Part 22 (1/2)

SET ON BROAD MAHOGANY DESK-TOP.

CAMERA MOVES IN:.

Rumbles for Rent?

Los Angeles (UniPress) An unidentified spokesman for a major television network today revealed his organization last week was offered ”the inside track” in covering the activities of a notorious California motorcycle gang. A man purporting to be the gang's ”press officer” approached Hollywood representatives of the network July 13 with the proposal that in exchange for an undisclosed sum of money, the gang would create a ”rumble” in any small town the network chose. For its money the network would receive exclusive photographic coverage of the event.

The unidentified network spokesman stated: ”We turned down the offer, of course. It was never treated as a serious proposal by any of the network management personnel. If the self-appointed ”press officer” were quite sincere in proffering his offer, then his proposition is a deplorable commentary on our times. If he were attempting some sort of hoax, then his effort was in the worst possible taste.”

The network spokesman stated further that the man's description has been turned over to Los Angeles County authorities for possible investigation.

DIRECT CUT TO:.

MONTAGE:.

The Personnel Director was kind, but firm. ”I'm sorry, Mr. Randall, but I'm afraid that KNBS cannot see fit to rehire you in any capacity.” The Network was not, however, without a sense of largesse. Don't rock the boat, Cal. We'd hate to put your name on a blacklist Don't rock the boat, Cal. We'd hate to put your name on a blacklist.

”Tell your brother to shove his car-peddling job,” Barney told his wife in the morning. ”I'm sticking with KNBS. News reporting's gonna be a job with a future.”

A still form, white against the darkness of the alley. Not dead yet, but waiting. Hoping.

MATCH DISSOLVE TO:.

The plastic flash of capped teeth. Feral, somehow. The television-blue s.h.i.+rt. The pleasantly deep baritone.

”...and those are the latest stories currently making headlines in the Golden State. From behind the Enerco News Desk, this is Irvin Conley saying good night, and have a good weekend.”

FADE OUT:.

Afterword.

”Ten O'Clock Report” is a story about prost.i.tution. I was angry when I wrote it and I become angry each time I read it again. I am angry with the vast majority of good citizens who sell out their souls for their particular messes of pottage, be they money, prestige, emotional t.i.tillation, or whatever. I am angry with everyone who submits peacefully to having his mind seduced by the vast-scaled rotten things that pervade our society. Further, I am angry with all you people who don't even attempt to do do anything about those aforementioned rotten things. And that includes me. After all, all I did was to write the story. anything about those aforementioned rotten things. And that includes me. After all, all I did was to write the story.

No, I don't have a thick, black beard and dwell sullenly back in the hills in a cave. My beard is brown and scraggly and I live out in the world, just like the rest of you. But I have have worked as a broadcast newsman and have had experiences with events such as described in ”Ten O'Clock Report,” although on a much less spectacular scale. And I worked as a broadcast newsman and have had experiences with events such as described in ”Ten O'Clock Report,” although on a much less spectacular scale. And I have have grown up as a member of the generation which has seen America adopt violence as a spectator sport second in popularity only to s.e.x (s.e.x as a spectator activity doesn't turn me on either, but that's a theme for another story...). grown up as a member of the generation which has seen America adopt violence as a spectator sport second in popularity only to s.e.x (s.e.x as a spectator activity doesn't turn me on either, but that's a theme for another story...).

One June evening in 1968 I was seated in a grubby pizza parlor in a small western Pennsylvania town with a little group of both established and would-be SF writers. At the time I was still luxuriating in the warm glow of having made my first professional sale. SF author Chip Delany then intruded into that pleasant glow with an uncomfortably pointed question. ”Ed,” he asked. ”Just why do you want to write?” That was a tough question. It still is. The answer I gave then, after a lot of desperate thinking, was: ”I write because I want to tell people something.” I think that answer still holds true for me. This story is an embodiment of that thought; it contains elements of both commentary and warning. Beyond that, it is designed to be entertainment.

I never intended to become a preacher.

Introduction to THE FUNERAL.

It is so easy to be charmed by the total womanness womanness of Kate Wilhelm, so easy to lose one's perspective of her as a human being in pure affection and admiration, that I sometimes forget for a moment that she is one of the very finest writers in America today. She is certainly the very best we have working in the field of speculative fiction. I will not defend that statement, nor elaborate upon it. Her work speaks most eloquently to the point. of Kate Wilhelm, so easy to lose one's perspective of her as a human being in pure affection and admiration, that I sometimes forget for a moment that she is one of the very finest writers in America today. She is certainly the very best we have working in the field of speculative fiction. I will not defend that statement, nor elaborate upon it. Her work speaks most eloquently to the point.

Kate is a very private sort of woman, and so the background data I have at hand is skimpy. She was born in Toledo, Ohio on June 8th, 1928; she has two semi-adult sons by her first marriage and a third-Jonathan the Loud-by her current spouse, Damon Knight. She is on the Visiting Lecturer staff of the Tulane University Workshop in SF & Fantasy, as she was on the staff of the original Clarion College Workshop. She is the author of The Mile Long s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, The Nevermore Affair, The Downstairs Room, Let the Fire Fall, More Bitter Than Death, The Killer Thing The Mile Long s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, The Nevermore Affair, The Downstairs Room, Let the Fire Fall, More Bitter Than Death, The Killer Thing and and Abyss Abyss. With Ted Thomas she is the author of The Clone The Clone and and The Year of the Cloud The Year of the Cloud. Her big new novel, Margaret and I Margaret and I is a marvel, despite the uninformed and b.e.s.t.i.a.l review in is a marvel, despite the uninformed and b.e.s.t.i.a.l review in Newsweek Newsweek.

