POSSESSION
Science Fiction Quarterly – February 1955
(1955)*
L. Sprague de Camp

Any Rwon who could prove to another of his own caste that he needed a possession of the latter, more than its present owner, was entitled to have it!

-

	PROFESSOR ERIC WADE lolled in his Tecumseh as the car, on automatic, dipped down the long slope into the Rock River Valley. Granite sand and pines gave way to limestone and farms. Here and there an early-turning maple gave a spot of red to the landscape. Wade swallowed to equalize the pressure on his eardrums; it was hot in the valley— though not hot enough to make Wade crank up his windows and turn on the air-conditioning.

	Then, though still miles short of Clarksburg, Wade flipped the switch that put the car on manual, grasping the wheel as he did so. He slowed down to a mere thirty, looking about. Presently he turned off on a dirt road, where there was no buried control-cable to operate the Tecumseh on automatic.

	The road was a short-cut to Clarksburg, but so rough and winding—not to mention its lack of automatic control—that nobody used it except as a means of reaching the houses that lay along it. Most of these houses were too far back to be seen from the road, their existence betrayed only by dirt or gravel driveways and mailboxes. As he neared one of these driveways, Wade slowed to a crawl and peered about. He did so with a slightly furtive air, as if Doris' jealous ghost-were watching from the back seat. He smiled at his own guilt-reaction, thinking: She always said if anything happened to her I should marry again soon; that I could never manage the house and kids without her. She was right, too.

	The Tecumseh crept past the driveway with the mailbox marked Honeth and speeded up. A last dip and it rumbled over the old bridge at Aquilon and purred up the slope on the other side of the Rock River. Wade continued to glance about.

	A few minutes later the dirt shortcut rejoined the main road by which Wade had driven down from Lake Scajadaga. He put the car back on automatic and rolled into Clarksburg.

	Here he pulled up to a curb and got out. He reasoned that his knees were stiff from a two-hour drive, and moreover, having started from the Shapiros' right after an early breakfast, he had not yet seen a newspaper. But he still moved in that oddly furtive fashion and peered about, looking hard at passing autos.

	Greene's Drug Store still flourished. Professor Wade went in, picked a paper off the rack, and sat down at the fountain. Old man Greene himself came behind the fountain. The soda-jerk had not yet showed up, as it was just after nine.

	"A cnatsi," said Wade, glancing at old man Greene. The proprietor, it seemed to Wade, was a lot fatter and grayer than he remembered. But, he thought, others who had not seen him, Wade, for twelve years would say things like that about him—even though he had not grown a belly like Will Shapiro's. He put on his glasses and began reading the headlines and the weather-forecast.

	"A cnatsi," said a voice with a curious tinny tamber.

	Wade, knowing that accent, looked up. Of course it was a Rwon, partaking of the common drink of his planet. Cnatsi had made big inroads into the earth's consumption of tea and coffee, as its alkaloids provided a mild stimulation without affecting the heart, and it tasted good in its tart way.

	The Rwon looked like all the others of his race: a five-foot humanoid, powerfully muscled against the gravity of Rwona, though the muscles never quite corresponded to those of a man. The face, though not human, was not unattractive when you got used to it. It reminded Wade of an Easter Island statue or an exceptionally brainy baboon. The naked putty-gray skin was shorn of its silvery pelt, for otherwise Rwons found Earth's temperate zone too hot to endure. There were no external indications of sex, for the good reason that Rwons were sexless; they budded.

	After a reciprocal glance, in which the red-irised eyes of the Rwon met Wade's, Wade returned to his drink and his paper. It would have been easy to exchange a word with the extra-terrestrial. Rwons .were friendly and likeable, though their culture was very different from that of men. Not only were they sexless; they regarded human reproduction with horror and disgust. And their institution of property was without terran parallels; any Rwon who could prove to another of his own caste that he needed a possession of the latter, more than its present owner, was entitled to have it. Their social structure was entirely undemocratic.

-

	WADE SUCKED on his straw. As a member of the Advisory Commission on Interplanetary Relationships, he worked on the Rwonan problem all the time; this was his vacation. Moreover, if he was little known among his fellow-earthmen outside the University, he was—as a commissioner— known to the Rwons. If he admitted his identity, the Rwon would talk his ear off, trying to influence him. And Eric Wade's mind, at the moment, was full of more personal matters.

	He finished his cnatsi, paid, and returned to his car. A glance up and down the main street of Clarksburg showed no sign of her. He got back into the Tecumseh and purred off towards Carcosa.

