Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy December 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Here is a modern tale of an inner-directed sorcerer and anouter-directed sorcerer's apprentice ... a tale of--
THE CREATURE FROM CLEVELAND DEPTHS
By FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by WOOD
"Come on, Gussy," Fay prodded quietly, "quit stalking around like aneurotic bear and suggest something for my invention team to work on.I enjoy visiting you and Daisy, but I can't stay aboveground allnight."
"If being outside the shelters makes you nervous, don't come aroundany more," Gusterson told him, continuing to stalk. "Why doesn't yourinvention team think of something to invent? Why don't you? Hah!" Inthe "Hah!" lay triumphant condemnation of a whole way of life.
"We do," Fay responded imperturbably, "but a fresh viewpoint sometimeshelps."
"I'll say it does! Fay, you burglar, I'll bet you've got twenty peoplelike myself you milk for free ideas. First you irritate their bark andthen you make the rounds every so often to draw off the latex or themaple gloop."
Fay smiled. "It ought to please you that society still has a use foryou outre inner-directed types. It takes something to make a juniorexecutive stay aboveground after dark, when the missiles are on theprowl."
"Society can't have much use for us or it'd pay us something,"Gusterson sourly asserted, staring blankly at the tankless TV andkicking it lightly as he passed on.
"No, you're wrong about that, Gussy. Money's not the key goad with youinner-directeds. I got that straight from our Motivations chief."
"Did he tell you what we should use instead to pay the grocer? A deepinner sense of achievement, maybe? Fay, why should I do any freethinking for Micro Systems?"
"I'll tell you why, Gussy. Simply because you get a kick out ofinsulting us with sardonic ideas. If we take one of them seriously,you think we're degrading ourselves, and that pleases you even more.Like making someone laugh at a lousy pun."
* * * * *
Gusterson held still in his roaming and grinned. "That the reason,huh? I suppose my suggestions would have to be something in the lineof ultra-subminiaturized computers, where one sinister fine-etchedmolecule does the work of three big bumbling brain cells?"
"Not necessarily. Micro Systems is branching out. Wheel as free as arogue star. But I'll pass along to Promotion your one molecule-threebrain cell sparkler. It's a slight exaggeration, but it's catchy."
"I'll have my kids watch your ads to see if you use it and then I'llsue the whole underworld." Gusterson frowned as he resumed hisstalking. He stared puzzledly at the antique TV. "How about inventinga plutonium termite?" he said suddenly. "It would get rid of thosestockpiles that are worrying you moles to death."
Fay grimaced noncommittally and cocked his head.
"Well, then, how about a beauty mask? How about that, hey? I don'tmean one to repair a woman's complexion, but one she'd wear all thetime that'd make her look like a 17-year-old sexpot. That'd end _her_worries."
"Hey, that's for me," Daisy called from the kitchen. "I'll makeGusterson suffer. I'll make him crawl around on his hands and kneesbegging my immature favors."
"No, you won't," Gusterson called back. "You having a face like thatwould scare the kids. Better cancel that one, Fay. Half the adult racelooking like Vina Vidarsson is too awful a thought."
"Yah, you're just scared of making a million dollars," Daisy jeered.
"I sure am," Gusterson said solemnly, scanning the fuzzy floor fromone murky glass wall to the other, hesitating at the TV. "How aboutsomething homey now, like a flock of little prickly cylinders thatroll around the floor collecting lint and flub? They'd work byelectricity, or at a pinch cats could bat 'em around. Every so oftenthey'd be automatically herded together and the lint cleaned off thebristles."
"No good," Fay said. "There's no lint underground and cats are_verboten_. And the aboveground market doesn't amount to moremoneywise than the state of Southern Illinois. Keep it grander, Gussy,and more impractical--you can't sell people merely useful ideas." Fromhis hassock in the center of the room he looked uneasily around. "Say,did that violet tone in the glass come from the high Clevelandhydrogen bomb or is it just age and ultraviolet, like desert glass?"
* * * * *
"No, somebody's grandfather liked it that color," Gusterson informedhim with happy bitterness. "I like it too--the glass, I mean, not thetint. People who live in glass houses can see the stars--especiallywhen there's a window-washing streak in their germ-plasm."
"Gussy, why don't you move underground?" Fay asked, his voice takingon a missionary note. "It's a lot easier living in one room, believeme. You don't have to tramp from room to room hunting things."
"I like the exercise," Gusterson said stoutly.
"But I bet Daisy'd prefer it underground. And your kids wouldn't haveto explain why their father lives like a Red Indian. Not to mentionthe safety factor and insurance savings and a crypt church within easyslidewalk distance. Incidentally, we see the stars all the time,better than you do--by repeater."
