Kate Wilhelm - The Encounter

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KATE WILHELM

The Encounter

KATE WILHELM was born June 8, 1929, in Toledo, Ohio. She sold her first

story in 1957, and she has been writing and selling steadily ever since. It is

fashionable to say of our feminine celebrities, "In real life she is Mrs. John Blank." Kate

Wilhelm is married to author, editor and critic Damon Knight, which makes her Mrs. Damon Knight;

but in real life she is Kate Wilhelm, her husband and three sons notwithstanding, and her

individuality is as distinctive as her writing.

A Charter Member of Science Fiction Writers of America, she provided the

original

sketch from which the Nebula Award Trophy was designed. She was co director

of the

Milford Science Fiction Writers' Conference from 1963 to 1969 and lecturer

at the

Clarion Writers' Workshop from 1969 to 1972.

In addition to magazine appearances she has contributed stories to Volumes

1 through

12 of the Orbit series. She has had two collections of short stories

published, The

Mile Long Spaceship (1963) and The Downstairs Room (1968). More Bitter than

Death (1962) is a mystery novel. Her four science fiction novels are The

Killer Thing

(1965), The Nevermore Affair (1967), Let the fire fall (1969), and Margaret

and /

(1971). Two more science fiction novels were written in collaboration with

Ted

Thomas: The Clone (1965), and The Year of the Cloud

(1970). Abyss (1971) contains two novellas, "The Plastic Abyss" and

"Stranger in the

House."

She has been a Nebula Awards finalist four of the seven years the awards

have been

presented. Her story "The Planners" received the Nebula Award as the best

short story

of 1968, and in the 1971 balloting her name appeared on the final ballot a

record four

times: with her novel Margaret and I,- with her novellas "The Infinity Box"

and "The

Plastic Abyss"; and with her novelette "The Encounter."

The bus slid to an uneasy stop, two hours late. Snow was eight inches deep,

and the

white sky met the white ground in a strange world where the grubby black bus

station floated free. It was a world where up and down had become

meaningless,

where the snow fell horizontally. Crane, supported by the wind and the

snow, could have entered the station by walking up the wall, or across the ceiling. His mind

seemed adrift, out of touch with the reality of his body. He stamped,

scattering

snow, bringing some feeling back to his legs, making himself feel the floor

beneath

his feet. He tried to feel his cheek, to see if he was feverish, but his

hands were too

numb, his cheek too numb. The heating system of the bus had failed over an

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hour ago.

The trouble was that he had not dressed for such weather. An overcoat, but

boots, no fur-lined gloves, no woolen scarf to wind and wind about his

throat. He

stamped and clapped his hands. Others were doing the same.

There had been only nine or ten people on the bus, and some of them were

being

greeted by others or were slipping out into the storm, home finally or near

enough

now. The bus driver was talking to an old man who had been in the station

when they

arrived, the ticket agent, probably. He was wearing two sweaters, one a

heavy, hip-

length green that looked home-knit; under it, a turtleneck gray wool with

too-long

sleeves that hung from beneath the green sleeves. He had on furry boots

that came

to his knees, with his sagging pants tucked tightly into them. Beyond him,

tossed over one of the wooden benches, was a greatcoat, fleece-

lined, long enough to hang to his boot tops. Fleecy gloves bulged

from one of the pockets.

"Folks," he said, turning away from the bus driver, "there won't

be another bus until sometime in the morning, when they get the

roads plowed out some. There's an all-night diner down the road,

three, four blocks. Not much else in town's open this time of

night."

"Is there a hotel?" A woman, fur coat, shiny patent boots, kid

gloves. She had got on at the same station that Crane had; he

remembered the whiff of expensive perfume as she had passed

him.

"There's the Laughton Inn, ma'am, but it's two miles outside

town and there's no way to get there."

"Oh, for God's sake! You mean this crummy burg doesn't even

have a hotel of its own?"

"Four of them, in fact, but they're closed, open again in April.

Don't get many people to stay overnight in the winter times."

"Okay, okay. Which way's the diner?" She swept a disapproving

glance over the bleak station and went to the door,, carrying an

overnight bag with her.

"Come on, honey, I'm going there, too," the driver said. He

pulled on gloves and turned up his collar. He took her arm firmly,

transferred the bag to his other hand, then turned to look at the

other three or four people in the station. "Anyone else?"

Diner. Glaring lights, jukebox noise without end, the smell of

hamburgers and onions, rank coffee and doughnuts saturated with

grease. Everyone smoking. Someone would have cards probably,

someone a bottle. The woman would sing or cry, or get a fight

going. She was a nasty one, he could tell. She'd be bored within

an hour. She'd have the guys groping her under the table, in the

end booth. The man half turned, his back shielding her from view,

his hand slipping between her buttons, under the blouse, under

the slip, the slippery smooth nylon, the tightness of the bra, unfas-

tening it with his other hand. Her low laugh, busy hands. The hard

nipple between his fingers now, his own responsive hardness. She

had turned to look at the stranded passengers when the driver

spoke, and she caught Crane's glance.

"It's a long wait for a Scranton bus, honey," she said.

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