	Carcosa was a huge house, built by an ancestor of Eric Wade at the beginning of the twentieth century—which made it practically medieval. Despite its wooden construction it had survived the hazards of fire and of social and financial upheaval for over two centuries in the same family—not that its successive owners had not tried hard to sell it.

	With the car on manual still, Eric Wade drove out Iroquois Street until it turned into another country road, dipped down into the valley again, crossed the Rock River, and snaked along that turbulent stream for three miles. Then Wade turned into the driveway marked by the buggy-wide ivy-covered pylons. Carcosa came in sight amidst its dark towering ancient pines. With a nostalgic frisson, Wade recognized the towers and other architectural excresences. They should, he-thought, advertise: antique manor-house for sale. Hot and cold running ghosts; built-in bats and owls.

	Then he was greeting his cousin Molly Kirkland. She had turned gray of hair since "he saw her last, but was still plump and forceful. She kissed him loudly and introduced her son, a handsome lad in uniform just back from Lunar duty.

	Wade's more distant cousin Christine was there to be kissed, too; she was the one who had never married. There was much well-well-well, you don't look any different, which of course was not true. Molly joshed Wade on his receding hairline. "Lots of time before lunch, Eric. Let's go look at the garden."

	"Any nibbles on the property?"

	"Yes, there's a man who's sure to buy any day ..."

	"Where's Aunt Betsy?"

	"Didn't you know? She died three years ago. How's your brother?"

	"He's in Africa.

	"We were so sorry about poor Doris ... Where are your children, Eric? We expected them."

	"I left them with the Shapiros. If I didn't get away from those three savages once in a while I'd go psycho. How are you making a living, Molly?"

	"Oh, between Humphrey's insurance and a column in the Clarksburg Press I manage. Say, I've got to drive into town before lunch to shop. Like to come along and tote groceries?"

	"Sure. Say, whatever became of ..."

	Eric Wade sat beside Molly Kirkland as the big old Kessler rolled back towards Clarksburg. With surgical skill he probed for news of people whom he had known in these parts in his youth. True, there was only one in whom he was really interested. But he did not care to unmask his batteries so early by starting his questions with one about her.

-

	HE SMILED at his own craft. You are, he thought, a middle-ageing pedant on a cold-blooded, self-seeking wife-hunt. (Well, what's wrong with that) They don't have to take me if they don't want me.) You haven't been in love with Vida for thirteen years, even if the frustrations of the last year have caused a prettyfied memory-image of her to haunt your sleep. You'd stay a widower if the kids weren't too much for you ...

	He asked: "What's happened to that oaf—you know—Bertram de Retske?"

	"Trying to drink himself to death. It's got so nobody can invite him anywhere, because he always gets stinking and totally uninhibited with the ladies."

	"I'm not surprised," said Wade.

	"He has some excuse; his wife has become a Rwonist."

	"Oh? Maybe she left him because of the kind of man he is."

	"You could argue either way."

	"How does Mrs. de Retske find the perfect husband?"

	Molly shrugged. "I haven't seen her since. Say, Eric, aren't you on some international commission to do with the Rwons?" '

	"Yes. That's the kind of thing that makes it tough for us."

	"How?"

	"Well, you can't really blame the Rwons because they treat a woman better than any terran husband. Always kind and considerate and reliable; always appreciative of improvements in the house; always admiring the new hat or coiffure." Wade shot an appraising glance at his cousin, five years his senior. "You could do worse yourself."

	"Thanks, but if I have to put up with another man, I want a man."

	Wade sighed. "You always were a lusty wench. Most women are glad to put up with a Rwon's shortcomings for the other benefits."

	"Besides," said Molly Kirkland, "I don't care to be anybody's possession —anybody's slave."

	"Oh, that's nominal, and purely voluntary as far as earthwomen are concerned. They have this caste-system in. which everybody's the property of a member of a higher caste. But it's a mild form of slavery; you can't make your 'property' work for you."

	"How do they cause your commission trouble?"

	"Well," said Wade, wiping his high forehead (for the Kessler's air-conditioner had long since given up its mechanical ghost), "you can see how a man like Bert de Retske would feel. He's just an ordinary human being with the usual lusts and vices, and bad temper, and his wife deserts him for an extra-terrestrial monkey. Even though it's not living in sin, he feels he's the victim of unfair competition, and wants us to erect a marital tariff-wall around the earth. On the other hand, though the Rwons have some odd customs, they're peaceable and friendly and have clever ideas we can use. So v/e don't want to antagonize them, see?"

	"I see."

	"By the way, what's become of my old girl-friend, Vida Honeth?" said Wade, his heart pounding despite his ostentatious nonchalance.

	"What we've been talking about."

