Steel: And Other Stories Read online

  I don’t know how I beat them there, except that they were walking cautiously while I ran headlong along St. Vera street and hurried in the backway of the hotel. I rushed down the silent hallway, my bootheels thumping along the frayed rug.

  Maxwell Tarrant was at the desk that night. He looked up with a start as I came running up to him.

  “Why, Mr. Callaway,” he said, “what are—?”

  “Which room is Riker in?” I gasped.

  “Riker?” young Tarrant asked me.

  “Quickly, boy!” I cried and cast a frightened glance toward the entranceway as the jar of bootheels sounded on the porch steps.

  “Room 27,” young Tarrant said. I begged him to stall the men who were coming in for Riker, and rushed for the stairs.

  I was barely to the second floor when I heard them in the lobby. I ran down the dimlit hall, and reaching Room 27, I rapped urgently on its thin door.

  Inside, I heard a rustling sound, the sound of stockinged feet padding on the floor, then Riker’s frail, trembling voice asking who it was.

  “It’s Callaway,” I said, “the grocery man. Let me in, quickly. You’re in danger.”

  “Get out of here,” he ordered me, his voice sounding thinner yet.

  “God help you, boy, prepare yourself,” I told him breathlessly. “Selkirk’s men are coming for you.”

  I heard his sharp, involuntary gasp. “No,” he said. “That isn’t—” He drew in a rasping breath. “How many?” he asked me hollowly.

  “Six,” I said, and on the other side of the door I thought I heard a sob.

  “That isn’t fair!” he burst out then in angry fright. “It’s not fair, six against one. It isn’t fair!”

  I stood there for another moment, staring at the door, imagining that twisted young man on the other side, sick with terror, his heart jolting like club beats in his chest, able to think of nothing but a moral quality those six men never knew.

  “What am I going to do?” he suddenly implored me.

  I had no answer. For, suddenly, I heard the thumping of their boots as they started up the stairs, and helpless in my age, I backed quickly from the door and scuttled, like the frightened thing I was, down the hall into the shadows there.

  Like a dream it was, seeing those six grim-faced men come moving down the hall with a heavy trudging of boots, a thin jingling of spur rowels, in each of their hands a long Colt pistol. No, like a nightmare, not a dream. Knowing that these living creatures were headed for the room in which young Riker waited, I felt something sinking in my stomach, something cold and wrenching at my insides. Helpless I was; I never knew such helplessness. For no seeming reason, I suddenly saw my Lew inside that room, waiting to be killed. I made me tremble without the strength to stop.

  Their boots halted. The six men ringed the door, three on one side, three on the other. Six young men, their faces tight with unyielding intention, their hands bloodless, so tightly did they hold their pistols.

  The silence broke. “Come out of that room, you Yankee bastard!” one of them said loudly. He was Thomas Ashwood, a boy I’d once seen playing children’s games in the streets of Grantville, a boy who had grown into the twisted man who now stood, gun in hand, all thoughts driven from his mind but thoughts of killing and revenge.

  Silence for a moment.

  “I said, come out!” Ashwood cried again, then jerked his body to the side as the hotel seemed to tremble with a deafening blast and one of the door panels exploded into jagged splinters.

  * * *

  As the slug gouged into papered plaster across the hall, Ashwood fired his pistol twice into the door lock, the double flash of light splashing up his cheeks like lightning. My ears rang with the explosions as they echoed up and down the hall.

  Another pistol shot roared inside the room. Ashwood kicked in the lock-splintered door and leaped out of my sight. The ear-shattering exchange of shots seemed to pin me to the wall.

  Then, in a sudden silence, I heard young Riker cry out in a pitiful voice, “Don’t shoot me any more!”

  The next explosion hit me like a man’s boot kicking at my stomach. I twitched back against the wall, my breath silenced, as I watched the other men run into the room and heard the crashing of their pistol fire.

  It was over—all of it—in less than a minute. While I leaned weakly against the wall, hardly able to stand, my throat dry and tight, I saw two of Selkirk’s men help the wounded Ashwood down the hall, the other three walking behind, murmuring excitedly among themselves. One of them said, “We got him good.”