"Stars by repeater," Gusterson murmured to the ceiling, pausing for Godto comment. Then, "No, Fay, even if I could afford it--and stand it--I'msuch a bad-luck Harry that just when I got us all safely stowed at theN minus 1 sublevel, the Soviets would discover an earthquake bomb thatstruck from below, and I'd have to follow everybody back to thetreetops. _Hey! How about bubble homes in orbit around earth?_ MicroSystems could subdivide the world's most spacious suburb and all youmoles could go ellipsing. Space is as safe as there is: no air, noshock waves. Free fall's the ultimate in restfulness--great healthbenefits. Commute by rocket--or better yet stay home and do all yourbusiness by TV-telephone, or by waldo if it were that sort of thing.Even pet your girl by remote control--she in her bubble, you in yours,whizzing through vacuum. Oh, damn-damn-_damn_-_damn_-DAMN!"
He was glaring at the blank screen of the TV, his big hands clenchingand unclenching.
"Don't let Fay give you apoplexy--he's not worth it," Daisy said,sticking her trim head in from the kitchen, while Fay inquiredanxiously, "Gussy, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, you worm!" Gusterson roared, "Except that an hour ago Iforgot to tune in on the only TV program I've wanted to hear thisyear--_Finnegans Wake_ scored for English, Gaelic and brogue. Oh,damn-_damn_-DAMN!"
"Too bad," Fay said lightly. "I didn't know they were releasing it onflat TV too."
* * * * *
"Well, they were! Some things are too damn big to keep completelyunderground. And I had to forget! I'm always doing it--I misseverything! Look here, you rat," he blatted suddenly at Fay, shakinghis finger under the latter's chin, "I'll tell you what you can havethat ignorant team of yours invent. They can fix me up a mechanicalsecretary that I can feed orders into and that'll remind me when theexact moment comes to listen to TV or phone somebody or mail in astory or write a letter or pick up a magazine or look at an eclipse ora new orbiting station or fetch the kids from school or buy Daisy abunch of flowers or whatever it is. It's got to be something that'salways with me, not something I have to go and consult or that I canget sick of and put down somewhere. And it's got to remind me forciblyenough so that I take notice and don't just shrug it aside, like Isometimes do even when Daisy reminds me of things. That's what yourstupid team can invent for me! If they do a good job, I'll pay 'em asmuch as fifty dollars!"
"That doesn't sound like anything so
very original to me," Faycommented coolly, leaning back from the wagging finger. "I think allsenior executives have something of that sort. At least, theirsecretary keeps some kind of file...."
"I'm not looking for something with spiked falsies and nylons up tothe neck," interjected Gusterson, whose ideas about secretaries were atrifle lurid. "I just want a mech reminder--that's all!"
"Well, I'll keep the idea in mind," Fay assured him, "along with thebubble homes and beauty masks. If we ever develop anything along thoselines, I'll let you know. If it's a beauty mask, I'll bring Daisy apilot model--to use to scare strange kids." He put his watch to hisear. "Good lord, I'm going to have to cut to make it undergroundbefore the main doors close. Just ten minutes to Second Curfew! 'By,Gus. 'By, Daze."
Two minutes later, living room lights out, they watched Fay'sforeshortened antlike figure scurrying across the balding ill-lit parktoward the nearest escalator.
Gusterson said, "Weird to think of that big bright space-poor glamorbasement stretching around everywhere underneath. Did you remindSmitty to put a new bulb in the elevator?"
"The Smiths moved out this morning," Daisy said tonelessly. "They wentunderneath."
"Like cockroaches," Gusterson said. "Cockroaches leavin' a sinkin'apartment building. Next the ghosts'll be retreatin' to the shelters."
"Anyhow, from now on we're our own janitors," Daisy said.
He nodded. "Just leaves three families besides us loyal to this glassdeath trap. Not countin' ghosts." He sighed. Then, "You like to movebelow, Daisy?" he asked softly, putting his arm lightly across hershoulders. "Get a woozy eyeful of the bright lights and all for achange? Be a rat for a while? Maybe we're getting too old to be bats.I could scrounge me a company job and have a thinking closet all tomyself and two secretaries with stainless steel breasts. Life'd beeasier for you and a lot cleaner. And you'd sleep safer."
"That's true," she answered and paused. She ran her fingertip slowlyacross the murky glass, its violet tint barely perceptible against acold dim light across the park. "But somehow," she said, snaking herarm around his waist, "I don't think I'd sleep happier--or one bitexcited."