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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77a4316 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51530 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51530) diff --git a/old/51530-8.txt b/old/51530-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e42f202..0000000 --- a/old/51530-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,943 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Letter, by Fritz Leiber - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Last Letter - -Author: Fritz Leiber - -Release Date: March 22, 2016 [EBook #51530] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST LETTER *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - THE LAST LETTER - - By FRITZ LIEBER - - Illustrated by DILLON - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Galaxy Science Fiction June 1958. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - - - - Who or what was the scoundrel that kept - these couriers from the swift completion - of their handsomely appointed rondos? - - -On Tenthmonth 1, 2457 A.D., at exactly 9 A.M. Planetary Federation -Time--but with a permissible error of a millionth of a second either -way--in the fifth sublevel of NewNew York Robot Postal Station 68, -Black Sorter gulped down ten thousand pieces of first-class mail. - -This breakfast tidbit did not agree with the mail-sorting machine. It -was as if a robust dog had been fed a large chunk of good red meat with -a strychnine pill in it. Black Sorter's innards went _whirr-klunk_, a -blue electric glow enveloped him, and he began to shake as if he might -break loose from the concrete. - -He desperately spat back over his shoulder a single envelope, gave -a great _huff_ and blew out toward the sorting tubes a medium-size -snowstorm consisting of the other nine thousand, nine hundred and -ninety-nine pieces of first-class mail chewed to confetti. Then, still -convulsed, he snapped up a fresh ten thousand and proceeded to chomp -and grind on them. Black Sorter was rugged. - -The rejected envelope was tongued up by Red Subsorter, who growled deep -in his throat, said a very bad word, and passed it to Yellow Rerouter, -who passed it to Green Rerouter, who passed it to Brown Study, who -passed it to Pink Wastebasket. - -Unlike Black Sorter, Pink Wastebasket was very delicate, though highly -intuitive--the machine equivalent of a White Russian countess. She -was designed to scan in 3,137 codes, route special-delivery spacemail -to interplanetary liners by messenger rocket, and distinguish 9s from -upside-down 6s. - -Pink Wastebasket haughtily inhaled the offending envelope and almost -instantly turned a bright crimson and began to tremble. After a few -minutes, small atomic flames started to flicker from her mid-section. - -White Nursemaid Seven and Greasy Joe both received Pink Wastebasket's -distress signal and got there as fast as their wheels would roll them, -but the high-born machine's malady was beyond their simple skills of -oilcan and electroshock. - - * * * * * - -They summoned other machine-tending-and-repairing machines, ones far -more expert than themselves, but all were baffled. It was clear that -Pink Wastebasket, who continued to tremble and flicker uncontrollably, -was suffering from the equivalent of a major psychosis with severe -psychosomatic symptoms. She spat a stream of filthy ions at Gray -Psychiatrist, not recognizing her old friend. - -Meanwhile, the paper blizzard from Black Sorter was piling up in great -drifts between the dark pillars of the sublevel, and flurries had -reached Pink Wastebasket's aristocratic area. An expedition of sturdy -machines, headed by two hastily summoned snowplows, was dispatched to -immobilize Black Sorter at all costs. - -Pink Wastebasket, quivering like a demented hula dancer, was clearly -approaching a crisis. Finally Gray Psychiatrist--after consulting with -Green Surgeon, and even then with an irritated reluctance, as if he -were calling in a witch-doctor--summoned a human being. - -The human being walked respectfully around Pink Wastebasket several -times and then gave her a nervous little poke with a rubber-handled -probe. - -Pink Wastebasket gently regurgitated her last snack, turned dead -white, gave a last flicker and shake, and expired. Black Coroner -recorded the immediate cause of death as tinkering by a human being. - -The human being, a bald and scrawny one named Potshelter, picked up the -envelope responsible for all the trouble, stared at it incredulously, -opened it with trembling fingers, scanned the contents briefly, gave -a great shriek and ran off at top speed, forgetting to hop on his -perambulator, which followed him making anxious clucking noises. - -The nearest human representative of the Solar Bureau of Investigation, -a rather wooden-looking man named Krumbine, also bald, recognized -Potshelter as soon as the latter burst gasping into his office, -squeezing through the door while it was still dilating. The human -beings whose work took them among the Top Brass, as the upper-echelon -machines were sometimes referred to, formed a kind of human elite, just -one big nervous family. - -"Sit down, Potshelter," the SBI Man said. "Hold still a second so the -chair can grab you. Hitch onto the hookah and choose a tranquilizer -from the tray at your elbow. Whatever deviation you've uncovered can't -be that much of a danger to the planets. I imagine that when you leave -this office, the Solar Battle Fleet will still be orbiting peacefully -around Luna." - -"I seriously doubt that." - - * * * * * - -Potshelter gulped a large lavender pill and took a deep breath. -"Krumbine, a letter turned up in the first-class mail this morning." - -"Great Scott!" - -"It is a letter from one person to another person." - -"Good Lord!" - -"The flow of advertising has been seriously interfered with. At a -modest estimate, three hundred million pieces of expensive first-class -advertising have already been chewed to rags and I'm not sure the Steel -Helms--God bless 'em!