for
Penelope
Here is the story that tells us why the first day of February, 1956, was a very
significant day for Miss Haskell, her cat Penelope and—the entire Universe! ...
BY ROBERT F. YOUNG
THE FIRST of February, nineteen hundred and fifty-six was a date of considerable significance on Miss Haskell's calendar. It marked the day on which she discovered that she needed new eyeglasses.
Galactically speaking, however, the first of February, nineteen hundred and fifty-six, was significant in quite another way. Its equivalent on the galactic calendar, which takes such factors as relative axial rotations and relative orbital velocities into consideration, marked the "day" on which a new quality emerged from behind the crude pillars of Arrogance and Conceit, which hitherto had supported the galactic credo, and stepped into the civilized radiance of a quarter of a million suns. Due to the fortuitous circumstances of its introduction it captivated the entire galactic civilization in a matter of galactic minutes, undermined the whole socio-centric structure, and led ultimately to the recognition of a number of primitive cultures which the Supreme Council had steadfastly snubbed for galactic centuries.
It was a quality that was only relatively new. On primitive Earth it had been around for centuries and Earth philosophers were still vying with each other in their various attempts to name it. Some of them called it "naive sentimentalism" and one of them in particular called it "reverence for life". Earth poets, who were supposed to be well versed in such phenomena, were wont to call it "humility" . . .
In its nascent phase, the first of February, nineteen hundred and fifty-six—insofar as it applied to Miss Haskell—gave no intimation that it was going to be noticeably different from its predecessor, the thirty-first of January, nineteen hundred and fifty-six. She got up at her usual hour, hurried downstairs and dressed in the warmth of the kitchen the way she always did during the winter months. She put the teakettle on and made a few typical remarks to Penelope on the subject of New England winters.
Then, unsuspectingly, she went out to get the milk.
The milk bill regarded her bleakly when she opened the lid of the small insulated milk box. The "Please" written diagonally across its white countenance was what she noticed first, and small wonder since there were four lines under it this time instead of the three she was accustomed to. Reluctantly, she lowered her eyes to the total.
$23.17, she read. She knew then that the day wasn't going to be an ordinary one after all, despite its deceptive beginning.
She shivered in the cold wind. Fine snow was blowing in from the ocean, slanting across the low hills that lined the shore, finding the house and sweeping unchecked from one end of the open back porch to the other. There was a small boy standing on the summit of the highest hill, staring out at the somber restless mass of water. She noticed him subconsciously just before she turned and re-entered the kitchen.
"I don't know what we're going to do, Penelope," she said, setting the single quart of milk on the kitchen table and laying the bill beside it. "I simply don't know what we're going to do!"
Penelope yawned. She stretched her sleek gray body luxuriously, then she jumped down from the rocker and confidently approached the saucer behind the stove.
"Oh, I know you're not worried," Miss Haskell said. "You don't have to try to stretch your pension. All you have to do is sleep and drink milk, and I never did see a cat who could drink as much milk as you do!" She turned back the tinfoil cap of the milk bottle and went over to the stove and filled the saucer. "Just the same," she added softly, "I don't know what I'd do without you."
She returned the milk bottle to the table and procured a tea bag and a cup from the cupboard. Passing the window she noticed the small boy again, consciously this time. She paused, staring out into the wind-slanted snow. He was standing motionlessly on the hilltop, looking out across the foreboding waste of snow-pocked waves and troughs as though he were confronted with the most intriguing vista of his lifetime. Why, Miss Haskell thought, he'll freeze standing out there! He'll catch his death of cold standing out there in that cold wind without even a coat on!
She opened the door and stepped out on the back porch. She called out, her thin voice fighting valiantly with the wind. "Little boy," she called. "Little boy!" After a moment he turned around and faced her. Even at that distance she noticed that there was something unusual about him.
She beckoned to him. After hesitating a moment he started walking toward the house, clown the white hillside and across the windswept patch of ground where last summer Miss Haskell had raised string beans and red potatoes. He walked lightly over the uneven, slightly tumbled earth, not stumbling once, and he stopped at the foot of the porch steps. He looked up at her questioningly.
He had the largest, widest eyes that she had ever seen. Looking down into their gray depths she had the vertiginous feeling that she was standing on the brink of an abyss, staring into misty concepts that were far beyond her ken. For a moment her composure deserted her, then her eyes dropped to the open collar of his strange jacket, dropped still farther to the whiteness of his bare hands, and it returned abruptly, accompanied by indignation.
"Young man, you get into this house right this minute!" she said, in a manner reminiscent of Aunt Polly laying down the law to Tom Sawyer. "Standing out there in the wind on the coldest day of winter without even a coat on. Why, you're liable to catch your death! The idea!"