She is not only a writer sui generis sui generis, but a student of the English language and as sure and incisive a critic as any writer could be blessed to have appraising his ma.n.u.script. She is also one of the gentlest, toughest creatures G.o.d ever put on this Earth.

”The Funeral” is so good, it hurts. I hope I have not invaded her privacy with these brief comments.

THE FUNERAL.

Kate Wilhelm No one could say exactly how old Madam Westfall was when she finally died. At least one hundred twenty, it was estimated. At the very least. For twenty years Madam Westfall had been a sh.e.l.l containing the very latest products of advances made in gerontology, and now she was dead. What lay on the viewing dais was merely a painted, funereally garbed husk.

”She isn't real,” Carla said to herself. ”It's a doll, or something. It isn't really Madam Westfall.” She kept her head bowed, and didn't move her lips, but she said the words over and over. She was afraid to look at a dead person. The second time they slaughtered all those who bore arms, unguided, mindless now, but lethal with the arms caches that they used indiscriminately The second time they slaughtered all those who bore arms, unguided, mindless now, but lethal with the arms caches that they used indiscriminately. Carla felt goose b.u.mps along her arms and legs. She wondered if anyone else had been hearing the old Teacher's words.

The line moved slowly, all the girls in their long gray skirts had their heads bowed, their hands clasped. The only sound down the corridor was the sush-sush of slippers on plastic flooring, the occasional rustle of a skirt.

The Viewing Room had a pale green, plastic floor, frosted-green plastic walls, and floor to ceiling windows that were now slits of brilliant light from a westering sun. All the furniture had been taken from the room, all the ornamentation. There were no flowers, nothing but the dais, and the bedlike box covered by a transparent s.h.i.+eld. And the Teachers. Two at the dais, others between the light strips, at the doors. Their white hands clasped against black garb, heads bowed, hair slicked against each head, straight parts emphasizing bilateral symmetry. The Teachers didn't move, didn't look at the dais, at the girls parading past it.

Carla kept her head bowed, her chin tucked almost inside the V of her collarbone. The serpentine line moved steadily, very slowly. ”She isn't real,” Carla said to herself, desperately now.

She crossed the line that was the cue to raise her head; it felt too heavy to lift, her neck seemed paralyzed. When she did move, she heard a joint crack, and although her jaws suddenly ached, she couldn't relax.

The second green line. She turned her eyes to the right and looked at the incredibly shrunken, hardly human mummy. She felt her stomach lurch and for a moment she thought she was going to vomit. ”She isn't real. It's a doll. She isn't real!” The third line. She bowed her head, pressed her chin hard against her collarbone, making it hurt. She couldn't swallow now, could hardly breathe. The line proceeded to the South Door and through it into the corridor.

She turned left at the South Door, and with her eyes downcast, started the walk back to her genetics cla.s.s. She looked neither right nor left, but she could hear others moving in the same direction, slippers on plastic, the swish of a skirt, and when she pa.s.sed by the door to the garden she heard laughter of some Ladies who had come to observe the viewing. She slowed down.

She felt the late sun hot on her skin at the open door and with a sideways glance, not moving her head, she looked quickly into the glaring greenery, but could not see them. Their laughter sounded like music as she went past the opening.

”That one, the one with the blue eyes and straw-colored hair. Stand up, girl.”

Carla didn't move, didn't realize she was being addressed until a Teacher pulled her from her seat.

”Don't hurt her! Turn around, girl. Raise your skirts, higher. Look at me, child. Look up, let me see your face...”

”She's too young for choosing,” said the Teacher, examining Carla's bracelet. ”Another year, Lady.”

”A pity. She'll coa.r.s.en in a year's time. The fuzz is so soft right now, the flesh so tender. Oh, well...” She moved away, flicking a red skirt about her thighs, her red-clad legs narrowing to tiny ankles, flas.h.i.+ng silver slippers with heels that were like icicles. She smelled...Carla didn't know any words to describe how she smelled. She drank in the fragrance hungrily.

”Look at me, child. Look up, let me see your face...” The words sang through her mind over and over. At night, falling asleep she thought of the face, drawing it up from the deep black, trying to hold it in focus: white skin, pink cheek ridges, silver eyelids, black lashes longer than she had known lashes could be, silver-pink lips, three silver spots-one at the corner of her left eye, another at the corner of her mouth, the third like a dimple in the satiny cheek. Silver hair that was loose, in waves about her face, that rippled with life of its own when she moved. If only she had been allowed to touch the hair, to run her finger over that cheek...The dream that began with the music of the Lady's laughter, ended with the nightmare of her other words: ”She'll coa.r.s.en in a year's time...”

After that Carla had watched the changes take place on and within her body, and she understood what the Lady had meant. Her once smooth legs began to develop hair; it grew under her arms, and, most shameful, it sprouted as a dark, coa.r.s.e bush under her belly. She wept. She tried to pull the hairs out, but it hurt too much, and made her skin sore and raw. Then she started to bleed, and she lay down and waited to die, and was happy that she would die. Instead, she was ordered to the infirmary and was forced to attend a lecture on feminine hygiene. She watched in stony-faced silence while the Doctor added the new information to her bracelet. The Doctor's face was smooth and pink, her eyebrows pale, her lashes so colorless and stubby that they were almost invisible. On her chin was a brown mole with two long hairs. She wore a straight blue-gray gown that hung from her shoulders to the floor. Her drab hair was pulled back tightly from her face, fastened in a hard bun at the back of her neck. Carla hated her. She hated the Teachers. Most of all she hated herself. She yearned for maturity.