Rocket to Limbo
Fantastic Adventures – November 1946
(1946)*
Margaret St. Clair

	Smith and Tinkem operated a strange sort of business. They got rid of people for a price—and the bill was sent to limbo.

-

	MILLIE waved to Herbert, who was getting into the 'copter, and flashed him a wide, insincere smile.

	The big chump, she was thinking, don't 'copters ever have wrecks? No, he'll be back at five, safe and sound, and start scolding me about the grocery bills and do I really need another dress and wouldn't I like to have a baby because I'm so restless! No, I would not like to have a baby, and if a new dress costs too much, how does he think we could afford a baby, anyhow? All he does is complain at me and tell me what to do and get in my way. Nag, nag, nag. He thought the way I acted before we were married was cute, now he fusses at me about the very things he used to like me for.

	The big 'copter was out of sight by now. Millie let the corners of her mouth sag; her face took on its normal expression of slight petulance. She prodded for a moment at the intricate spirals of her orchid-tinted hair with her iridescent fingernails and then moved over to the book stand. A good mystery, that was what she needed, something to cheer her up.

	She selected two plectoid-covered detective stories, picked out three candy bars, and handed them to the clerk with a dollar bill. Abstractedly—he had been deep in conversation with a customer at the other end of the counter when Millie motioned to him—he punched up the sale on the register and handed her her change and sales slip.

	Millie put her purchase in her hand case. She was about to let the sales slip fall on the ground when a word on it caught her eye. She read:

"Disposals, neatly and quickly made. Are you HAPPY? Is someone getting in your WAY? DON'T PUT VP WITH IT! We specialize in quiet, safe disposal of human obstacles. No mess, no fuss, no blood. See Smith and Tinkem, 1908 Alamondola, suite three. All inquiries confidential."

	It was a very funny thing to find on the back of a sales slip. Millie glanced sharply at the clerk. He had gone back to his conversation and was paying absolutely no attention to her. She turned the slip over two or three times, wondering what it was all about, and finally folded it and put it in her case. What did it mean, anyway?

	'Is someone getting in your way? ... No mess, no fuss, no blood. Millie bit her lips. It sounded almost as if—as if someone knew how she felt about Herbert. It must be some kind of joke, some sort of advertising scheme.

	She left the 'copter terminal and started out to the parking lot where she had left the family scooterbile. That was another thing, she was crazy for a real car, but Herbert said it would cost too much. Everything she wanted cost too much, and yet, the money he spent on rods and reels, on flies and fishing tackle! She had seen some of the bills last month and had asked him about them. They had had a dreadful quarrel.

	Oh, what a nuisance he was!

	Perched insecurely on the seat of the scooterbile, threading it deftly in and out of traffic, Millie felt, not for the first time, that she hated him.

-

	SHE got home early, cleaned the house in an hour, and had a light lunch, with her candy bars for dessert. She ate slowly, turning the pages of the books she had bought and trying to get interested in them. They seemed awfully dull, somehow; she couldn't help thinking about that ad the clerk had given her, and wondering what it meant. After a while she went to her hand case, got the slip out, and studied it again. By two o'clock she was dressed in her black nilofilm, her hair fixed that new way with the sequins, and on her way to 1908 Alamondola.

	She drove around the block twice before she parked in front of it. It was a big, old-fashioned building, the kind they had put up forty years ago, of greenish concrete, with many angles and zigzags of metal work. Suite three was on the second floor.

	The office girl, though, was thoroughly modern, Millie decided, scrutinizing her. Her forearms had been sprayed with gold dust, and she was wearing slippers with enormous whirlabees.

	"... Is Mr. Smith in?" Millie asked, swallowing.

	"You wanted to see him about a disposal?" the girl replied. "Yes. Please be seated." She motioned to a chair. "There's a video in the top of that table there, if you want to look at anything." She watched while Millie seated herself, and then went back to her desk.

	Millie looked around the office. She was feeling dreadfully nervous, and the big, old-fashioned room, so sedate and respectable-looking, hardly reassured her. Was it all going to turn out to be a joke? Would she get arrested because she wanted to—to dispose of Herbert?

	When, twenty minutes later, the office girl held the little swinging gate open for her and showed her to the inner room where Mr. Smith was sitting, her knees were unsteady and the palms of her hands were damp.

	Mr. Smith was a long, lean man. His cheeks were hollow, with a bluish cast, and he wore a small, stringy bow tie. He motioned Millie to a chair with a wave of his left hand.

	"Madam was interested in a disposal?" He asked, coming to the point at once.

	"D-d-disposal?" Millie echoed. She couldn't help stammering.

	"A disposal of some individual whom madam—ah—considers superfluous?" His eyes flickered down over the zircoridium-set wedding band on Millie's left hand. "Madam is married, is she not?"

