PIPE DREAM
"Where do you get your ideas?" is the question most frequently asked of writers of fiction and of science-fiction writers in particular. The usual response is a joking one, particularly if the author is in a hurry. If he has time, he may reply thoughtfully.
Sometimes the response can be precise.
Too many years ago I found myself attending a science-fiction convention in downtown Los Angeles. The con was run by a wonderful gentleman name of Bill Crawford and featured s mix of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. In some ways it was a precursor of today's multimedia-oriented conventions. Bill was an old-timer, but he had a finger on the future's pulse.
	One of the guests and a good friend of Bill's was a charming, lanky gentleman who strolled through the con with cool demeanor and well-used pipe. Walt Daugherty was among other things a photographer of some of film dom's greatest horror stars, Karlof and Chaney included. He had a mischievous sense of humor and genial nature that, when functioning in tandem, reminded one of Hitchcock's introductions to the stories on his television show.
The greatest problem one faces at such conventions is how to greet people one doesn't know well but repeatedly encounters in halls and function rooms. After a while "hello," "howyadoin?" and "what's new?" begin to pall. So it happened as I ran into Walt hour after hour.
The afternoon of the second day I entered the dealer's room only to bump into him again, this time in the process of lighting his pipe. Desperate not to appear either banal or impolite, I searched for a salutation and finally said, "Hi, Walt. What're you smoking?"
Barely removin the pipe stem from his lips, he glanced down at me out of his left eye and declaimed with a properly Lugosian air, "Ah, it's not what. It's whom. "
And that's where you get your ideas. Thanks, Walt.

It was the aroma of tobacco that first attracted her.
Delicate enough to demand notice, distinctive enough to bludgeon aside the mundane odor of cigarette and cigar, it was the first different thing she'd encountered all evening.
She'd hoped to meet someone at least slightly interesting at Norma's little get-together. Thus far, though, Norma's guest list had unswervingly reflected Norma's tastes. Emma'd only been fooling herself in hopes it would be otherwise.
There, there it was again. Open wood fires and honeysuckle. Really different, not bitter or sharp at all.
The vacuity of her excuse as she slipped away was matched only by the vacuousness of the young man she left, holding his half-drained martini and third or fourth proposition. But the tall football player didn't need sympathy. He shrugged off the brush-off, immediately corralled another of Norma's friends. Soon he was plying her with the same draglines, blunt-hooked, presenting the first line like an uncirculated coin, newly minted. Option call at the line of scrimmage.
The owner of the pipe was surprise number two. He looked as out of place at the party as a Mozart concerto. Instead of a girl on his lap, he cradled a fat book. He'd isolated himself in a nearly-empty corner of the sunken living room.
She put a hand on the back of his high-backed easy chair.
"Hi," she said. He looked up.
"Hello." Absently spoken, then back to the book.
Her interest grew. Might be playing indifferent deliberately . . . but she didn't think so. If he was interested, he sure faked otherwise well. And men did not usually dismiss Emma with an unconcerned hello. Nor did they pass over her face with a casual glance and totally avoid the interesting subcranial territory completely. She was piqued.
There was an unclaimed footstool nearby. She pulled it up next to the bookcase, sat down facing him. He didn't look up.
Well tanned, no beard or mustache (another anomaly). Dark wavy hair tinged with gray at the sharp bottom of modest sideburns. Might even be over forty. Sharp, blunt jaw, but otherwise his features were small, almost childlike. Even so, there was something just a little frightening about him.
She didn't scare easily.
"I couldn't help noticing your tobacco."
"Hmmm?" He glanced up again.
"Your tobacco. Noticing it."
"Oh, really?" He looked pleased, took the pipe out of his mouth, and admired it. "It's a special blend. Made for me. I'm glad you like it." He peered at her with evident amusement. "I suppose next you're going to tell me you love the smell of a man's pipe."
"As a matter of fact, usually I can't stand it. That's what makes yours nice. Sweet."
"Thanks again." Was that a faint accent, professionally concealed?
He almost seemed prepared to return to his book. A moment's hesitation, then he shut it with a snap of displaced air. Back it slipped into its notch in the bookcase. She eyed the spine.
