William Tenn - Child's Play

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Child's Play

William Tenn

After the man from the express company had given the door an untipped slam, Sam Weber decided to

move the huge crate under the one light bulb in his room. It was all very well for the messenger to drawl,

"I dunno. We don't send 'em; we just deliver 'em, mister"—but there must be some sensible explanation.

With a grunt that began as an anticipatory reflex and ended on a note of surprised annoyance, Sam

shoved the box forward the few feet necessary. It was heavy enough; he wondered how the messenger

had carried it up the three flights of stairs.

He straightened and frowned down at the garish card which contained his name and address as well

as the legend—"Merry Christmas, 2353."

A joke? He didn't know anyone who'd think it funny to send a card dated over four hundred years

in the future. Unless one of the comedians in his law school graduat-ing class meant to record his opinion

as to when Weber would be trying his first case. Even so—

The letters were shaped strangely, come to think of it, sort of green streaks instead of lines. And the

card was a sheet of gold!

Sam decided he was really interested. He ripped the card aside, tore off the flimsy wrapping

material—and stopped.

There was no top to the box, no slit in its side, no handle anywhere in sight. It seemed to be a solid,

cubical mass of brown stuff. Yet he was positive something had rattled inside when it was moved.

He seized the corners and strained and grunted till it lifted. The underside was as smooth and

innocent of openings as the rest. He let it thump back to the floor.

"Ah, well," he said, philosophically, "it's not the gift; it's the principle involved."

Many of his gifts still required appreciative notes. He'd have to work up some-thing special for Aunt

Maggie. Her neckties were things of cubistic horror, but he hadn't even sent her a lone handkerchief this

Christmas. Every cent had gone into buying that brooch for Tina. Not quite a ring, but maybe she'd

consider that under the circumstances—

He turned to walk to his bed, which he had drafted into the additional service of desk and chair. He

kicked at the great box disconsolately. "Well, if you won't open, you won't open."

As if smarting under the kick, the box opened. A cut appeared on the upper sur-face, widened

rapidly and folded the top back and down on either side like a valise. Sam clapped his forehead and

addressed a rapid prayer to every god whose name he could think of. Then he remembered what he'd

said.

"Close," he suggested.

The box closed, once more as smooth as a baby's bottom.

"Open."

The box opened.

So much for the sideshow, Sam decided. He bent down and peered into the container.

The interior was a crazy mass of shelving on which rested vials filled with blue liquids, jars filled with

red solids, transparent tubes showing yellow and green and orange and mauve and other colors which

Sam's eyes didn't quite remember. There were seven pieces of intricate apparatus on the bottom which

looked as if tube-happy radio hams had assembled them. There was also a book.

Sam picked the book off the bottom and noted numbly that while all its pages were metallic, it was

lighter than any paper book he'd ever held.

He carried the book over to the bed and sat down. Then he took a long, deep breath and turned to

the first page. "Gug," he said, exhaling his long, deep breath.

In mad, green streaks of letters:

Bild-A-Man Set #3. This set is intended solely for the use of children between the ages of eleven and thirteen. The equipment,

much more advanced than Bild-A-Man Sets 1 and 2, will enable the child of this age-group to build and assemble complete adult

humans in perfect working order. The retarded child may also con-struct the babies and mannikins of the earlier kits. Two

disassembleators are pro-vided so that the set can be used again and again with profit. As with Sets 1 and 2, the aid of a Census

Keeper in all disassembling is advised. Refills and additional parts maybe acquired from The Bild-A-Man Company, 928 Diagonal

Level, Glunt City, Ohio. Remember—only with a Bild-A-Man can you build a man!

Weber squeezed his eyes shut. What was that gag in the movie he'd seen last night? Terrific gag.

Terrific picture, too. Nice technicolor. Wonder how much the director made a week? The cameraman?

Five hundred? A thousand?

He opened his eyes warily. The box was still a squat cube in the center of his room. The book was

still in his shaking hand. And the page read the same.

"Only with a Bild-A-Man can you build a man!" Heaven help a neurotic young lawyer at a time like

this!

