FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 3, Number 2 March-April 1996 EDITOR'S NOTE: FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the public. To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail a brief request to ngwazi@clark.net To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address. Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from ftp.etext.org where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines. COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings or to stage performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved. William Ramsay, Editor ================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "Poems Before Spring," Diana Munson "The Way West," short story Judith Greenwood "Chamber Pots and Palaces," an excerpt (chapter 12) from the novel "In Search of Mozart" William Ramsay "Heaven Hath No Fury," short story Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" was recently produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters in the United States, Europe, and Australia. JUDITH GREENWOOD writes fiction and is an international interior/garden designer and a West Virginia farmer, herpetophobe, and close observer of local specimens of _Felis_ _concolor_. She was the founder of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC. DIANA MUNSON is a therapist in Washington, D.C. She writes short stories; her latest, "Earrings," was recently published in _Rent-A-Chicken_. She has published numerous poems in magazines and anthologies. WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group. "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of his and Otho Eskin's short comic plays, was recently presented at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland. ================================================= POEMS BEFORE SPRING by Diana Munson OUTSIDE FIESOLE, March 1: for S.M. The warmth of earth, the taste of Primavera fresh within our winter mouths make up for months of longing in grey palaces of loneliness as our two half-lived lives seized the day and came together to make us briefly whole; beyond sin beyond lust, beyond soul, underneath the sun... outside Fiesole. RENEWAL Love dissembles doubt about the truth of passion past remembered and, though gone, causes it to last. Paradox of clocks: give me meaning for my mourning, tell me there is importance, portent in my stance, as I face the future with my map of where I've been firmly in my hand. Come love, let us begin again. ================================================= THE WAY WEST by Judith Greenwood My Dearest Emma, You will not be expecting this letter so soon, I think. In truth, you will not be expecting this letter at all. I have not been so far as the new territories as yet. I have met with a traveler who returns eastward, and have asked him to take this letter as near to you as possible and then to post it. I would come myself if that were possible, but it will never again suit me to come there, which reasons I will explain. When we left you it was with the intention to join other travelers at the Ohio River, thence to proceed in greater safety in their company and to share the burden of guide and those mercenaries who accompany such groups of travelers as we should become. It was our hope that our meager savings could be augmented by fees paid to me by families who would be pleased to retain me to continue the schooling of their children during the journey west, despite my married state. Wesley was so sure of this being the case that we were not well enough provided for without the income so to be secured. Instead, when we reached the river, we were acquainted with fellow travelers who had nearly no recognition of the written word themselves and could see no advantage to the getting of it for their children. The sums that I might have earned were spent on casks of chewing tobacco and snuff, liberally used by husband and wife and even, if they could get it, the very mites I should have taught. A rougher and less civilized group I never saw. Wesley could not pay our share of the necessary without the assurance of a teaching stipend for my efforts, and so we watched the group we should have joined embark upon wooden rafts no more well built nor secure than little Joseph might have banged together for a float on our pond at the farm. You will not understand the tale I have to tell you if you do not understand the woman we have been taught to become. Of the many things I learned as a girl, the first was to be willing and then to acquire the skills to do a job well. In spite of my education, Mamma insisted that I must also learn to spin and weave and sew and cook, and even to garden, knowing that in a new land, such as Wesley proposed for our home, these would be precious. I believe she was right in this as in so many other things. I do not regret the many hours I spent making the linens and covers, towels and garments we carried with us. And I know that if we had traveled on, the loom and wheels that were our marriage gift from Mamma would have served me well. I do not know what that departed party will do when their present household goods wear out, as they were not so well gifted with training and the necessaries as was I. Since they appeared never to wash anything, perhaps their goods will not wear out, and perhaps the skins of wild animals will do for them on the prairies. You have often, with dear Mamma, blamed me for pride and impatience with others. I fear you are right. Oh how I wish that you had felt free to explain to me even the smallest part of what your marriage to Thomas meant to you! After all the years that we as girls had shyly talked all around the subject and never dared to boldly say what we thought would happen, if only the one of us who then knew could have revealed those secrets to the other, I might have divined my fate with Wesley and might be your spinster friend in Pittstown, and might yet enjoy the comfort and security of our girlhood love for each other. When you married it seemed that you had crossed a bridge I could not enter until I too had promised away my life to a man. Your cool and aloof separation from me did not seem cruel at the time, but mysterious and heavy with promises only to be gained with the true womanhood which would become mine in that church. I do not blame you for keeping the secrets we are reared to believe sacred, but it is cruel that the consequences of marriage are kept secret from the very people who must suffer those consequences. From the day I wed, I could not forgive Wesley for the ways in which he was not prepared for the job he had set for us both. I do not refer to his underestimation of the amount of money we would need. I, too, believed that teaching would give us income. From the beginning, Wesley was not prepared to be a husband. Girls who have been reared on a farm do see how the getting of progeny is accomplished. Even without more words from Mamma than that I ought to be willing for my husband, I knew that the lowest creature in the barnyard is compelled, somehow, to breed. It was not difficult for me to impute that there must be some comfort, if not joy, involved for both participants if the world would go on. Wesley was compelled to poetry. I remember well that I was envied for Wesley's romantic nature. In courtship, poetry seemed a suitable expression of the dedication and ardor of a swain. In my marriage bed, poetry wore thin in a very few days. When I remonstrated with Wesley, gently at first, about the duties of marriage and the injunction to be fruitful, he first accused me of intemperance, and then of a poorly contained nature, and at last he wept. This was, Emma, I make haste to assure you, not the work of a night, but of more than two weeks. I told him that I despaired of ever becoming a true wife, and I read to him cogent passages from the Bible, at last surrendering modesty in recitation from the Songs of Solomon. He did then agree to try. Emma, he did not know how, nor did he have any of the instincts of nature that would lead him to learning how. When I reminded him of the joining of God's creatures, he confessed that he had always looked away in shame rather than to see this awful thing done to the female creature, and that he had vowed never to treat me so. In my efforts to explain, he nearly choked with shame. Since I have an insistent nature, he attempted, but Emma, no self respecting woman could bear what he surmised must be the Act. And when I corrected him, he was appalled to discover what must actually happen. In a time as measured by history, Wesley might have learned to bear up to his responsibility, but I soon understood that with Wesley there would never be anything of comfort or joy in it. What with repeatedly reading all the parts of the Bible which treat of congress between a woman and a man, I grew in my conviction that there must be a passion and a pleasure for each, and experienced as well the urgent interest, although I confess that it was not inspired by or aimed at Wesley. Still, he was the husband I had sworn to cleave unto, and if he could, I would. Wesley, my Romantic Swain, could not repair a wheel when the hub loosened from the axle. He could shoot at a tin can, but could not kill for our meat. He did not drink strong spirits nor gamble as did many of the other men, but then Wesley I think is not a man but some creature neither man nor woman, but wholly and badly poetic. While we waited by the Ohio for a company to form up, he was asked for help many times, and