"Dürer. You like Dürer, then?"
"Not as art. But I do like the feel of a new book." He gestured negligently at the bookcase. "These are all new books." A little smile turned up the corners of his mouth.
"It says '1962' on the spine of that one," she observed.
"Well, not new, then. Say 'unused.' No, I'm not crazy about Dürer as an artist. But his work has some real value from a medical history standpoint."
Emma sat back on the footstool and clasped a knee with both hands. This had the intended effect of raising her skirt provocatively. He took no notice of the regions thus revealed.
"What do you specialize in?"
"How marvelous!" he said. "She does not say, 'Are you a doctor?' But immediately goes on to 'What do you specialize in?' assuming the obvious. It occurs to me, young lady, that behind that starlet facade and comic-book body, there may be a brain."
"Please, good sir," she mock pleaded, "you flatter me unmercifully. And I am not a 'starlet.' I'm an actress. To forestall your next riposte, I'm currently playing in a small theater to very good reviews and very small audiences. In A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it's not a rock musical."
He was nodding. "Good, good."
"Do I get a gold star on my test, teacher?" she pouted.
"Two. To answer your question, if you're really curious, I happen to specialize in endocrinology. You," he continued comfortably, "do not appear to be adversely affected where my field is concerned. Please don't go and make an idiot of me by telling me about your thyroid problems since the age of five."
She laughed. "I won't."
"Isn't this a delightful party?"
"Oh, yes," she deadpanned. "Delightful."
He really smiled then, a wide, honest grin-a white crescent cracking the tan.
"If you're interested in art, I have a few pieces you might appreciate. Oils, pen and ink, no etchings." Grin. "The people in them don't move, but they're more full of life than this bunch."
"I think I'd like that." She smiled back.

It was a longer drive than she'd expected. In Los Angeles that means something. A good twenty minutes north of Sunset, up the Pacific Coast Highway, then down a short, bumpy road.
The house was built on pilings out from a low cliff, to the edge of the ocean. The sea hammered the wood incessantly, December songs boiling up from the basement.
"Like something to drink?" he asked. She was examining the den. Cozy like mittens, masculine as mahogany. Hatch-cover table; old, very unmod, supremely comfortable chairs; a big fat brown elephant of a couch you could vanish in.
"Can you make a ginger snap?"
His eyebrows rose. "With or without pinching her?"
"With."
"I think so. A minute."
Behind the couch the wide picture window opened onto a narrow porch overhanging a black sea. The crescent of lights from Santa Monica Bay had the look of a flattened-out Rio de Janeiro, unblinking in the clear winter night. Northward, the hunchback of Point Dume thrust out of the water.
The opposite wall was -one huge bookcase. Most of the volumes were medical tomes and had titles stuffed with Latin nouns. There were several shelves of titles in German, a single one in French, yet another in what seemed like some sort of Scandanavian language.
Crowded in a small corner of the north wail, almost in embarrassment, was a group of plaqued diplomas from several eastern institutions and, to match the books, one in German and another in French.
The art, of which there wasn't much, consisted mostly of small pieces. Picasso she expected but not the original Dali, or the Winslow Homer, the charming Wyeth sketches, some English things she didn't recognize, and the framed anatomic drawings of da Vinci . . .not originals, of course. And over the fireplace, in a massive oak frame, a big Sierra Nevada glowing landscape by Bierstadt.
A distinctive collection, just like its owner, she mused.
"With pinch."
She whirled, missed a breath. "You startled me!"
"Fair play. You've already done the same to me tonight. "
She took the glass, walked over to the couch, sat, and sipped.
"Very slight pinch," she murmured appreciatively.
He walked over and sat down next to her.
"I wouldn't expect you to be the sort to go to many of Norma's parties."
"Was that the name of our charming hostess?" he queried. "No, I don't." There was a long rack holding twenty-odd pipes on the table. A lazy Susan full of different tobaccos rested at one end. He selected a new pipe, began stuffing it.
"If you believe it, I was invited by one of my patients. "
She giggled. The drink was perfect.
"I'm afraid it's true." He smiled. "She was concerned for my supposed monastic existence. Poor Mrs. Marden." He put pipe to lips and took out a box of matches.
