“Let’s not get personal about this,” snapped Sammy. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’m a modern man,” said Smith. “At least, I was a modern man and I know how they think. These humans down there know that the surface was blasted with radiation. If Sammy turns up they’ll think that he’s a mutation or something. They’ve bred true down there and they aren’t going to want mutations around at any price. So they’ll shoot him.” He spread his hands. “Well,” he said defensively. “How can you argue about it? Sammy doesn’t look human, does he?”
“Go on,” gritted Sammy. He clamped his teeth together, hating Smith for the first time. Fresh guy!
“So that rules out Sammy,” continued Smith. It was obvious that he had given the matter some thought. “That leaves me and Boris.” He shrugged. “I guess that we needn’t even consider Boris.”
“Why not?” The old vampire was hurt.
“Because you look a freak too, that’s why.” Smith was brutally frank. “Let’s face it, fellows, neither of you would get to first base.”
“And you would, I suppose?” Sammy was sarcastic.
“Sure.” Smith had an iron hide, sarcasm didn’t reach him. “I’m young and I know what the score is. I could talk my way into their confidence and be accepted.”
“And what about us?”
“Oh, I’d take care of you somehow.” Smith didn’t meet Sammy’s eyes. “I’d try to sneak Boris here a drink or two and fix it so that you got something to eat now and again. Things will be hard at first, naturally, but I’ll do my best.”
“Fresh young pup!” Boris ground his teeth in anger. “No respect for your elders at all! Why I—”
“Hold it!” Sammy sprang to his feet, then relaxed as Lupe bounded into the firelight. “Trouble?”
“No.” Lupe grunted as he forced his tired body back into human shape. “Wish that I didn’t have to do this every time I wanted to talk.” He looked at Sammy. “It’s just that I remembered what it was I had to tell you. I bumped into someone you’d be interested in a short while ago. She’s living in a cave way south of here, in a place where they used to hang their dead, the humans, I mean. You know it?”
“I know it.” Sammy felt excitement warm his blood. “I thought that area had been cleaned out long ago.”
“Maybe it was, but she’s there now and from what I could see she’s making out fine.” Lupe winked. “I told her about you and she’s interested. Young too.” He dropped to all fours. “And lonely.” He began to change shape. “Well, just thought that you’d be interested.” Abruptly he was gone, a sleek shape bounding through the brush.
Sammy stared after him, too thrilled to shout his thanks. A girl ghoul! Almost he had given up hope of ever finding a female of his own kind but, if Lupe was telling the truth, and he was, then there was something to be gained in life even yet. He sagged at a sudden thought.
The caves were a long way away and he hadn’t eaten for too long. Travel took energy and he just didn’t have the energy. Smith looked enviously at the ghoul as he slumped beside the fire.
“Lucky devil,” he said. “I wish I could get a girl.”
“You have to make your own,” said Sammy dully.
Boris frowned. “What’s wrong with you, Sammy? That was good news. You’re going, of course?”
“How can I?” Sammy sighed from the pit of his stomach. “Radiations sterilize, remember, and I can’t eat sterile food. Around here it wasn’t so bad, that’s how I’ve managed to live this long, but I can’t hope to pick up anything decent to eat on so long a journey.” He slumped still more. “I’m too weak to chance it.” He sighed again. “If I could only get one really decent meal to set me up, I’d be off like a shot. Just one good meal.”
“Tough,” said Smith carelessly. “Still, maybe she’ll wait.”
“Hold your tongue!” snapped Boris. He glanced at Sammy, then at Smith, then at Sammy again. Nervously he wet his lips. “There’s one way,” he said suggestively.
“There’s the Agreement,” reminded Sammy. He’d already thought of what Boris had in mind and dismissed it because of that.
“We’re a quorum,” pointed out Boris. “We could agree to suspend the Agreement for just this once.” He became urgent. “Be sensible, Sammy. The way things are the two of us wouldn’t stand a chance to survive until they come out. From what Lupe said it might take another year and those Red Cross stocks are mostly smashed and useless. And when they do come out, what then?”
“Geometrical progression,” said Sammy understandingly. “Two makes four and four makes eight and—”
“He’s young,” said Boris. “That means that he’ll have a hell of an appetite. He won’t be able to use discretion, he hasn’t had the experience. And you heard what he said about contacting them. What’s the betting that he just cuts us out?”
“What are you talking about?” Smith glanced from one to the other. They ignored him.
“I’m not sure,” said Sammy slowly. “We’ve got to stick together now or we’ll all be sunk.”
“We’ll be sunk anyway,” said Boris. “He’ll foul things up for sure.” His hand closed pleadingly on Sammy’s arm. “Please, Sammy. Just for this once.”
“What are you two freaks talking about?” snapped Smith again. Youth and confidence in his superiority made him contemptuous of these old has-beens. Sitting beside the fire he had made his own plans and they didn’t include either of the others. He lost both confidence and contempt as he read Sammy’s expression. “No!” he screamed, understanding hitting like a thunderbolt; “No! You wouldn’t! You couldn’t! You—”
He rose together with Sammy and, turning, raced into the dark safety of the woods. He didn’t get far.
Fresh guys rarely do.
THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS
by Arthur Zirul
A story about bears—but no Goldilocks.
Like Mrs. Emshwiller, Professor Bone, and Patent Attorney Thomas, Arthur Zirul has been writing and publishing s-f, on a part-time basis, for the last five years or so. As with them, s-f was favorite reading for him long before he tried writing it. “Science fiction to me,” he says, “is the last, and likely the only, refuge for genuine satire . . . the biting kind only fantasy can provide.”
Mr. Zirul’s more usual, workaday refuge is an out-of-the-way back building in Greenwich Village which he describes as “1,500 square feet of a former night club, filled with fine dust, a dozen assorted machines, shelves full of very odd odds and ends, and me (I’m the one that’s moving).”
Sorry. No Things or Shottlebops or genii-jars. He calls it Diorama Studios, and builds industrial models there.
Last spring season, just before the Forest Council was about to disband in search of mates, I introduced a Bill to provide funds for a sanctuary for Man. A place where men would be able to live unmolested, and where they would create beautiful things for us. I have become convinced that we Bears cannot make the beautiful things; we have no feeling for it. Only Man seems to have this divine ability. When I told the Elders of the Council of my thoughts they scoffed and asked what had made a Bruin of my rank even consider such fantastic ideas.
I told them of how I had captured a man last winter near the ruins of the Great City. I had kept him alive, over the objections of my hungry cubs, when I discovered that he could make the beautiful things. I told them of how my family had learned to appreciate the delicate art of my man and had gained great pleasure from it. I was certain that other Bears would also be benefited if they had the opportunity to obtain similar works of art.