One Fine Day

by Eric Norden

Originally appeared in Starsongs and Unicorns, 1977

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It had required more time, again, and as she left the room, shrugging a robe over her nakedness, Gellert began to shake violently. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead, filming his eyes, and when he fumbled a cigarette from the box on the desk, his hand brushed her blue card to the floor. The match danced in his fingers and flamed out. He tried twice again before the smoke grated harshly against his lungs and only then remembered to retrieve the card and slide it into her folder. He didn't look at the name.

Three thirty-five. As the shaking subsided, he scanned the desk calendar. Two more appointments today, and then a session with Gershmann. Gellert felt the familiar wild surge of panic but refused to succumb. Not today, screw them all. He stood up with an effort, ground out the cigarette and clipped the green plastic triangle to his lapel. As he left the room, the folder felt cool in his hand, and the tightness in his belly began to ease.

He was alone in the dressing room, and he showered and changed quickly, savoring the decision to cancel, the tension draining away. The afternoon ahead, free, and then Marjorie. And Kaufman couldn't say anything, none of them could, not with his record. He started to whistle, forgetting the morning, forgetting his blue cards, happy as a schoolboy cutting classes.

"Hail, savior of the race." Vardaian's swarthy monkey face creased into a crooked grin. "There's syntho-gin and syntho-Scotch, and it's hard to tell the difference. What'll it be?"

Gellert accepted a large Scotch, noting that the sterry barman wasn't even trying to hide his sullen contempt these days. The situation in the city was growing ugly now that the Republic of Allah had retreated towards Mississippi, and all the old resentments, muted in common peril, were bitterly resurfacing. It was even worse in New York, of course; riots, even some lynchings. Shit, if they only knew. He, for one, would switch any day.

"How did it go?" he asked abstractedly, his thoughts far away, and Vardakian snorted.

"I used the screener today, I was too beat to take the little darlings on in the flesh. Full color and sound, two blondes, an Arab hung like a camel, and lots of dildo action. My beakers brimmeth over."

Gellert knew he was lying. He wouldn't be through yet, and in any case the m.o., high on angel dust, had told him Vardakian was flaking out and they'd have to go into extraction soon. What the hell, Vardakian probably knew he knew. It happened to all of them, sooner or later. Brief butterflies, a spin in the sun, then caterpillars again.

"I hear the French ambassador shot himself last night," he said, more to make conversation than out of any real interest, much less sympathy. He'd only met the man once, at a reception for the Canadian delegation, a vague, dusty figure, overdressed yet threadbare, not believing what had happened, lost.

Vardakian nodded glumly.

"I heard it on the exec channel before I came in. Christ, they're going to have to start censoring that too pretty soon. Apparently Marnais saw the high-altitude reconaissance films we took over Paris. His family was there." He scowled into his drink. "It started in Marseilles, the rats I guess. Mutated maybe, they say there's no antidote. It's spreading into Germany too, twenty million dead already."

"Jesus." Gellert really felt nothing, it was too far away, but you had to say something. "And they weren't even touched during the Week."

Vardakian ordered another round.

"Paris is still beautiful, I'm told. Except for the bodies."

Gellert shook his head, finished his drink and got up.

"I'm taking off early. See you tomorrow." Vardakian nodded, waving a hairy paw languidly.

"Don't blame you." As an afterthought: "Curran took a razor blade to himself last night. Overwork, that's the diagnosis." The laugh was metallic and Gellert shuddered involuntarily. That did get to him.

When he reached the roof the flier was waiting and fueled, but he'd ordered it for five, and the mechanic, another sterry, gave him a hard time about the change, then took ten minutes going over his flight plan. Gellert forced himself to be friendly, ignoring the hatred in the other man's eyes. Pushed too far, he might check out the landing with Richmond, and that was the last thing Gellert wanted. Up till now, there'd been no trouble, but you never knew. Not these days.

The trip took less than thirty minutes, flying low to avoid the radar screen, if it was still working, and Gellert felt the familiar surge of excitement when he saw the small farm. He eased the flier off automatic and set it down gently in a clearing near the main house, humming softly under his breath. He always felt the same muted joy before a visit, compounded of the promise of the evening and the sheer pleasure of skimming low over trees and meadows. There was little enough real countryside left around the capital, but the stretch he passed over on the way to the farm was verdant and unspoiled, its soft contours rippling under the first shadows of dusk. The May air was warm and honied with flowers. As always on these visits, he experienced an overwhelming awareness of everything about him. The most ordinary sights and sounds sprang up with new dimensions, fresh meaning, and even the routine of landing a flier became an adventure.

