The Blind Assassin: Peach Women of Aa'A
In the evenings there's dancing, smooth glittery dancing on a slippery floor. Induced hilarity: she can't avoid it. Everywhere around, the flashbulbs pop: you can never tell where they're aiming, or when a picture will appear in the paper, of you, with your head thrown back, all your teeth showing.
In the mornings her feet are sore.
In the afternoons she takes refuge in memory, lying in a deck chair, behind her sunglasses. She refuses the swimming pool, the quoits, the badminton, the endless, pointless games. Pastimes are for passing the time and she has her own pastime.
The dogs go round and round the deck on the ends of their leashes. Behind them are the top-grade dog-walkers. She pretends to be reading.
Some people write letters, in the library. For her there's no point. Even if she sent a letter, he moves around so much he might never get it. But someone else might.
On calm days the waves do what they are hired to do. They lull. The sea air, people say - oh, it's so good for you. Just take a deep breath. Just relax. Just let go.
Why do you tell me these sad stories? she says, months ago. They're lying wrapped in her coat, fur side up, his request. Cold air blows through the cracked window, streetcars clang past. Just a minute, she says, there's a button pressing into my back.
That's the kind of stories I know. Sad ones. Anyway, taken to its logical conclusion, every story is sad, because at the end everyone dies. Birth, copulation, and death. No exceptions, except maybe for the copulation part of it. Some guys don't even get that far, poor sods.
But there can be happy parts in between, she said. In between the birth and the death - can't there? Though I guess if you believe in Heaven that could be a happy story of sorts - dying, I mean. With flights of angels singing you to your rest and so forth.
Yeah. Pie in the sky when you die. No thanks.
Still, there can be happy parts, she says. Or more of them than you ever put in. You don't put in many.
You mean, the part where we get married and settle down in a little bungalow and have two kids? That part?
You're being vicious.
Okay, he says. You want a happy story. I can see you won't leave it alone until you get one. So here goes.
It was the ninety-ninth year of what was to become known as the Hundred Years' War, or the Xenorian Wars. The Planet Xenor, located in another dimension of space, was populated by a super-intelligent but super-cruel race of beings known as the Lizard Men, which wasn't what they called themselves. In appearance they were seven feet tall, scaly, and grey. Their eyes had vertical slits, like the eyes of cats or snakes. So tough was their hide that ordinarily they didn't have to wear clothing, except for short pants made of carchineal, a flexible red metal unknown on Earth. These protected their vital parts, which were also scaly, and enormous I might add, but at the same time vulnerable.
Well, thank heaven something was, she says, laughing.
I thought you'd like that. Anyway, their plan was to capture a large number of Earth women and breed a super-race, half-human, half-Xenorian Lizard Man, which would be better equipped for life on the various other habitable planets of the universe than they were - able to adjust to strange atmospheres, eat a variety of foods, resist unknown diseases, and so on - but which would also have the strength and the extraterrestrial intelligence of the Xenorians. This super-race would spread out through space and conquer it, eating the inhabitants of the different planets en route, because the Lizard Men needed room for expansion and a new source of protein.
The space fleet of the Lizard Men of Xenor had launched its first attack on Earth in the year 1967, scoring devastating hits on major cities in which millions had perished. Amid widespread panic, the Lizard Men had made parts of Eurasia and South America their slave colonies, appropriating the younger women for their hellish breeding experiments and burying the corpses of the men in enormous pits, after eating the parts of them they preferred. They liked the brains and the hearts especially, and the kidneys, grilled lightly.
But the Xenorian supply lines had been cut by rocket fire from hidden Earth installations, thus depriving the Lizard Men of the vital ingredients for their zorch-ray death guns, and Earth had rallied and struck back - not only with her own fighting forces, but with clouds of gas made from the poison of the rare Iridis hortz frog once used by the Nacrods of Ulinth to tip their arrows, and to which, it had been discovered by Earth scientists, the Xenorians were particularly susceptible. Thus the odds had been evened out.
Also their carchineal shorts were flammable, if you could hit them dead on with a missile that was hot enough already. Earth snipers with bull's-eye aim, using long-range phosphorus-bullet guns, were the heroes of the day, although retaliations against them were severe, and involved electrical tortures previously unknown and excruciatingly painful. The Lizard Men did not take kindly to having their private parts burst into flame, which was understandable.
Now, by the year 2066, the alien Lizard Men had been beaten back into yet another dimension of space, where Earth fighter pilots in their small, quick two-man harry-craft were pursuing them. Their ultimate goal was to wipe out the Xenorians entirely, keeping perhaps a few dozen for display in specially fortified zoos, with windows of unbreakable glass. The Xenorians however were not giving up without a fight to the death. They still had a viable fleet, and a few tricks left up their sleeves.
They had sleeves? I thought they were naked on top.
Judas Priest, don't be so picky. You know what I mean.
Will and Boyd were two old buddies - two scarred and battle-seasoned harry-craft veterans of three years' standing. This was a long time in the harry-craft service, where losses ran high. Their courage was said by their commanders to exceed their judgment, though so far they had got away with their rash behaviour, raid after daring raid.