  In a moment, the sound of their boots was gone and I stood alone in the empty hallway, staring blankly at the mist of powder smoke that drifted slowly from the open room.

  I do not remember how long I stood there, my stomach a grinding twist of sickness, my hands trembling and cold at my sides.

  Only when young Tarrant appeared, white-faced and frightened at the head of the steps, did I find the strength to shuffle down the hall to Riker’s room.

  We found him lying in his blood, his pain-shocked eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, the two pistols still smoking in his rigid hands.

  He was dressed in checkered flannel again, in white shirt and dark stockings. It was grotesque to see him lying there that way, his city clothes covered with blood, those long pistols in his still, white hands.

  “Oh, God,” young Tarrant said in a shocked whisper. “Why did they kill him?”

  I shook my head and said nothing. I told young Tarrant to get the undertaker and said I would pay the costs. He was glad to leave.

  I sat down on the bed, feeling very tired. I looked into young Riker’s open bag and saw, inside, the shirts and underclothes, the ties and stockings.

  It was in the bag I found the clippings and the diary.

  The clippings were from Northern magazines and newspapers. They were about Hickok and Longley and Hardin and other famous pistol fighters of our territory. There were pencil marks drawn beneath certain sentences—such as Wild Bill usually carries two derringers beneath his coat and Many a man has lost his life because of Hardin’s so-called “border roll” trick.

  The diary completed the picture. It told of a twisted mind holding up as idols those men whose only talent was to kill. It told of a young city boy who bought himself pistols and practiced drawing them from their holsters until he was incredibly quick, until his drawing speed became coupled with an ability to strike any target instantly.

  It told of a projected odyssey in which a city boy would make himself the most famous pistol fighter in the Southwest. It listed towns that this young man had meant to conquer.

  Grantville was the first town on the list.

  DEAR DIARY

  June 10, 1954

  Dear Diary:

  Honest, sometimes I get so sick of this damn furnished room I could absolutely vomit!

  The window is so dirty—half the time on Saturday and Sunday mornings I think it’s going to rain even if the sun is shining.

  And such a view! Underwear yet, dripping on wash lines. Girdles, overalls. If it isn’t enough to make a girl wish she was dead. It all stinks.

  And that jiboney across the hall. He makes life worse than it is. Where he gets his money for booze, who knows? Probably he robs old ladies. Drunk—sings all the time, makes lunges at me in that hallway that looks like a dungeon hall in an Errol Flynn picture. For two cents—less—I’d send to the mail order factory for a thirty-two caliber pistol. Then I’d shoot the crumb. They’d put me away, no more worries. Aaah, it ain’t worth it.

  And what jolly joy is tomorrow night. Harry Hartley takes me to the Paramount and for one lousy show and a cheap chow mein feed he wants I should play wife to him all night. Honest, men!

  Honest, it’s so stinking hot.

  Now I have to wash out some stuff for tomorrow. I hate to think about it. Oh, shut up! Those dumb dopes across the way—jabber, jabber! New York Giants, Brooklyn Dodgers—they should all drop dead!

  A
nd when I think of that lousy subway ride tomorrow—twice! Those bodies like sardines, the faces popping like roses. Some pleasure!

  God, what I wouldn’t do to get away from this. I’d even marry Harry Hartley and if I’d do that, I know things are bad.

  Oh, to go to Hollywood and be a star like Ava Gardner or them. Having the men fall all over themselves to kiss your hand. Go away, Clark, you bother me. Yeah, he should bother me. I’d crawl all over him.

  Oooh, this lousy, stinking place! A girl hasn’t no future here. What can I look forward to? No guy who likes me except that fat dope. Chow Mein Harry I think I’ll call him.

  Vacation in two weeks. Two weeks of nothing. Go to Coney with Gladys. Sit on the damn beach and look at the garbage float on the water and go crazy watching kids neck themselves blind. Then I get all sun-burned and maybe a fever even. And I go to a million movies. It’s some life.