She thought his eyes widened slightly, but she wasn't sure. It didn't seem possible that they could get much wider. His expression, which reminded her of the expressions she used to see long ago when she had been a country school teacher and had found it frequently necessary to interrupt her charges in the midst of their grandiose daydreams, changed appreciably. It became friendly and disarming. "I'm not really very cold," he said in an astonishingly pleasant voice, "but I'll come in if you like."
"Not really very cold indeed!" Miss Haskell said, holding the door open for him. "Why you look as though you're half frozen!" (He really did: his face and hands were almost shockingly white.) "You sit down now, and I'll fix you a cup of tea. What's your name?"
"Otelis." He looked around him as though he were intensely interested in every detail of the small crowded kitchen: He paid particular attention to the position of the several chairs. (Penelope was out of sight behind the stove, still preoccupied with her milk.)
"Why what an odd name!" Miss Haskell said, getting another tea bag and another cup from the cupboard. "What won't people be naming their children next! Live near here?"
"Yes, in a way." He sat down in the rocker which faced the window and from which a view of the ocean could be obtained. "Relatively speaking, I live quite close."
Miss Haskell wondered why he didn't take his hat off. People simply didn't bring up their children the way they used to, she thought, and they didn't dress them snug and warm the way they used to either. The hat, for instance, was a flimsy little thing consisting of nothing but silvery wirelike threads woven loosely together, and it didn't even come down far enough to cover his ears!
She sighed. "I guess I just can't keep track of my neighbors any more," she said. "A body gets old so fast it seems like the years just fly by!"
"You're not so very old, are you?" Otelis asked.
"I'll never see sixty-five again!" "But that's not old at all. Why—"
Miss Haskell had gone to the cupboard drawer for spoons. When she turned around, the aspect of her small guest startled her. He was sitting stiffly in the rocker, his mouth partly open, his eyes focused on something moving towards him across the kitchen floor. They had definitely widened this time. "What in the world is the matter?" she said.
He did not answer. Miss Haskell followed the direction of his gaze, expecting to see nothing less than a saber-toothed tiger, but all she saw was Penelope who had emerged from behind the stove and was approaching the rocker with an air of adamantine proprietorship. When she reached it she paused for a moment and regarded its occupant contemplatively. Otelis shrank back, his gray eyes enormous.
"Why you act as though you never saw a cat before!" Miss Haskell said.
Penelope leaped then, landing softly on his lap. For a while he seemed incapable of movement. He sat there rigidly, leaning as far back in the rocker as he could, his white hands tautly gripping the arms. It wasn't until he realized that Penelope didn't intend to proceed any farther than his lap that he began to relax. Presently, after she had curled up comfortably and closed her eyes, he released one of the rocker arms and very cautiously moved his hand to the gray, softly pulsating body.
Wonderment suffused his face. "Why," he said, "it makes a noise!"
"She's purring!" Miss Haskell said. "For heaven's sake, didn't you ever hear a cat purr before? Are you a city boy?"
"I—I'm afraid I neglected to learn about cats. I must have missed them somehow. But oceanography's my speciality. That's the main reason my planet paper received merit-classification."
"You must be a city boy, studying such outlandish subjects and not knowing anything about such ordinary creatures as cats!" Miss Haskell got the kettle from the stove and filled the two cups. "I drink mine plain," she said, sitting down, "but you can have some of Penelope's milk in yours. And of course you'll want sugar. All boys do."
"No, I'll drink mine the way you do," Otelis said quickly, watching her closely as though he were waiting to ascertain just the way she did drink it.
"Well, be careful then. It's awfully hot." She raised the steaming cup to her lips and took a careful sip. Otelis followed suit. He set the cup down very quickly, Miss Haskell thought. When he did so his hand happened to touch the milk bill, and he picked it up, as though he were eager to occupy his attention with something other than tea. "What's this?" he asked.
"It's the milk bill, but I'm afraid it's Penelope's death notice, too." Miss Haskell slumped a little in her chair. "If I can't pay it this month they aren't going to write 'Please' any more. They just aren't going to leave any more milk."
"Then why don't you pay it?"
"I can't. Not till my pension comes, and that's a long ways off."
"You mean Penelope will die?" His gray eyes had attained their maximum circumference,
"She will without her milk."
He looked down suddenly at the cat curled up in his lap. He ran his fingers gently up and down her back and the purring crescendoed, filling the kitchen. "Why," he said, "she's beautiful in a way. She shouldn't have to die. That's wrong."
"Lots of things are wrong in this world," Miss Haskell said, "but I guess there isn't very much we can do about them. But I shouldn't be talking like this," she added quickly. "Carrying on like a lonely old woman, telling a little boy all my troubles. You just drink your tea now, and forget about Penelope."
"Funny how I missed cats that way," he said abstractedly. Abruptly he raised his eyes and stared through the window at the somber expanse of ocean that showed darkly beyond the thickening snow.