Marjorie's father was working in the rose garden, dressed in levis and a faded blue workshirt, a floppy straw hat perched precariously on the fringed dome of his bald head. He stood up, a trowel in one hand, and waved as Gellert crossed the clearing towards the house. The old man's face was flushed with exertion, sweat shining on the ruddy cheeks. He's never looked better, Gellert thought.

"She's still dressing, Paul. Come on into the house and I'll make us a drink."

Gellert smiled. I am smiling with fond indulgence, he thought, savoring the ripe anachronism of the words. "Marge's trouble is she can never pass a mirror, Mr. Baxter. I'm going to have to ban them from the house. The neighbors will probably think we're vampires, but at least I'll get her to the theater on time. Where can I put these?" He gestured to a long white flower box and a smaller heart-shaped box of candy tied with a flouncy red bow, which he carried awkwardly under one arm.

"We'll take the flowers in to mother and have her put them in water. But don't let her see the chocolates. She's on one of her diet kicks, and if she digs into them she'll be after me first thing tomorrow when she hits the scales. Seems the calories around here are all my fault." He patted his bump of a paunch possessively and led the way into the house.

Mrs. Baxter came rushing out of the kitchen the moment the door closed behind them, a rosy apple dumpling of a woman with clear bouncing blue eyes and a young girl's smile. She squeezed Gellert's arm and kissed him on both cheeks.

"Paul Gellert, you look skinnier than ever!" She stepped back a foot and looked over his lean frame disapprovingly. "Margie is going to have to bring you out here more often and let us fatten you up. I don't know what they're feeding you in the city." She knew perfectly well, Gellert thought: powdered eggs and milk, synth-caps and a half pound of red meat every two weeks, but it didn't seem to matter. He smiled warmly.

I live from one of your meals to the next, Mrs. Baxter. Even Marjorie's beginning to suspect it's really you I'm after." The first touch of strangeness gone, the words fell lightly off his lips. Mrs. Baxter blushed but looked pleased.

"Well, I hope tonight's meal won't dampen your ardor, Paul. We couldn't get even proto-salt, and I had to use green apples for the pie. But we do have a good roast of lamb, and some of those little button mushrooms you liked last time."

Paul's tongue ran over his lower lip involuntarily. Outside of ExCom Headquarters there was nowhere within two hundred miles where he could find such a meal.

Mrs. Baxter took the flowers to the accompaniment of little clucking noises and bustled off to the kitchen. Her husband ushered Gellert into the comfortable, old-fashioned living room and offered him a cigar from a rosewood humidor on the mantle. It was real tobacco.

"It's good to see you again, son," he said, after they had both settled down in capacious leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, Gellert wishing it was winter and a real fire laid on in the hearth and crackling accompaniment to their words. "Paul, I hope it won't embarrass you, but there's something I want to say." The older man hesitated slightly. "To put it simply as possible, and if you aren't aware of it already, in the past few months mother and I have come to look upon you as more than just another one of Margie's beaus. We consider you one of the family."

He picked up a cut-glass decanter from the small coffee table near his chair and poured them both a glass of sherry.

"I just want you to know that if your intentions towards Marge are what I think they are, you have our blessings and our deepest hopes for your happiness together. With or without mirrors," he finished, looking more than a little embarrassed himself. Gellert felt a surge of elation. This was good, this was the way it should be. He leaned forward in his chair and spoke intently.

"Mr. Baxter, I love Margie with all my heart and soul. I'll do everything in my power to make her happy, now and forever." The words raced over each other, and he trembled slightly, but the older man didn't seem to notice.

"God bless you both then." He held up his glass in a silent toast, and they both sipped their glasses of sherry. Real sherry.

"Well, I hope you two aren't getting squizzled without me!" Gellert swung around at the sound of the lilting voice and saw Marjorie standing in the doorway. He jumped to his feet. "Darling!" He couldn't think of anything else to say and felt suddenly awkward and out of place again, unreal. The girl in the doorway was young and slender, with a dancer's body and bright, laughing eyes. She wore her hair long, in the old style, and it framed the white oval of her face in a glistening black aureole. Gellert couldn't take his eyes from the soft smiling lips, moist and red as one of her father's roses. Jesus, he thought, she is lovely!

The girl walked across the room, the flared skirt of her pale-blue evening gown whispering against slim legs, and took Gellert's hand in hers. She looked up into his eyes and an unspoken promise passed between them.

