SHADOWS OF THE NEW SUN: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

J.E. Mooney and Bill Fawcett, editors

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Frostfree

GENE WOLFE

Roy Tabak had a new refrigerator. There could be no doubt of that. It gleamed. It was wider than his old one; it was taller, too. It made everything else in his kitchen look small and a trifle dirty. Brand new, he decided, and styled in a subtly pleasing way nothing in the store was. No doubt he had special-ordered. No doubt it had been delivered, and he had opened the door for the delivery and exchanged a few tired jokes with the men who brought it. When they had gone, he had no doubt wiped it down and waxed it with appliance wax.

Roy Tabak sold refrigerators, and he could remember none of that.

He opened the main compartment. There was food in it, and it looked good. There was beer in it, too, twenty bottles as least. It was not his brand, and the food was not his. What was that green stuff?

Movers, clearly, had been moving furniture and so forth into a new apartment. There had not been room enough in the van for this large refrigerator, so they had made a separate trip for it. They had put it in his apartment by mistake. No doubt they had been amateurs, friends helping some friend move. They had failed to notice that the refrigerator had been full of food and beer.

It was all very simple and convincing, and it would be more simple and convincing after a beer. Still more after six or eight. Aloud, Roy Tabak said, “Hell and damn!”

“If you are unable to find that which you seek,” his new refrigerator said politely, “I may be able to direct you, sir.”

Roy Tabak went into the living room and sat down. How many beers had he had? None at all. He had just gotten home from work. Besides, beer didn’t do that. He took off his suit coat and hung it almost neatly in the hall closet, loosened his tie, then removed it altogether and draped it over the back of a chair. His collar was not tight, but he unbuttoned it anyway. Tight collars could make you hear voices, right?

After much searching, enlivened by some pacing up and down, during which he was careful not to look through his cramped little dining room into his kitchen, the phone book provided the number of the Free Psychiatric Hotline—“Trained Psycholagists on Duty 24/7.” The misspelling of “psychologists” did nothing to increase his confidence, but he dialed the number anyway.

“Free Psychiatric Hotline. How can we help you?”

“It’s not normal to hear voices, is it?”

“That depends. You’re hearing mine right now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t mean like that,” Roy said. “You know what I mean.”

“Voices that accuse you of things?”

“No.”

“Voices that urge you to commit murder?”

“Huh-uh. This voice offered to help me find something in my—I mean in the refrigerator in my kitchen.”

“Ummm.”

“It was very polite. Like a woman’s voice, but like the noise a refrigerator makes when it runs. You know.”

“I wish I did. Is there a woman there with you?”

Roy Tabak winced. “No. No, there’s not.”

“Maybe a neighbor?”

Mrs. Jackson was not at all bad looking; there had been times when he had envied Mr. Jackson. Mrs. Adcock was a bit too old. “No,” he said. “I’m alone.”

“Perhaps someone just dropped in. Someone selling something.”

Dahlia—over in Lingerie—was hotter than hell. Roy said, “I sell things myself. Stoves, refrigerators, trash compactors, microwaves. Stuff like that. I’m the only one in here who sells things.”

“What do the others do?”

“There aren’t any others.”

“I see. How often have you heard the voices?”

“Just one voice, and I’ve only heard it once.”

“Okay.… It was probably somebody outside, or else a radio or something. If you hear these voices again, call back.”

Feeling defeated, Roy said, “Sure.”

“Especially if they want you to kill people. Or kill yourself. I’ve been looking through the index, but there’s nothing about finding stuff in the refrigerator, see? So what I need is something that’s here in DUFFY AND STANKY.”

“Uh-huh.” Roy Tabak hung up. It had been a dream. Almost certainly it had been a dream that he had somehow taken for reality. He would call out to the refrigerator, and it would not reply.

A little later, when he felt more secure.

What had happened to his tie? He switched on the TV, winced, and muted the sound. Baseball was never on when he wanted to watch it. Somebody must be in charge of that.

“We single men,” he said, “we like to go out at night. We cruise the bars, and now and then we hook up. You start the game around seven-thirty, and we don’t watch because we know we won’t get to see anything past the fourth inning.”

The TV remained muted. It would be nice, Roy Tabak reflected, if they would build TVs that listened to you.

He returned to the kitchen, half expecting that his old refrigerator would be there. The new refrigerator still gleamed. It had no eyes, no nose, and no mouth, yet it somehow looked quiet. And helpful. It was eager to help. You could see that.

Both his kitchen chairs were narrow, shiny, and much less than comfortable. He pulled one out just the same and sat down on it to study the refrigerator.

The refrigerator studied him back. After five minutes or so, he got it. The freezer door was opaque from outside but transparent from inside, sort of like the security mirrors in the store. The refrigerator’s eyes were behind it. Watching.

He got up, opened the food storage door, and got a beer. It was a SUPER-URB lager, brewed in Al Fashir, New Jersey. He opened it, said, “Here’s to you,” and drank. It was better than his brand.

There were corn chips in the bread box. He opened the bag. “I don’t suppose you have any chip dip?”

“I have three,” his new refrigerator said politely. “Guavacado, whipped kasseri, and fava-bean habas. Which would you prefer?”

Roy Tabak sipped his beer, rose, opened his new refrigerator, and took out the green stuff.

“Ah! The guavacado. Good choice, sir.”

It was in an oddly shaped container so transparent as to be almost invisible. The green paste it held tasted just fine on a corn chip.

“I have a talking refrigerator,” Roy Tabak said. He gulped beer. “Do you know what that proves? It proves that the world is one hell of a lot more complicated than I thought.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Roy scooped up more guavacado dip. “Are you a Kelvinator?”

“No, sir.”

“Mmmm.” He munched a chip. “Whirlpool?”

“No, sir.”

“KitchenAid?”

“No, sir. I am your refrigerator, sir. It might be best to leave it at that.”

“Sure.”

“I am here to help you.” Roy Tabak’s new refrigerator sounded soothing, almost motherly.

He sipped more beer and swallowed. “You’re from the government, right?”

“No, sir. The WSPC, sir.”

“Not the government.”

“No, sir. We are a tax-exempt foundation, sir. In law, I mean.”

“A foundation of refrigerators?” Roy Tabak scooped guavacado dip onto a fresh corn chip.

“No, sir. A foundation of persons. I say we because I am a possession of the Society. Need I explain...