Pohl, Frederik - The Age of the Pussyfoot

The Age of the Pussyfoot

by Frederik Pohl

Contents

Foreword

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Author’s Note

Foreword

I have two conflicting opinions. One is that any story should stand on its own feet—which means that, generally speaking, anything a writer has to say about his own story is better left unsaid. If it’s worth saying, why didn’t he say it in the story itself?

The other opinion, however, is equally firmly fixed in my mind, and at this moment it is in direct conflict with the first. That is, I think that more people should read science fiction than appear to be willing to do so; and I think the reason for this is that many people regard it as crazy, fantastic stuff with no basis in the real world and no relevance to their own lives.

I would like to hope that some people will read this book who normally don’t read science fiction. If you are one of them, and if you begin to feel like those many others mentioned above, please pause in your reading and go on to look at the author’s note included in the back of the book.

It seems to me that science fiction can have relevance to the real world and, yes, to your own life. And some of my reasons for thinking so are set forth here. . . .

One

Over everyone in the room, or perhaps it was a park, the lighting cast shapes and symbols of color. The girl in the filmy gown had at one moment glittering pink eyes and, at the next, an aura of silvery hair. The man next to Forrester had golden skin and a mask of shadow. Wisps of odor drifted past him, rosebuds following sage. There were snatches of a crystalline, far-off music.

“I’m rich!” he yelled. “And alive!”

No one seemed to mind. Forrester plucked one of the colorless grapes Hara had recommended to him, rose, patted the girl in the filmy dress, and walked unsteadily down to the pool where the revelers splashed and swam in a naked tangle. In spite of the long post-revival indoctrination that had given him so many new things and removed so much trash that was old, Forrester had not lost the habit of being a little dirty minded, and he was interested in nakedness.

“It’s Forrester the rich man!” one of them shouted. Forrester smiled and waved. A girl cried, “Sing him a song! A song!” And they all splashed at him and sang:

Oh, he died and he died and he died—

(SPLASH!)

And he cried and he cried and he cried—

(SPLASH!)

With his rages and his cholers he’s a puzzle to the scholars, And he’s got a quarter of a million dollars!

Forrester!

(SPLASH! SPLASH!)

Forrester ducked without thinking, then relaxed. He allowed them to drench him with the warm, scented water. “Enjoy, enjoy!” he cried, grinning at the bare bodies. Bronze and ivory, lean or soft, every body was beautiful. He knew that none of them would think the worse of him if he touched the two snaps at throat and waist and stepped out of his clothes to join them. But he also knew that his body would not compare well with those of the Adonises, would not impress the full-breasted Venuses, and so he stayed on the rim. “Drink and be merry, for yesterday we died,” he called and squirted them at random with his joymaker. He didn’t mind that he was not as beautiful as they. At least, not at this moment. He was happy. Nothing was troubling him. Not worry, not weariness, not fear. Not even his conscience; for, although he was wasting time, he had a right to waste time.

Hara had said so. “Relax,” advised Hara. “Get acclimated. Go slow. You’ve been dead a long time.”

Forrester was well content to follow his advice. In the morning he would take things seriously. In the morning he would go out into this new world and make a place for himself. With unassuming pride he thought that he would do this not because he really needed to, for he had that quarter of a million dollars, all right, but because it was proper that he should work and earn joy. He would be a good citizen.

Experimentally he shouted what he thought of as a friendly obscene suggestion to one of the girls (although Hara had said that the talk of this time contained no obscenities). In return she made a charming gesture which Forrester tried to think of as an obscene one, and her companion, stretched out at the edge of the pool, drowsily lifted his joymaker and drenched Forrester with a tingling spray that, startlingly, brought him to an instant thrill of sexual excitement and then left him replete and momentarily exhausted.

What a delightful way to live, Forrester thought. He turned and walked away, followed by more of the shouted song:

And he slept and he slept and he slept,

And he wept and he wept and he wept—

Is he damning? Is he dooming?

For that matter, is he human?

Forrester!

But he was too far away for them to splash him now and he had seen someone he wanted to talk to.

It was a girl. She had just come in and was still rather sober. She was alone. And she was not quite as tall as Forrester himself.

Hara would introduce him to her if asked, Forrester knew, since this was more or less Hara’s party. But he did not at that moment see Hara. Didn’t need Hara, either, he decided. He walked up to the girl and touched her on the arm.

“I am Charles D. Forrester,” he said. “I am five hundred and ninety-six years old. I have a quarter of a million dollars. This is my first day out of the sleep-freeze, and I would appreciate it if you would sit down and talk to me for a while, or kiss me.”

“Certainly,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s lie down here on the violets. Careful of my joymaker; it’s loaded with something special.”

Half an hour later Hara came by and found them, lying on their backs, each with an arm under the other, heads inclined toward each other.

Forrester noticed him at once, but went on talking to the girl. They had been plucking and eating the glass-clear grapes from a vine over their heads. The intoxicating fruit, the occasion, and his general sense of well-being combined to erase social obligations from his mind. Anyway, Hara would understand and forgive any offense. “Don’t mind him, dear,” Forrester said to the girl. “You were telling me not to sign up as a donor.”

“Or as game. A lot of greenhorns fall for that, because the money’s good. But the way they get you is that you don’t figure what it will cost in the long run.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Forrester, then sighed, looked away from the girl, and nodded up at Hara. “You know, Hara,” he said, “you’re a drag.”

“And you’re a drunk,” said Hara. “Hello, Tip. You two seem to be getting on well enough.”

“He’s nice,” the girl said. “Of course, you’re nice too, Tip. Is it time for the champagne wine yet?”

“Well past. That’s why I came looking for you. I went to a lot of trouble to get this champagne wine for the party, and Forrester will damn well get up and drink some to show the rest of us how it’s done.”

“You tilt,” said Forrester, “and you pour.”

Hara looked at him more carefully, then shook his head and fingered his joymaker. “Don’t you remember anything I tell you?” he chided, spraying Forrester with what felt for a moment like an invigorating, and not at all shocking, ice-cold shower. “Not too drunk tonight. Get adjusted. Don’t forget you were dead. Do what I tell you, will you? And now let’s see about this champagne wine.”

Forrester got up like an obedient child and trailed after Hara toward the dispensing tables, one arm around the girl. She had pale hair, up in a fluffy crown, and the tricks of the lighting made it look as though fireflies nested in it.