Miss Haskell saw an expression of boyish yearning settle upon his face, saw a far-away look come into his eyes. He sat there immobile for a long time, his eyes lost, and then, slowly, the expression faded and his eyes returned from wherever they had been and dropped gently back to Penelope.
"I always sort of liked oceans," he said. "I don't know why. Because they're so big, I guess."
"What do oceans have to do with cats?" Miss Haskell asked in bewilderment.
A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. The word "wistful" entered Miss Haskell's mind, then ran quickly out again when she saw how serene his eyes had become. "Quite a lot," he said. He stood up, first lifting Penelope from his lap and depositing her carefully on the kitchen floor. He seemed taller somehow. "I have to go now. Thank you very much for the tea."
"You're very welcome," Miss Haskell said, "although I don't believe you touched a drop of it."
He picked up the milk bill once more and stared at it very intently. The silvery threads of his ridiculous hat seemed to glow. Finally he laid the bill down again and he walked over to the door.
"Make sure you go straight home now," Miss Haskell said, getting up and opening the door for him. "Don't let me catch you standing out there in that cold wind again!"
"I won't be standing out there any more," he said.
He paused for a moment on the porch steps, staring across the field and the snow-blurred hills at the leaden grayness of the ocean. Then he went down the steps and started across the field toward the highest hill. "Goodbye," he called over his shoulder.
"Goodbye!" Miss Haskell shouted into the wind.
She watched him from the window. It was snowing harder than ever now and by the time he reached the hill she could barely see him at all. He probably lived in one of the winterized summer cottages that stood a short distance down the beach, she thought. She wished suddenly that she had asked him specifically, and wished too that she had thought to ask him why he wasn't in school. But it was too late now. He was climbing the hill now, a vague blur of a little boy in a New England snowstorm. Just before he reached the summit a gust of wind sprang up in a wild white flurry and engulfed him, and by the time the flurry had died away the hill was empty.
Miss Haskell sighed, more aware of her loneliness than usual. But of course there was Penelope, and as long as she had Penelope she could never be completely lonely. Thinking of Penelope reminded her of the milk bill, and with a shudder she went over to the table and picked it up, intending to put it away somewhere where she wouldn't have to look at it. But before she put it away she looked at it once more, and that was when she discovered that she needed new eyeglasses.
THE M.C. waited until the last child had stepped out of the vertical halo of the matter transmitter and had taken his assigned seat upon the studio stage. Then he stepped before the gargantuan eye of the tele-camera and faced the galaxy-wide audience. Beside him the Alterator scintillated like a complex silver web.
"You have just witnessed the winners of the 'My Favorite Primitive Planet' essay contest returning from their sojourns on the planets which they selected as the subjects of their winning essays," he said. "During these sojourns they have instituted the temporal alterations granted to them as a reward of merit, and in a moment they will come forward singly and validate those alterations before the Alterator.
"This contest has been sponsored by the Society for the Encouragement of Youthful Confidence in an attempt to impress upon the minds of our galactic-citizens-to-be some idea of the omnipotence to which their scientific heritage entitles them, and to give them some conception, through studying the language, customs and literature of inferior cultures, of the supreme superiority of our own culture. Naturally, due to the serious ramifications that might result from tampering with certain integral time patterns, the winners were instructed to confine all alterations of a geographical nature to nominal patterns only, and those of an historical nature to events which did not involve strong philosophical or ethical trends. Each winner was limited to one alteration."
The M.C. turned toward the stage where the children sat waiting, their white faces shining, their little alterator helmets twinkling brightly in the radiance of the studio lights. "You will come forward one at a time and orally submit your alterations for validation," he said. . . "Alesa, would you like to be first?"
Alesa walked demurely across the stage and stood before the intricate web of shining thread-like wires. "The name 'Tekit,' most magnificent city on Tarth 7, to `Alesa'," she said.
The Alterator hummed. Alesa returned to her seat.
"Voris?"
Voris came forward a little shyly. " `Liliel', largest continent on Fruith 3, to `Voris'."
"Stris?"
"The `Metnumen' system of government of Matnanet, Sairis 12, to the `Stris' system of government."
"Elora?"
"The river `Tib', on Tranuska 2, to the river ‘Elora'."
"Otelis?"
He felt ashamed at first, standing up there in front of all those famous children whose names were already integrated in geography textbooks all over the galaxy. And then, suddenly, he didn't feel ashamed any more at all. He felt proud instead, and he stood up very straight before the dazzling web of the Alterator and he said what he had to say with quiet dignity.
" '$23.17' on the milk bill of Miss Abigail Haskell, Rural Route No. 4, Smithport, Massachusetts, America, Sol 3, to $00.00'," he said. "and the word 'Please' on same bill to the word Paid'."
The North "Otelis" Ocean wouldn't have sounded right anyway.