	"Huh?"

	"She's become a Rwonist too."

	"O-oh!" said Wade, staring at the instrument-panel. He felt as if a stick of plutonium had just gone off in his viscera, but kept his voice steady. He also felt a sneaking sympathy for the disreputable de Retske. "I ran into her uncle last year at a conference on extra-terrestrial relations, and he told me she hadn't married."

	"That's why, though her family doesn't like to talk about it ... What are you staring around like that for? Hoping for a glimpse of Vida?"

	Damn, thought Wade. He should have remembered his cousin's shrewdness. With an effort he refrained from peering about the streets of Clarksburg. Molly continued: "It's a waste of time anyway."

	"You mean she's not living in the house at Aquilon?"

	"Oh, she's there. But she has the house to herself because none of her family will come while it is there—"

	"A prejudiced attitude," interrupted Wade, "but dog my cats if I don't see their point of view."

	"As I was saying, she doesn't come into Clarksburg because she feels the people here look on her as the victim of some horrible vice. It drives in and does the marketing instead."

	"Hmm. Is this the only Rwon in the county?"

	"The only one I know of."

	"Then it must be the one I saw in Greene's this morning. Oh, well, it doesn't matter," said Wade with forced levity as Molly parked. "I refuse to cope with the Rwonan problem on my own time."

	Molly shot him a glance of irony and got out to shop.

-

	THREE HOURS later, Eric Wade was driving back towards Lake Scajadaga to pick up his three savages. He expected to find Will Shapiro and his wife somewhat limp from their experience, but Will had asked for it.

	The matter of Vida Honeth continued to churn his thoughts. His first reaction had been that he had lost all interest in her; she might as well have died. However, with the passage of time, the image of the small dark girl began to edge back into his consciousness for all he wished to shut her out.

	(Girl? She was three years younger than he, which would make her thirty-six or seven. Say "woman.")

	Rolling out of Clarksburg, he shifted the Tecumseh into automatic as he reached the state highway. A moment later he shifted back into manual and whirled the car, tires squealing, on to the dirt road that ran past the hamlet of Aquilon. He told himself that he was merely saving a couple of miles, but he knew this to be a singularly transparent excuse.

	Five minutes later Wade slowed down for the Honeth driveway/He was aware of a curious pressure within himself, as if conflicting emotions had caused the blood in his skull to boil. He struck the steering-wheel with his fist.

	The leading emotion of which he was aware was. a burning curiosity. He must look into this matter. If he did not, he would probably never see Vida Honeth again and never know just what was going on and how he, himself, really felt. And then there was a twinge of chauvinistic planetary jealousy. A human husband, even one of another race or nation, he could have wished well to; but for her to take up with a Rwon seemed like a waste of good womanhood.

	The car nosed into the driveway and crept up the long hill and around the bend, flanked by trees, to the house. This was a field-stone farmhouse built in 1998 and remodelled in 2035.

	Fie rang the door-bell. The emotions might still churn within, but the suave facade was now that of Dr. Eric Wade, Professor of Political Science and counsellor to the great of the earth.

	As the day was very hot for September, the entrance was barred by the screen-door only. Wade had a glimpse of a small person in jeans, with a kind of turban around her head. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the interior, it seemed to him that Vida did not look a day older than the last time he had seen her, thirteen years before. (Maybe the screen has a softening effect, he. thought.)

	Then came the words: "Why, Eric! For heaven's sake! Come in, but why didn't you 'phone so as not to catch me in the middle of housecleaning?"

	He shook her small firm hand and was led in. As he stood in the archway opening into the living-room, a sound from the rear came to his ears. In came the Rwon he had seen in Greene's that morning. Vida said: "Eric, this is my friend, Zdaor. Dear, this is Professor Eric Wade. Maybe you've heard of him?"

	"I have indeed," said the tinny voice; "it is a great pleasure."

	The clawed hand, something like a bird's foot, came smoothly out to grasp Wade's hand. Vida said: "You two wait here while I go to make myself look human. Zdaor, get Dr. Wade a drink. He's an old friend."

	Zdaor said: "What would you like, Pi'ofethor? Scotch? Rye ..."

-

	W/ADE OPTED for rye-on-rocks. While waiting he prowled around looking at books and magazines. He had the habit of many intellectuals of minutely inspecting the books of every new house he entered, as if he could thereby gain an insight into the owner's personality. Most of these books were in a Rwonan language, written with a signary of dots and bars. Wade could make out only an occasional word. His ears made him aware of the return of the Rwon with refreshments.