After dinner, Gellert and Baxter strolled back into the living room for a glass of port while Marjorie and Mrs. Baxter took care of the dishes. "God, I haven't eaten like that since I was a kid," Gellert said reverently. "I had trouble believing it was really food I was putting down. When you're eating that powdered yak dung they feed us in the city, you begin to forget there's anything better."

Baxter swirled his port in the glass, looking down. "There is, son," he said softly. "There is." For a moment his eyes were shadowed, distant. Then, perceptibly, he brightened. "Let's get in a few games while the gals are busy. I think I've worked out a defense for that knight-rook onslaught of yours." They set up the chessboard and played in quiet satisfaction for the better part of an hour. Outside, the crickets began to sing in the darkness.

By the time Marjorie returned, her father was down two games and behind a bishop in the third. He stood up from the chessboard and stretched, yawning. "Your young man's too good for me, Marge. I'll hand him over to you before he forks me again and I start sulking."

His daughter smiled and took Gellert by the hand. "You can play those records you've been saving. Paul and I are going to get a little air out on the porch." She turned to Gellert. "Mom and dad have got hold of some pre-Week opera records, real ones, from the old Metropolitan in New York. La Boheme, Madame Butterfly, and with live orchestras. They've been playing them over and over like two kids!"

Gellert looked at Baxter with a touch of envy. "I don't know how you do it, sir. Perhaps you'd leave the door open so we can hear them too."

The older man smiled. "With pleasure. Though when I was your age and out on a swing with a pretty girl, I had more on my mind than music."

Marjorie pulled Gellert into the hallway. Her laughter was light, wholly natural. "When you were a young man, Dad, you could have gone to the Metropolitan itself any night of the week you wanted to."

"Yes." The shadow passed over Baxter's eyes for a second again, and he reached for the port.

The minute Gellert and the girl were safe in the darkness of the porch, she was in his arms, her lips searching for his. "Darling," she whispered, "oh, my dearest darling, my love." Her kisses were like none he had ever known, soothing and exciting at the same time, cool as a flower and passionately urgent. After a moment, as they parted for breath, she looked up at him, and her eyes were clear and trusting. Then the words came, of tenderness, endearment, longing, and he whispered them to her and stroked her hair as they held each other silently in the dark, like two children. Oh yes God, this is the way, he thought, dear God, this is the way!

After a while they sat down on the swing, and he put his arms around her, cradling her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Once, his hand brushed against her firm young breasts but he snatched it away and the sudden shudder of revulsion passed quickly and was forgotten. Through the open front door came the music, faint but clear, the rich Italian words melting into the Virginian night. "Un bel di, vedremo..." The faith of a long-dead Butterfly, burst out of her waxen chrysalis, resurrected just for tonight and the two of them. There has never been anything like this, he thought as he felt Marjorie's body warmly stirring close to his and smelled the clean, exciting scent of her hair. Never, and it is worth it, all of it. He gently released her hand from his and reached into his side coat pocket, bringing out a small box. "Darling," he said softly, "this is for you." She laughed delightedly and held the box up to the faint light trickling onto the porch from the living room. The diamond glistened in the darkness. She gasped and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Paul, it's beautiful, beautiful! But you shouldn't have, just for me!"

"It's not just a gift," he said softly, tensely. "It's called an engagement ring. If you accept it, it means that you agree to marry me, to live with me forever, with no one else." His voice faltered. "Do you, I mean...."

"Oh, Paul, of course I accept!" Her arms tightened around his neck. "You know you're the only one for me, for always!" Her lips met his and her slender fingers ran lightly through his hair.

"Thank you, darling, thank you," he breathed. "I'll never leave you, never." He sought for words, for the concepts. "We'll have children, children of our own. A boy. A boy and a girl!" He was almost incoherent with joy. "We'll raise them ourselves and send them to schools, and they'll live with us until they're old enough to be on their own." She nodded assent to everything he said, and he clutched her to him, speaking deliriously of the little house they would have in the country, of the vacations they would take, in California, someday even in Europe, and, more immediately, of their honeymoon. "Hawaii, maybe, or a long cruise. That's it, a cruise in the Caribbean, Bermuda, Haiti, the Bahamas...." The storybook names ran over each other. He kissed her again, his lips desperate with the promise of the future, the music drifting around them like dew. "We'll be so happy, darling!" he cried, over and over again.

After a while they decided to go in and tell her parents the news. "Your father already approves. I hope your mother agrees with him."

Her fingers touched his lips, tenderly. "Silly! Of course she does. She adores you. They both adore you."

Hand in hand they entered the house and walked into the living room. Mr. Baxter sat sipping his port, lost in the music.