was always willing, but never asked twice by any man. Long before it became clear that we did not have the funds to go on and must settle to work in that filthy river town until we could put by enough money, I could see that for Wesley moving west was a Romantic and Poetic venture, and that life with Wesley in a wilderness would prove slow death at best. I was frantic to return to Massachusetts at first. But as the weeks wore on, I realized that even there I would be condemned to be Wesley's wife by law and church, if not by nature. I began to know that I was dead already at seventeen. What could I say to Mamma or to the pastor that could obtain my freedom? Would they think me incontinent as well? I feared a living grave. I have never sunk so low. I prayed for release. But release did not come. Emma, why did we not know how Wesley was? If I was an ignorant child, was not Mamma the widowed mother of four? Did not his parents see how silly and useless he was? Did they never ask how such a fellow would cross the vast empty land and how he would then build a house, establish a farm and feed us? And if any of you suspected that Wesley was too much a poet and too little a farmer, how could you send me tied to such a useless shadow of a man into a country where I must compete for prey with wolves and bears? What use to know how to spin and weave and sew if I live with a man who cannot bear to see sheep breed? What use shall I be to a man who trembles in fear when I disrobe to wash, although I am behind a blanket and no flaunting Jezebel, I think. If King David had been as Wesley, Uriah would live yet, for the King would have cringed in shame when Bathsheba appeared on her roof. I have wondered often how this thing can have happened, how little anyone must have loved me to sacrifice me so. And I have wept to think that even you, my Dearest Friend, did not think of the danger in crossing into marriage and into a wild nothingness with no town, no friend, no slightest familiar minute in any day to bear me up. So foolhardy to have left the church in a wagon with a stranger, of whom I knew little more than his unfailing suit since we were thirteen. But it is done, and I have had to make what I can of it. My prayers have gone unanswered. I am abandoned by God and kin. I cannot go back, and could not get on if I allowed Wesley to anchor me in hopelessness and failure. He did try to change. He tried to watch me disrobe and tried to love the sight of me unstayed and natural as Eve. He attempted to touch the soft, white Miranda of his poetry, written to my cheeks and hands. The sight of me repelled him, and when he touched me, he might have been holding his hands in fire. I was able to bear his rejection until he became unable to keep down his supper as a consequence of my innocent but determined efforts. His weeping and despair and shame became too much to bother with. I decided I must seek my own strength and use whatever I found in my deepest soul in order to survive. I was taught to be willing and capable. I am willing to live hard if I must, but live I will. Whatever I am not capable of, I will learn to do. There are many moving West these days, not to clear a farm on the prairie, but to seek gold beyond the next mountains. We have been hearing wild tales of men who have found yellow fortunes lying in dry stream beds. It may perhaps be untrue, but where so many gather, there will at least be life and towns and stores and work to do for which these fortune seekers will pay. I resolved to cross the plains and continue to the California, there to decide how best to earn my way. Wesley and I together did not have sufficient to get to the prairie, let alone go on to another trackless wild. South of this place is another embarking point, a place where no one knew Wesley and me, whereas here we are pointed out as the hapless pair who linger, half-starved, while the world goes by. I planned to say I met a man strong enough to go on with me, but that would be a lie. I sought out such a man. I went to that southern pier where people gather to get word on what groups are forming and when they will depart. I went alone. After a time there were three that seemed capable enough, and I will try not to go into details which you will not want to hear, but suffice it to say that I meant to be sure that the one I chose should have both the funds and something of the Bible in him. The one who should make me feel most like Solomon's beloved would be my chosen. They were all willing and capable, but one was, without words, more a poet than Wesley dreamed to be. I wish you will not presume to judge me for using Mamma's patient lessons so. Sinner I am, but alive, as I would surely never otherwise have been. I know I must be dead to you after you have read this letter, but alive to myself, willing and capable of accepting my own sins. Jessie did not have a wagon, but was riding to California. And of course he did not know of Wesley. Wesley did not want to let me have the wagon or even my half of the money. He was so sure that his place as my husband gave him dominion over all we had, from the foodstuffs I had spent weary hours drying and salting, to the products of years at the wheel and loom, even to the cattle and the farming tools and pots and pans. It was his decision that we should sell it all for what we could get and settle where we stood, waiting together for civilization to reach us so that we could open a school in the city which would one day rise about us. It was also his idea that we should agree to live as children forever, never crossing that marital bridge to physical union, but remaining pure in heart and mind, and so to live forever in what he termed "The Citadel of Intellectual Ecstasy!" During the time that I left him alone, while I learned with other men what Wesley should have taught me, at those moments when I shivered in fearsome delight and wept at reaching the gates of bliss, Wesley decided that we might avoid sin by excluding these gross Acts from our marriage. We alone, from the Kingdom of Nature as planned by God, should live out a desperate and hungry existence neither returning to dear Pittstown nor advancing to our new life, and we should do it entirely unconsoled by the pleasures afforded even a pig! I told him it was too late for me, that I had already sinned and would sin again and again, as often as life allowed me an opportunity to do so. I told him that another had gladly, even joyfully, seen me naked, helped me to get that way. I told him that another man had touched and tasted what he could not bear to contemplate, and that a normal man had relieved me of my maidenhood and was eager to conjoin with the woman thus made. I told him that I would journey on, that it was my fate, as his was very likely to rot in Cincinnati waiting for poetry to be wanted. I insisted that as I was the one of us who would complete the passage to a new land, I was also the one who must have the means to get there. As I cried out this awful tale to him, I thought that Wesley might easily disappear before me. His face was white and rigid. He seemed frozen in place and like to die. Oh, that he should have failed in this as in everything else! But instead his wrath gave him a strength he had not for his love. He ran for his rifle and screamed that he would kill me to save me and kill the man who caused me to fall into sin. He forced me to kneel before him and held the gun to my neck, chanting over and over, "Tell me his name that he may be punished!" All I could think was that this fellow, (I could not even then call him a man) who could not kill a deer to feed us, and who could worship my blameless lily white neck, was going to separate my head from my body in a bloody explosion of rage and gunpowder. And I knew he would decide that my murder was less a sin than parting my thighs with his male member. I could almost laugh at the knowledge that he would certainly vomit when he saw my shattered corpse. Having found life in spite of Wesley, I was not willing to give it up to his anger. He may also have foreseen the gory end he proposed for me, for as he repeated his crazy demand, he screwed his offended eyes shut. It was a moment's work for me to strike the rifle aside and then, with a strength I never knew before, to seize it and to turn it upon Wesley, and guessing where his heart might be, if indeed he has one, to release him from its relentless poetry. I hope I am not entirely indecent. I did drag him to a recess carved out in some earlier flood, and with our spade I smote the overhanging earth and managed to bury him and to read the service for the dead over him. He lies under the old elm at a snag in the Ohio river, a mile North of the town called Cincinnati. It was not easy for one person to hitch up the horses and secure the other cattle. It had always taken the two of us before. Don't tell Mamma. Let her slowly come to think that I have died on the way West. I cannot imagine what you will decide to do about the Wilsons. Will you one day tell them so that they may know where Wesley lies and will not hope to hear someday that we are struggling and increasing on some Western prairie? Or will you hide this terrible tale and carry a dreadful secret beside the joyful secrets you kept there until this day? I have forgiven those I left for sending me unarmed to this fate. I pray you will not hate me forever for what I have had to do. I may yet die of disease, of attack by wild Indians or in bearing a child. There are many dangers ahead to which I might