"Let me," she said, the lighter from her purse already out.
"Huh-uh. Not with that." He gently pushed her hand away. The wrist tingled after he removed his hand.
"Gas flame, spoil the flavor. Not every smoker notices it, but I do."
She reached out, took the box of Italian wax matches. She struck one and leaned forward. As he puffed the tobacco alight, one hand slipped into her decolletage.
"I didn't think you were wearing a foundation garment."
"Oh, come on!" She blew out the match. His hand was moving gently now. "You sound like a construction engineer!"
"I apologize. You know, you're very fortunate."
She was beginning to breathe unevenly. "How . . . so?"
"Well," he began in a professorial tone, "the undercurve of a woman's breast is more sensitive than the top. Many aren't sufficiently well endowed to experience the difference. Not a problem you have to face."
"What," she husked, brushing his cheek, "does the book say about the bottom lip versus the top?"
"As to that-" He put the pipe on the table and leaned much, much closer. "-opinion is still somewhat divided."

New Year's Day came and went, as usual utterly the same as an old year's day.
It wasn't an affair, of course. More like a fair. A continuing,wonderful, slightly mad fair. Like the fair at Sorochinsk in Petroushka, but no puppets here. Walt never shouted at her, never had a mean word. He was unfailingly gentle, polite, considerate, with just the slightest hint of devilry to keep things spicy.
He had fewer personal idiosyncrasies than any man she'd ever met. The only thing that really seemed to bother him was any hint of nosiness on her part. A small problem, since he'd been quite candid about his background without being asked, and about his work.
She'd been a little surprised to learn about the two previous marriages. But since there were no children, nothing tying him to the past, her concern quickly vanished.
And next Tuesday was his birthday. She was determined to surprise him.
But with what? Clothes? He had plenty of clothes and was no fashion plate to begin with. She couldn't afford a painting of any quality. Besides, choosing art for someone was an impossible job. Electronic gadgetry, the modern adult male's equivalent of Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs, didn't excite him.
Then she thought of the tobacco.
Of course! She'd have some of his special blend prepared. Whenever he lit a pipe, he'd think of her.
Now, she considered, looking around the sun-dappled den, where would I hide if I were a tin of special tobacco? There must be large tins around somewhere. The lazy Susan didn't hold much, and it was always full . . . though she never saw him replenishing it. Of course she couldn't ask him. That would spoil the surprise.
It wasn't hidden, as it turned out. Just inconspicuous, in a place she'd had no reason to go. There was a small storage room, a second bedroom, really, in the -front of the beach house. It held still more books and assorted knickknacks, including an expensive and unused set of golf clubs.
The tobacco tins were in an old glass cabinet off in one dark, cool corner. The case was locked; but the key was on top of the cabinet. Standing on tiptoe, she could just reach it.
Hunt as she did, though, giving each tin a thorough inspection, there was nothing she could call a special blend. There were American brands, and Turkish, and Arabic, and Brazilian, and even a small, bent tin from some African country that had changed its name three times in the past ten years.
But no special blends.
She closed the cabinet and put the key back. In semi-frustration she gave the old highboy a soft kick. There was a click. The bottom foot or so of the cabinet looked like solid maple. It wasn't, because a front panel swung out an inch or so.
She knelt, opened it all the way.
There were eight large tins inside sitting on two shelves. Each was wrapped in what looked like brown rice paper or thin leather but was neither. In fine, bold script across the front of each someone had written:
SPECIAL BLEND, Prepared Especially For DR. WALTER SCOTT
Under this were the various blend names: Liz Granger, Virginia Violet, and so on.
She pulled one tin out, examined it patiently. That was all. No address, no telephone number, nothing. She went over each tin carefully, with identical results. Just SPECIAL BLEND, Prepared Especially for . . . and the blend name. Nothing to indicate who prepared it, where it came from.
The paper on the final tin was slightly torn. She handled it carefully and inspected the tear. Something was stamped into the metal of the tin, almost concealed by the wrapping. Gently she peeled a little aside.
Yes, an oval stamp had been used on the tin. They probably all carried it. It was hard to make out; the stamp was shallow.