	Millie inclined her neck about three inches to make a stiff nod. It was the best she could manage at the moment.

	"We have several excellent disposal services," Mr. Smith said, "but the best and most popular one is our rocket special. It is priced at five hundred dollars, which includes everything. For that sum, we guarantee disposal to be absolute, permanent, and complete, with no possibility of an—ah—a kickback. Since disposal is one hundred percent efficient, there is never any unpleasantness for our clients, of a legal nature or otherwise." Mr. Smith paused. He laced his fingers together over his stomach and looked at Millie with a sort of cold benignity.

	"But how—I mean—well, how does it work?" Millie asked. She was playing nervously with the clasp of her hand case, snapping it open and shutting it again.

-

	MR. SMITH coughed and cleared his throat. "Let us suppose, for the sake of simplicity," he said, "that the person of whom madam desires to dispose is her husband. Very well. On next Tuesday, between the hours of one and five, if he goes to the fifth floor of Bracey's department store and asks for any one of a list of commodities which I shall indicate to madam, he will become the object of our disposal service. The clerk at Bracey's—who is, of course, a member of our organization— will prepare him properly. When madam's husband awakens, he will be aboard our own privately-owned, especially chartered rocket ship." Mr. Smith halted with an air of finality.

	"... I don't get it," Millie said at last.

	"I mean that madam's husband—assuming that he is the person of whom madam desires to dispose—" (for an instant a nasty little light shone at the back of Mr. Smith's eyes) "will be disposed of permanently. No mess, no fuss, no blood. He will merely have taken a long, a very long, rocket trip."

	"You mean he gets on a rocket and the rocket never comes back? But where does it go to?" Millie asked. Something about Mr. Smith almost frightened her.

	"To limbo, madam. To limbo. That is the best way of explaining it." Mr. Smith made Millie a little bow. "The fee is five hundred dollars," he said somewhat pointedly, "payable in advance."

	"Five hundred dollars? That's an awful lot. Herb—" She bit off the word in confusion. She had been about to say that Herbert would never forgive her if she spent that much on something he didn't approve of.

	"May I point out to madam," Mr. Smith said, looking down at his fingernails, "that after Tuesday, Herb, whoever he may be, will have no connection with madam whatever. She need have no concern about his reaction to anything she does. He will not be here to react. He will not be anywhere."

	Millie opened her hand bag and got out her checkbook. She could always stop payment on it if it turned out to be a fake. "Now about this list you mentioned ..." she said.

-

	AN HOUR later she was on her way home, the list in her hand case. Mr. Smith had made several helpful suggestions on it. He had pointed out that she must make use of the psychology of the individual of whom she wished to dispose in order to get him to go to Bracey's. (Neither she nor Mr. Smith had ever alluded to Herbert by name.)

	One of the items on the list was a counter-weighted, corrosion-resistant, anti-magnetic magnesium all fishing reel; and Mr. Smith had taught her a few conversational gambits and had suggested several tactics to be sure that Herbert went to Bracey's on Tuesday and asked for it. If Herbert failed to respond, she was to go back to 1908 Alamondola Street next week and get a new list. Mr. Smith had assured her that there was no limit to the service his firm was prepared to give in order to make sure that the disposal was consummated and complete. He seemed a nice man, really, but there was something about his eyes ...

	She met Herbert at the 'copter terminal at five. Poor old Herbie, she thought as she kissed him, I almost like him now that I know he's not going to bother me any more. She chattered gaily to him all the way home, and when they got to the house she had him sit down and rest instead of asking him to fix the tap on the kitchen sink, as she had intended to. She even got one of his favorite frozen meals out of the refrigerator to thaw for supper, and sat patiently waiting after their meal while he read the paper and smoked his cigar.

	The important thing, Mr. Smith had told, her, was to be sure the subject came up naturally. She mustn't seem to push or force the conversation around. Herbert, as he was putting the paper away, gave her a beautiful opening.

	"The Fish Tales column says local fishermen report record catches of bass," he remarked. "I'll have to see if I can't get out some week end soon."

	"Oh? That reminds me, I saw Jim Gardener today." Jim was a fellow-fisherman and long-time rival of her husband's; he always seemed to catch more fish and bigger ones than Herbert did, and Herbert, Millie knew, was jealous.

	"You did? What did he have to say?"

	"Oh, he talked my arm off about some new kind of reel he got. He says it's the biggest improvement in fishing since the invention of the fly."

	"Hm." Herbert was looking interested. "Where'd he get it?"

	"At—let me see, now—at Maxwell's. He talked so much about it, I can't help remembering some of the things he said. Counter-weighted, anti-magnetic, and—unh—corrosion-resistant. Made of magnesium, or something. He says there won't be another one in town until next Tuesday."