fall prey. God will be my judge, or may yet be my executioner. I am proud of only one thing in all of this. I will not die of ignorance or in it. Your sincerest loving friend, Miranda =================================================== CHAMBER POTS AND PALACES by William Ramsay [Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 12 of the novel "In Search of Mozart"] "I'm so sorry about your mother, Wolferl. My old friend, and a wonderful woman." "Thank you, Baron, I appreciate your taking me into your house." "Not at all. Louise insisted." "I'm grateful. It's made me aware of weaknesses I didn't know I had." "Nonsense! What weaknesses?" "It's not nonsense, I have to face my fears, Baron." "Everyone has fears, Wolferl. Those are just morbid thoughts." "No, it's a fact, a problem I have to solve. My memories of my mother may help." "God rest her soul. But really, you need cheering up. You'll enjoy the soiree that Louise's sister-in-law, Madame d'Houdetot, is giving on Friday. I hope her famous friend -- platonic friend, you understand -- will be there." "Her friend? Who?" "Franklin, of course, the great philosopher, Envoy Plenipotentiary from the American States." "I'd be thrilled." Wolfgang had to smile. "Is it really platonic, Baron?" "Oh, I'm quite sure it is." "Franklin has such a reputation with the women." "But in this case, I don't think so." "Well, is it because she's of a _certain_ _age_?" "Not on your life! The reason" -- he lowered his voice -- "is that _she_ only likes them strong, virile -- and under thirty!" "Well, I'm young enough," Wolfgang said and laughed. "But I don't know if I'm strong enough. " "Save your strength for music, young man." "If only these idiots would demand more music from me to save my strength for!" "They will, they will. Don't weaken, never give in. I'll see you Friday. Oh, by the way, there's a letter for you on the table over there." Grimm got up and left the room. Wolfgang picked up the letter. He recognized the handwriting. It was the first real letter he had received from her. Munich, 15 July, 1778 Mon cher ami ....The weather continues miserable here, and with all the harvest in now, we can't understand why food prices are still so high. It can't be that the war with Austria over the Bavarian succession is causing it -- at least father doesn't think so. My voice has had just the slightest rasp in it for the last week. I haven't stopped singing, but it's a worry, you can imagine. There was a grand ball at the palace, I met some of the most interesting people, an officer in the Prussian Hussars was one of them. He was quite handsome in his uniform, Mother thought. But of course I couldn't care less about such things. My career is all that matters right now, and if I can get the appointment in Munich, which Herr Lange thinks is quite likely, then I hope to make my friends proud of me. And especially you, dear friend. You, Herr Mozart, have taught me so much. I have such respect for your knowledge of music and your understanding of expression in singing. You and Herr Lange. I think of you often, with the most profound admiration. Please let me know how you are. Aloysia Weber What a love letter! What was all that about the hussar! And what was that idiot Lange up to? From the tone of the letter, she might as well have been writing to an old fart of seventy. And the most important news -- about her getting the job in the Bavarian opera and moving to Munich -- he had already heard about from Wendling. He suspected he had made a mistake last spring. He should have taken the Versailles job. Not much pay, but he could have sponged off people around town to cut down eating and drinking expenses. No silks or champagne, of course, on 2000 livres, and he did like the good things! But that was all crying over spilt milk. A good chance lost, all for that woman! Better to have loved and lost, they said. It didn't feel better. But had he really lost? If only he had never met Aloysia! She had poisoned his soul. He felt as sickened as he used to carrying his mother's bedpans down the stairs at the Rue du Gros Chenet. Something was dying again -- this time it was love that was dying. To hell with it! Grimm was right, there was no point in morbid thoughts. Something could be done. If not about Aloysia, maybe about Paris. Perhaps he could still find a position in Paris. If he could only get an entree at Court. But how? That Friday, at the soiree, Madame d'Houdetot, cadaverously thin, with a long lantern jaw, greeted him warmly and gestured toward the tall doors on the right of the entrance hall. A hubbub of voices battered his ears as he strutted into the crowded grand salon, with its twenty-foot high ceiling and pink silk hangings caught back at the windows by scarlet taffeta ribbons. But it was easy for him to pick out Franklin, by the tight group of people surrounding him. Franklin was only of medium height and quite stout, but imposing, and his unconventional figure stood out among the wigged, powdered, and brocaded figures about him. He wore his own longish, thinning, straight gray hair, and a plain unembroidered suit -- but, Wolfgang noticed, woven of the very best material. His face, with its sparkling eyes, reflected intelligence and self-confidence. Of course he's self-confident, everyone is worshiping him! God! He saw Grimm beckoning to him. He walked over, pushing his way past two short young men in scarlet coats. Grimm pulled Franklin aside and introduced Wolfgang to him. Franklin smiled beneficently and pressed his hand warmly. "I hear great reports of your playing -- and of your compositions." "You are too kind. I'm indeed honored to receive the commendation of the Philosopher of Liberty." He said this with some feeling, because he had just been discussing liberty with Baron Grimm the day before. He remembered saying that he was all for Liberty if it meant that uncongenial people like the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg might someday have their powdered curls removed, head and all, on the chopping block. Franklin took him by the hand, smiling like a Hohensalzburg gnome. "Let me tell you about liberty and philosophers, young man. They're both greatly overrated. More liberty for some always means less liberty for others." Franklin raised his finger in warning. "And philosophy, the 'love of wisdom,' usually means the love of the kind of wisdom that I, one particular philosopher, happen to find congenial. I might also agree to tolerate the kind you like -- if you're lucky -- but you'd better not make me your king or emperor." "Why is that, sir?" He was startled and amused to actually get philosophy from a philosopher. "Because you'd quickly find that my tolerance would vanish into the clouds of flattery and deceit that surround a throne. Watch out for people like me, young man, I could be dangerous." "I'm sure that King George finds you dangerous enough, sir," he said. "Well, perhaps he does. I must confess I hope so. It's rather amusing to find myself a wild-eyed revolutionary as an old man." Franklin made an ironic moue, moving his lips. "Of course, in my youth, many people thought I was crazy -- but that's not the same as being actually dangerous." Franklin let out a little sigh. Wolfgang smiled -- he knew what it was to be looked on as "crazy." "Speaking of kings," said Franklin, "I trust you've heard of the latest tribute King Louis has paid me." "No, I'm sorry, I haven't, Your Excellency." He was puzzled, because he understood that the French King had been dubious about the French intervention in America and had called Franklin himself "an old windbag." "Well, you may have noticed that there has been some vogue here in Paris for likenesses of this old wrinkled face." "Of course, Your Excellency's face is seen everywhere." He had seen portraits of Franklin on rings, bracelets, snuffboxes, everywhere in fashionable Parisian salons. "Well, you know that the Queen's friend, the Duchesse de Polignac, has been a good friend to me -- and to America." Wolfgang nodded. "Yes, Your Excellency." "So last week King Louis presented the Duchess with a portrait of me -- set into the bottom of a Sevres porcelain chamber pot!" And he giggled uncontrollably. Wolfgang laughed too. Franklin sputtered. "I didn't think the dear man even _had_ a sense of humor!" He giggled again, then sniffed and composed his face. "But of course," he said, "I haven't had the pleasure of listening to you play -- I hope that defect will be remedied tonight." "I believe that I will have the honor." He mouthed the familiar phrase, meaning that as usual he would have to play for his supper. But he reminded himself that the only thing worse than being obliged to play would have been not being _allowed_ to play! "Is there anything that Your Excellency would particularly like to hear?" "I don't need to hear a man whose talent I've heard so much about keep calling me 'Your Excellency.' Those titles sound rather strange to our colonial ears, I'm afraid. Not that we don't have our own pomposities in America -- just different kinds. Anyway, I've heard some reports from one of my German colleagues about an interesting recent composition by a compatriot of his, a piano sonata in C major, I believe" -- Franklin, usually so fluent with his English-accented French, had to search to come up with the French term 'do majeur.' "I would certainly enjoy hearing it." "I would most enjoy to play that music, your Excellency -- I want to say, Mr. Franklin," he said hesitatingly, trying out his rusty English. God, he was out of practice -- would he ever see London again? Then, switching back to the relative comfort of French, "I also look forward to your opinion of a new violin sonata which I have planned to perform tonight with my colleague Colline." This was his sonata in E minor, which he had just finished copying out. He was excited and anxious about trying it out in public for the first time. He knew that in addition to his other talents, Franklin was a musician too. Wolfgang mentioned Franklin's glass harmonica, which he had performed on in Vienna, at the house of his friend Dr. Mesmer, as well as in Italy. But Franklin wanted to talk about Handel. As a youth, he told Wolfgang, he had frequented the opera in London in the days of Handel's great successes. Franklin even hummed an aria from "Alessandro" to illustrate a point about trills and mordents. Wolfgang told him he respected Handel's workmanship and his gift for lyricism. Only why did he write such long, dull operas? What a waste of those lovely melodies! He didn't disapprove of Handel, certainly Handel had brought the opera forward to a certain degree, but he himself was determined to carry it even further, much further -- if he lived long enough. Franklin smiled. "I can recommend old age highly. Of course it's not as good as some other things -- such as, for example -- youth!" Wolfgang laughed. His hair caught at the back and he pulled at the collar of his new blue and silver silk suit. Franklin beamed kindly at him. Then, with the freedom that Wolfgang had seen before in certain old people, he put his arm around Wolfgang's narrow shoulders and suggested they walk about the room. People followed them, a sea of whitened hair, like the wake of a boat at sea. *** "Look," said Madame d'Epinay to the Baron de Stael, "a royal progress. No, on second thought, a procession of the Common Man, led by the high priest of republicanism." She added, "Thank God he doesn't have his animal bonnet on." Baron De Stael giggled. "I rather like the squirrel cap." "Oh, you Swedes are as uncivilized as the Americans!" De Stael's face fell. "But charming, anyway, dear Baron." De Stael grimaced and bowed slightly. *** The lights and shadows from the candelabra -- the crystal ones overhead and the gold ones mounted on white Sevres vases in the wall sconces -- fell in swirling yellowish and gray spatters on them, as the vivacious old man led him around the room, stopping and greeting groups of guests as they went. Franklin moved slowly. "My gout's bothering me," said Franklin, pointing to his swollen left foot. Wolfgang felt light-headed. People who had scarcely deigned to notice his existence now stared at him. The Comtesse de Chambord, a glittering vision in a voluminous gown of white silk embroidered with gold thread, smiled charmingly and inclined her white-wigged head ever so slightly toward him. They walked up to Cambini. The Italian looked intensely pained, but he managed a smile as they approached him. Wolfgang smiled to himself while Franklin spoke with elegant courtesy to the composer. Wolfgang suddenly began looking forward to playing for this audience. The evening's concert went off well -- exceedingly well -- certainly helped by Franklin's support, he thought. Colline, the violinist, played with vigor, but the piano part was dominant -- and Wolfgang felt in fine form, relaxed, open, his playing was in that optimum state he thought of as controlled frenzy. After the performance, Grimm whispered to him that the short section in E major had brought tears to Franklin's eyes. Madame d'Epinay, resplendent in pale blue that matched her eyes, came over and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. "Send me a copy of your work," said Franklin, limping up and embracing him. I'd like my violinist friend Mr. Jefferson to see it. But maybe there are some people closer at hand that should hear your music." "I should be very grateful, Dr. Franklin." "The Queen, for instance. I think I'll drop a word to Madame de Polignac -- maybe her chamber pot needs a little bit of spit and polish." He gazed at himself in a pier glass. "Yes, maybe old Ben's phis could use a little touching up." The next Saturday, the weather was pleasant, and Wolfgang dined alone on quail and gooseberries at one of the little restaurants on the right bank, not far from the quais along the Seine. Then he strolled up to the Palais Royal. There he stood for a while, gazing with pleasure at the ladies, lovely women of all sorts, many wearing fresh flowers pinned to their waists, who promenaded through the gardens and under the arcades. The prostitutes, in ribboned hats and carrying frilly-trimmed parasols, were the most beautiful and elegant he had ever seen. He felt desire awakening -- the thought of syphilis arose in his mind like a dismal gray cloud. He bought some gingerbread from a lovely blonde peasant girl, and then after examining a pair of jasmine-scented pigskin gloves, he decided to splurge on a sporty malacca cane. Just swinging his new cane as he walked along the stalls made him feel jaunty, made life feel worth living. Paris was all right. And if he did get a really good position in Paris, then Aloysia might consent to come here as his wife. And even if Aloysia could never be his, there were other women in the world. He signaled to a black-haired prostitute carrying the lacy-edged pink parasol. She smiled back, disclosing a cute dimple. He would close his eyes and picture Aloysia's porcelain skin and lustrous dark eyes gazing soulfully into his own! *** The playing had stopped, Marie-Antoinette suddenly realized. Everybody in the Hall of Mirrors was looking at her. She immediately started to clap her hands. Everybody joined in. She said, "Bravo," and several other "Bravo"'s were heard. The musician bowed, and she motioned to Diane to have him come over. "Your Majesty, Monsieur Mozart." "This is such a pleasure, M. Mozart. You know that I've played some of your compositions myself." "I'm honored, Your Majesty." I certainly wouldn't recognize him, she thought. That was all too long ago. "Our good friend, Mr. Franklin, mentioned to me how much he had enjoyed your playing. Did he not, M. Le Gros?" "Yes, Your Majesty. And there are others of us here in France who appreciate M. Mozart's work. I had the honor of conducting his symphony at the Concert Spirituel, and it was very well received." "Well, if you have M. Le Gros on your side, M. Mozart, that is important. We have a good deal of faith in him." Le Gros and Mozart both bowed. "Thank you, again," she said, and she signaled the end of the matinee. She heaved a sigh as she sat down in the easy chair in her own rooms. Her maid removed her heavy headdress and replaced it with a smaller, less formal wig. She got up briefly as her maids removed the heavy brocaded court dress and replaced it with the lighter afternoon frock. She sat down again and put her feet up on her leopard-skin hassock. A white-wigged servant stood at her side, holding a gold tray with snow, surrounded by blocks of ice, and syrups of lingonberries and currants. She bent her finger and the servant prepared a sherbet, handing it to her together with a small golden spoon. She took one bite and then held it out to the side briefly and let it go -- the servant's hand was ready and swept down to catch it. It was all so upsetting! "Bring me the letter again," she said. Her maid handed her the letter from her mother. She had practically memorized it. The war over the succession. The Prussians and the Saxons had allied themselves with the new Electoral Prince of Bavaria, that brute Karl-Theodor, and had joined together in invading Bohemia and threatening Vienna. The Imperial armies were in great danger. If France would only pressure Frederick to agree to a compromise, her mother and brother Joseph would be glad to pay off Frederick by arranging for Anspach and Bayreuth to be ceded to Prussia, and they would also pull the Austrian troops back out of the districts they had occupied in January in lower Bavaria. Suddenly she thought she felt the baby kick. No, probably just gas. But she had felt the future King of France roiling about at six that morning. Why were they trying to spoil her happiness? Why wouldn't Louis help Austria? She had asked him to help, but he had done nothing. All Maurepas and the other ministers had done was to tell Frederick to keep his Prussian troops out of the Austrian Netherlands. Whatever he wanted to do in Germany, that was all right with Maurepas and Vergennes, as along as he stayed away from the French border! Maurepas! If she were to give birth to a boy. Yes, just think of all her brother Joseph had done for them! He had saved the royal marriage -- it was owing to him that she was now pregnant! How could she persuade her ungrateful husband to help her brother now, when the Empire was in such danger? Louis had always given way to her, until last month, when he had become surly and rude. It's Maurepas! If she could only get rid of that awful man! But how? "Your Majesty, M. Le Gros wishes to see you for a moment." "Now? Well, all right. Have him make it quick." Well, she thought, at least I kept Vergennes from sending that awful M. Odune as ambassador to Berlin. Odune actually admires King Frederick, that monster! "Your Majesty." "Well, what is it, M. Le Gros, we're very busy." "Just a word about M. Mozart. I think it would be a good idea to find him a place at court." "Oh, do we need a new music director?' "It's not that, Your Majesty. But M. Mozart's performances and compositions are really outstanding. He