The Year's Best Science Fiction 11

THE PLOT TOM HERZOG

The scrambled eggs gave Filmore a bad case of indigestion. At the office that morning he was quite sick and had to take something to quiet his stomach. He came home early and assailed his wife as soon as he got inside the door.

“What the hell did you do to those eggs this morning, Elvira?” he demanded. “I damn near puked all over my desk. Just made it to the washroom in time.”

Mrs. Filmore looked down at the floor.

“They tasted all right to me,” she said quietly. She was small, quiet by nature, and blended in well with the walls. “Perhaps you ate too fast, George. You’re not as young as you used to be, and you shouldn’t eat too fast.”

Filmore looked at his paunch. After all, he was on the wrong side of fifty. On the other hand, his health was good and he felt like a king. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had an attack of indigestion.

“Hogwash!” he roared. “What time are we having supper?”

“At five,” said Mrs. Filmore, “if that’s all right with you.”

“I’m going to shave,” he said, ignoring her. He shaved twice a day with his electric razor, once before going to the office in the morning and once before supper. He had a remarkably fertile crop of whiskers, and since, as an advertising man, he believed in the value of appearances, he shaved them off twice a day.

In the bathroom he plugged in his electric razor and examined his beard in the mirror. He was about to begin shaving when his razor spoke to him.

“I would like a word with you,” it said.

“What the hell. . . ! !” said Filmore, dropping it into the sink as if it had burned his hand.

“Please be civil,” said the razor. “I’m trying to do you a service.”

“Are you really talking?” Filmore asked, in the face of the fact.

“Of course I’m talking,” replied the razor. “Do you see anyone else about?”

Filmore glanced around the room. He peered out into the hallway.

“No, I don’t,” he said at last.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind getting me out of here?” said the razor.

Filmore cautiously picked up his razor.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “How . . . ?”

“That’s not important. What’s really important is that I’m trying to warn you. Your life is in danger.”

“My life?”

“Yes, your life. Your wife is trying to kill you.”

At this, Filmore guffawed.

“Please keep your voice down,” said the razor.

“Elvira try to kill me? Come off it. Elvira is a titmouse.”

“You’re not very observant, are you?” said the razor. “How did you like your eggs this morning?”

“My eggs?”

“Yes, your eggs.”

“Oh. . . . Those eggs.”

“Those eggs.”

“What are you driving at?” Filmore demanded.

“Do eggs usually upset your stomach?” the razor countered.

“No, but I’m getting old. I’m past fifty.”

“That’s what your wife said.”

“So what?” Filmore said angrily. A seed had been sown in his mind.

“Lower your voice,” said the razor. “Do you want your wife to hear you?”

“No,” replied Filmore, quietly.

“Now, then,” the razor continued, “think back. Exactly what was your wife doing when you entered the kitchen this morning?”

Filmore strained his memory.

“I remember now. Her back was turned, then very suddenly she whirled around.”

“Does your wife usually whirl around when you come into the kitchen?”

“No,” said Filmore, passively. “She doesn’t whirl around anytime.”

“Have you any idea what she was doing with her back turned to you when you came into the kitchen?”

“Well, I ... I assume she was putting a little salt or pepper on my eggs.”

“Of course. It had to be either salt or pepper, didn’t it?”

“Well, what do you think it was?” said Filmore. He was prefacing most of his statements with “well” now.

“Whatever it was,” said the razor, “she didn’t finish putting it on, did she?”

“Well. ... No, she didn’t,” Filmore said.

“And so we return to the original question,” said the razor, summing up. “Can you think of any good reason why your eggs should have upset your stomach this morning when they haven’t done so for years and years?”

“Now look,” Filmore said, “I know she was putting either salt or pepper on those eggs. I remember, now, seeing the shaker in her hand. Now that I think about it, I clearly remember seeing a shaker in her hand,” he insisted.

“Do you think that salt and pepper are the only substances that might be found in salt- and pepper-shakers?” the razor asked.

“We can settle this matter once and for all,” Filmore said with authority. “I’ll just go and see what is in the salt- and pepper-shakers.”

“An excellent idea!” said the razor. “You advertising men are so shrewd. Tell me, do you think that after what happened to you this morning you will find anything else in the salt- and pepper-shakers besides salt and pepper?”

“No,” said Filmore without enthusiasm.

“Do you want to know what to do?”

“Of course I want to know,” Filmore replied, suddenly angry. “It’s hard to believe that Elvira could possibly. . . .”

