[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
February 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I was sitting in the dining-bar of the Thousand Lights, in New York,
watching Kelly as the woman walked into the bar. There was a ripple,
an undercurrent of sensation. Not because of the way she looked, not
because of her dress, but because she was an Ideal. People hate Ideals.
The better-looking they are the more they are hated, and this one was
right on top.
I sat at a table about twelve feet from Kelly. He sat at the bar and
I could see his face in the mirror. His face scowled in an expression
of hate. I saw him pick up his cigarettes and make a ball of the empty
package with his fist. He tried to look away; his eyes crossed mine and
he didn't even recognize me.
The Ideal came up to him and slipped on the stool beside him with some
word of greeting. She was human all right. Too human. She was dressed
in white. Most of them dress in white. There was some gold sprinkled on
her costume. It was very expensive, made of Scolarian cloth, flowing
around her body. Kelly bit his lip and pulled away from the touch of
her arm. It was a well-rounded arm, white and perfect in the soft
lights of the bar. The face was pleasant with a youthful glow. Her red
hair was soft enough to halo, strong enough to fall a bit this way
and that as she turned. She had a small nose, blue Irish eyes and a
smattering of freckles.
She looked a little bit like Kelly.
She went on talking. When she smiled her white teeth flashed and
sparkled. Nobody from earth quite had teeth like that.
The bartender set a drink before Kelly, took the Ideal's order. She
made a few comments to Kelly and he dipped his face despairingly in
his arms. The rest of the people in the bar went unconcernedly about
their business.
"God damn it! Leave me alone!"
Kelly burst out just as the bartender served the girl's drink. Kelly
took his own drink and threw it in the pretty Irish face of the
redhead, whipped away from the stool and was gone. I caught a glimpse
of his face as he went past and it was frightening. It was the face
of a man who can never get drunk again, who can never really sleep
again. You took one look at him and knew he'd been in deep space on the
Stardust Overdrive, but it seemed queer to see the look on a familiar
face.
My own insides felt cold. First Kelly made the moon. Then I did. Then I
made Mars. Then he did. Then he went on the Stardust Overdrive ... and
came back with his Ideal....
* * * * *
Kelly's redhead wiped the drink from her face, flushing a little. A
bouncer came up and told her to leave. She gave him the look they
all have. Of patience, of humor, of some exasperation. Some of her
delectable red hair was soaked with the drink but she pushed it back
from her eyes and got up. She gave a wistful glance at her untouched
drink and started to go. She went past my table with a flash of smooth
legs. There was the faint odor of deep-space perfume. The crowd parted
in distaste from her, but a couple of near-spacemen made some grinning
cracks and whistled.