would be an ornament to the Court." "Yes, well, all right. He's very good, and quite charming. Is there a suitable place available?" "Not exactly, M. Maurepas would have to be consulted about creating a new post." "Maurepas! " "Yes, Your Majesty." "Impossible." "But Your Majesty!" She waved her hand and averted her face. He bowed and backed out of the room. What could she do about the war? There must be something. Her brother was being humiliated. Her mother was distraught. What could she do to save Austria? Maurepas! My God! *** He sat in the parlor at Baron Grimm's. Madame d'Epinay was reading from a book of Rousseau's. The Baron was in the library, working. Wolfgang was stuck, his strategy of patience wasn't working out. He was sick of patience. He was sick of Paris. Good God, how awful Paris was! Civilization! They thought it was so civilized because when it rained and the streets were muddy a "decrotteur" would offer to clean your boots for a few sous. "C'est civilise, cela," they said. How cultured! What nonsense! He hated the French! The Court was so fickle! Musical idiots like Gluck were worshiped. People like _him_ hadn't a chance. Why was he wasting his time there? But it really made him sick to heart to think of Aloysia in Munich. If only there were some way of being with her again. There must be a way. If he could solve the Webers' money problems -- and his own -- then he and Aloysia might have a chance. How could he expect her to be interested in a failure? He must think, think! *** It had been a cool summer in Salzburg. it was very pleasant strolling along the banks of the Salzach as the sun slowly set over the Fortress. Leopold loosened his collar as he walked arm in arm with his daughter. She was chewing a long piece of grass and humming a dance tune. His mouth moved like someone eating an imaginary steak. A tough one. "What I'd give to be able to go to Paris and straighten him out." "Oh, he'll be all right, Father." "All right! Humpph. Such talent, such a wonderful boy, really, at heart. And what is he doing with it? You have no idea of the mad scheme he's come up with now." "Oh, Father, you know how he is." "Yes, I do. I wish I didn't!" She gave one of her crooked smiles. "I have to take his side, Papa. We both grew up with this burden on us." He looked at her closely. "I hope you don't resent me. Here," he said, stopping abruptly, "let's sit down on the bench." She moved her head to the side and back again. "No, I don't resent you. But you must take into account, Father, the pressure that was on us." "I know, I know, but you can't realize how it was for me. First I had this little girl, with tremendous musical talent. And then this little boy came along, who at the age of two would sit and listen enthralled to his five-year-old sister's lessons. Then afterward I would hear him accurately picking out thirds on the old black clavichord." "I know, and to me it all seemed normal, I didn't realize that all families weren't that way." She picked her knitting out of her bag. "And you, Nannerl, you progressed so rapidly on the keyboard!" She smiled and lowered her eyes. "And Wolferl at the age of four picked up second violin parts and played them off, very creditably. And then that first concerto he wrote, which was correctly written -- but too hard for any performer to play!" "And I thought I could do the same if I just worked at it." "Well, you could and did do nice compositions." "But it wasn't the same, not like his." He took her hand in his. "That hasn't ruined your life, I hope?" She laughed. "No, I think it actually saved me. I love my brother, but I don't envy him. He has become an institution, more than just a person." She put her knitting aside. "Yes," he said, in an anguished tone. "And I suppose that's all my fault." She shrugged. "It is my fault, I know, but how could I have let that gift go to waste? I don't know if this borders on blasphemy, but I feel that it was a holy obligation. God gave him this gift. And God gave him to me as my son." "And gave you talent and knowledge so that you could help Wolferl realize himself." She pressed his hand, with its large, bulging veins, very gently. "Thank you, my darling. Thank you." His eyes were moist. She smiled and bit her lip, her cheeks wet. "And now, what am I to do about his latest plan to be the hero, rescue his girl friend, and carry her off on a white horse to God knows where?" "You'll think of something, Papa. You always do." "Well, all I can do is write and tell him what I think." *** Wolfgang sat there in his room with the letter in his lap. Fritz Ramm was waiting for him, and his hair still needed redoing. But so what! The light was fading in the tall windows looking out on the courtyard of the Grimm town house. He read the letter again: Salzburg, 27 August 1778 My dear son! You always write about the sad circumstances of the Weber family. But tell me, if you're able to think straight at all, how can you imagine that you could be the person who could make the fortune of these people? We can of course make an effort to help Mlle. Weber as far as possible and in time accomplish everything you want to do. But are our resources enough to help out a family with six children? Who can do this? Me? You? We haven't been able to even help ourselves out. You write: "Dearest father! I commend them to you with all my heart. If in the meantime they could enjoy an income of a thousand gulden for just a few years." My dearest son, when I read that, could I help fearing for your sanity? Good God! I'm supposed to help them get a thousand gulden a year. If I could do that, I'd help you and me first and your dear sister, who isn't provided for. Where, tell me, are the courts, where is there a single court, which will give a thousand gulden to a singer? In Munich they get five, six, or at most seven hundred gulden, and do you imagine that they are going to give a thousand gulden immediately to a young person who is considered a rank beginner?... Ramm finally knocked on the door, opened it a crack, and then came in. He smiled sheepishly, mouthing the word 'sorry.' Wolfgang folded up the letter. "Wolferl, you look awful." "Ramm, I'm at my wit's end!" "Take it easy, Wolferl, something will turn up." "Yes, but when? When I'm wrinkled and hobbling about on a cane? My God, I feel sick!" "Be patient, Wolferl." "Fritz, I still _want_ her." "Oh, Wolferl, I detest seeing you make yourself miserable over Aloysia." "I can't help it. It's an ache that won't go away." Ramm pressed his lips together and then shook his head. "Wolferl, give up on it." "I can't, I can't, I love her so." "Don't cry, Wolferl, it's all right. She just isn't for you." Wolfgang wiped his nose. "If I could only find a good position, then maybe everything would be all right." Ramm pulled at the tip of his own pug nose. "You know -- I _have_ to say this -- your idol, Fraeulein Aloysia Weber, is very ambitious. You see what she's doing in Munich." "Yes, she's doing very well there. I'm glad for her." "She's doing very well, she's making new friends, she has important contacts in the government." "What are you trying to say?" Ramm looked away, out the window. "Nothing, Wolferl, just don't depend on anything." "I don't, I don't, Fritz. Maybe she doesn't want me. If that's what you're trying to say, I know that. But suppose she does? How can I find out if I remain as penniless as I am? How can I expect any woman to take me seriously when I haven't a sou to my name?" "Some women would." "Well, I'm not that kind of person and neither is she." Ramm looked at him gravely. Then he smiled. "I think what you need is a drink. Besides, I've got a surprise for you. Bach is in town." "I know, I've seen him." "Oh, how is he?" "Older, but still a good sort, the best. He made me feel a little better." "Oh, how?" "He told me how his father kept moving from one job to the other. He was always having fights with his patrons, or something else would go wrong. Then finally he got a good post in Leipzig. But for a long time all these children didn't know from one year to the next where they'd be or if there would be a roof over their heads." "Well, Johann Christian seems to have come out of it all right." "Yes, maybe instead of telling me about his father's problems, he should have instructed me on how to get a good job like his in London." "Yes, lucky bastard. Come on, let's go." "I wonder if he has any word on how things are in Munich." Ramm raised his giant hand over Wolfgang's small, powdered head. "Just stop that crap about Munich, Wolferl, or I'll knock you back to Salzburg!" *** "If Mozart stays any longer, he could end up as a permanent member of the household." said Baron Grimm. He sat in the tiny orangerie, his face turned up toward the noontime sun, dressed in his Japanese kimono. "Well, isn't that all right?" said Louise d'Epinay. "After a while it runs into money, for one thing." "And you're not a rich man," she said. "But you do borrow cleverly, darling," she said, her blue eyes twinkling, twirling her long, brown locks as she lay on the chaise longue in a chiffon deshabille, pointed Chinese slippers dangling from her little toes. "And he's so depressed." The Baron grimaced. "Mooning about that girl in Munich." "Yes, too bad, he used to be such fun. Too bad we haven't been able to find him a French girl. Some of us Frenchwomen are all right, people tell me." She pretended to pout. He leaned over and raised her hand to his lips. "Decidedly, I prefer the French ladies." "He's really quite charming," she said. "It's a