“I’m sure it’s no skin off my back,” said the razor with detachment.

“All right, all right,” said Filmore. “What should I do, just in case?”

“First of all,” the razor said, “I’d eat out from now on.”

“Yeah. What else?”

“Watch your step. Keep your eyes open. I don’t think you really believe me. Perhaps by the next time we get together something will have happened to increase your confidence in me.”

Filmore mumbled something and began shaving.

“We’re having your favorite dish,” said Mrs. Filmore when Filmore came into the kitchen. “Stuffed peppers and Brussels sprouts.”

“I’m eating out,” growled Filmore as he headed for the door.

When Filmore woke up the next morning, he felt an icy winter draft on his face. The window at the head of his bed was open.

“What the hell is going on around here?” he roared. “You trying to make me catch pneumonia or something, Elvira? Why did you open that window?”

Mrs. Filmore, who had sat bolt upright in her bed at Filmore’s opening blast, said, “I didn’t open your window, George.” She said it quietly.

“How the hell did it get open, then?” he demanded. “It was shut when I fell asleep last night.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps you opened it in your sleep.”

“I’ll lock the damned thing,” Filmore growled.

“I’ll get your breakfast,” his wife said.

“Don’t bother,” said Filmore quickly. “I . . . I’ll get a bite to eat at the office. Got to lose a little weight.”

Filmore got dressed and went into the bathroom. He plugged in his electric razor.

“What do you think now?” the razor inquired.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be talking,” Filmore said. “I thought maybe you were a one-day wonder.”

“What do you think now?” the razor repeated. “Sleeping with your bedroom window open is a good way to catch a cold. With luck, it could turn into pneumonia.”

“You think Elvira opened that window?”

“Are you a sleepwalker?” asked the razor.

“How the hell would I know if I’m asleep at the time?”

“An astute observation,” said the razor. “Have you ever awakened suddenly in the middle of the night and found yourself at the refrigerator?”

“No.”

“Has your wife ever told you before that you walk in your sleep?”

“No.”

“Then we may never know for sure how that window got open,” said the razor.

“But you think it was Elvira, don’t you?” said Filmore, pressing his point.

“I’m just calling your attention to the second of two rather unusual occurrences in as many days,” replied the razor.

“But an open window is such a long shot,” Filmore protested. “The chances are one in a thousand that I would catch pneumonia and die, even if I am susceptible to colds.”

“I agree,” said the razor. “Poisoning your food would be the best way of killing you, but you’re eating out now. There aren’t many imaginative courses of action left after that one is removed.”

“This is silly,” Filmore said. “This whole idea is silly. Why should Elvira suddenly want to kill me?”

“I can’t imagine,” said the razor with a touch of sarcasm. “But what makes you think this is sudden?”

“Well, it was only yesterday morning that she tried to feed me the poisoned eggs.”

“Poisoned eggs?”

“You know what I mean. The eggs that upset my stomach.”

“Of course,” said the razor. “Tell me, didn’t you experience a rude awakening one night last week?”

“Yes, I did,” said Filmore slowly. His tone suggested dawning comprehension, new insight. Actually, his mind was racing backward in time, trying to recall if there were any other occasions on which he had almost been done in.

“How did that come about?” interrupted the razor.

“I woke up during the night, and I was choking. The damned pillow was over my face. I assumed that I got it that way myself. I toss around a lot at night.”

“Where was your wife at the time?” the razor asked.

“I thought she was in her bed. It was dark. I didn’t hear or see anything. I wasn’t looking for anything.”

“Then you probably did it yourself, just as you said,” the razor concluded. “I wouldn’t worry. Just sleep without a pillow from now on. For your own safety.”

“I’ve got to think about this,” said Filmore, not at all convinced. “This is a hell of a thing.”

“Take your time,” said the razor. “But think with your eyes open.”

Before Filmore had a chance to leave the house, his wife asked him if he would go down to the basement and turn up the temperature on the water heater. She was going to do her washing that morning, she explained.

He started down the basement stairs and looked down just in time to prevent himself from taking the step that would have been his last. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and his eyes widened in horror. There, on the next step, right where he would have put his foot down, was a banana peel. He could hear his skull cracking open on the concrete floor of the basement. He could see his brains oozing out.

“Lord almighty,” he whispered.

Sidestepping the banana peel, he went quickly into the basement and turned up the heater. Then he charged back up the stairs, skipping completely the step on which the banana peel lay, and headed for the bathroom.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” said his wife, placidly, as he dashed through the kitchen.