  I wish it was a couple of thousand years from now, that’s what I wish. Then—no work. I live in a fancy spot and they have rocket ships and you can eat pills for a meal and free love. Would I go for that! The pills, of course. Like fun!

  This isn’t no time to be living. Wars, people yelling at each other and what can a girl expect out of life?

  Oh, I’ve got to wash my lousy underwear.

  June 10, 3954

  Dear Factum:

  Sometimes—yes!—I become so ill of this cursed plastoid dwelling that I could be inclined toward regurgitation.

  What a dismal view!

  The spaceport across the highway. All night—buzz, buzz—and those red shooting exhausts from the vents. Even taking the pills and rubbing narcotilotion on my eyes and ears doesn’t help. It is all quite sufficient to make me ill. It is all very foul.

  And that idiot neighbor with his ray machine. It infuriates me to know that he can see through the plastoid. Even when I put up my fibre screen I feel him staring. Where does he get the purchase tickets for his invention materials? His job at the spaceport doesn’t pay enough. I dare say he steals exchange tickets from the business office.

  For two minimatickets I’d get myself an atomizer gun from the spaceport armory and decompose the damned lecher! Then they’d put me away in the Venus pits and I’d be all set.

  No, it isn’t worth it. I can’t stand heat and I loathe sand storms.

  And tomorrow night—oh, foul joy—Hendrick Halley takes me to the Space Theatre and for one wretched performance and a dull meal of fricaseed lunar bat he expects me to undergo the risk of impregnation. Honestly, men.

  Oh, it’s so dreadfully warm. And my fool electro washer has to be misaligned just when I need it. I’ll have to fly down to the Spaceomat to wash my clothes and I do so weary of night flying.

  Oh, there they go again—those fools across the way. Why don’t they turn off their speakers? This damned local board has to know every word we say. There they go again! Martian Eagles, Lunar Red Sox—may they all succumb to a vacuum.

  And when I think of that miserable spaceship ride tomorrow—twice! That lumbering monstrosity. Imagine—more than an hour to Mars for heaven’s sake!

  Oh, it’s too much. What I wouldn’t do to get away from it all. I’d even undergo a societal juncture with Hendrick Halley. Great galaxies, things can’t be that advanced!

  Oh, to go to the theatre capital and be a notable like Gell Fig or someone like her. To have all the men swooning and begging you to fly with them to their country planets. I do loathe this shiny spotless city.

  Oh, this vile spot! What future has a young woman here? None. I have no man who appeals—certainly not lunar bat Halley with his nasty little ship that has rusty seams. I wouldn’t even trust that wreck on a hop to Europa.

  Vacationing in two weeks. Nothing to do. Dull trip to The Moon Resort. Sitting by that godawful pool and watching the young people pleasure themselves. And then I get that red dust in my nostrils and get a fever. And a million trips to the Space Theatre. Oh, how pitiful.

  I wish it were the olden days, many thousands of years ago. Then a person could know what was what. There was so much to do. Men were men and not the bald, toothless idiots they are now.

  I could do much as I pleased without the government checking my every step.

  This is no time to be alive. What can a young woman like myself expect in these times?

  Oh, curses. I must fly down to the Spaceomat and get my clothes done.

  XXXX

  Dear Slab:

  Sometimes I get so sick of this damn cave I could …

  DESCENT

  It was impulse, Les pulled the car over to the curb and stopped it. He twisted the shiny key and the motor stopped. He turned to look across Sunset Boulevard, across the green hills that dropped away steeply to the ocean.

  “Look, Ruth,” he said.

  It was late afternoon. Far out across the palisades they could see the Pacific shimmering with reflections of the red sun. The sky was a tapestry dripping gold and crimson. Streamers of billowy, pink-edged clouds hung across it.

  “It’s so pretty,” Ruth said.

  His hand lifted from the car seat to cover hers. She smiled at him a moment, then the smile faded as they watched the sunset again.

  “It’s hard to believe,” Ruth said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That we’ll never see another.”

  He looked soberly at the brightly colored sky. Then he smiled but not in pleasure.