	"Oh." Herbert was looking disappointed. "Will Maxwell's have it in stock then?"

-

	MILLIE shook her head. She was trying not to show her excitement at how beautifully Mr. Smith's suggestions were working out. "Not Maxwell's. He said something about Braceys' getting in a shipment on Tuesday afternoon. Isn't there a tackle shop on their fifth floor?"

	"Yep. You bet there is. I might look in there on Tuesday myself. Jim Gardener doesn't need to think he's the only man in town who can have a new reel."

	"Herbert!" Millie forced alarm into her voice. "Oh, don't tell me you're going to spend more money on fishing! Why, Jim said the reel cost so much Nora was still scolding him about it. Herbert! Oh, I wish I'd never mentioned it."

	Herbert's lips set in a thin line. "Now, Millie," he said, "after all I earn the living. If I want to buy myself a few little things once in a while, I guess I have a right to. And I certainly need a new reel." He got up and folded his paper neatly and put it on top the video.

	Millie felt a wild elation. That Mr. Smith certainly knew his stuff. Herbert would go to Bracey's now on Tuesday, she was sure. Wild horses wouldn't be able to keep him away. And after Tuesday, no Herbert. Disposed of neatly. Gone to limbo.

-

	THE days moved on toward Tuesday. Millie played six-suit bridge with the girls a couple of afternoons, and she and Beata went shopping on Saturday and Millie got a new hand case and gauntlets.

	Herbert blew his top about them, of course; she'd known he would. Ordinarily they'd have had a big fight, but the prospect of disposing of Herbert for good had made Millie more even-tempered than usual. Her attitude seemed to surprise Herbert; she caught him looking at her rather oddly several times during the evening, and he kept talking about criminal extravagance.

	He watched her sourly all the time she was undressing for bed, while she took the sequins and bubble pearls out of her hair, and when the light had snapped out and she was lying on her serifroth mattress, he began fussing again.

	"The amount you women spend on your hair these days is an outrage," he observed nastily into the darkness. (Millie couldn't see him, but she could imagine how he must look, lying on his back with his arms under his head and a frown over his rather small blue eyes as he addressed the ceiling.) "I saw that old friend of yours today, Jara— what's her name?—Cather,' and she was fixed up like a floater in a para review. Everything in her hair but the atomic range."

	Millie stiffened on her pillow. She had known Jara Cather all her life, and she had always been envious of her. Jara had always had more of everything than Millie had—more money, more looks, more boy friends, and even, more good marks in school.

	"Well, she can afford it, I guess," she answered. "Bob has a wonderful job."

	"Not that wonderful. She said her hair cost forty dollars a week the new way she's wearing it."

	"What was it like?" Millie asked curiously. She wanted very much to know.

	"Oh, all sorts of colors, a regular rainbow, and a big bunch of shiny grapes and vegetables on top. She said it was fluorescent or something. Called it a polaroid-prismatic garnish or something like that."

	"Garniture," Millie corrected automatically. Herbert's description of Jara's hair-do sounded like something she'd seen in Flicker-Facts.

	"Um. Well, anyhow, it looked like the devil on sticks. I don't know what's the matter with women these days."

	"Where did she get it fixed, do you know?" Millie queried, trying to keep her interest from appearing in her voice.

	"Oh, some blasted beauty shop— Bruxelles', I think she said. She told me it took two women the whole day to do it, and it made such a mess the shop would only arrange hair that way one day out of the whole week. Tuesdays. Why, when I was a boy, my mother got a permanent—that's what they called them then, permanents—at the neighborhood beauty parlor and she fixed her hair at home, with those little straight pins, herself. It looked like a million dollars, too, not like these damned salads the women ..."

-

	MILLIE had ceased listening to him.

	Tuesdays! What a wonderful way to spend Tuesday, while Herbert was being disposed of! She'd 'phone in for the appointment on Monday, spend all day Tuesday at the shop, having her hair fixed with a garniture like Jara's, and come out in the evening looking really nice and no Herbert to spoil it by scolding her.

	What a wonderful time she was going to have—there was over three thousand dollars in the savings account in the bank, even after that check to Mr. Smith, and the stocks and bonds besides. Really the disposal service was cheap at the price, when she considered all she was going to gain by it. A wonderful time, she thought drowsily, and drifted off to sleep.

	Monday she called the shop and made the appointment and on Tuesday after she'd kissed Herbert good-bye at the 'copter terminal (a longer kiss than usual, and more affectionate, though she had a hard time to keep from laughing when he said he'd see her that evening) she drove across town in the scooterbile to Bruxelles'.

	Bruxelles' was definitely a swank place, out of her price class, ordinarily, and she'd never been there before. It took her a moment or two of teetering outside on the pavement before she could get her courage up and go in.