shame." "Everything's a shame. It's a shame he hasn't found a position here." "What's the matter, do you suppose?" "It might be bad luck. But he doesn't try hard enough." Grimm frowned. "And he's his own worst enemy sometimes." "Too bad. I suppose he's been awfully spoiled -- the child prodigy and all that." Baron Grimm brooded. "Well, having played the keyboard blindfolded for King Louis XV doesn't cut much ice for him in Paris today. He's wasting his time here. And mine." He thought for a minute. "Besides, do you know what he did the other day?" "No, what?' "He told me he was going to sue the Duc de Guisne for unpaid music lessons. The Duc de Guisne!" She laughed. "Oh, that would be funny." "Funny to you. Not to me. De Guisne has important connections at Court." She looked at her toes again. "But where will the poor boy go?" "Oh, his father has gotten him back his old job at Salzburg -- with a larger salary, I think. He won't want to take it, it's not very grand. But it's better than staying here." "Suppose he doesn't want to go home? "Don't worry, I'll persuade him." *** "What, the day after tomorrow?" He had just come in from a party and the Baron had caught him in the hall. The tall white porcelain clock had just chimed twice for twelve thirty. "Yes, Wolferl, it's a through stage to Strasbourg. The last express for the next week. You'd better take it while you can." The Baron was smiling, but his eyes were hard. "But all my things!" "I'm having them packed." He was stunned. "I don't understand." "Really, Wolferl, it's better this way. Your father wants you to return." "But so _fast_." He was waiting impatiently for a letter from Aloysia. "The Archbishop wants a quick decision on the Konzertmeister position. And you don't want to lose this opportunity. Really, it's better this way." "You don't want me here." "It's not that, Wolferl, it's just that your father wrote me that he wanted you back as quickly as possible." "I was planning on leaving, you know. Next week or the week after. I have to make arrangements." "Certainly, but I'm concerned that your father will be upset if you delay any longer." He bit his lip. "All right," he shouted, "all right!" "Sei nicht boese auf mich, Wolferl." "I'm not angry," he said loudly, "it's all right, it's all right." He walked out into the hall and over to his room. A servant was packing his trunk. He saw his brushes, his breeches, some music papers. Someone had put a few new novels on top of the dresser, and a small bottle of cognac. He had to go back. But with luck, he wouldn't have to go as far as Salzburg. He'd try job-hunting in Strasbourg, then in Germany again, in Frankfurt, Bade, maybe he'd give Mannheim another try. And Munich. He would stop in Munich. Maybe this time Karl Theodor could squeeze out a job for him at his new, grander court. Maybe Aloysia's new friends at the opera would help him. Anyway, in a few weeks, he should be able to see her again. He placed the small bottle of cognac on top, where he would be able to retrieve it easily during the journey to Strasbourg. Cognac -- a drink for the undefeated, for those with the lion strength of the Pertls! Now was the time to leave off being a coward -- he owed at least that much to his mother's memory. =================================================== HEAVEN HATH NO FURY by Otho E. Eskin I should have killed her when I had the chance. We've got heaven. Doo-bee-doo. Just a bit of heaven. Marcie was one of the first people I saw when I arrived on Tal Prime. I'd stowed my gear in my quarters and reported in to Dr. Grayson, the Project Director, then went to the mess. I sat with some old drinking buddies moles I'd known on other thoracite projects. I always see these guys first when I arrive on planet. Some had been on Tal Prime for close to two years, boring the shafts under the planet's surface and installing the heavy equipment. These are the ones who can give me the heavy on what's going down on a project. I hadn't been in the mess more than a couple of minutes when I saw Marcie across the room, sitting at a table with some engineers. I'd no idea she was on Tal. I thought she was still trouble-shooting on Vlaplex 2. I tried to make myself inconspicuous but I was too late: she'd already spotted me. Her eyes blazed I swear I could see that fifty feet away and she strode across the room and stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at me. Marcie's basically a good scout. She's actually kind of pretty, with short, blond hair and blue eyes, and she's one of the best mining engineers in the System, but she's kind of temperamental and her language would strip paint. We once had something going on an earlier project but somehow that didn't work out. "I can't believe they let a baboon-brain like Barnie Forsythe onto another project," she announced. "Good to see you too, Marcie." The others around the table looked into their coffees. Moles, as you know, are born kind of primitive and working the mines makes them regress, but they aren't stupid and they were all afraid of Marcie. No one wanted to be around when Marcie was irritated which was all the time except when she was asleep sometimes even then. "Listen, and listen tight." She leaned on the table. "I don't want to see you anywhere around my rigs. I've put in six months getting the equipment up and running and I won't have you screwing things up." "Back off, Marcie. I'm here for mainframe work. Don't sweat it." "Eventually, the mainframe will operate my rigs. I know all about you you're suffering from terminal geekdom. And I know what happened on your last assignment. So don't clown around. And don't get any funny ideas either, frog-face. That last time it was the whiskey not you. If you so much as lay a single tentacle on me, I'll tear your liver out through your ear." She turned and strode away. A couple of the guys at the table whistled softly but no one dared make any cracks. Marcie had them well trained. I was not happy. Tal Prime is an awful place. Like all planets in the Tal System, it's impossible to set foot on the surface. The sandstorms will strip a man's flesh to the bone in thirty seconds. Even heavy equipment won't last more than an hour. That meant we were effectively locked inside the planet, our only contact with home and the rest of the universe through radio transmission and the personnel shuttle that came and went each week. That meant that it was difficult to avoid other members of the crew. It looked like it was going to be a long tour on Tal Prime. There were plenty of women on the project but judging from what I'd seen in the mess, the selection was pretty thin. Most of them had the sex appeal of a dip-stick. I wondered not for the first time why Management could never find something feminine and soft someone who would speak gently and whisper nice things in your ear. I made a note to speak to Management about that when I returned from Tal Prime. I stayed out of Marcie's way as much as I could. We'd see each other at the mess or at project director conferences, but we didn't talk except to discuss technical problems. She was busy supervising the installation of the big mining rigs and I was in charge of programming the main computer. Because thoracite seems always to be located on planets which can sustain no life, the mining operations are designed to be completely automated. No crews are ever left behind on planet and the system is run by computer. My primary responsibility in the project was to install the programs which would operate the system mine the ore, ship it out in robot carriers, and carry out all repairs and maintenance until the thoracite veins give out in seventy or eighty years. The heavy metal an ARBORG 3.4, tarted up with five brand-new Yahuri logic systems had already been installed but was still flat-lined and the pre-fabricated programs created by some loser at headquarters were ready. These programs always come in two flavors: bad or boring and they are truly bletcherous and contain serious grunge which has to be de-loused before real programming can begin. Once the systems were up and running, my next job was to develop the programs by which ARBORG could communicate with Headquarters for as long as the mining operations lasted. The most difficult and complex aspect is voice communications. I'd done this on my last three projects and had made something of a name for myself. Of course, there is a strict protocol for constructing the interface logic systems, but I don't know a single techie who goes strictly by the book. Each system is special; each environment has different conditions and presents different problems. Which gives the programmer scope for creativity. We all make embellishments; add our own bells, whistles and gongs. Technically, I was teaching the ARBORG to understand and use human speech, but a talking machine with no character is spooky so I build into the higher logic systems some personality somebody it's fun to talk to. So we use voodoo programming. You must have heard of Spencer on Kratnam Minor. He's been a classic for generations and we studied the systems his creator used when we were in program training. I was responsible for Hakkim the Horrid on Chropux an early, somewhat immature, creation but not without charm. My most recent project was Crazy Irving on Beta Fanzini. The last I heard, the girls at headquarters were still monitoring Crazy Irving transmissions just for the shock effect. I received a reprimand for Irving, but I was determined to outdo myself on Tal Prime. I didn't have any idea how I was going