	"I must brush up on my languages," he said with an insincere smile. "I tried Enyau once, but all those prefixes and affixes and suffixes and infixes defeated me."

	Zdaor spread a hand in a shrugging gesture, though a genuine shrug was impossible to it because its arms were firmly jointed to its skeleton instead of being loosely hung in muscle like those of a terran mammal. "It is no worse than some of your terran tongues. I do not sink any of our languages are so highly inflected as the Bantu tongues, or have so many rules as Arabic, or such irregular spelling as your own English. But before talking let us drink. Ceswo to interplanetary friendship!"

	"Ceswo. That's good!"

	"It is hot, thir. And our conditioner is in Clarksburg undergoing repairs. But tell me, Professor Wade, are you not a member of the Advisory Commission on Interplanetary Relationships?"

	"That's right."

	"Ah." The Rwon smiled (an aritificial gesture, as the true Rwonan smile was performed by twitching the ears). "What will your distinguished Commission advise the Assembly about the new bill to regulate the residence of Rwons on earth?"

	Here we go again, thought Wade. "We haven't completed our report yet. And you know terran politicians; they may ignore it. Have you any suggestions?"

	"Oh, yes, if I may present them wissout boring you. In the first place, we contend ..."

	The argument was fluent, cogent, and delivered with charming adroitness. The only trouble was that Wade had heard it all before in the course of his work on the Commission. He was glad when Vida came back in a proper dress and hair-do. She was still a damned pretty woman, thought Wade, though now he could see hints of age, such as gray hairs among the black.

	"Oh, Zdaor!" she said. "Eric's heard all that. I want to talk about him. I was sorry to hear about your wife, Eric; you have children, haven't you?"

	"Three little monsters."

	"What a thing to say! What are they like?"

	"The older boy's a muscular, extraverted young hellion; the younger's a maladjusted genius who has to do everything differently from everybody else. As for the little girl ..."

	For a while the talk ran upon such personalia: relatives, friends, jobs, money, personal adventures and accomplishments. Then, subtly, Zdaor brought the talk back to human-Rwon-an relationships. Vida kept refilling the glasses before Wade had a chance to half-empty his.

-

	ERIC WADE'S tensions relaxed. The room swam gently. If he could only stop this damned dull argument about the rights of wrongs—he meant the rights of Rwons—things would be perfect. Somewhere along the line he resolved not to drink any more, because he was going to have to drive on manual. But that resolution got mislaid along with his recollection of the phenomenal drinking-capacity of Rwons.

	"... but," Zdaor was saying, "you admit we do no harm. We abide by your terran laws and do not upthet your economic systems. Why, then, all these hostile new restrictions? Anybody would sink—"

	"I'll tell you!" shouted Wade, banging the wooden arm of the ancient Morris-chair. The only way to stop this individual would be to give it the unpalatable truth. Wade realized that he was shouting and repeated in a lower tone: "I'll tell you, Zdaor old pal." With effort he focussed on the gray baboon-like face. "You're an example yourself."

	"How can that be? I take care to offend no one—"

	"Look. Itsh—it's like this. You know, my wife died last year. Damn fine wife. We didn't always get along, but that was as much my fault as hers."

	"I do not see the connection."

	"Well, she left me with three kids. Prob'ly grow up to be good citizens, but meantime they drive me nuts. Utterly, ^absolutely, indubitably psychotic. Never was much good at handling them."

	"I still do not thee—-"

	"Tried getting housekeepers, or boarding 'em out with relatives. Nothing works. My damned brother's in Africa, frinstance, and housekeepers are all thieves or incompetents. What's the answer? Get a new wife. Eligible widower, good salary. Shouldn' have trouble. What do I do? Start looking up all my old girl-friends of fifteen-twenty years ago. Look up Vida here. What do I find? You tell me, Zdaor old pal."

	"Ah, I see. But, my friend, why blame me? If she had not come into my possession, she would probably have married another earthman and be just as inaccessible."

	"And maybe not. How long you two been—uh—going together?"

	"Four years last May," said Vida. "Eric, can't we talk about something less embarrassing?"

	Wade ignored the last request and said with owlish solemnity to Zdaor: "See? Told you."

	"Told me what? I do not understand—"

	"Damn it, you don't want to see!" cried Wade in a passion. "How many of you are on earth? Fourteen thousand? No, skipped a decimal; hundred and forty thousand. More coming every year."

	"Well?"

	"At least a hundred and thirty thousand of 'em have got terran women living with 'em. Living in non-sin, you might say. Where does that leave .us terran males? We can't compete with you in charm and virtue—"

	"Why don't you go for a walk, Eric?" said Vida. "You'll feel better. We have a fine garden."