But as our story opens, a Xenorian zorch-craft had closed in on them, and now they were shot to hell and limping badly. The zorch-rays had put a hole in their fuel tank, knocked out their link with Earth control, and melted their steering gear, giving Boyd a nasty scalp wound in the process, whereas Will was bleeding into his spacesuit from an unknown site in mid-section.
Looks like we're for it, said Boyd. Screwed, blued and tattooed. This thing's gonna go kablooey any minute now. I just wish we'd of had the time to blast a few hundred more of the scaly sons of guns to kingdom come, is all.
Yeah, ditto. Well, mud in your eye, old pal, said Will. It looks like you've got some running down in there anyway - red mud. Your toes are leaking. Ha, ha.
Ha, ha, said Boyd, grimacing in pain. Some joke. You always had a bum sense of humour.
Before Will could reply, the ship spun out of control and went into a dizzying spiral. They'd been seized by a gravity field, but of which planet? They had no idea where they were. Their artificial-gravity system was kaput, and so the two men blacked out.
When they awoke, they couldn't believe their eyes. They were no longer in the harry-craft, nor in their tight-fitting metallic spacesuits. Instead they were wearing loose green robes of some shining material, and reclining on soft golden sofas in a bower of leafy vines. Their wounds were healed, and Will's third finger on the left hand, blown off in a previous raid, had grown back. They felt suffused with health and wellbeing.
Suffused, she murmurs. My, my.
Yeah, us guys like a fancy word now and then, he says, talking out of the side of his mouth like a movie gangster. It gives the joint a bit of class.
So I imagine.
To proceed. I don't get it, said Boyd. You think we're dead?
If we're dead I'll settle for dead, said Will. This is all right, all righty.
I'll say.
Just then Will gave a low whistle. Coming towards them were two of the peachiest dames they had ever seen. Both had hair the colour of a split-willow basket. They were wearing long garments of a purplish-blue hue, which fell in tiny pleats and rustled as they moved. It reminde
d Will of nothing more than the little paper skirts they put around the fruit in snooty Grade-A grocery stores. Their arms and feet were bare; each had a strange headdress of fine red netting. Their skin was a succulent golden pink. They walked with an undulating motion, as if they'd been dipped in syrup.
Our greetings to you, men of Earth, said the first.
Yes, greetings, said the second. We have long expected you. We have tracked your advent on our interplanetary tele-camera.
Where are we? said Will.
You are on the Planet of Aa'A, said the first. The word sounded like a sigh of repletion, with a small gasp in the middle of it of the kind babies make when they turn over in their sleep. It also sounded like the last breath of the dying.
How did we get here? said Will. Boyd was speechless. He was running his eyes over the lush ripe curves on display before him. I'd like to sink my teeth into a piece of that, he was thinking.
You fell from the sky, in your craft, said the first woman. Unfortunately it has been destroyed. You will have to stay here with us.
That won't be hard to take, said Will.
You will be well cared for. You have earned your reward. For in protecting your world against the Xenorians, you are also protecting ours.
Modesty must draw a veil over what happened next.
Must it?
I'll demonstrate in a minute. It merely needs to be added that Boyd and Will were the only men on Planet Aa'A, so of course these women were virgins. But they could read minds, and each could tell in advance what Will and Boyd might desire. So very soon the most outrageous fantasies of the two friends had been realized.
After that there was a delicious meal of nectar, which, the men were told, would stave off age and death; then there was a stroll in the lovely gardens, which were filled with unimaginable flowers; then the two were taken to a large room full of pipes, from which they could select any pipe they wanted.
Pipes? The kind you smoke?
To go with the slippers, which were issued to them next.
I guess I walked into that one.
You sure did, he said, grinning.
It got better. One of the girls was a sexpot, the other was more serious-minded and could discuss art, literature, and philosophy, not to mention theology. The girls seemed to know which was required of them at any given moment, and would switch around according to the moods and inclinations of Boyd and Will.
And so the time passed in harmony. As the perfect days went by, the men learned more about the Planet of Aa'A. First, no meat was eaten on it, and there were no carnivorous animals, though there were lots of butterflies and singing birds. Need I add that the god worshipped on Aa'A took the form of a huge pumpkin?
Second, there was no birth as such. These women grew on trees, on a stem running into the tops of their heads, and were picked when ripe by their predecessors. Third, there was no death as such. When the time came, each of the Peach Women - to call them by the names by which Boyd and Will soon referred to them - would simply disorganize her molecules, which would then be reassembled via the trees into a new, fresh woman. So the very latest woman was, in substance as well as in form, identical with the very first.
How did they know when the time had come? To disorganize their molecules?
First, by the soft wrinkles their velvety skin would develop when overripe. Second, by the flies.
The flies?
The fruit flies that would hover in clouds around their headdresses of red netting.
This is your idea of a happy story?
Wait. There's more.