"Paul wants to tell you something, Dad," Marjorie said, and he looked up, momentarily startled. When he saw their faces, he smiled broadly.

"I think I know what it is," he said. "Wait a moment, Mother will want to hear the good news. She's out in the kitchen fixing us all some coffee and...."

A woman's scream, abrupt and piercing, cut through his words. They stood stunned, disbelieving. A door slammed and there was a sound of voices in the hall. Suddenly, Mrs. Baxter was flung into the room. She fell to her knees on the carpet, sobbing softly, as three men appeared in the doorway behind her, dressed in grey ExCom uniforms. The man in the lead, red epaulets on his shoulders, dangled a gun loosely from one hand. He looked at the frozen tableau before him with contempt, and then down at Mrs. Baxter.

"Still at it, Annie." His voice was low, cold. "I guess Baltimore wasn't enough of a lesson for you. But this is the last little establishment you'll be running for quite a while." His eyes swung on Marjorie. "I see you've got a new one. Young too." He sighed and turned to Baxter and Gellert, a note almost of appeal in his voice. "I just don't get you reverts! You should be goddamn grateful you've got it as soft as you have. Your own transport, private living quarters, expense allotments, not to mention the women, our women, and you act as if servicing your quota's some kind of punishment." He gestured towards the door with his gun. "Get out to our flier. Moss, Craddock, watch them. Annie, you and the girl get your things together. You won't be coming back."

Mrs. Baxter choked back sobs, her face contorting with rage. "You high and mighty shits are all the same! Don't I have to make a living? Do you think I enjoy catering to these nuts? But it's better than digging up rubble for two credits a day and the slush Rehab calls food. Why don't you just leave us alone? We're not hurting anybody."

The man in the grey uniform looked suddenly tired. "These people are sick, Annie. They need help, and what's more important, we need them. The survival of this country is up to the norms." He almost hissed the last word, and his voice tightened. "Escape houses like yours impair their proper functioning, and that undermines the State. When you hit these characters for a thousand credits a night, it's really your country that's paying the price. Maybe to you it's just business, but I'd call it pretty damn close to treason." His mouth snapped into a thin line and he jerked a thumb towards the door.

Silently, the two guards prodded Gellert and Baxter out towards the waiting fliers, past Marjorie and her "mother." The younger girl averted her eyes, but the old woman shrieked at them as they passed. "You fucking freaks! I wish I'd never gotten mixed up with any of you!"

Outside, Gellert and Baxter were pushed roughly against the side of a military flier. The security men lit cigarettes and chatted desultorily a few feet away, their faces bored masks. Baxter looked at Gellert sadly.

"Well, son, it was fun while it lasted."

Gellert was still in a state of mild shock. "I didn't think this would happen... I mean, I heard this place was safe, that they had the local civ-cops fixed."

The older man smiled sympathetically. "They did. This is a federal operation, unfortunately. Security's been cracking down a lot recently."

"What... what will they do to me... to us...?"

Baxter was still smiling. "Your first pinch, eh?" Gellert nodded bleakly. "I thought so. Well, probably nothing will happen to you, except a reprimand from your jurisdictional supervisor. ln my case, it's a bit more complicated. They've got me a few times in past cleanups. Last year I was picked up when they raided a Church. Right in New City, camouflaged in a basement. Perfect replica, wooden pews, altar, hymn singing, coffee and cake courtesy of the Ladies' Auxiliary, the whole bit. They told me then that the next time it'd be lobotomy." The smile remained fixed. "Not that I really care. They'd probably be doing me a favor at that. At least I could take on my daily quotas with no qualms. No subversive dreams of the old days, no romantic escapist fantasies, just a grinning, fornicating robot, a fertility machine programmed for the rehabilitation of the State and the glory of ExCom." He shrugged faintly. "I'm fifty-six, and my fertility's going, not to mention my stamina. They'll be shipping me to the sleep shop pretty soon, in any case."

Gellert wasn't really listening. All he could remember was the taste of Marjorie's lips, the scent of her hair, the plans they had made for the future. He reached out a hand and clutched at the older man's sleeve.

"Baxter... was it really like tonight in the old days? I mean... marriage, courtship, families?"

Baxter didn't answer for a moment. "Yes, it was like that," he said finally, in a soft voice, "and a lot of other things too, good and bad, seamy and once in a while pretty wonderful. It's hard to describe to anybody born after the Week. God knows, we never thought it was any great shakes at the time. But now... now...."

He fell silent, listening to the sound of the crickets in the trees. Miles to the north, over Washington Crater, a blue glow of radiation shimmered above the ground, fading and swelling like the pulse of a human heart.