The Year's Best Science Fiction 10

Benedict’s voice shook. “You came back,” he said, touched.

And the Royal Bengal Tiger, eyes glowing amber, white ruff gleaming in the pale light, put one paw on his knee.

“You came,” Benedict said, and after a long pause he put a tentative hand on the tiger’s head. “I guess we’d better go home,” he muttered, noticing now that it was beginning to get light. “Come on—” he caught his breath at the familiarity “—Ben.”

And he started for his rooms, almost running, rejoicing as the tiger sprang behind him in long, silken leaps.

“We must sleep now,” he said to the tiger when they reached the apartment. Then, when he had Ben settled properly, curled nose to tail in a corner, he dialled his office and called in sick. Exhilarated, exhausted, he flung himself on the couch, not caring for once that his shoes were on the furniture, and slept.

When he woke, it was almost time to leave for Syosset. In the corner, the tiger lay as he had left him, inert now, but still mysteriously alive, eyes glowing, tail lashing from time to time.

“Hi,” Benedict said softly. “Hi, Ben,” he said, and then grinned as the tiger raised his head and looked at him. He had been thinking about how to get the tiger packed and ready to go, but as the great head lifted and the amber eyes glowed at him Benedict knew he would have to get something else for Randolph. This was his tiger. Moving proudly in the amber light, he began getting ready for his trip, throwing clean shirts and drawers into a suitcase, wrapping his toothbrush and razor in toilet paper and slipping them into the shoe pockets.

“I have to go away, Ben,” he said when he was finished. “Wait, and I’ll be back Sunday night.”

The tiger watched him intently, face framed by a silvery ruff. Benedict imagined he had hurt Ben’s feelings. “Tell you what, Ben,” he said to make him feel better, “I’ll take the microphone, and if I need you I’ll give you a call. Here’s what you do. First you go to Manhattan and take the Triboro Bridge . . .”

The microphone fit flatly against his breast, and for reasons Benedict could not understand it changed his whole aspect.

“Who needs a toy for Randolph?” He was already rehearsing several brave speeches he would make to Uncle James. “I have a tiger at home.”

On the train, he beat out several people for a seat next to the window. Later, instead of taking a bus or cab to his uncle’s place, he found himself calling and asking that someone be sent to pick him up at the station.

In his uncle’s dark-paneled study, he shook hands so briskly that he startled the old man. Randolph, knees roughened and burning pinkly, stood belligerently at one elbow.

“I suppose you didn’t bring me anything,” he said, chin out.

For a split second, Benedict faltered. Then the extra weight of the microphone in his pocket reminded him, “I have a tiger at home,” he murmured.

“Huh? Wuzzat?” Randolph jabbed him in the ribs. “Come on, let’s have it.”

With a subvocal growl, Benedict cuffed him on the ear.

Randolph was the picture of respect from then on. It had been simple enough—Benedict just hadn’t thought of it before.

Just before he left that Sunday night, his Uncle James pressed a sheaf of debentures into his hand.

“You’re a fine young man, Edward,” the old man said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Fine young man.”

Benedict grinned broadly. “Goodbye, Uncle James.” I have a tiger at home.

Almost before his apartment door closed behind him he had taken out the microphone. He called the tiger to his feet and embraced the massive head. Then he stepped back. The tiger seemed bigger, glossier somehow, and every hair vibrated with a life of its own. Ben’s ruff was like snow. Benedict had begun to change too, and he spent a long, reflective moment in front of the mirror, studying hair that seemed to crackle with life, a jaw that jutted ever so slightly now.

Later, when it was safe to go out, they went to the park. Benedict sat on a bench and watched his tiger run, delighting in the creature’s springy grace. Ben’s forays were shorter this time, and he kept returning to the bench to rest his chin on Benedict’s knee.

In the first glimmer of the morning, Ben raced away once more, taking the ground in flat, racing bounds. He veered suddenly and headed for the lake in full knowledge that it was there, a shadowed streak, clearing the water in a leap that made Benedict come to his feet with a shout of joy.

“Ben!”

The tiger made a second splendid leap and came back to him. When Ben touched his master’s knee this time Benedict threw away his coat, yelling, and wheeled and ran with him. Benedict sprinted beside the tiger, careering down flat walks, drinking in the night. They were coursing down the last straight walk to the gate when a slight, feminine figure appeared suddenly in the path in front of them, hands outflung in fear, and as they slowed she turned to run and threw something all in the same motion, mouth open in a scream that couldn’t find voice. Something squashy hit Ben on the nose, and he shook his head and backed off. Benedict picked it up. It was a pocketbook.

“Hey, you forgot your . . .” He started after her, but as he remembered he’d have to explain the tiger, his voice trailed off and he stopped, shoulders drooping helplessly, until Ben nudged him. “Hey, Ben,” he said, wondering. “We scared her.”

He straightened his shoulders, grinning. “How about that.” Then, with a new bravado he opened the purse, counted out several bills. “We’ll make it look like a robbery. Then the cops’ll never believe her story about a tiger.” He placed the purse out in the open, where she would see it, and then absently pocketed the bills, making a mental note to pay the woman back some day. “Come Ben,” he said softly, “Let’s go home.”

Spent, Benedict slept the morning through, head resting on the tiger’s silken shoulder. Ben kept watch, amber eyes unblinking, the whipping of his tail the only motion in the silent room.

He woke well after noon, alarmed at first because he was four hours late for work. Then he caught the tiger’s eye and laughed. I have a tiger. He stretched luxuriously, yawning, and ate a slow breakfast and took his time about getting dressed. He found the debentures his uncle had given him on the dresser, figured them up and found they would realize a sizable sum.

For some days he was content to be lazy, spending afternoons in movies and evenings in restaurants and bars, and twice he even went to the track. The rest of the time he sat and watched the tiger. As the days passed he went to better and better restaurants, surprised to find that head-waiters bowed deferentially and fashionable women watched him with interest—all, he was sure, because he had a tiger at home. There came a day when he was tired of commanding waiters alone, restless in his new assurance, compelled to find out how far it would take him. He had spent the last of the proceeds from the debentures and (with a guilty twinge) the money he’d taken from the woman in the park. He began reading the business section of The Times with purpose, and one day he copied down an address and picked up the microphone.

“Wish me luck, Ben,” he whispered, and went out.

He was back an hour later, still shaking his head, bemused. “Ben, you should have seen me. He’d never even heard of me—but he begged me to take the job—I had him cornered—I was a tiger—” he flushed modestly “—meet the second vice-president of the Pettigrew Works.”

The tiger’s eyes flickered and grew bright.

That Friday, Benedict brought home his first paycheck, and early the next morning it was Benedict who led the way to the park. He ran with the tiger until his eyes were swimming from the wind, and he ran with the tiger the next morning and every morning after that, and as they ran he grew in assurance. “I have a tiger at home,” he would tell himself in time of crisis, and then he would forge on to the next thing. He carried the microphone like a talisman, secure in the knowledge that he could whisper in it at any time, and call the tiger to his side. He was named a first vice-president in a matter of days.