Steel: And Other Stories Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Steel

  To Fit the Crime

  The Wedding

  The Conqueror

  Dear Diary

  Descent

  The Doll That Does Everything

  The Traveller

  When Day Is Dun

  The Splendid Source

  Lemmings

  The Edge

  A Vist to Santa Claus

  Dr. Morton’s Folly

  The Window of Time

  Also by Richard Matheson

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  STEEL

  The two men came out of the station rolling a covered object. They rolled it along the platform until they reached the middle of the train, then grunted as they lifted it up the steps, the sweat running down their bodies. One of its wheels fell off and bounced down the metal steps and a man coming up behind them picked it up and handed it to the man who was wearing a rumpled brown suit.

  “Thanks,” said the man in the brown suit and he put the wheel in his side coat pocket.

  Inside the car, the men pushed the covered object down the aisle. With one of its wheels off, it was lopsided and the man in the brown suit—his name was Kelly—had to keep his shoulder braced against it to keep it from toppling over. He breathed heavily and licked away tiny balls of sweat that kept forming over his upper lip.

  When they reached the middle of the car, the man in the wrinkled blue suit pushed forward one of the seat backs so there were four seats, two facing two. Then the two men pushed the covered object between the seats and Kelly reached through a slit in the covering and felt around until he found the right button.

  The covered object sat down heavily on a seat by the window.

  “Oh, God, listen to’m squeak,” said Kelly.

  The other man, Pole, shrugged and sat down with a sigh.

  “What d’ya expect?” he asked.

  Kelly was pulling off his suit coat. He dropped it down on the opposite seat and sat down beside the covered object.

  “Well, we’ll get ’im some o’ that stuff soon’s we’re paid off,” he said, worriedly.

  “If we can find some,” said Pole who was almost as thin as one. He sat slumped back against the hot seat watching Kelly mop at his sweaty cheeks.

  “Why shouldn’t we?” asked Kelly, pushing the damp handkerchief down under his shirt collar.

  “Because they don’t make it no more,” Pole said with the false patience of a man who has had to say the same thing too many times.

  “Well, that’s crazy,” said Kelly. He pulled off his hat and patted at the bald spot in the center of his rust-colored hair. “There’s still plenty B-twos in the business.”

  “Not many,” said Pole, bracing one foot upon the covered object.

  “Don’t,” said Kelly.

  Pole let his foot drop heavily and a curse fell slowly from his lips, Kelly ran the handkerchief around the lining of his hat. He started to put the hat on again, then changed his mind and dropped it on top of his coat.

  “Christ, it’s hot,” he said.

  “It’ll get hotter,” said Pole.

  Across the aisle a man put his suitcase up on the rack, took off his suit coat and sat down, puffing. Kelly looked at him, then turned back.

  “Ya think it’ll be hotter in Maynard, huh?” he asked.

  Pole nodded. Kelly swallowed dryly.

  “Wish we could have another o’ them beers,” he said.

  Pole stared out the window at the heat waves rising from the concrete platform.

  “I had three beers,” said Kelly, “and I’m just as thirsty as I was when I started.”

  “Yeah,” said Pole.

  “Might as well’ve not had a beer since Philly,” said Kelly.

  Pole said, “Yeah.”

  Kelly sat there staring at Pole a moment. Pole had dark hair and white skin and his hands were the hands of a man who should be bigger than Pole was. But the hands were as clever as they were big. Pole’s one o’ the best, Kelly thought, one o’ the best.

  “Ya think he’ll be all right?” he asked.

  Pole grunted and smiled for an instant without being amused.

  “If he don’t get hit,” he said.

  “No, no, I mean it,” said Kelly.

  Pole’s dark, lifeless eyes left the station and shifted over to Kelly.

  “So do I,” he said.

  “Come on,” Kelly said.

  “Steel,” said Pole, “ya know just as well as me. He’s shot t’hell.”

  “That ain’t true,” said Kelly, shifting uncomfortably. “All he needs is a little work. A little overhaul ’n’ he’ll be good as new.”

  “Yeah, a little three-four grand overhaul,” Pole said, “with parts they don’t make no more.” He looked out the window again.