  “Didn’t we read that they’d have artificial sunsets?” he said. “You’ll look out the windows of your room and see a sunset. Didn’t we read that somewhere?”

  “It won’t be the same,” she said, “will it, Les?”

  “How could it be?”

  “I wonder,” she murmured, “what it will be really like.”

  “A lot of people would like to know,” he said.

  They sat in silence watching the sun go down. It’s funny he thought, you try to get underneath to the real meaning of a moment like this but you can’t. It passes and when it’s over you don’t know or feel any more than you did before. It’s just one more moment added to the past. You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s taken away.

  He looked over at Ruth and saw her looking solemnly and strangely at the ocean.

  “Honey,” he said quietly and gave her, with the word, his love.

  She looked at him and tried to smile.

  “We’ll still be together,” he told her.

  “I know,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention to me.”

  “But I will,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’ll look after you. Over the earth—”

  “Or under it,” she said.

  * * *

  Bill came out of the house to meet them. Les looked at his friend as he steered the car into the open concrete space by the garage. He wondered how Bill felt about leaving the house he’d just finished paying for. Free and clear, after eighteen years of payments, and tomorrow it would be rubble. Life is a bastard, he thought, switching off the engine.

  “Hello, kid,” Bill said to him. “Hi, beautiful,” to Ruth.

  “Hello, handsome,” Ruth said.

  They got out of the car and Ruth took the package off the front seat. Bill’s daughter Jeannie came running out of the house. “Hi, Les! Hi, Ruth!”

  “Say, Bill, whose car are we going to take tomorrow?” Les asked him.

  “I don’t know, kid,” Bill said. “We’ll talk it over when Fred and Grace get here.”

  “Carry me piggy-back, Les,” Jeannie demanded.

  He swung her up. I’m glad we don’t have a child, I’d hate to take a child down there tomorrow.

  Mary looked up from the stove as they moved in. They all said hello and Ruth put the package on the table.

  “What’s that?” Mary asked.

  “I baked a pie,” Ruth told her.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Mary said.

  “Why not? It may be the last one I’ll ever bake.”

&n
bsp; “It’s not that bad,” Bill said. “They’ll have stoves down there.”

  “There’ll be so much rationing it won’t be worth the effort,” Ruth said.

  “The way my true love bakes that’ll be good fortune,” Bill said.

  “Is that so!” Mary glared at her grinning husband, who patted her behind and moved into the living room with Les. Ruth stayed in the kitchen to help.

  Les put down Bill’s daughter.

  Jeannie ran out. “Mama, I’m gonna help you make dinner!”

  “How nice,” they heard Mary say.

  Les sank down on the big cherry-colored couch and Bill took the chair across the room by the window.

  “You come up through Santa Monica?” he asked.

  “No, we came along the Coast Highway,” Les said. “Why?”

  “Jesus, you should have gone through Santa Monica,” Bill said. “Everybody’s going crazy—breaking store windows, turning cars upside down, setting fire to everything. I was down there this morning. I’m lucky I got the car back. Some jokers wanted to roll it down Wilshire Boulevard.”

  “What’s the matter, are they crazy?” Les said. “You’d think this was the end of the world.”

  “For some people it is,” Bill said. “What do you think MGM is going to do down there, make cartoons?”

  “Sure,” said Les. “Tom and Jerry in the Middle of the Earth.”

  Bill shook his head. “Business is going out of its mind,” he said. “There’s no place to set up everything down there. Everybody’s flipping. Look at that paper.”

  Les leaned forward and took the newspaper off the coffee table. It was three days old. The main stories, of course, covered the details of the descent—the entry schedules at the various entrances: the one in Hollywood, the one in Reseda, the one in downtown Los Angeles. In large type across eight columns, the frontpage headline read: REMEMBER! THE BOMB FALLS AT SUNSET! Newspapers had been carrying the warning for a week. And tomorrow was the day.

  The rest of the stories were about robbery, rape, arson, and murder.

  “People just can’t take it,” Bill said. “They have to flip.”