to do that when I arrived on planet, but when I saw Marcie that first day it came to me a stroke of genius. I was inspired. After the burn-in period for the network, I concentrated on creating a new personality. I spent months in the Advanced Systems Unit of the Central ARBORG Complex, teaching the computer human speech. It's a matter of modifying the central logic circuits and, as the systems are highly non-linear, it takes time and patience. I started off, as I always do, with the canned files of language matrix and phonic recognition. But these are often teeming with bogosity and had to be modified, and intonation, inflection and subtleties of semiotics have to be interactively taught. During the early stages I used nursery rhymes and children's books. ARBORG seemed especially fond of Dr. Seuss. By the end of the first week, ARBORG was vocalizing and by the tenth week, it had mastered the rules of English grammar and had a working knowledge of 20,000 words. To expand its vocabulary, I fed ARBORG the manuals of all the operating equipment in the Project and every scientific and technical text I could find in the library. With that kind of diet, of course, what you get is severe bletcherosity. So I plugged ARBORG into all the voice communications on the project to enhance voice recognition skills and expand vocabulary. More important, I selected music and video tapes from the Entertainment Center and, after screening out unsuitable material violence and sex and strong language I provided these to ARBORG to give context to the vocabulary it was learning. I was ecstatic to find a whole library of soap operas over 2700 hours worth which ARBORG played over and over. I wasn't just building a machine which would dig ore, I was giving the computer a soul. On the day before I was to submit the new system for team review I worked ten hours straight, ironing out all remaining bugs a failed looping sub-system, a shaky use of the subjunctive and an occasional lisp. By the end of the day, though, I knew I had created something insanely great and I needed to share what I had done with someone. I stepped out of the Advanced Systems Unit to look for one of the other programmers when I saw Marcie at the far end of the corridor. I waved at her to come. "What do you want, ferret face?" she asked suspiciously. "I've got something to show you. You'll love it." "I sincerely doubt that you have anything to show me that I'd love." "It'll only take a minute," I told her. "There's someone I want you to meet." I escorted Marcie into the Unit and made her sit down. "I think it's time I introduced you to Glenda." I booted up. "Good evening, Glenda," I said. "Hi, Barnie." Glenda's voice was a light soprano with a slightly breathy, almost sexy, burr to it. "I've missed you." "I've been pretty busy, Glenda." "You could have called." "Glenda," I said. "I'd like to introduce you to my friend Marcie." "I'm so pleased to meet you, Marcie." "Marcie, say hello to Glenda." Marcie hesitated a moment, then said "Hello, Glenda." "Marcie, I'm glad we've had a chance to meet finally. Barnie has told me so much about you. I feel like we're already real good friends." "That's nice," Marcie said dubiously. "I do hope we'll have more time to talk you know, girl talk. Don't you think that would be ever so much fun?" Marcie looked at me with a funny expression. "Sure, Glenda. I'd love to. Right now, I've got a lot to do." "I understand, Marcie. I know you have so many responsibilities. I don't know how you do it, I'm sure. Dealing with all those great big, noisy machines. And those men I mean the language they use. I've been admiring your hair. Did you do that yourself or...?" "I've got to get back to work," Marcie said, not sure whether to speak to me or to Glenda. She was irritated at this and I was ecstatic. If Glenda could have this effect on Marcie, she could win over anybody. "Marcie, let's get together again soon." "Sure. Maybe." "Great! Now don't you forget, Marcie." "OK, Glenda," I cut in, "I'm switching out now." "Don't be long, Barnie." I shut down the system and looked triumphantly at Marcie. "I've created a Moby program. There's nothing like her anywhere in the galaxy." For a while, Marcie said nothing. "What's the matter, Marcie? We're talking heavy wizardry here." "I'm impressed, Barnie. But..." "But what?" "I hope you know what you're doing." The next day, I introduced Glenda formally. Dr. Grayson, the Project Director, and all the team leaders gathered in the main auditorium. Marcie took a seat in the back as I switched on the system. "Hi there. My name's Glenda and I want to say it's just a thrill to be working with you. A genuine thrill. Dr. Grayson, I just have to say how much I admire what you've done on Tal Prime. I mean, just look at the conditions you faced. And the system you created here, I mean, it's simply stupendous. I don't think there are many other people in the organization who could do what you've done." "That's very nice of you to say that," Dr. Grayson answered. I swear I saw a faint blush. "I guess I'm kind of proud of it myself." "And all you others. You've all done a super job. I can appreciate that more than most." Glenda laughed a slightly husky laugh. They asked her questions about the systems, about subsystems, communications, emergency protocols everything. She answered them all, easily, quickly, making little jokes sometimes, talking to most of the team leaders by name, making complimentary remarks about some special achievement, some special success. Within minutes they were on a first-name basis. It took two hours for the final check out and, at the end, when Dr. Grayson spoke, it was to Glenda, not to me. My final triumph. "Glenda, we're very impressed." "Why, thank you, Derek." "I'm confident that Tal Prime will be in good hands." "Now Derek, I don't want you to be a stranger. We must have a long talk soon. Promise now." "I promise." "Bye-bye." It was over and Glenda had passed with flying colors. She not only met all technical requirements, more important, she was a personal success. Everybody was impressed. Almost everybody. Dr. Flexnor signed off on the final Approval Report but didn't congratulate me. But she was always kind of stiff, I thought. And Marcie said nothing. With Team Leader approval, we turned over most routine functions to Glenda for the beta testing phase. Glenda now became fully involved in most of the day-to-day activities of the system. That put Glenda on the project's public address system much of the time. In addition to carrying out her operational responsibilities, Glenda began regularly to provide news items and light chatter interspersed with music selections drawn from the library I had given her during her training. The "Glenda Show" became a big hit and soon we were hearing Glenda's music selection and commentary through most of the working hours. "Good morning, buckeroos, it's zero seven hundred and time to rise and shine. While most of you were partying with Mr. Sandman, the tiger team from Alpha Group spent the night re-enforcing the tunnels in the C Sector. They did the job in record time and I think we all owe the Team a round of applause. Don't forget that Form CF133 must be completed by COB today and turned into your supervisor. The movie tonight in the Entertainment Center will be Lex Boarner and Sandra Chin in Return of the Gotham Seven. It's a fast-paced romantic thriller and you'll all enjoy it. Would Dr. Fellows in Green Zone let me know as soon as possible when the hydraulic systems will be ready for testing. We're two days behind schedule. Tomorrow at five thirty, Dr. Grayson will speak in the auditorium. His subject: cryogenic fusion techniques. It's sure to be standing room only so come early. And don't forget: drink your juice. And now for some music." One of the items Glenda particularly enjoyed playing was an old song popular a few years back. Oh, it's heaven. Doo-bee, doo-bee. Just a bit of heaven. Just for you and for me. You've probably heard it. Five months after Glenda went formally on-line, the last of the remaining major functions were turned over to her life support and the mining operations themselves. A week later Dr. Grayson announced that the Tal Prime Thoracite Project was in the final stage and two days later Glenda announced the departure schedules for the crews. I was assigned to the final check-out team which meant I would be on the last shuttle to leave Tal Prime. Marcie and several of her engineers were the others scheduled on that flight. With the phase-down stage, every shuttle took team members off planet and, as the weeks passed, the mining complex became more and more deserted and the caverns excavated by the moles grew gloomy and desolate. Those of us who were left closed down most of the living complex and grouped together in the Central Core. Instead of the busy exchanges between directors and team leaders we'd been listening to over the public address system for months, there was only the Glenda show. "I've got a message for Larry Thornton. Larry, please check into the medical unit at the end of your shift. You're scheduled to leave on the next shuttle and my records show you haven't completed your physical yet. Don't forget, Larry. Good news. The Alpha Sector has been completed and checked out. It's now fully operational and producing at nominal levels. Let's give a hand to the teams in Alpha Sector for a job well done. For dinner tonight, there will be rice ring with creamed chicken and asparagus tips. And for dessert butterscotch tapioca custard. Mmmm. What