  “Oh … it ain’t as bad as that,” said Kelly. “Jesus, the way you talk you’d think he was ready for scrap.”

  “Ain’t he?” Pole asked.

  “No,” said Kelly angrily, “he ain’t.”

  Pole shrugged and his long white fingers rose and fell in his lap.

  “Just cause he’s a little old,” said Kelly.

  “Old.” Pole grunted. “Ancient.”

  “Oh…” Kelly took a deep breath of the hot air in the car and blew it out through his broad nose. He looked at the covered object like a father who was angry with his son’s faults but angrier with those who mentioned the faults of his son.

  “Plenty o’ fight left in him,” he said.

  Pole watched the people walking on the platform. He watched a porter pushing a wagon full of piled suitcases.

  “Well … is he okay?” Kelly asked finally as if he hated to ask.

  Pole looked over at him.

  “I dunno, Steel,” he said. “He needs work. Ya know that. The trigger spring in his left arm’s been rewired so many damn times it’s almost shot. He’s got no protection on that side. The left side of his face’s all beat in, the eye lens is cracked. The leg cables is worn, they’re pulled slack, the tension’s gone to hell. Christ, even his gyro’s off.”

  Pole looked out at the platform again with a disgusted hiss.

  “Not to mention the oil paste he ain’t got in ’im,” he said.

  “We’ll get ’im some,” Kelly said.

  “Yeah, after the fight, after the fight!” Pole snapped. “What about before the fight? He’ll be creakin’ around that ring like a goddamn—steam shovel. It’ll be a miracle if he goes two rounds. They’ll prob’ly ride us outta town on a rail.”

  Kelly swallowed. “I don’t think it’s that bad,” he said.

  “The hell it ain’t, said Pole. “It’s worse. Wait’ll that crowd gets a load of ‘Battling’ Maxo from Philadelphia. Oh—Christ, they’ll blow a nut. We’ll be lucky if we get our five hundred bucks.”

  “Well, the contract’s signed,” said Kelly firmly. “They can’t back out now. I got a copy right in the old pocket.” He leaned over and patted at his coat.

  “That contract’s for Battling Maxo,” said Pole. “Not for this—steam shovel here.”

  “Maxo’s gonna do all right,” said Kelly as if he was trying hard to believe it. “He’s not as bad off as you say.”

  “Against a B-seven?” Pole asked.

  “It’s just a starter B-seven,” said Kelly. “It ain’t got the kinks out yet.”

  Pole turned away.

  “Battling Maxo,” he said. “One-round Maxo. The battling steam shovel.”

  “Aw, shut the hell up!” Kelly snapped suddenly, getting redder. “You’re always knockin’ ’im down. Well, he’s been doin’ okay for twelve years now and he’ll keep on doin’ okay.
So he needs some oil paste. And he needs a little work. So what? With five hundred bucks we can get him all the paste he needs. And a new trigger spring for his arm and—and new leg cables! And everything. Chris-sake.”

  He fell back against the seat, chest shuddering with breath and rubbed at his cheeks with his wet handkerchief. He looked aside at Maxo. Abruptly, he reached over a hand and patted Maxo’s covered knee clumsily and the steel clanked hollowly under his touch.

  “You’re doin’ all right,” said Kelly to his fighter.

  * * *

  The train was moving across a sun-baked prairie. All the windows were open but the wind that blew in was like blasts from an oven.

  Kelly sat reading his paper, his shirt sticking wetly to his broad chest. Pole had taken his coat off too and was staring morosely out the window at the grass-tufted prairie that went as far as he could see. Maxo sat under his covering, his heavy steel frame rocking a little with the motion of the train.

  Kelly put down his paper.

  “Not even a word,” he said.

  “What d’ya expect?” Pole asked. “They don’t cover Maynard.”

  “Maxo ain’t just some clunk from Maynard,” said Kelly. “He was big time. Ya’d think they’d”—he shrugged—“remember him.”

  “Why? For a coupla prelims in the Garden three years ago?” Pole asked.

  “It wasn’t no three years, buddy,” said Kelly.

  “It was in 1994,” said Pole, “and now it’s 1997. That’s three years where I come from.”