There was a price list on the next page for "refills and additional parts." Things like one liter of

hemoglobin and three grams of assorted enzymes were offered for sale in terms of one slunk fifty and

three slunks forty-five. A note on the bottom advertised Set #4: "The thrill of building your first live

Martian!"

Fine print announced pat. pending 2348.

The third page was a table of contents. Sam gripped the edge of the mattress with one sweating

hand and read:

Chapter I—A child's garden of biochemistry.

Chapter II—Making simple living things indoors and out.

Chapter III—Mannikins and what makes them do the world's work.

Chapter IV—Babies and other small humans.

Chapter V—Twins for every purpose: twinning yourself and your friends.

Chapter VI—What you need to build a man.

Chapter VII—Completing the man.

Chapter VIII—Disassembling the man.

Chapter IX—New kinds of life for your leisure moments.

Sam dropped the book back into the box and ran for the mirror. His face was still the same,

somewhat like bleached chalk, but fundamentally the same. He hadn't twinned or grown himself a

mannikin or devised a new kind of life for his leisure moments. Everything was snug as a bug in a

bughouse.

Very carefully he pushed his eyes back into the proper position in their sockets.

"Dear Aunt Maggie," he began writing feverishly. "Your ties made the most beau-tiful gift of my

Christmas. My only regret is—"

My only regret is that I have but one life to give for my Christmas present. Who could have gone to

such fantastic lengths for a practical joke? Lew Knight? Even Lew must have some reverence in his

insensitive body for the institution of Christmas. And Lew didn't have the brains or the patience for a job

so involved.

Tina? Tina had the fine talent for complication, all right. But Tina, while possessing a delightful

abundance of all other physical attributes, was badly lacking in funny-bone.

Sam drew forth the leather wallet she'd given him and caressed it. Tina's perfume seemed to cling to

the surface and move the world back into focus.

The metallic greeting card glinted at him from the floor. Maybe the reverse side contained the

sender's name. He picked it up, turned it over.

Nothing but blank gold surface. He was sure of the gold; his father had been a jeweler. The very

value of the sheet was rebuttal to the possibility of a practical joke. Besides, again, what was the point?

"Merry Christmas, 2353." Where would humanity be in four hundred years? Trav-eling to the stars,

or beyond—to unimaginable destinations? Using little mannikins to perform the work of machines and

robots? Providing children with—

There might be another card or note inside the box. Weber bent down to remove its contents. His

eye noted a large grayish jar and the label etched into its surface: Dehydrated Neurone Preparation,

for human construction only.

He backed away and glared. "Close!"

The thing melted shut. Weber sighed his relief at it and decided to go to bed.

He regretted while undressing that he hadn't thought to ask the messenger the name of his firm.

Knowing the delivery service involved would be useful in tracing the origin of this gruesome gift.

"But then," he repeated as he fell asleep, "it's not the gift—it's the principle! Merry Christmas, me."

The next morning when Lew Knight breezed in with his "Good morning, counselor," Sam waited for

the first sly ribbing to start. Lew wasn't the man to hide the light of his humor under a bushel. But Lew

buried his nose in The New York State Supplement and kept it there all morning. The other five young

lawyers in the communal office appeared either too bored or too busy to have Bild-A-Man sets on their

conscience. There were no sly grins, no covert glances, no leading questions.

Tina walked in at ten o'clock, looking like a pinup girl caught with her clothes on.

"Good morning, counselors," she said.

Each in his own way, according to the peculiar gland secretions he was enjoying at the moment,

beamed, drooled or nodded a reply. Lew Knight drooled. Sam Weber beamed.

Tina took it all in and analyzed the situation while she fluffed her hair about. Her conclusions

evidently involved leaning markedly against Lew Knight's desk and asking what he had for her to do this

morning.

Sam bit savagely into Hackleworth On Torts. Theoretically, Tina was employed by all seven of

them as secretary, switchboard operator and receptionist. Actually, the most faithful performance of her

duties entailed nothing more daily than the typing and addressing of two envelopes with an occasional

letter to be sealed inside. Once a week there might be a wistful little brief which was never to attain

judicial scrutiny. Tina therefore had a fair library of fashion magazines in the first drawer of her desk and a

complete cosmetics laboratory in the other two; she spent one third of her working day in the ladies'

room swapping stocking prices and sources with other secretaries; she devoted the other two thirds

religiously to that one of her employers who as of her arrival seemed to be in the most masculine mood.