	"I've smelled my quota of flowers for the day, thanks. Now, you listen here, Zdaor—"

	The Rwon said: "But we are such a small fraction of your population— what is it? Three billion?"

	"Nevertheless and notwithstanding, every man who can't find a proper mate shub-subconsciously blames it on you, and says why should that goddam monkey—"

	"Please, Dr. Wade. We try to adapt ourselves, but one sing we do not like is to be called monkeys."

	"If you don't like it, you know where you can go. Right back—"

	Zdaor rose. "It has been very interesting, Professor. You must excuse me, for I have work—"

	"Oh, no you don't! Jush when—"

	"Please Eric, you're making a fool of yourself," said Vida. "If you can't be pleasant, you'd better—"

	Wade heaved himself out of his chair. "Not till I've finished telling this monkey—"

	Splush!

	Wiping his stinging, streaming eyes, Eric Wade was vaguely aware that the Rwon had thrown the remains of a glass of rye-and-ice in his face. When he could see again he took a staggering step towards a blur he identified as Zdaor. He cocked his fist.

	Then the light went out.

-

	AS CONSCIOUSNESS returned to Eric Wade, he became aware that he was lying on his back on the sofa in the Honeth house. The thing that had aroused him was a yellow ray of the evening sun, shining slantwise across the room on his face. His belt had been loosened and his shoes removed. He had a headache, a foul taste in his mouth, and a burning thirst.

	But his physical discomfort was nothing compared to the spiritual agony that settled upon him as, with horrible clarity, he remembered his drunken conversation with and attack upon Zdaor. What in the name of all the gods had possessed him? He had not made such an obnoxious ass of himself since he was an undergraduate, twenty-odd years before. He, Eric Wade, never got drunk and insulted people as did louts like Bertram de Retske. His career would be ruined if this got out. And these people had only been kind and courteous to him.

	What was wrong with him? Of course there was the heat, and his state of emotional upset, and Vida's habit of pouring a little into your glass when you weren't looking. But nothing could atone for this horrible gaffe ...

	His head began to clear and the throbbing to abate. As he lay wondering whether he should try to slink out without exposing those in the house to his defiling presence, Vida came in.

	"Awake?" she said.

	"Guess so." Wade swallowed with effort. "What happened?"

	"Zdaor pushed you, and you fell and hit your head on the arm of the chair. We had Dr. Federico in, and he said you'd be all right when you came out of your drunken stupor."

	Wade felt his scalp and located the goose-egg. "Where's it? I mean Zdaor? I've got to apologize ..."

	"He's packed up and gone."

	"Gone?" said Wade stupidly.

	"Yes."

	"You mean it was so insulted that ..."

	"No, it wasn't that. First he was terrified of trouble with us 'natives,' but the doctor reassured him."

	"What then?" said Wade, wincing at a throb.

	"You know their system of property?"

	"Yes."

	"Well, you proved to Zdaor that you needed me more than he did, so under their custom he had to give me to you. If it had just been love—or what they call 'that strange terran glandular madness'—he wouldn't have been influenced. But when you showed him you needed somebody to keep your house and children, you had him."

	"Oh." Wade became aware that Vida was holding a carving-knife. His eyes widened. He pushed back against the wall, away from the bright blade. No doubt, he thought, she will now disembowel me for driving away her ideal husband ...

-

	SHE TOOK a step towards him. "Vida!" he croaked. "Don't ruin your life! That won't help any ..." 

	She stopped. "What's the matter?" 

	"Aren't you going to stab me?" 

	"Good heavens, no! What made you think such a thing?"

	"Well—I thought—with Zdaor gone ..."

	She burst into laughter. She laughed until she had to sit down, and finally said: "You poor idiot, I' won't miss him; and it's not a question of sex, either. He had his virtues, but you have no idea what a dull bore it gets, living with an ideal person. Now you have faults, but—" 

	"Me?"

	"Well, didn't you mean what you told Zdaor?"

	"Of course I did. But after that exhibition ..."

	"That's all right. The reason I always turned down your proposals in the old days was you were such a stiff little prig, never drinking or—anything. Now ... Of course I won't be rushed into anything."

	"It'll work out, darling," said Wade, swinging his feet down from the sofa and reaching for his shoes. "But what was the knife for?"

	"I was going to ask you, if you were conscious, how you liked your steak."

	"Real cow-steak?"

	"Yes."

	"Rare," said Eric Wade. "Better yet, let me cook it. I can do a couple of things Rwons can't, and one of them is to broil a steak right." He tied his shoes, rose, and followed Vida into the kitchen.

The End