Judith Merril - The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6

Quimble and Partridge continued their debate at the Faculty Club and Quimble got more and more infuriated. An attack upon his Theory was tantamount to an attack upon his person; and, although his arguments got louder and louder, Partridge always came back to the same ridiculous point, “Can you peel bananas with your feet?”

“Irrelevant,” Quimble would shout.

“Communication is the unique factor,” Partridge would state with maddening calm. “If manual manipulation of external phenomena were the major factor, you and I would be skulking misfits in a world run by Lemurs, Chimpanzees and Opossums.”

Quimble would turn red in the face and say, “Bah!” or sometimes, “Pfagh!” and stalk out.

“Quimble is a good chap,” Partridge would say to the other Professors, “except for that idiotic monomania he has about thumbs. But, of course, what can we expect from a man with his political background?”

Quimble began to brood. He bought several stalks of bananas and spent hours trying to remove their skins with his toes in order to counteract Partridge’s arguments.

He was unsuccessful.

His fondness for J. G. began to diminish in direct proportion to his inability to answer Partridge’s argument. Every time Quimble saw J. G. reach for a banana, it seemed like a personal affront. J. G. became a living refutation of his Theory and an ally of that crackpot, Partridge. “I suspected you from the start,” he said to J. G. one day.

J. G. shuffled about and began to operate the drill press and the typewriter rapidly, hoping in some way to please his friend.

“I see it all now,” hissed Quimble. “You were planted here to spy on me. You’ve been working foot in glove with that Ignoramus.”

J. G. dealt a stacked hand of Pittsburgh Rummy, put four round pegs in square holes, field stripped the automatic rifle, and gave a moronic interpretation of a Rorschach Ink Blot.

Quimble did not notice. “Of course,” he said, “goodness me, I should have seen it. What a fool I’ve been. Partridge, that idiot, is too much of an idiot to have planned this idiotic campaign against me. It was you,” he leveled a shaking forefinger at J. G., “you —who engineered the entire thing. You have been against me from the start!” Quimble snatched up an empty fruit crate and splintered it over J. G.’s shoulders. He grabbed another crate and J. G. warily raised his arm over his head to protect himself. Quimble turned pale. “Help, help, Murder!” he shrilled. His eyeglasses fell to the floor and he scampered head first into the wall. Still shouting for assistance, he felt his way along the wall to the door and left.

J. G. knocked some splinters out of his ear and sighed. He found the Kleenex box and blew his nose loudly. He felt that he was in for another banana shortage. He was right.

When it came time for supper and there was none, J. G. decided he would have to go and look for some. He picked up Quimble’s eyeglasses and put the ribbon around his neck. Perhaps, he thought, if he could find Quimble and return the eyeglasses, they could become friends again. He wondered what he had done wrong this time. He went to the door and, not noticing that it was locked, opened it, went upstairs, through another door and out onto the Campus.

There was no sign of supper on the campus. The few trees were bare of leaves and their bark was withered and tasteless. J. G. ate several feet of a boxwood hedge but found it unappetizing. In spite of his coat of fashionable silver fur, he began to feel the chill of the early spring night; so, walking rapidly, he left the Campus, passing several groups of students, who took no notice of him, and headed toward a more brightly lit section of the jungle.

He had gone perhaps six blocks when he detected the faint, but unmistakable, smell of supper. He followed the smell and came to the store of Ambush, the Grocer. Through the brightly lit window he could see an abundance of fruit and vegetables in wooden boxes. He went inside and politely ate several bananas and a dozen plums.

Ambush’s daughter came from behind the counter and stared at J. G.’s massive physique. As she was the first Jungle female he had seen at such close quarters, he nodded, smiled and inspected her carefully.

Miss Ambush, because of certain private and disturbing fantasies that regularly imposed themselves upon her consciousness, thought of herself as a Nymphomaniac, not-knowing that Nymphomaniacs are only imaginary, folk-lore creatures that Small Boys are taught to believe in, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. However, as no male had ever shown an interest in her, Miss Ambush had never had the opportunity to correct her humiliating opinion of herself. She shuffled closer to J. G. and looked up at him and said, “Gee.”

J. G. conquering an instinctive aversion to her thin, hairless arms, her sharp nose and her insignificant mouth, nodded sociably and ate two cantaloupes and a cauliflower.

She watched him with undisguised admiration. “You a Stoodent?” she said.

J. G. said well, yes, he was studying, trying to find out How Things Were.

“Huh?” she said.

J. G. repeated that he was interested in finding out How Things Were.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” she said, looking quickly over her shoulder toward a small door at the rear of the store. “I got a date tonight with a rich, handsome feller,” she said, “who has a Big Car. He wants to take me to Loew’s Uptown to see ‘Shoot ‘em in the Stomach and They Take Longer to Die.’ “ J. G. ate some bananas and nodded again.

“It’s a Western,” she added. J. G. thought how wonderfully friendly People were and he smiled at Miss Ambush and offered her a banana.

She ignored it and went on, “But I don’t think I’ll go with him—this rich handsome feller, I mean, with the Big Car —because he’s so crazy for me and he wants to squeeze me and hug me and kiss me ... and ... and... get fresh.” She frowned at J. G. and added crossly, “I don’t allow that. I got self-respect and I don’t have no unnatural thoughts, you hear?”

J. G. finished a cantaloupe, and said he was sure she didn’t.

“And I ain’t the type girl like Pappa says who’s always thinking about men, men all the time and reads trash magazines. I got a clean mind.” She ran her hand over J. G.’s arm and plucked at the fashionable fur. “Hey, you Stoodents sure dress funny,” she giggled. “Have you seen ‘Shoot ‘em in the Stomach and They Take Longer to Die’?”

J. G. said he didn’t think he had.

“Ya like to?” she asked quickly.

J. G said it was awfully nice of her to ask and finished the bananas and ate six inches off the bottom of the stalk.

“Pappa, Pappa,” shouted Miss Ambush untying her apron. “Pappa, Pappa, Pappa.”

A thick man came out of the back room carrying a sandwich and a newspaper. He wiped Russian Dressing off his chin and looked at J. G. with mistrust.

“Hey, what’sa hoppen?” he said.

“Pappa, this feller asked me to the movies,” Miss Ambush said, scurrying behind the counter, collecting her hat, coat, and shoes.

“Ahhh! O Ho!” said Ambush. His face twitched and froze into an expression which J. G. rightly assumed to be a smile. “Hey!” he said, “so you take out Pipola?” He bounded forward and banged J. G. in the ribs with his elbow. “Ho Ho! Hey,” he said, “you got a Big Car?”

J. G. said no, he didn’t

Ambush shrugged. “Hokay, hokay,” he said. “Who cares?” He slapped J. G. on the back with the hand that had the sandwich in it and splashed Russian Dressing in his ear. “You smott feller. Pipola is good girl, you bet. Feller who get Pipola is locky feller. She good cook. Stay home. Not like girls who all time think about nothing but feller and making monkey’s business. She got no bad thoughts, you bet.” He turned and scowled ferociously at his daughter, who rushed from behind the counter and took J. G.’s arm.