[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
All she wanted was a mate and she had the gumption
to go out and hunt one down. But that meant
poaching in a strictly forbidden territory!
The best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was
something of a paradox. She was thirty-three years old, certainly not
aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now
up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent
paths across her face and now she needed certain remedial undergarments
at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was
also looking for a husband.
This, in itself, was not unusual--but Matilda was so completely
wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince
charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted
of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and
talk about it all to Matilda.
The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed
Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over
a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible
bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she
had been waiting for him.
Matilda, you see, had patience.
She also had a fetish. Matilda had received her A.B. from exclusive
Ursula Johns College and Radcliff had yielded her Masters degree, yet
Matilda was an avid follower of the pen pal columns. She would read
them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine
names which, through a system known only to Matilda, had an affinity
to her own. To the gentlemen upon whom these names were affixed,
Matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow Penshaws,
that it was in this way she would find her husband. The widow Penshaws
impatiently told her to go out and get dates.
* * * * *
That particular night, Matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the
garage and walked up the walk to the porch. The widow Penshaws was
rocking on the glider and Matilda said hello.
The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda's left hand
in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger.
"I thought so," she said. "I knew this was coming when I saw that look
in your eye at dinner. Where is Herman's engagement ring?"
Matilda smiled. "It wouldn't have worked out, Ma. He was too darned
stuffy. I gave him his ring and said thanks anyway and he smiled
politely and said he wished I had told him sooner because his fifteenth
college reunion was this weekend and he had already turned down the
invitation."
The widow Penshaws nodded regretfully. "That was thoughtful of Herman
to hide his feelings."
"Hogwash!" said her daughter. "He has no true feelings. He's sorry that
he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy
Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others."
"But, Matilda, that's your fifth broken engagement in three years. It
ain't that you ain't popular, but you just don't want to cooperate.
You don't _fall_ in love, Matilda--no one does. Love osmoses into you
slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time."
Matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found
nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact
of love. She said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her
light summer dress and took a cold shower.
She began to hum to herself. She had not yet seen the pen pal section
of the current _Literary Review_, and because the subject matter of
that magazine was somewhat highbrow and cosmopolitan, she could expect
a gratifying selection of pen pals.
She shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself
dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her
bedroom. She dared not let the widow Penshaws know that she slept in
the nude; the widow Penshaws would object to a girl sleeping in the
nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away.
Matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each
ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!).
Then she propped up her pillows--two pillows partially stopped her
post-nasal drip; and took the latest issue of the _Literary Review_
off the night table.
She flipped through the pages and came to personals. Someone in
Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a
midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in
ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same
subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because
he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and--
* * * * *
Matilda read the next one twice. Then she held it close to the light
and read it again. The _Literary Review_ was one of the few magazines
which printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and
Matilda even liked the sound of the name. But mostly, she had to admit
to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be
_it_. Or, that is, _him_.
Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around,
whose universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look
like a provincial hick, is in need of several female
correspondents: must be intelligent, have gumption, be capable of
listening to male who has a lot to say and wants to say it. All
others need not apply. Wonderful opportunity cultural
experience ... Haron Gorka, Cedar Falls, Ill.
The man was egotistical, all right; Matilda could see that. But she had
never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something
about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. The man sounded
as though he would have reason indeed. He only wanted the best because
he was the best. Like calls to like.
The name--Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda.
Haron Gorka--the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had
no nationality for all intents and purposes; he was an international
man, a figure among figures, a paragon....
Matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. The moon shone in
through the window brightly, and at such times Matilda generally would
get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from
her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence
keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. But this time it did not
disturb her, and she would let it shine. Cedar Falls was a small town
not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and
jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of
writing a letter.
Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Dressed
properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and
she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to Cedar Falls.
* * * * *
Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered
with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom,
dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and
figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were
perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the
mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger,
and tiptoed downstairs.
The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stairwell.
"Mother," gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something
unexpected. "What on earth are you doing up?"
The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put
in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. "I'm fixing
breakfast, of course...."
Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak
about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even
if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the
magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with like
only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.
* * * * *
Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour,
Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her
favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you
are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought
that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar
Falls and find out.
And so she got there.
The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a
stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This
man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses
which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over
his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.
"Hello," said Matilda.
The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda
asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.
"What?"
"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?"
"Is that in the United States?"
"It's not a that; it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live?
What's the quickest way to get there?"
The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "Now
take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka--"
Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an
_oh_ under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the
stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda almost
happily that he was sorry he couldn't help her. He grudgingly suggested
that if it really were important, she might check with the police.
Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned
out that no one did: Matilda tried the general store, the fire
department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas
stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at
random. As far us the gentry of Cedar Falls was concerned, Haron Gorka
did not exist.
Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this
early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she
knew that she'd rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at
least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked
to analyze other people's mistakes, especially Matilda's.
Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls' small and
unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by
browsing through the dusty slacks.
This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be
called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small
building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library
still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the
old librarian as she passed.
* * * * *
Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda
Penshaws--complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray
hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure....
On the other hand--why not? Why couldn't the librarian help her? Why
hadn't she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well-educated as
Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent
residence here in Cedar Palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his
own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection
of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the
librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.