Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS POCISET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020 Copyright © 1980 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020 ISBN: 0-671-83304-9 First Pocket Books printing May, 1980 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 POCKET and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster. Printed in the U.S.A. Copyright Notices "YOU TRIFLIN’ SKUNK" originally appeared as "TILE TRIFLIN MAN" in the Jan. 1955 issue of Fantastic Universe, copyright 1953 by King Size Publications, Inc. "THE WILL" appeared in the Jan./Feb. 1954 issue of Fantastic, copyright 1953 by Ziff Davis Publishing Co. "ANYBODY ELSE LIKE ME" originally appeared as "COMMAND PERFORMANCE" in the Nov. 1952 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction, copyright 1952 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. "CRUCIFIXUS ETIUM appeared in the Feb. 1953 issue of Astonishing Science Fiction, copyright 1953 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. "I DREAMER" appeared in the Jun./Jul. 1953 issue of Amazing Stories, copyright 1953 by Ziff Davis Publishing Co. "DUMB WAITER" appeared in the Apr. 1952 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, copyright 1952 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. "BLOOD BANK" appeared in the Jun. 1952 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, copyright 1952 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. "BIG JOE AND THE NTH GENERATION" originally appeared as "IT TAKES A THIEF" in the May 1952 issue of If, copyright 1952 by Quinn Publishing Co., Inc. "THE BIG HUNGER" appeared in the Oct. 1952 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, copyright 1952 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. "CONDITIONALLY HUMAN" appeared in the Feb. 1952 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction, copyright 1952 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. "THE DARFSTELLER" appeared in the Jan. 1955 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, copyright 1954 by Walter M. Miller, Jr. "DARK BENEDICTION" appeared in the Sep. 1951 issue of Fantastic Adventure, copyright 1951 by Walter M. Miller, Jr.; copyright renewed © 1979. "THE LINEMAN" appeared in the Aug. 1957 issue of the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, copyright © 1957 by Fantasy House, Inc. "VENGENCE FOR NIKOLAI" appeared in the Mar. 1957 issue of Venture Science Fiction, copyright m 1956 by Mercury Publications, Inc. Contents You Triflin' Skunk! The Will Anybody Else Like Me? Crucifixus Etiam I, Dreamer Dumb Waiter Blood Bank Big Joe and the Nth Generation The Big Hunger Conditionally Human The Darfsteller Dark Benediction The Lineman Vengeance For Nikolai You Triflin' Skunk! THE RAIN SANG light in the sodden palmettos and the wind moaned through the pines about the unpainted shack, whipping the sea of grass that billowed about the islands of scrub. The land lay bathed in rain-haze beneath the pines. Rain trickled from the roof of the shack and made a rattling spray in the rivulets under the eaves. Rain blew from the roof in foggy cloudlets. Rain played marimba-sounds on the wooden steps. A droopy chicken huddled in the drenched grass, too sick to stir or seek a shelter. No road led across the scrublands to the distant highway, but only a sandy footpath that was now a gushing torrent that ran down to an overflowing creek of brackish water. A possum hurried across the inundated footpath at the edge of the clearing, drenched and miserable, seeking higher ground. The cabin was without a chimney, but a length of stovepipe projected from a side window, and bent skyward at a clumsy angle. A thin trail of brown smoke leaked from beneath the rain-hood, and wound away on the gusty breeze. In the cabin, there was life, and an aura of song lingered about the rain-washed walls, song as mournful as the sodden land, low as the wail of a distant train. Whose hands was drivin' the nails 0 Lord? Whose hands was drivin' the nails? Lord 0 Lord! My hands was drivin' the nails 0 Lord! My hands was drivin' the nails And I did crucify my God! The song was low and vibrant in the cabin, and Lucey rocked to it, rolling her head as she sang over the stove, where a smoked 'possum simmered in pot-likker with sweet-taters, while corn bread toasted in the oven. The cabin was full of food-smells and sweat-smells, and smoky light through dusty panes. From a rickety iron bed near the window came a sudden choking sob, an animal sound of almost unendurable torment and despair. Lucey stopped singing, and turned to blink toward the cry, sudden concern melting her pudgy face into a mountain woman cherub's face, full of compassion. "Awwwwwww . . ." The sound welled unbidden from her throat, a rich low outpouring