Her pay was small but her life was full.

Just before lunch, she approached casually with the morning's mail. "Didn't think we'd be too busy

this morning, counselor—" she began.

"You thought incorrectly, Miss Hill," he informed her with a brisk irritation that he hoped became

him well; "I've been waiting for you to terminate your social en-gagements so that we could get down to

what occasionally passes for business."

She was as startled as an uncushioned kitten. "But—but this isn't Monday. Somerset & Ojack only

send you stuff on Mondays."

Sam winced at the reminder that if it weren't for the legal drudgework he received once a week from

Somerset & Ojack he would be a lawyer in name only, if not in spirit only. "I have a letter, Miss Hill," he

replied steadily. "Whenever you assemble the necessary materials, we can get on with it."

Tina returned in a head-shaking moment with stenographic pad and pencils.

"Regular heading, today's date," Sam began. "Address it to Chamber of Commerce, Glunt City,

Ohio. Gentlemen: Would you inform me if you have registered currently with you a firm bearing the name

of the Bild-A-Man Company or a firm with any name at all similar? I am also interested in whether a firm

bearing the above or re-lated name has recently made known its intention of joining your community. This

inquiry is being made informally on behalf of a client who is interested in a product of this organization

whose address he has mislaid. Signature and then this P.S.—My client is also curious as to the business

possibilities of a street known as Diagonal Avenue or Diagonal Level. Any data on this address and the

organizations presently located there will be greatly appreciated."

Tina batted wide blue eyes at him. "Oh, Sam," she breathed, ignoring the formality he had

introduced, "oh, Sam, you have another client. I'm so glad. He looked a little sinister, but in such a

distinguished manner that I was certain—"

"Who? Who looked a little sinister?"

"Why, your new client." Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that she had almost added "stupid."

"When I came in this morning, there was this terribly tall old man in a long black overcoat talking to the

elevator operator. He turned to me—the eleva-tor operator, I mean—and said, 'This is Mr. Weber's

secretary. She'll be able to tell you anything you want to know.' Then he sort of winked, which I thought

was sort of impolite, you know, considering. Then this old man looked at me hard and I felt distinctly

uncomfortable and he walked away muttering 'Either disjointed or preda-tory personalities. Never

normal. Never balanced.' Which I didn't think was very polite, either, I'll have you know, if he is your

new client!" She sat back and began breathing again.

Tall, sinister old men in long, black overcoats pumping the elevator operator about him. Hardly a

matter of business. He had no skeletons in his personal closet. Could it be connected with his unusual

Christmas present? Sam hummed mentally.

"—but she is my favorite aunt, you know," Tina was saying. "And she came in so unexpectedly."

The girl was explaining about their Christmas date. Sam felt a rush of affection for her as she leaned

forward.

"Don't bother," he told her. "I knew you couldn't help breaking the date. I was a little sore when you

called me, but I got over it; never-hold-a-grudge-against-a-pretty-girl-Sam, I'm known as. How about

lunch?"

"Lunch?" She gestured distractedly. "I promised Lew, Mr. Knight, that is—But he wouldn't mind if

you came along."

"Fine. Let's go." This would be helping Lew to a spoonful of his own medicine.

Lew Knight took the business of having a crowd instead of a party for lunch as badly as Sam hoped

he would. Unfortunately, Lew was able to describe details of his forth-coming case, the probable fees

and possible distinction to be reaped thereof. After one or two attempts to bring an interesting will he

was rephrasing for Somerset & Ojack into the conversation, Sam subsided into daydreams. Lew

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摘要：

Child'sPlayWilliamTennAfterthemanfromtheexpresscompanyhadgiventhedooranuntippedslam,SamWeberdecidedtomovethehugecrateundertheonelightbulbinhisroom.Itwasallverywellforthemessengertodrawl,"Idunno.Wedon'tsend'em;wejustdeliver'em,mister"—buttheremustbesomesensibleexplanation.Withagruntthatbeganasanantic...

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William Tenn - Child's Play

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