After some time this existence, wonderful though it was, began to pall on Boyd and Will. For one thing, the women kept checking up on them to make sure they were happy. This can get tedious for a fellow. Also, there was nothing these babes wouldn't do. They were completely shameless, or without shame, whichever. On cue they would display the most whorish behaviour. Slut was hardly the word for them. Or they could become shy and prudish, cringing, modest; they would even weep and scream - that too was on order.
At first Will and Boyd found this exciting, but after a while it began to irritate.
When you hit the women, no blood came out, only juice. When you hit them harder, they dissolved into sweet mushy pulp, which pretty soon became another Peach Woman. They didn't appear to experience pain, as such, and Will and Boyd began to wonder whether they experienced pleasure either. Had all the ecstasy been a put-on show?
When questioned about this, the gals were smiling and evasive. You could never get to the bottom of them.
You know what I'd like right about now? said Will one fine day.
The same thing I'd like, I bet, said Boyd.
A great big grilled steak, rare, dripping with blood. A big stack of French fries. And a nice cold beer.
Ditto. And then a rip-roaring dogfight with those scaly sons of guns from Xenor.
You got the idea.
They decided to go exploring. Despite having been told that Aa'A was the same in every direction, and that they would only find more trees and more bowers and more birds and butterflies and more luscious women, they set out towards the west. After a long time and no adventures whatsoever, they came up against an invisible wall. It was slippery, like glass, but soft and yielding when you pushed on it. Then it would spring back into shape. It was higher than they could possibly reach or climb. It was like a huge crystal bubble.
I think we're trapped inside a big transparent tit, said Boyd.
They sat down at the foot of the wall, overcome by a profound despair.
This joint is peace and plenty, said Will. It's a soft bed at night and sweet dreams, it's tulips on the sunny breakfast table, it's the little woman making coffee. It's all the loving you ever dreamed of, in every shape and form. It's everything men think they want when they're out there, fighting in another dimension of space. It's what other men have given their lives for. Am I right?
You said a mouthful, said Boyd.
But it's too good to be true, said Will. It must be a trap. It may even be some devilish mind-device of the Xenorians, to keep us from being in the war. It's Paradise, but we can't get out of it. And anything you can't get out of is Hell.
But this isn't Hell. It's happiness, said one of the Peach Women who was materializing from the branch of a nearby tree. There's nowhere to go from here. Relax. Enjoy yourselves. You'll get used to it.
And that's the end of the story.
That's it? she says. You're going to keep those two men cooped up in there forever?
I did what you wanted. You wanted happiness. But I can keep them in or let them out, depending how you want it.
Let them out, then.
Outside is death. Remember?
Oh. I see. She turns on her side, pulls the fur coat over her, slides her arm around him. You're wrong about the Peach Women though. They aren't the way you think.
Wrong how?
You're just wrong.
The Mail and Empire, September 19, 1936
GRIFFEN WARNS OF REDS IN SPAIN
SPECIAL TO THE MAIL AND EMPIRE
In a spirited address to the Empire Club last Thursday, prominent industrialist Richard E. Griffen, of Griffen-Chase Royal Consolidated, warned of potential dangers threatening world order and the peaceful conduct of international commerce due to the ongoing civil conflict in Spain. The Republicans, he said, were taking their orders from the Reds, as had already been shown by their seizure of property, the slaughter of peaceful civilians, and the atrocities committed against religion. Many churches had been desecrated and burnt, and the murder of nuns and priests had become an everyday occurrence.
The intervention of the Nationalists headed by General Franco was a reaction only to be expected. Indignant and courageous Spaniards of every class had rallied to defend tradition and civil order, and the world would look on with anxiety as to the outcome. A triumph for the Republicans would mean a more aggressive Russia, and many smaller countries might well find the
mselves under threat. Of the continental countries, only Germany and France, and to some extent Italy, were strong enough to resist the tide.
Mr. Griffen strongly urged that Canada follow the lead of Britain, France and the United States, and distance itself from this conflict. The policy of non-intervention was a sound one and should be adopted immediately, as Canadian citizens should not be asked to risk their lives in this foreign fray. However there was already an underground stream of diehard Communists heading for Spain from our continent, and although they should be prohibited by law from doing so, the country should be thankful that an opportunity had arisen whereby it might purge itself of disruptive elements at no cost to the tax-payer.
Mr. Griffen's remarks were roundly applauded.
The Blind Assassin: The Top Hat Grill
The Top Hat Grill has a neon sign with a red top hat and a blue glove lifting it. Up comes the hat, up it comes again; it never comes down. No head under it though, only one eye, winking. A man's eye, opening, closing; a conjurer's eye; a sly, headless joke.
The top hat is the classiest thing about the Top Hat Grill. Still, here they are, sitting at one of its booths, out in public like real people, each with a hot beef sandwich, the meat grey on bread white and soft and flavourless as an angel's buttock, the brown gravy thick with flour. Canned peas on the side, a delicate greyish green; French fries limp with grease. At the other booths sit lone disconsolate men with the pink, apologetic eyes and the faintly grimy shirts and shiny ties of bookkeepers, and a few battered couples making the most Friday-night whoopee they can afford, and some trios of off-duty whores.