“But of course you like it,” she said. “You always used to like it!”
You see what I mean? Anyway, we did go to this nightclub, but it wasn’t much fun. Vera got sleepy, and we left, and were home before twelve. Then she wasn’t sleepy, but I was. Couple nights later I came home from the office and was changing my clothes; she said something or other, and I didn’t hear her and didn’t answer, and we actually had a little argument. She wanted to know why I always looked at every coin in my pocket, like an idiot, every time I changed clothes. I explained quietly enough; told her about the ad I used to read as a kid and how I was still looking for a 1913 Liberty-head nickel worth thousands of dollars, which was the truth.
But it wasn’t the whole truth. As I looked through the coins I’d collected in my pocket during the day-the Woodrow Wilson dimes, the Grover Cleveland pennies, the nickels with George Coopernagel’s profile, and all the other familiar coins of the world I now lived in-I understood something that had puzzled me once.
These other alternate worlds in which we also live intersect here and there-at a corner newsstand, for example, on Third Avenue in New York and at many another place, too, no doubt. And from these intersecting places every once in a while something from one of these worlds-a Woodrow Wilson dune, for example-will stray into another one. I’d found such a dime and when I happened to plank it down on the counter of that little newsstand, there at an intersection of the two alternate worlds, that dime bought a newspaper in the world it belonged in. And I walked off into that world with the New York Sun under my arm. I knew this now, and I’d known it long since. I understood it finally, but I didn’t tell Vera. I simply told her I was looking for a 1913 Liberty-head nickel. I didn’t tell her I was also looking for a Roosevelt dime.
I found one too. One night, finally, sure enough, there it lay in my palm; a dime with the profile of Franklin D. Roosevelt on its face. And when I slapped it down on the counter of the little newsstand next evening, there at the intersection of two alternate worlds, I was trembling. The man snatched up a paper, folding it as he handed it to me, and I tucked it under my arm and walked on for three or four steps, hardly daring to breathe. Then I opened the paper and looked at it. New York World-Telegram, the masthead read, and I began to run-all the way to Forty-fourth Street, then east to First Avenue and then up three flights of stairs.
I could hardly talk I was so out of breath when I burst into the apartment, but I managed to gasp out the only word that mattered. “Marion!” I said and grabbed her to me, almost choking her, because my arms hit the back of her head about where Vera’s shoulders would have been. But she managed to talk, struggling to break loose, her voice sort of muffled against my coat.
“Al!” she said. “What in the world is the matter with you?”
For her, of course, I’d been here last night and every night for the months and years past. And of course, back in this world, I remembered it, too, but dimly, mistily. I stepped back now and looked down at the marvelous tiny size of Marion, at that wonderful, petite figure, at her exquisite and fragile blond beauty. “Nothing’s the matter with me,” I said, grinning down at her. “It’s just that I’ve got a beautiful wife and was in a hurry to get home to her. Anything wrong with that?”
There wasn’t; not a thing, and-well, it’s been wonderful, my life with Marion, ever since. It’s an exciting life; we’re out three and four nights a week, I guess-dancing, the theater, visiting friends, going to night clubs, having dinner out, even bowling. It’s the way things used to be, as Marion has aptly said. In fact, she remarked recently, it’s like a second honeymoon, and she’s wonderfully happy these days and so am I.
Oh, sometimes I’m a little tired at night lately. There are times after a tough day at Serv-Eez when I’d almost rather stay home and read a good book; it’s been quite a while since I did. But I don’t worry about that. Because the other night, about two-thirty in the morning, just back from The Mirimba, standing at my dresser looking through the coins in my pocket, I found it-another Woodrow Wilson dime. You come across them every once in a while, I’ve noticed, if you just keep your eyes open; Wilson dimes, Ulysses Grant quarters, Coopernagel nickels. And I’ve got my Wilson dime safely tucked away, and-well, I’m sure Vera, that lithe-limbed creature, will be mighty glad to see her husband suddenly acting his old self once again. I imagine it’ll be like a third honeymoon. Just as-this time-it will be for Marion.
So there you are, brother, coin collecting can be profitable. And fun too! Why don’t you start-tonight!
NO FIRE BURNS
by Avram Davidson
from Playboy
The same Mr. Amis who was so “suspiciously ready” to attempt to analyze a nameless Jack Finney, says in the introductory chapter of his book that “science fiction” is hardly an appropriate name for the field any longer. Regretfully, I must agree with Mr. A. on this one point (without seeing the need for the emphasis on the first word). And I leap to agree, again, with his next statement:
“… the plea that politics and economics and psychology and anthropology and even ethics are really or nearly as much sciences as atomic physics, is chiefly valuable as an indication of a state of mind… .”
Frankly, I am not certain our agreement on this is fundamental; I don’t know what Mr. Amis meant, but what he said is very true. The fields of psychology, anthropology, sociology—yes, even ethics, hopefully—are now just at that burgeoning “state of mind” atomic physics was still passing through when science-fictionists began exploring its potential thirty years ago. As fine an example of the new “science fiction” as I know is this featured story from Playboy.
Doctor Colles was a thin, pale man with receding hair. Mr. Melchior’s chauffeured car had picked him up at his stuffy little office, crowded with papers. He had begun to talk almost at once, and he was still at it now. While waiting for the traffic light to change and listening to Doctor Colles’ conversation, Mr. Melchior took a long green cigar from his case and lit it.
“A breakdown of function and structure,” said Colles. “An absolute lack of communication. Isn’t it so?” Mr. Taylor, a trim, blond young man, who looked like an ad for expensive shirts, listened carefully, said nothing. Melchior looked impressed—and uncomprehending. Colles took his arm just above the elbow, pressed it. “Look at that fellow over there,” he said. “The one in the brown suit—see? Now: can I communicate with him? Or can you? On any save the most primitive level? No. Impossible, I assure you. I’ve only to look at him to know.” The crowd flowed across the street. The men in the car watched the vanishing brown suit.
“We think of, let us say, world problems. He thinks of bowling. We discuss art and letters. He watches the dog acts on TV. We are concerned with our vanishing natural resources. He wonders if he can put a dollar-fifty cab bill on his swindle sheet. Am I correct?” The car moved forward. “What do you think?”
Mr. Melchior thought he agreed one hundred percent. Taylor smiled faintly. “Just the same,” Melchior said, “there has to be some way of reaching these type people, getting inside of them.”