“Brush my teeth,” he mumbled.

He closed the bathroom door behind him and clutched the razor frantically in both hands.

“It’s true,” he whispered desperately. “It’s all true. My God, she is trying to kill me!”

“Get a hold of yourself,” said the razor.

“What should I do?” pleaded Filmore. “Elvira is trying to kill me!”

“I’m glad you finally realized it,” the razor said.

“I can’t go on dodging her forever. Tell me what to do.”

“Well, I can’t tell you what she’s going to do next,” said the razor, “but seeing your life is in jeopardy, you have every right to remove the danger. Don’t you agree?”

“What do you mean?”

“As you have so perspicaciously pointed out,” said the razor, “you can’t go on eluding your wife’s little traps forever. Therefore, the wisest course of action would be to beat her to the punch.”

A satanic gleam crept into Filmore’s eyes.

“By thunder, you’re right,” he said. “You got any ideas?”

“Does your wife drive?”

“Yeah. So what? She has her car; I have my car.”

“That’s fine,” said the razor. “Perhaps she’ll be driving to the market tomorrow?”

“I suppose so. Why?”

“There are devices, you know, that can be attached to the engine of a car such that when the car is started, it blows sky high.” The razor paused for a moment. “Isn’t that intriguing?” it said at last.

“Beautiful,” said Filmore slowly. “I’ll be at the office when it happens. You know, I feel better already. Thank you.”

“Nothing at all,” said the razor.

Filmore did not come home for supper that evening. Mrs. Filmore absorbed this patiently. She had long ago learned to patiently endure Filmore’s many eccentricities.

When he finally did arrive, there was a package clutched under one arm.

“What do you have in the package?” his wife inquired.

“Oh, just a little something to make life more pleasant around here,” he said cheerily. “Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.”

He hustled off to the bedroom.

In the bedroom, Filmore stowed his package behind a number of parcels on the upper shelf of his clothes closet.

I’ll hook it up later tonight while Elvira is watching her insipid television programs, he said to himself. Then deciding that a bath would be refreshing, he traded his clothes for a bathrobe, procured towel and washcloth from the linen closet and marched briskly into the bathroom. He flung his bathrobe into a corner, stepped boldly into the bathtub, inserted the stopper, put his right hand under the spigot, and with his left hand turned on the hot water.

Scalding hot water tumbled out of the spigot onto Filmore’s right hand. There was little, if any, warming-up period. No one had touched the water heater since Filmore turned it up that morning.

Electrified, Filmore leaped back, lost his balance, and fell. His head hit the porcelain with a resounding crack. The scalding hot water continued to tumble out of the spigot, and very soon it covered his naked body.

The bathtub was nearly full when Mrs. Filmore knocked timidly on the bathroom door. She thought she would capitalize on Filmore’s good mood and ask him if he would save her a little hot Water. She got no response, of course.

In what was perhaps the boldest action of her life, she opened the door and peeked in. Instantly she recoiled in horror. She had never before seen the corpse of a man who has drowned in the bathtub.

Trembling with shock, she managed to enter the room and turn off the hot water. Then, pale and visibly shaken, she made her way slowly to the bedroom and sat down at her dressing table.

She sat for some time trying to stop her limbs from shaking. A person tries and tries to accomplish something, and then it is accomplished for him, quite by accident, in some surprising fashion. Such surprises can be emotionally upsetting. Finally, Mrs. Filmore seemed to regain some measure of control over herself.

“What should I do now?” she said to her hairbrush.

“Call the police and tell them there’s been a terrible accident,” the brush replied.

“The Plot” is my first published story, Herzog says. The basic idea came straight from an Ann Landers column. A wife wrote in to ask Ann’s advice about her husband. It seems that he wouldn’t eat her food because, he claimed, she was trying to poison him. He was tipped off to her scheme by his electric razor ... As I recall, Ann advised the woman to send her husband to a psychiatrist . . .

Which simply would not do.

Tom Herzog Is a graduate student of psychology at the University of Michigan: Professionally, my goal Is to teach psychology and to do research at the university level. My broad area of interest is perception and cognition, and I like to play with neural models of behavior. I am currently engaged in research on the uses of kinesthetic aftereffect In the Investigation of personality through perception. As a psychologist,. I have been heavily Influenced by the writings of D. O. Hebb. I only mention that because there an factions in modern psychology . . .