The apartment was empty. So
was she. But not for long.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The apartment is called a single. It contains a Murphy bed, a chest of
drawers, an overstuffed chair, a sofa, a coffee table, a seventeen-inch
television set, a bookcase partially filled with the volumes A through
F of an encyclopedia from the supermarket, assorted paperback books,
and a radio that doesn't work. In the ceiling is a fixture with two
twenty-five-watt bulbs. A short hallway leads to the bathroom and the
kitchen.
Julia Fenway stood outside her apartment, fumbling in her bag for her
keys. She had never had any trouble finding her keys before. Her purse
was always neat and orderly. And she was breathing hard. Breathing
hard from the short walk from the bus at the corner and down the long
corridor to the private, the lonesome apartment door.
Those keys! Where are those keys! I'm becoming a regular pack rat
lately. Look at that bag! Did you ever see so much junk? She thrust
her hand deep inside and felt around. A crumpled kleenex, worn-out
lipstick, change purse, pencils, movie stubs ... a coldness, the keys.
Her heart was pounding. She pressed the hand with the keys to her
bosom. It _was_ pounding. At least it was working.
She managed to get the door open just as the landlady's door down the
hall gushed forth cooked cabbage odor and Mrs. Shultz stuck her head
out. Julia closed her door behind her until she heard the lock click.
Of all the people in the world, why was it the Mrs. Shultzes she
attracted?
At the sound of the lock, the cat, Belle, poked her head out of the
kitchen. She walked lazily into the room, rubbing her side along the
wall to scratch off the sleep. Then she leaped to the top of the
dresser and started to wash herself.
* * * * *
Julia stood with her back against the door. Her arms, tired of reaching
out, hung limply against her sides. A ray of sunlight streamed through
the partly open window and a little pool of it snuggled on her pillow.
It had been such a long ride in from Beverly Hills and on two buses.
She had sat in the back where it wasn't so crowded and the smell of
exhaust was still in her nostrils.
She walked over to the dresser and put her purse down beside the cat
and ran her fingers caressingly through the soft fur. Belle took a
swipe with a hind paw. Julia rested her head on the dresser.
"I'm going to die, Belle."
The cat sat up and lifted a front paw. She washed it with little
delicate strokes from her tongue.
Julia moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. She slipped
her shoes off. Her feet hurt. They always hurt in heels. Why does one
get dressed up to see the doctor? He could have told her she had six
months to live while she was wearing flats.
He didn't actually blurt it out as I walked in the door. He fooled
around under that sheet for a long time. And then he said it. No, not
then either. He just looked pained and hurt and a little white around
the lips and he told me to get dressed and come into his office. He had
the lab reports on his desk and he pounded on them and he said you're
as good as dead now!
I wish he had! Then I could hate him. I could hate instead of feeling
numb all over. He didn't want to tell me anything. Just get ready for
an operation. No, there really wasn't any rush. But soon. And then I
dragged it out of him. I insisted I had a right to know. It was my
life. No, I don't have any family here. No one ... no one! A brother in
New York. Don't call him! The doctor stammered like a schoolboy who's
unprepared in class.
Julia fell back on the bed. She stared at the unlighted ceiling
fixture. She should cry, but she'd cried in the doctor's office and
there was nothing left to cry. Six months to live. Maybe only five
months. Certainly no more than seven with the operation.
A spring in the bed got her in the back. She ought to tell Mrs. Shultz
to fix that. She certainly didn't want to spend her last six months
sleeping on a loose spring. Spend her last six months!
She turned over on her stomach and pressed her face into the blanket.
Her body was rigid. She tried to contemplate her own death. She should
call her brother. No, she would die first.
"Hello, excuse me, my name is Vassi."
Julia raised her head and looked around the room. It was empty.
"Would you say this is a typical prior dwelling?"
Julia sat up. There was no one.
"Oh, I hadn't thought of that possibility. I suppose we don't have a
similar frame of reference. You'll never understand my thoughts."
* * * * *
She got off the bed. She walked around the room and her stocking feet
made little padded sounds on the cotton carpet. Then she crossed to the
door of the apartment and pressed her ear against it.
"Are you a ventriloquist?" she said.
"A ventriloquist? Oh, my, no. I'm an historian." The voice was in her
head.
"I'm insane." It had to happen. She touched her finger-tips to her
mouth.
"Is that so? That's too bad. We're over and done with that sort of
thing."
"I'll wash my face with cold water. It must be the strain. I shouldn't
have forced the doctor...."
"You _are_ alone, aren't you? I looked around rather carefully.
I didn't see anyone except that ... that thing on that piece of
furniture."
Julia looked at Belle. The cat was asleep on the dresser. She started
to walk to the bathroom but stopped in front of the bed and sat down.
Her head was going to burst.
"Please" she said. "Please stop."
"I really don't want to intrude. But I have my recorder right here.
It won't take long and then I must move on. Now I notice you're fully
dressed. Most remarkable. We always thought you prior people indulged
in sex orgies almost continuously."
"My God!"
"Your thoughts are confused. Is it because you're insane? You haven't
had much experience in thought projection, have you?"
Julia jumped from the bed and ran into the bathroom. She locked the
door behind her and turned on the cold water full force. She cupped her
hands under the faucet and plunged her face into the cascading coldness.
My name is Julia Fenway. I'm a file clerk at Continental Insurance. I'm
going to die and I'm not preoccupied with sex.
She turned off the faucet and stared into the sink. The water gathered
into a little whirlpool and disappeared down the drain. There was a
knock on the bathroom door.
The voice was in her head. "I wonder if I could see that. We have some
rather indistinct writings on running water. I'd like to bring them up
to date."
The cold water didn't help. If anything, it was worse now. The knocking
came from the door. She was sure of it. But the voice ... the voice was
inside her.
"May I come in?"
Julia sat down on the edge of the tub. She squeezed her head between
her hands. I don't deserve this. What did I do to deserve this?
"Please. I'm on a tight schedule."
"So am I! Go away!" She was talking to it. She was talking to the voice
in her head.
Then it was very quiet. Julia watched the door, waiting for someone to
walk through its solidness. Nothing happened. She lowered her head and
started to count the tiny tiles in the floor.
If I count one row very carefully, it will take me five minutes, two
rows ten minutes, three rows....
She started to count.
* * * * *
As she was midway through the fourth row, the voice said, "I don't
think you realize the importance of my visit. We recognize your right
of privacy, but don't you feel in this case...?"