people have forgotten entirely about?”

“The way it was described in the book, it sounded nice, that’s all.” Mary was feeling very uncomfortable now. Home and no talking man in a foolish white gown.⁠ ⁠…

“Would you mind repeating that?”

“I said, sir, that Mr. Friden said, sir, that he sees a city.”

“A city?”

“Yes sir.”

Captain Webber rubbed the back of his hand along his cheek.

“You realize, of course, that that is impossible?”

“Yes sir.”

“Send Mr. Friden in to see me, at once.”

The young man saluted and rushed out of the room. He returned with a somewhat older man who wore spectacles and frowned.

“Now then,” said Captain Webber, “what’s all this Lieutenant Peterson tells me about a city? Are you enjoying a private little joke, Friden?”

Mr. Friden shook his head emphatically. “No sir.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to explain.”

“Well, sir, you see, I was getting bored and just for something to do, I thought I’d look through the screen⁠—not that I dreamed of seeing anything. The instruments weren’t adjusted, either; but there was something funny, something I couldn’t make out exactly.”

“Go on,” said Captain Webber, patiently.

“So I fixed up the instruments and took another look, and there it was, sir, plain as could be!”

“There what was?”

“The city, sir. Oh, I couldn’t tell much about it, but there were houses, all right, a lot of them.”

“Houses, you say?”

“Yes sir, on an asteroid.”

Captain Webber looked for a long moment at Mr. Friden and began to pace nervously.

“I take it you know what this might mean?”

“Yes sir, I do. That’s why I wanted Lieutenant Peterson to tell you about it.”

“I believe, Friden, that before we do any more talking I’ll see this city for myself.”