Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

before she could answer. “But let’s not be talking about such things now. Soon enough I’ll be scared to death for both of us. Best enjoy the kick of meeting, which is always good for twenty minutes at the least.” He smiled at her rather shyly. “Have you food? Good, then bring it.”

She set cold meat and some precious canned bread before him and had water heating for coffee. Before he fell to, he shredded a chunk of meat and put it on the floor for the cat, which left off its sniffing inspection of the walls and ran up eagerly mewing. Then the man began to eat, chewing each mouthful slowly and appreciatively.

From across the table Effie watched him, drinking in his every deft movement, his every cryptic quirk of expression. She attended to making the coffee, but that took only a moment. Finally she could contain herself no longer.

“What’s it like up there?” she asked breathlessly. “Outside, I mean.”

He looked at her oddly for quite a space. Finally, he said flatly, “Oh, it’s a wonderland for sure, more amazing than you tombed folk could ever imagine. A veritable fairyland.” And he quickly went on eating.

“No, but really,” she pressed.

Noting her eagerness, he smiled and his eyes filled with playful tenderness. “I mean it, on my oath,” he assured her. “You think the bombs and the dust made only death and ugliness. That was true at first. But then, just as the doctors foretold, they changed the life in the seeds and loins that were brave enough to stay. Wonders bloomed and walked.” He broke off suddenly and asked, “Do any of you ever venture outside?”

“A few of the men are allowed to,” she told him, “for short trips in special protective suits, to hunt for canned food and fuels and batteries and things like that.”

“Aye, and those blind-souled slugs would never see anything but what they’re looking for,” he said, nodding bitterly. “They’d never see the garden where a dozen buds blossom where one did before, and the flowers have petals a yard across, with stingless bees big as sparrows gently supping their nectar. Housecats grown spotted and huge as leopards (not little runts like Joe Louis here) stalk through those gardens. But they’re gentle beasts, no more harmful than the rainbow-scaled snakes that glide around their paws, for the dust burned all the murder out of them, as it burned itself out.

“I’ve even made up a little poem about that. It starts, ‘Fire can hurt me, or water, or the weight of Earth. But the dust is my friend.’ Oh, yes, and then the robins like cockatoos and squirrels like a princess’s ermine! All under a treasure chest of Sun and Moon and stars that the dust’s magic powder changes from ruby to emerald and sapphire and amethyst and back again. Oh, and then the new children⁠—”

“You’re telling the truth?” she interrupted him, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not making it up?”

“I am not,” he assured her solemnly. “And if you could catch a glimpse of one of the new children, you’d never doubt me again. They have long limbs as brown as this coffee would be if it had lots of fresh cream in it, and smiling delicate faces and the whitish teeth and the finest hair. They’re so nimble that I⁠—a sprightly man and somewhat enlivened by the dust⁠—feel like a cripple beside them. And their thoughts dance like flames and make me feel a very imbecile.

“Of course, they have seven fingers on each hand and eight toes on each foot, but they’re the more beautiful for that. They have large pointed ears that the Sun shines through. They play in the garden, all day long, slipping among the great leaves and blooms, but they’re so swift that you can hardly see them, unless one chooses to stand still and look at you. For that matter, you have to look a bit hard for all these things I’m telling you.”

“But it is true?” she pleaded.

“Every word of it,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. He put down his knife and fork. “What’s your name?” he asked softly. “Mine’s Patrick.”

“Effie,” she told him.

He shook his head. “That can’t be,” he said. Then his face brightened. “Euphemia,” he exclaimed. “That’s what Effie is short for. Your name is Euphemia.” As he said that, looking at her, she suddenly felt beautiful. He got up and came around the table and stretched out his hand toward her.

“Euphemia⁠—” he began.

“Yes?” she answered huskily, shrinking from him a little, but looking up sideways, and very flushed.

“Don’t either of you move,” Hank said.

The voice was flat and nasal because Hank was wearing a nose respirator that was just long enough to suggest an elephant’s trunk. In his right hand was a large blue-black automatic pistol.

They turned their faces to him. Patrick’s was abruptly alert, shifty. But Effie’s was still smiling tenderly, as if Hank could not break the spell of the magic garden and should be pitied for not knowing about it.

“You little⁠—” Hank began with an almost gleeful fury, calling her several shameful names. He spoke in short phrases, closing tight his unmasked mouth between them while he sucked in breath through the respirator. His voice rose in a crescendo. “And not with a man of the community, but a pariah! A pariah!”

“I hardly know what you’re thinking, man, but you’re quite wrong,” Patrick took the opportunity to put in hurriedly, conciliatingly. “I just happened to be coming by hungry tonight, a lonely tramp, and knocked at the window. Your wife was a bit foolish and let kindheartedness get the better of prudence⁠—”

“Don’t think you’ve pulled the wool over my eyes, Effie,” Hank went on with a screechy laugh, disregarding the other man completely. “Don’t think I don’t know why you’re suddenly going to have a child after four long years.”

At that moment the cat came nosing up to his feet. Patrick watched him narrowly, shifting his weight forward