Peter van Eyck, the Smoke Nook . . . and an address right on Santa Monica Boulevard.
She found a little scrap of paper, wrote down the name and address. Then she smoothed the torn paper (or was it leather?) down as best she could, replaced the tin on its shelf, and shut the panel. It snapped closed with another click of the old-fashioned latch.

Hollywood Boulevard is just like a movie set. All front and no insides or back. Marching south from the Hollywood hills, you encounter Sunset Boulevard next, then Santa Monica. For much of its length-life Santa Monica Boulevard is like the back of a movie set. A street where all the storefronts, you're certain, have their faces to the alleys and their backsides to the boulevard.
Almost, she was convinced she'd misread the address. But on the third cruise past she spotted it. It was just a door in an old two-story building.
She pulled around the corner, managed to slither in between a new panel truck and an old Cadillac.
The door was open, the stairs inside reasonably clean. At the top of the landing she looked left, went right. She knocked on number five once and walked in. The overpowering, pungent odor of tobacco hit her immediately. Bells on the door jangled for a second time as she closed it.
Someone in the back of the room said, "Just a minute!" Twice that later, the proprietor appeared.
Short, fat, a fringe of hair running all around his head from chin, to cheeks, into sideburns, over the ear and around the back, like a cut-on-the-dotted-line demarcation.
At least in his sixties, but most of the wrinkles were still fat wrinkles, not age wrinkles. His voice was smooth, faintly accented. He smiled.
"Well! If I had more clients like you, young lady, I might not consider retiring."
"Thanks. Anyhow," she said, "you can't retire, at least not until tonight. I'm here to buy a birthday present for a very special friend."
The owner put on a pleased expression. "What does he like, you tell me. Imported cigars? Pipe tobacco? Snuff?" He winked knowingly, an obscene elf. "Perhaps something a little more unusual? Mexican, say, or Taiwanese?"
"And the opium den in the attic." She smiled back. "No, I'm afraid not. My friend buys his tobacco from you regularly-"
"He has good taste."
"-a special blend you make for him."
"My dear, I make special blends for many people, and not only here in Los Angeles. It's a fine art, and young people today . . . " He sighed. "Some of my best customers, then names would startle you. Who is your friend?"
"Dr. Walter Scott."
Smile, good-bye. Grin, vanished. Humor, to another universe.
"I see." All of a sudden he was wary of her. "Does the doctor know that you are doing this?"
"No. I want to surprise him."
"I daresay." He looked at his feet. "I am afraid, dear lady, I cannot help you."
None of this made any sense. "Why not? Can't you just . . . blend it or whatever else it is you do? I don't need it till next week."
"You must understand, dear lady, that this is a very special blend. I can prepare most of it. But one ingredient always stays the same, and this Dr. Scott always supplies himself. It's like saffron in paella, you know. Without the tiny pinch of saffron, you have nothing, soup. Without the doctor's little additive . . ." He shrugged.
"Haven't you tried to find out what it is for yourself?" she pressed.
"Of course. But the doctor; he only smiles. I don't blame him for protecting the secret of his blend. Such a marvelous sweetness it gives the smoke, I tell you!" The tobacconist shook his head, fringe bobbing. "No, I cannot help you. Excuse me." He headed for the back of the room.
"Well, I like that!" She walked out the door, paused halfway down the stairs. Odd. Oh, well. She'd buy him that antique hurricane lamp he'd admired in Ports o' Call.

It was raining as she drove out to the house. Wednesdays he worked late, and she was sure he could use some company. She shivered deliciously. So could she.
The Pacific Coast Highway was a major artery. Thanks to the rain and fog, the number of four-wheeled corpuscles was greatly reduced tonight. Typical southern California rain: clean, cold, tamer than back east.
She let herself in quietly.
Walt was sticking another log into the fireplace. He was sucking on the usual pipe, a gargoylish meerschaum this time. After the wet run from the driveway the fire was a sensuous, delightful inferno, howling like a chained orange cat.
She took off the heavy, wet coat, strolled over to stand near the warmth. The heat was wonderful. She kissed him, but this time the fire's enthusiasm wasn't matched.