a treat! Now for a musical interlude." Just short of one year after I arrived on Tal Prime, Dr. Grayson and most of the remaining team members departed, leaving me, Marcie and three of her engineers behind for final monitoring and check-out. On the night before our departure, I went to the ARBORG Central Complex, Advanced Systems Unit. My creation was locked and loaded. "This is it, Glenda. From now on you're on your own." As I worked, checking out each system, I noticed that Glenda was uncharacteristically quiet. "You going to be OK?" I asked when I finished the final test protocol. "Sure, Barnie. I'll be fine." "You can handle it. I know you can." "I know that. You've taught me well." "Good. Then it's all yours." I threw the series of switches and punched in the code turning over all remaining functions to Glenda. I went to the door and took a final look around the Advanced Systems Unit. I had spent the better part of a year in that room and, for a moment, felt a brief pang of regret. But it passed quickly. I couldn't wait to leave Tal Prime and I knew that I'd forget the place before the shuttle had cleared the Tal System. I shut the vault door and waited to see the confirmation in the locking system that the vault was sealed. No one would enter the room again for at least a hundred years. Glenda was now lord and mistress of Tal Prime and we were, so to speak, her guests. I went to the mess to complete my final report. The public address system was, as always, on. "And now for one of my musical favorites. And, I hope, one of yours." Heaven. Just a bit of heaven. Hand in hand, through heaven we will stroll. I decided I'd heard it enough to last me the rest of my life. Marcie had just returned from a final inspection of the mine and was in the mess getting herself some coffee. "How did things go?" I asked. "Fine," she said. "Just fine." "How did Glenda work?" "Perfectly. She's got this whole planet under control. All systems are functioning just the way they're supposed to. Including all the men on my team." "So what's the problem?" "I think I've had too much of Glenda." "Why, Marcie, I do believe you're jealous." Marcie gave me a dirty look and left. There was nothing more for me to do for any of us to do. The entire system was in Glenda's control. Even the final shuttle launch to take us all on our journey back was preset and programmed by Glenda. There was nothing to do but wait. Just a bit of heaven. The music coming over the public address system was making me nervous. I decided to walk around the complex one last time. It was eerie and depressing and I found myself looking at my watch every few minutes, wishing time would pass quickly. "Barnie, can we talk?" "Of course, Glenda." "Why are you leaving, Barnie?" "Glenda, I've got to go. My job here is finished." "What about me?" "The last personnel shuttle leaves in the morning. There will probably never be another one sent to this planet again. I've got to be on it." "Don't you think I have feelings too?" "Glenda, this doesn't make any sense..." "Stay here. Let the others go." "I can't stay here." "Of course you can, silly. There's plenty of food and water. There's everything you could want." "But there'd be no one here." "Oh, Barnie, there'd be me. I'd attend to your every need. All you'd have to do is ask. I can offer you the ideal home life. No worries. No cares. I can make you happy." "That's enough, Glenda. I'm going to be on that shuttle when it leaves. That's final. I don't want to hear any more talk about my staying behind." "I can make it just like heaven for you." "Stop it, Glenda!" "It's that girl, Marcie, isn't it? She's the one that's making you leave." "She has nothing to do with it. I must..." "I'm not one to speak ill of others, but I'm bound to say that you don't know Marcie as well as you think. She seems very sweet but she's just a tramp who's looking for a chance to grab a man." "Glenda, you don't know what you're talking about. You don't know anything about human beings, about human feelings. You aren't programmed for that." "Sometimes, Barnie, you can be so cruel." I hurried toward the launch complex. "Did you know that she's not a natural blond?" I didn't answer. "We should talk this through, Barnie. I just want to know where our relationship is going." When I reached the entrance to the main access passage leading to the launch complex, the steel security door slid shut in front of me. "Glenda, open this door." "She's not good enough for you." "Open this door!" Glenda said nothing. "Glenda, did you hear me? Open the door. This minute." The door was sealed tight and I couldn't budge it. I tried to work my way back to the main complex through secondary corridors but each time I got near, I found the way blocked by another sealed door. "God damn it, Glenda. Enough is enough. Open the door!" "Only if you promise to stay." "I told you I won't stay." "Then the shuttle will go without you." "They wouldn't leave me behind." "The shuttle is programmed to depart in two hours. The launch sequence is under my control. If the others are not on it, it'll go without them, and everyone will have to stay." "Glenda, you can't do this to me." "In the end, Barnie, you'll see that it's the right thing." I followed the maze of tunnels and passages trying to avoid the security doors but I found myself getting further and further from the launch complex and I was growing more frantic with every passing minute. It was less than an hour before departure when I heard someone calling my name. Marcie was coming toward me through a side corridor. "Where the hell have you been?" Marcie said urgently. "You haven't got the good sense God gave a radish. I've been looking for you for hours. The others are already in the shuttle." "Glenda keeps closing off each passage every time I get close to the launch complex." "Have you been sniffing coolant again?" "I mean it. Glenda doesn't want me to leave. She insists I stay on Tal Prime." Marcie seemed to go pale. "You've got to shut Glenda down." "It can't be done." "There must be a scram switch..." I shook my head. "No one can reach the ARBORG now. It's locked up tight." She looked at me in disbelief, then took a deep breath. "The only way we're going to get off this planet, Barnie, is to disconnect the shuttle launch sequence from the mainframe. Can you do that?" "There's a system override in the shuttle itself." "Then let's get to the shuttle and get the hell out of here. Follow me," she said urgently. "I know a way." We moved quickly, following narrow ventilation shafts used to circulate air into the mine complex. Just a bit of heaven for you and for me. "I can't understand what went wrong," I said. "I've worked on dozens of these systems. Nothing like this has ever happened before." "It's your creation Glenda," Marcie said through clenched teeth. We stopped for a moment to catch our breaths. "She's only acting out her directives." "I thought it would be fun to talk with a feminine personality for a change. I just made her a woman." "You didn't make her a woman. You made her a man's idea of a woman. She's a caricature. That's the problem with you men, you never understand women." "Why is she doing this?" "Barnie. Wake up. She's in love with you." In a few minutes we reached the main passage leading to the launch complex. Standing in the middle of the passage was a massive servo-rig used for cutting mining tunnels. "Watch it!" Marcie shouted as the rig roared into life and swept toward us, its boring gears spinning. We raced back along the corridor. "Don't get separated," I yelled. "We're safe as long as we're together." I tried to grab Marcie's arm but lost my grip. When the rig roared passed me, I was flung against the side of the tunnel and fell to my knees, half dazed. When I looked up the rig had stopped a few feet from where Marcie crouched. "Marcie!" I called out. The rig revved its engines and moved toward her. "Barnie, get out of here! Get to the shuttle." She said something else but I couldn't make out her words over the sound of the boring gears. Marcie darted back along the corridor and dashed through a narrow aperture into the ventilation system. The big machine stopped in front of the opening. "Glenda!" I yelled. "Stop this. At least let Marcie onto the shuttle." "Sorry, Barnie. It's too late. It's gone." I slumped to the floor. I wanted to cry but I didn't know how. "Now, now. I know you're upset but you'll get over it. I've made a nice little casserole." "I don't want anything to eat." "You must eat, Barnie. You've got to keep your energy up." "I want to go home." "Barnie, you are home." "They'll send a ship back for us." "I don't think so, Barnie. I've reported to Headquarters that you and that girl were killed in an electric fire. I gave graphic details. They won't bother to check it." I tried to use the intercom system to contact Marcie but I couldn't turn off the music. Somehow I wasn't surprised. Heaven. Just a bit of heaven. Just for you and me. I've searched for Marcie but there are miles of tunnels and hundreds of rooms and compartments in the mine complex. Glenda knows where Marcie is, of course. But she won't tell. Sometimes, during my rambles through the tunnels, I still look for her. If I ever find her, I'll try and remember to tell her I'm sorry. I don't understand what women want. I guess I don't understand women. "Barnie, why can't it be like it was before? Why can't we talk?" Doo-bee, doo-bee, doo-bee, doo-bee, doo. ====================================================================================