Harlan Ellison: Survivor #1

The visitor looked doubtful, and then the stony green countenance relaxed.

“Very well,” he said gently. “In three days I will return. If you succeed, all will be well. If not—”

He shrugged, opened the door, and left.

It had to be Naomi Winkler. Not because Naomi was the woman he had dream-envisioned himself spending the rest of his natural life with on some far-off planet, but simply because she was the only female Milt had been seeing.

Milt Klowitz had not quite been a Mama’s boy, but things had been so secure, so regulated, living with Mama, that until her death at the age of seventy-four Milt had lived on in the old house without a thought of the outside world. Least of all, marriage.

With his science fiction, his undemanding job in the advertising agency, and his Mama’s gugelhopf, Milt’s life had been cozily comfortable. But when Mama died, the old place became oppressive, and Milt had sold it to take this smaller, compact bachelor apartment.

He had met Naomi in the traffic department of the agency, when she had been sent up as a replacement from the typing pool. They had dated only casually. Although he had fumblingly kissed her on three occasions, there was never a thought of marriage. Marriage was totally outside his interests.

Now, it was his sole interest.

Consequently, it had to be Naomi Winkler.

“Hello, Naomi? Milt. I was, uh, wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight? Yeah, I know it’s Saturday and all that, but I was just thinking if we could get together—”

Milt had never known he could talk so long or so convincingly. But with the final gasp and the plunk of the receiver, he had made the dinner date.

He shaved with extreme care, and used more aftershave lotion than usual.

“This really is a lovely place, Milt. Are you sure you can afford it? I mean, it looks so expensive—”

She wasn’t really a homely girl, when you looked at her three-quarter view in the flickering light of the candle stuck in the Chianti bottle. Her hair was a rather lively chestnut, and her eyes were wide, brown and sparkling. Her features were a bit irregular, and her nose a bit too large, but at this juncture Milt was not looking for Raquel Welch. Merely a mate.

“Just leave the finances to me, Naomi. Tonight is something special. If a guy can’t spend a few bucks on the girl he loves, then—”

The word did it. Her expression was startled. Now he had to follow it up quickly, before the arrival of the veal parmesan spoiled the moment.

“It’s true, Naomi. I’ve kept this thing buried too long already. I’m in love with you—”

She blurted: “You—”

“I want to marry you! Right away!”

Her face froze in astonishment.

“Don’t say it!” he said. “Don’t say you hardly know me. That doesn’t matter, Naomi. I love you enough for the both of us. Just give me the chance to show you—”

“But we—”

Milt went on doggedly, dragging air into his lungs as he plunged along, halting her every word, deluging her with sweet nothings, frenziedly couched in logical plans for the future, their happiness together, for the children, the two car garage, the backyard barbecues…

“Now wait a minute!” She thumped the table with alarming force and the water glasses did a mambo. “I like you a lot, Milt, and if I knew you a little better, I might consider it. Just consider it, you understand—”

Milt almost chortled. She was weakening. He grasped her rather chubby hands and squeezed them with manly ardor. She pulled away and said:

“Well, at least you can let me think about it, Milt. For a little while.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Milt said hungrily.

He brought her home at twelve, and planted what should have been a passionate kiss, midway between her nose and mouth.

In the morning, Milt telephoned at eight. Her voice was thick with sleep, and her answer abrupt.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Milt. I think we should wait. After all, there really isn’t any hurry— ”

“Isn’t there?” Milt groaned. “If you only knew!”

“Knew what?”

“How much I love you, Naomi, I can’t live without you!” He said it as if he meant it, which indeed was true.

“Let me think some more,” Naomi said.

She thought. She thought until nine that evening. Then the telephone jangled and Naomi Winkler said the sweetest, most wonderful word in the English language.

“Yes,” Naomi said. “The only thing I ask though—”

“Anything!” Milt said joyously. “Ask me anything!”

“Well, I don’t want to get married until the fall. I just don’t have any summer clothes at all, Milt, so if you don’t mind—”

“The fall? But that’s months from now. We can’t wait that long, Naomi. We just can’t!”

“But why not? Why rush? You haven’t even met my folks yet—”

“We can’t wait,” Milt crooned, albeit a trifle hysterically. “We just can’t wait, Naomi. You must believe me. We have to get married right now. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest—”

“You mean elope? I couldn’t do that, Milt!”

“But you must!” He almost shrieked it.

“Well, I really don’t understand your attitude,” she said primly. There was a pause. Then, “I’ll think about it,” Naomi said.

She thought about it. Another day passed.

Then, the evening before the third day, Naomi appeared at the door of his apartment carrying an overnight bag.

It was the shortest honeymoon on or off the record. At the door of the South Pleasure Ridge Park Motel, Cabin #15, Milt feverishly bussed Naomi through her veil, set the overnight bag inside the door, and told her: “I’ll be back as soon as I can, darling. I’ve, uh, got something terribly important to do. A matter of, uh, life or death. I’ll be back in a little while.”

He took a dash, and was fifteen feet down the drive before he remembered to take the car.

The green man showed up at the stroke of midnight. Nothing spectacular, no down-the-chimney about it. He just walked through the door, and closed it behind him.

Milt was beaming like an arsonist at the Great Chicago Fire. “All set. Everything’s all taken care of. Mated and everything, even legal.” He held up the marriage license.

The green man took the paper from Milt’s fingers and looked it over carefully. His blobby nose twitched with some unnamed emotion. He nodded his head, and handed the paper back.

“Well, when do we go?” Milt demanded. The green man thumbed the side of his huge nose. “Well, you see—”

Milt’s joy turned to moth’s wings in his mouth. His face crumpled slowly, and his voice grew syrupy with dread.

“Hey, wait a minute! You promised. You said I could be survivor number one. All I had to do was get mated. So I got mated; look!” He waved the license beneath the green man’s prominent proboscis.

The visitor placated him. “Now take it easy, Mr. Klowitz. Something’s come up. When I went to make my report to the Council of Elders, I discovered that there had been a change in plans. You might call it a postponement.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Milt said. “You can’t just leave me here to die. You can’t you can’t you—”

“Mr. Klowitz, please! You’re not listening to me. You don’t have to die. No Earthling has to die. The Council has decided to extend the clean-up date another ten thousand Earth-years. It’s possible that future developments will cause us to decide not to eliminate your race at all. You will be—”

By this time Milt’s habit of interruption was ingrown. “You mean you aren’t going to destroy the Earth?”