Anthonology

WITHIN THE CLOUD

This is another retitling, showing the editor's ignorance. My title was "Cloud," and the fantasy is about a cloud and its foggy sense of humor. It's a minor effort—so naturally this was the first of my "unrejected" sales. That's right—it sold the first time out, for a healthy three cents a word, and represents my only appearance in Galaxy, supposedly a science fiction magazine. (By this time Galaxy Publications also owned If, which had become a sloppier magazine that paid lower rates.) Probably if the editor had understood the story, he would have rejected it. Who was this editor? Such ilk need not be anonymous! He was Fred Pohl, who as a writer is one of the best in the genre. I think he's a great writer and a great guy personally; I just am no particular fan of his mode of editing, about which I will have more to say in due course. It's a Jekyll/Hyde thing, I think; I doubt that Pohl-as-Writer would stand for Pohl-as-Editor on his own material; if he did, it would suffer. But perhaps the man should be allowed to speak for himself; read his fascinating memoir, The Way the Future Was (Del Rey: 1978).

"Believe me, this is not a joke," the portly tourist said. He was careful to face the man as he spoke.

"We think you can help us, and my wife won't give me any peace until—Anyway, all you have to do is look at a few seconds of film. Twenty dollars for your trouble, even if you can't make anything of it."

The man nodded. He led the way to an empty classroom and set up a projector and screen, while the woman waited anxiously.

The projector started and stopped. The man grunted and unscrewed the lamp, showing them that it had blown. He signaled them to remain and stepped into the hall.

"This is eerie," the woman said. She was perhaps ten years younger than her husband, quite pretty, but temperamental. "Who would have thought we'd wind up visiting a school for deaf-mutes on our vacation!"

"Well, you started it," the tourist said. "You and that hyperactive imagination."

"I started it!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Don't you remember? That afternoon on the beach. All I wanted was to get some tan on my back, but you kept chattering about clouds—"

"I like clouds," she said. "They're so free, and they take so many shapes. No one tells them what to do; no one grouches at them." She nudged her husband playfully. "If I were a Confucian, I'd reincarnate as a cloud, and—"

"Buddhist."

"Anyway, I'd be a cloud and just float along without a care in the world, free free free free!"

"The Buddhists and Hindus believe in reincarnation," he said, "but I'm not sure a cloud was their idea of Nirvana."

"Free free free free!" she repeated. "Why are you always so serious? You have no sense of humor at all."

"You wouldn't appreciate my humor," he said.

"Now look at that cloud right over us. See—it's almost like a face, looking down at us." She nudged him.

He rolled over in the warm sand, squinting up.

"See," she repeated urgently. "Two ears at the sides, two sorrowful dark eyes, a long thundersome nose—"

"—and a big, ugly, voluminous, gassy mouth," he agreed irritably. "Wide open."

"Half open."

"You talk more than you look. That's a perfect 'O.' "

She studied the cloud more carefully. "Well it was half open. If you'd looked when I told you the first time."

"Uh-huh." He squeezed her tanned knee comfortably and closed his eyes.

"Now it's shut again."

He rolled over, not looking. "Why don't you make up your—"

"No, really. It opened and closed. I'm sure. Well, I think."

"Yep."

"Now it's opening again."

"Is it winking, too?"

"Now you're being—"

"A kind of cosmic Peeping Tom, staring down your bikini."

She shut up, hurt.

He reached out, but she slid out of reach. "Aw, now, I'm sorry. I said you wouldn't appreciate my—I'm sorry. Look, I'll go get my time-delay camera and make a series for you. Then there'll be no question."

She was magically within reach again. In a little while he lumbered up, shook off loose sand and headed for the car to fetch the camera.

The mute returned with a fresh bulb and set the film in motion. There were a few ordinary flashes of the beach and waves and the controversial bikini; then the series on the cloud. Focus and resolution were excellent; the tourist knew how to use his camera.

The sequence itself was brief. Fifteen minutes had been reduced to five seconds, but this too had been expertly handled. The cloud was revealed as an animated, expressive face, its mouth opening and closing in apparent speech. All that was missing was the sound.

"You see?" she said. "You see, you see—that cloud was speaking to me! Maybe it's a new form of life, like the Saucers—"

"UFO's."

"—or something. Maybe we just never knew where to look for it before."

"A cloud? A common cumulus humilis!" They had obviously been over this many times.

"Maybe it's an alien observer telling us the secrets of the universe!" She could not sit still.

"In faultless English with a slight Boston accent," the tourist growled, but his wife missed the irony. He turned to the mute. "Here is your money. What did you make of it?"

The man looked at him steadily with an indefinable expression, then handed him the rewound film and a written note.

"This is what it said?" the tourist demanded, not looking at the paper. "You read the lips? You're sure?"

The mute nodded once emphatically, then smiled briefly and stepped into the hall.

The girl snatched the paper and unfolded it with trembling hands. Then wrath overcame her prettiness. She crumpled the note, threw it down, and stalked out.

The tourist retrieved the paper, spread it out and read it at a glance. His belly shook and his cheeks puffed out with suppressed laughter.

"I like that alien!" he murmured. "I suppose our dialogue is pretty funny, from that elevation." Then he too threw the paper aside and followed his wife, smiling.

"Free free free free!" he mimicked and choked over his mirth again.

The paper remained on the floor, its six printed words revealing more about clouds than the meteorologists would ever comprehend:

HELP! I AM BEING HELD PRISONER—