Joe Haldeman - Seven and the Stars

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2024-12-23 0 0 96.2KB 10 页 5.9玖币

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SEVEN AND THE STARS

Sometimes it's best to settle for part of the truth. When you're at a cocktail party and some

stranger asks what you do for a living, you don't come right out and say "I'm a science

fiction writer." Sometimes it's better to say "I'm a novelist," or "I'm a freelance writer," or

even "I'm between jobs right now." Because you can get the damnedest responses.

Now, I'm not bothered by the philistines who mumble something about "that Buck

Rogers stuff" and wander vaguely away. Nor even the people who have a terrific story idea

and will split fifty-fifty, if you'll do the writing. (I always tell them I'm dead-lined and give

them my ex-agent's phone number.) What bothers me is some of the nuts you meet, if

they're unpleasant ones, and the people who think that you yourself must be a nut.

People find out you write science fiction and they automatically think you share their

belief in flying saucers, yetis, the Loch Ness monster, the Tooth Fairy, anything. Most of the

sf writers I know don't even believe in NASA.

Still, you can't stay away from cocktail parties. If a writer refuses a free drink, they find

out about it and take away his Guild membership.

So I was at this West Village cocktail party, having canapes for dinner, when an elegant

woman in fifty-dollar jeans came up and asked me the Question. You can't lie to fifty-dollar

jeans. There's something sincere about that kind of excess.

"Oh," she said, "you must be interested in UFOs."

Here I have to admit to some incipient sexism, or at least an optimistic mating instinct. If

she'd been a man, I would've rolled my eyes ceilingward and said something disparaging.

And life would be simpler now. As it was, I put on a serious expression and said only that I

didn't think there was enough evidence to come to a conclusion.

She dimpled gloriously and said she thought she had evidence. My instincts should have

told me that screwballs come in all shapes and sizes. But I was attracted to her, and she

didn't seem too loony, and in the back of my mind was the idea that there might be a story

here—not science fiction, but the cheap kind of breathless exploitation that fuels the weekly

tabloids. I'd never stooped that low before. But the rent was due and I actually was at that

party for the canapes.

"What sort of evidence?" I asked. "I've never seen a photograph, or anything, that I

thought was very convincing."

"It's . . . hard to describe. You might think I was crazy or something."

"Not at all. That's not an accusation a science fiction writer would make lightly. Six

impossible things before breakfast, you know."

"If you really are interested, I'd rather show you. Come to my place after the party?"

No, I'd rather be poked in the eye with something sharp. I told her I'd be ready to leave

whenever she was. She circulated for a while and I finished my dinner.

I should have smelled a rat. One minute of conversation and she wants me to come spend

the evening. It was not for my lean and hairy personage.

We walked to an underground lot and picked up her car, a well-restored old Jaguar sedan.

On the drive out to Westchester I learned that she was an analyst for a municipal-fund outfit.

So I was able to check her out—a couple of years ago I had some Hollywood money and

put it into municipals—and found that she was very sharp. About her "evidence," though,

she offered nothing. I didn't ask, of course.

Her name was Lydia Martell. She lived in North Tarrytown, in an upper-middle-class

stucco house overlooking the Hudson and the train. I expressed surprise that she had such a

large place; she said she'd been married once.

The first thing I noticed, inside, was a strong citrus odor, like those sachets little old

ladies bring back from Florida. Other than that, the house was severely modern,

unrelentingly tasteful. When Lydia went off to make coffee, I did some discreet snooping.

Most of the wall hangings were numbered-and-signed contemporary prints, though pride of

place went to a spare drawing by Picasso, an original nude. If she was a nut, she was the

richest one I'd ever met.

She returned with a tray, two cups of coffee, and a metal tube. "Exhibit A," she said.

The tube was very peculiar-looking. It was the kind of silvery blue you might associate

with outdoors equipment: pack frames and ski poles of anodized aluminum. But it seemed

to glow, and it was too heavy to be aluminum. Much too heavy. I hefted it in the palm of my

hand.

"Right," she said. "If that were made of solid gold it would weigh less."

"It's impressive." I peered through it; it was just an empty tube of thin metal. "What's the

story?"

"Exhibit B." She took the tube from me and stood it on its end, on the coffee table.

"Come on out, Seven."

A voice came from the tube. "You found one." Behind me, I heard a door click open. I

turned—and saw one of those six impossible things you're supposed to believe before

breakfast.

He, or she, or it was about eight feet tall and scrawny. It had the right number of legs and

arms and eyes. No mouth to speak of, or with. Another blue tube swung on a chain around

its neck, and it walked slowly, with the aid of two staffs. It was scaly blue and smelled like

an orange grove in heat.

"Uh," I said.

"He is a scientist?" the tube said.

"Not exactly," Lydia said. "A science fiction writer."

"Please explain."

"They're people who tell stories about the future, usually in terms of science."

"We have those on my world," it said. "We keep them in a special place. Away from the

young."

"Well, there weren't any scientists at the party. The biologist didn't show up. If you'd let

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摘要：

SEVENANDTHESTARSSometimesit'sbesttosettleforpartofthetruth.Whenyou'reatacocktailpartyandsomestrangeraskswhatyoudoforaliving,youdon'tcomerightoutandsay"I'masciencefictionwriter."Sometimesit'sbettertosay"I'manovelist,"or"I'mafreelancewriter,"oreven"I'mbetweenjobsrightnow."Becauseyoucangetthedamnedestr...

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Joe Haldeman - Seven and the Stars

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