"Something wrong, Walt?" She grinned. "Mrs. Norris giving you trouble about her glands again?"
"No, no, not that," he replied quietly. "Here, I made you a ginger snap."
The drink was cool and perfect as always.
"Well, tell me, then, what is it?" She went and curled up on the couch. The fire was a little too hot.
He leaned against the stone mantel, staring down into the flames. The only light in the room came from the fireplace. His face assumed biblical shadows. He sighed.
"Emma, you know what I think of women who stick their noses in where they shouldn't."
"Walt?"
Damn, he must have noticed the new tear in the tobacco tin wrapping!
"I don't know what you mean, darling." The handsome profile turned to full face.
"You've been in my tobacco, haven't you?"
Ginger snap, tickling as it went down.
"Oh, all right. I confess, darling. Yes, I was in your precious horde."
There was more than a hint of mild curiosity in his voice. It seemed to come from another person entirely. She pressed back into the couch and shivered. It was the sudden change in temperature from outside, of course.
"Gee, Walt, I didn't think you'd be so . . . so upset."
"Why?" he repeated. His eyes weren't glowing. Just reflection from the fire, was all.
She smiled hopefully. "I was going to surprise you for your birthday. I wanted to get you some of your special blend and really surprise you. Don't think I'm going to tell you what I got you, now, either!"
He didn't smile. "I see. I take it you didn't obtain my blend?"
"No, I didn't. I went to your tobacco place . . ."
"You went to my tobacco place?" he echoed.
"Yes, on Santa Monica. The address was under the paper or whatever that wrapping is." She blinked, shook herself. Was she that tired? She took another sip of the drink. It didn't help. In fact, she seemed to grow drowsier.
"That nice Mr. . . . I can't remember his name . . . he . . . excuse me, Walt. Don't know why I'm so . . . sleepy."
"Continue. You went to the shop."
"Yes. The owner said he couldn't make any of your blend for me because (fog) you always brought one of the (so tired) ingredients yourself and he didn't know what it was. So I had to get you something else."
"Why?" he said again. Before she could answer, "Why must you all know everything? Each the Pandora." He took up a poker, stirred the fire. It blazed high, sparks bouncing drunkenly off the iron rod.
She finished the drink, put the glass down on the table. It seemed to waver. She leaned back against the couch.
"I'm sorry, Walt. Didn't think you'd get so . . . upset."
"It's all right, Emma."
"Funny . . . about those . . . tins. Eight of them. Two were . . . named Anna Mine and Sue deBlakely."
"So." He fingered the poker.
"Well," she giggled, "weren't those the . . . names of your two ex-wives?"
"I'm very sentimental, Emma."
She giggled again, frowned. Falling asleep would spoil the whole evening. Why couldn't she keep her damn eyes open?
"In fact . . . all your blends had female . . . names."
"Yes." He walked over to her, stared down. His eyes seemed to burn . . . reflection from the fire again . . . and his face swam, blurred. "You're falling asleep, Emma. " He moved her empty glass carefully to one end of the table. It was good crystal.
"Can't . . . understand it. So . . . tired . . ."
"Maybe you should take a little rest, Emma. A good rest."
"Rest . . . maybe . . . " His arms cradled her.
"Lie here, Emma. Next to the fire. It'll warm you." He put her down on the carpet across from the fronting brick. The flames pranced hellishly, anxious, searing the red-hot brick interior.
"Warm . . . hot, Walt," she mumbled sleepily. Her voice was thick, uncertain. "Lower it?"
"No, Emma." He took the poker, jabbed and pushed the logs back against the rear of the alcove. Funny, she'd never noticed how big it was for such a modest house.
Her eyes closed. There was silence for several minutes. As he knelt and reached for her, they fluttered open again just a tiny bit.
"Walt . . ." Her voice was barely audible, and he had to lean close to hear.
". . .Yes?"
"What . . . special ingredient?"
There was a sigh before he could reply, and her eyes closed again. Long moments. He tossed two more logs on the fire, adjusted them on the iron. Then he knelt, grabbed her under the arms. Her breathing was shallow, faint.
He put his mouth close to her ear, whispered.
"Ashes, my love. Ashes."