	Contrary to her fears, the attendant at the reception desk, was extremely polite. "Polaroid-prismatic garniture?" she said. "Yes, Mrs. Stevens. If you will just step this way, please ..." She led Millie back through a corridor carpeted with softly glowing chromamoss and seated her in the deepest of armchairs in an elegant little room. Millie looked at her watch; it was just ten o'clock.

	The first part of the polaroid-prismatic garniture was just like any other hair-do; detergent treatment, scalp and foot massage (only they used an electric vibrator between her toes to help relax the hair follicles in the scalp), egg fluff, and hand brushing. There was an interval at noon during which they brought Millie an assortment of sandwiches (bollo tongue, turken, and caviar) and a shaker of iced tangranate juice, and then the special part began.

	Telling her to close her eyes and relax, the two women attendants began stroking a heavy, sparkling oil over her hair. The woman on the right drew up a small machine which began making a deep, soothing drone—it had something to do with the polarity—and the woman on the left began to spray a cloud of pinkish stuff over Millie's scalp. Millie felt delightfully comfortable and relaxed. She opened one eye and looked quickly at her watch. It was just one o'clock.

	One o'clock ... Herbert was probably asking for the fishing reel at Bracey's now. He would probably stop in on his way back to the office after lunch. In a very few moments the disposal process would begin, and here she, Millie, was at Bruxelles', feeling so wonderfully comfortable, getting her hair fixed.

	How agreeable getting the polaroid-prismatic garniture was! They had stopped spraying the pink stuff on her hair now, and the woman on the left was swathing Millie's head in lovely warm towels with a delicious violet scent. Millie felt she could go right off to sleep. With her eyes closed, lying there, she felt as if she were drifting slowly down through clouds of soft pink snow, and the snow was falling upward around her. Delightful ... And in all the upward falling pink snow, all through it, there was no Herbert anywhere.

-

	SHE looked at her watch. Seven o'clock. Seven o'clock? Why, the shop closed at six. Why hadn't they called her? Millie scrambled to her feet.

	Where was she? This wasn't Bruxelles'. Astonished and beginning to be afraid, Millie looked around the little room.

	It was a tiny place, about six feet square, with a bunk against one wall and a mirror and wash basin opposite. The light in the ceiling gave off a discouraged, dismal, blue-green glow.

	Her polaroid-prismatic garniture still in her mind, Millie crossed over to the mirror and looked at herself.

	They had never finished her hair. The oil they had been rubbing in had never been removed, and the pink powder was still dusted on it. What on earth had happened? What was all this?

	Feeling really frightened, Millie went to the door and turned the knob. To her intense relief, it opened, and she stepped out into a little hall. There were other doors along it; it seemed to lead into a sort of salon. Nervously, walking with light steps, Millie followed it.

	The salon was a room of fair size, lighted by the same ghastly bluish-green. A man was standing at one of the windows, looking out, his back to her. Softly, timidly, Millie walked up.

	She must have made some noise, for, when she was about ten feet away, he turned to face her. It was Herbert.

	"Well, Millie," he said heavily, "I guess we must have tried the same thing on each other. We're—how d'you say—in the same boat."

	Millie looked at him. Her heart was beating with horrible rapidity. Herbert ... Here ...

	"What—" she said, her tongue feeling thick and stiff, "what — where are we?"

	"Why, we're on a rocket ship. Where it is, I don't really know. Maybe not in our universe at all. See, there're no stars." He gestured toward the visi-plates through which he had been looking. There was no arcing of stars (Millie had gone by rocket to the moon one year) no planetary discs, no nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but black.

	"But where—where's it going?"

	He looked at her under his eyebrows. "To limbo. Just as Mr. Smith said. To limbo, of course."

	And Millie sank to the floor, hysterical sobs shaking her.

-

	"I DON'T see how you do it, Smith," the office girl said. She was sitting on the edge of Mr. Smith's desk, idly swinging her foot so that the whirabees rotated with a soft, musical whirr. "I mean, you're really a genius. That's the second or third couple you've got on the ship, each half of the couple thinking he or she was the only one to want to dispose of the other—! Gosh, it's wonderful."

	Mr. Smith (of Smith and Tinkem, disposals) nodded benignly to acknowledge the compliment. He got an emery board out of the drawer in his desk and began to file a fingernail.

	"But there's one thing I've always wanted to know," the girl went on. "Where do they go, really? I mean, all that stuff about limbo is all very well for the customers, but what really becomes of them?"

	Smith filed industriously away at the fingernail for two or three minutes before he raised his eyebrows a little and answered her with a shrug.

	"Tinkem takes care of them—after they get to limbo, of course ..."

The End