  “It was late ’94,” said Kelly. “Right before Christmas. Don’t ya remember? Just before—Marge and me…”

  Kelly didn’t finish. He stared down at the paper as if Marge’s picture were on it—the way she looked the day she left him.

  “What’s the difference?” Pole asked. “They don’t remember them for Chrissake. With a coupla thousand o’ the damn things floatin’ around? How could they remember ’em? About the only ones who get space are the champeens and the new models.”

  Pole looked at Maxo. “I hear Mawling’s puttin’ out a B-nine this year,” he said.

  Kelly refocused his eyes. “Yeah?” he said uninterestedly.

  “Hyper-triggers in both arms—and legs. All steeled aluminum. Triple gyro. Triple-twisted wiring. God, they’ll be beautiful.”

  Kelly put down the paper.

  “Think they’d remember him,” he muttered. “It wasn’t so long ago.”

  His face relaxed in a smile of recollection.

  “Boy, will I ever forget that night?” he said. “No one gives us a tumble. It was all Dimsy the Rock, Dimsy the Rock. Three t’one for Dimsy the Rock. Dimsy the Rock—fourth rankin’ light heavy. On his way t’the top.”

  He chuckled deep in his chest. “And did we ever put him away,” he said. “Oooh.” He grunted with savage pleasure. “I can see that left cross now. Bang! Right in the chops. And old Dimsy the Rock hittin’ the canvas like a—like a rock, yeah, just like a rock!”

  He laughed happily. “Boy, what a night, what a night,” he said. “Will I ever forget that night?”

  Pole looked at Kelly with a somber face. Then he turned away and stared at the dusty sun-baked plain again.

  “I wonder,” he muttered.

  Kelly saw the man across the aisle looking again at the covered Maxo. He caught the man’s eye and smiled, then gestured with his head toward Maxo.

  “That’s my fighter,” he said, loudly.

  The man smiled politely, cupping a hand behind one ear.

  “My fighter,” said Kelly. “Battling Maxo. Ever hear of ’im?”

  The man stared at Kelly a moment before shaking his head.

  Kelly smiled. “Yeah, he was almost light heavyweight champ once,” he told the man. The man nodded politely.

  On an impulse, Kelly got up and stepped across the aisle. He reversed the seatback in front of the man and sat down facing him.

  “Pretty damn hot,” he said.

  The man smiled. “Yes. Yes it is,” he said.

  “No new trains out here yet, huh?”

  “No,” said the man. “Not yet.”

  “Got all the new ones back in Philly,” said Kelly. “That’s where”—he gestured with his head—“my friend ’n I come from. And Maxo.”

  Kelly stuck out his hand.

  “The name’s Kelly,” he said. “Tim Kelly.”

  The man looked surprised. His grip was loose.

  “Maxwell,” he said.

  When he drew back his hand he rubbed it unobtrusively on his pants leg.

  “I used t’be called ‘Steel’ Kelly,” said Kelly. “Used t’be in the business m’self. Before the war o’ course. I was a light heavy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. Called me ‘Steel’ cause I never got knocked down once. Not once. I was even number nine in the ranks once. Yeah.”

  “I see.” The man waited patiently.

  “My fighter,” said Kelly, gesturing toward Maxo with his head again. “He’s a light heavy too. We’re fightin’ in Maynard t’night. You goin’ that far?”

  “Uh—no,” said the man. “No, I’m—getting off at Hayes.”

  “Oh.” Kelly nodded. “Too bad. Gonna be a good scrap.” He let out a heavy breath. “Yeah, he was—fourth in the ranks once. He’ll be back too. He—uh—knocked down Dimsy the Rock in late ’94. Maybe ya read about that.”

  “I don’t believe…”

  “Oh. Uh-huh.” Kelly nodded. “Well … it was in all the East Coast papers. You know. New York, Boston, Philly. Yeah it—got a hell of a spread. Biggest upset o’ the year.”

  He scratched at his bald spot.

  “He’s a B-two y’know but—that means he’s the second model Mawling put out,” he explained, seeing the look on the man’s face. “That was back in—let’s see—’90, I think it was. Yeah, ’90.”