of love and sympathy for the sallow twitching youth who lay on the yellowish sheets, his eyes wild, his hands tensing into claws. "Awwwww, Doodie—you ain't gonna have another spell?" she said. Only a small hurt this time, my son. It can't be helped. It's like tuning a guitar. You can't do it without sounding the strings, or pulsing the neural fibers. But only a small hurt this time... . The youth writhed and shuddered, stiffening into a puppet strained by steel springs. His back arched, and his muscles quivered. He flung himself suddenly into reflexive gymnastics, sobbing in small shrieks. Lucey murmured softly. An immense mass of love, she waddled toward the bed in bounces of rubbery flesh. She bent over him to purr low in her throat. "Poor Doodie . . . poor li'l Doodie. Mama's lamb." The boy sobbed and thrashed. The paroxysm brought froth to his lips and jerked his limbs into cramped spasms. He jerked and writhed and tumbled on the bed. "You jus' try to lay calm, Doodie. You jus' try. You gonna be all right. It ain't gonna last long, Doodie. It's gonna go away." "No!" he whimpered. "No! Don't touch me, Mama! Don't!" "Now, Doodie . . ." She sat on the edge of the bed to gather him up in her massive arms. The spasms grew more frantic, less reflexive. He fought her, shrieking terror. She lay beside him, moaning low with pity. She enveloped him with her arms, enfolding him so that he could no longer kick. She pulled his face into the hollow of her huge bosom and squeezed him. With his tense body pressed tightly against the bulky mass of her, she melted again with love, and began chanting a rhythmic lullaby while he twitched and slavered against her, fighting away, pretending to suffocate. Gradually, as exhaustion overcame him, the spasm passed. He lay wheezing quietly in her arms. The strings are tuned, my son, and it was only a small hurt. Has the hurt stopped, my son? Yes, father, if only this monstress would let me he. Accept my knowledge, and be content. The time will come. "Who you whisperin' to, Doodie? Why are you mumbiin' so?" She looked down at his tousled head, pressed tightly between her breasts. His muttering ceased, and he lay quietly as if in a trance. It was always so. The boy had fits, and when the paroxysm had passed, he went into a rigid sleep. But it was more like a frozen moment of awareness, and old Ma Kutter said the boy was "witched." Lucey had never believed in "witchin'." When he was tensely quiet, she tenderly disengaged herself and slid off the bed. He lay on his side, face toward the window, eyes slitted and mouth agape. Humming softly, Lucey returned to the stove and took a stick of oak out of the bucket. She paused to glance back at him—and he seemed to be rigidly listening to something. The rain? "Doodle . . . ?" "When are you coming for us, father?" came in a ghost whisper from the bed. `"When, when?" "What are you talking about, Doodie?" The cast-iron stove-lid clattered on the hot metal as she lifted it nervously aside. She glanced down briefly at the red coals in the stove, then back at Doodie. "Very soon . . . very soon!" he whispered. Lucey chucked the stick of wood in atop the coals, then stood staring at the bed until the flames licked up about the lid-hole to glisten orange on her sweat-glazed face. "Who are you talkin' to, Doodie?" She expected no answer, but after several seconds, his breathing grew deeper. Then it came: "My father." Luccy's plump mouth went slowly shut and her hand quivered as she fumbled for the stove lid. "Your pa is dead, Doodle. You know that." The emaciated youth stirred on the bed, picked himself up slowly on one arm, and turned to look at her, his eyes blazing. "You lie!" he cried. "Mama, you lie!" "Doodie!" "I hate you, Mama. I hate all of you, and I'll make you pay. I'll be like him." The stove lid clattered back in place. She wiped her hands nervously on her dress. "You're sick, Doodie! You're not right in the mind. You never even seed your pa." "I talk to him," the boy said. "He tells me things. He told me why you're my mother. He told me how. And he told me who I am." "You're my son!" Lucey's voice had gone up an octave, and she edged defensively away. "Only half of me, Mama." The boy said, then laughed defiantly. "Only half of me is even human. You knew that when he came here, and paid you to have his baby." "Doodie!" "You can't lie to me, Mama. He tells me. He knows." "He was just a man, Doodie. Now he's gone. He never came back, do you hear?" The boy stared out the window at the rain-shroud. When he spoke again, it was in a small slow voice of contempt. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't want you to believe—any of you." He paused to snicker. "He doesn't want to warn you what we're going to do....
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