  He made a smacking sound with his lips. “Yeah, that was a good model,” he said. “The best. Maxo’s still goin’ strong.” He shrugged depreciatingly. “I don’t go for these new ones,” he said. “You know. The ones made o’ steeled aluminum with all the doo-dads.”

  The man stared at Kelly blankly.

  “Too— … flashy—flimsy. Nothin’…” Kelly bunched his big fist in front of his chest and made a face. “Nothin’ solid,” he said. “No. Mawling don’t make ’em like Maxo no more.”

  “I see,” said the man.

  Kelly smiled.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Used t’be in the game m’self. When there was enough men, o’ course. Before the bans.” He shook his head, then smiled quickly. “Well,” he said, “we’ll take this B-seven. Don’t even know what his name is,” he said, laughing.

  His face sobered for an instant and he swallowed.

  “We’ll take ’im,” he said.

  Later on, when the man had gotten off the train, Kelly went back to his seat. He put his feet up on the opposite seat and, laying back his head, he covered his face with the newspaper.

  “Get a little shut-eye,” he said.

  Pole grunted.

  Kelly sat slouched back, staring at the newspaper next to his eyes. He felt Maxo bumping against his side a little. He listened to the squeaking of Maxo’s joints. “Be all right,” he muttered to himself.

  “What?” Pole asked.

  Kelly swallowed. “I didn’t say anything,” he said.

  * * *

  When they got off the train at six o’clock that evening they pushed Maxo around the station and onto the sidewalk. Across the street from them a man sitting in his taxi called them.

  “We got no taxi money,” said Pole.

  “We can’t just push ’im through the streets,” Kelly said. “Besides, we don’t even know where Kruger Stadium is.”

  “What are we supposed to eat with then?”

  “We’ll be loaded after the fight,” said Kelly. “I’ll buy you a steak three inches thick.”

  Sighing, Pole helped Kelly push the heavy Maxo
across the street that was still so hot they could feel it through their shoes. Kelly started sweating right away and licking at his upper lip.

  “God, how d’they live out here?” he asked.

  When they were putting Maxo inside the cab the base wheel came out again and Pole, with a snarl, kicked it away.

  “What’re ya doin’?” Kelly asked.

  “Oh … sh—” Pole got into the taxi and slumped back against the warm leather of the seat while Kelly hurried over the soft tar pavement and picked up the wheel.

  “Chris-sake,” Kelly muttered as he got in the cab. “What’s the—?”

  “Where to, chief?” the driver asked.

  “Kruger Stadium,” Kelly said.

  “You’re there.” The cab driver pushed in the rotor button and the car glided away from the curb.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Kelly asked Pole in a low voice. “We wait more’n half a damn year t’get us a bout and you been nothin’ but bellyaches from the start.”

  “Some bout,” said Pole. “Maynard, Kansas—the prizefightin’ center o’ the nation.”

  “It’s a start, ain’t it?” Kelly said. “It’ll keep us in coffee ’n’ cakes a while, won’t it? It’ll put Maxo back in shape. And if we take it, it could lead to—”

  Pole glanced over disgustedly.

  “I don’t get you,” Kelly said quietly. “He’s our fighter. What’re ya writin’ ’im off for? Don’t ya want ’im t’win?”

  “I’m a class-A mechanic, Steel,” Pole said in his falsely patient voice. “I’m not a day-dreamin’ kid. We got a piece o’ dead iron here, not a B-seven. It’s simple mechanics, Steel, that’s all. Maxo’ll be lucky if he comes out o’ that ring with his head still on.”

  Kelly turned away angrily.

  “It’s a starter B-seven,” he muttered. “Full o’ kinks. Full of ’em.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Pole.

  They sat silently a while looking out the window, Maxo between them, the broad steel shoulders bumping against theirs. Kelly stared at the building, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap as if he was getting ready to go fifteen rounds.

  “That a B-fighter ya got there?” the driver asked over his shoulder.

  Kelly started and looked forward. He managed a smile.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “Fightin’ t’night?”

  “Yeah. Battling Maxo. Maybe ya heard of ’im.”