--have the trouble in hand yet." - -"Judas Priest!" - -"Naturally the poor machines weren't able to cope with the letter. -It was utterly outside their experience, beyond the furthest reach -of their programming. It threw them into a terrible spasm. Pink -Wastebasket is dead and at this very instant, if we're lucky, three -police machines of the toughest blued steel are holding down Black -Sorter and putting a muzzle on him." - -"Great Scott! It's incredible, Potshelter. And Pink Wastebasket dead? -Take another tranquilizer, Potshelter, and hand over the tray." - -Krumbine received it with trembling fingers, started to pick up a big -pink pill but drew back his hand from it in sudden revulsion at its -color and swallowed two blue oval ones instead. The man was obviously -fighting to control himself. - -He said unsteadily, "I almost never take doubles, but this news you -bring--Good Lord! I seem to recall a case where someone tried to -send a sound-tape through the mails, but that was before my time. -Incidentally, is there any possibility that this is a letter sent by -one _group_ of persons to another group? A hive or a therapy group or a -social club? That would be bad enough, of course, but--" - -"No, just one single person sending to another." Potshelter's -expression set in grimly solicitous lines. "I can see you don't quite -understand, Krumbine. This is not a sound-tape, but a letter written in -letters. You know, letters, characters--like books." - -"Don't mention books in this office!" Krumbine drew himself up angrily -and then slumped back. "Excuse me, Potshelter, but I find this very -difficult to face squarely. Do I understand you to say that one person -has tried to use the mails to send a printed sheet of some sort to -another?" - -"Worse than that. A written letter." - -"Written? I don't recognize the word." - -"It's a way of making characters, of forming visual equivalents of -sound, without using electricity. The writer, as he's called, employs -a black liquid and a pointed stick called a pen. I know about this -because one hobby of mine is ancient means of communication." - - * * * * * - -Krumbine frowned and shook his head. "Communication is a dangerous -business, Potshelter, especially at the personal level. With you and -me, it's all right, because we know what we're doing." - -He picked up a third blue tranquilizer. "But with most of the -hive-folk, person-to-person communication is only a morbid form of -advertising, a dangerous travesty of normal newscasting--catharsis -without the analyst, recitation without the teacher--a perversion of -promotion employed in betraying and subverting." - -The frown deepened as he put the blue pill in his mouth and chewed it. -"But about this pen--do you mean the fellow glues the pointed stick to -his tongue and then speaks, and the black liquid traces the vibrations -on the paper? A primitive non-electrical oscilloscope? Sloppy but -conceivable, and producing a record of sorts of the spoken word." - -"No, no, Krumbine." Potshelter nervously popped a square orange tablet -into his mouth. "It's a hand-written letter." - -Krumbine watched him. "I never mix tranquilizers," he boasted absently. -"Hand-written, eh? You mean that the message was imprinted on a hand? -And the skin or the entire hand afterward detached and sent through -the mails in the fashion of a Martian reproach? A grisly find indeed, -Potshelter." - -"You still don't quite grasp it, Krumbine. The fingers of the hand move -the stick that applies the ink, producing a crude imitation of the -printed word." - -"Diabolical!" Krumbine smashed his fist down on the desk so that the -four phones and two-score microphones rattled. "I tell you, Potshelter, -the SBI is ready to cope with the subtlest modern deceptions, but when -fiends search out and revive tricks from the pre-Atomic Cave Era, it's -almost too much. But, Great Scott, I dally while the planets are in -danger. What's the sender's code on this hellish letter?" - -"No code," Potshelter said darkly, proferring the envelope. "The return -address is--hand-written." - -Krumbine blanched as his eyes slowly traced the uneven lines in the -upper left-hand corner: - - _from_ Richard Rowe - 215 West 10th St. (horizontal) - 2837 Rocket Court (vertical) - Hive 37, NewNew York 319, N. Y. - Columbia, Terra - -"Ugh!" Krumbine said, shivering. "Those crawling characters, those -letters, as you call them, those _things_ barely enough like print -to be readable--they seem to be on the verge of awakening all sorts -of horrid racial memories. I find myself thinking of fur-clad -witch-doctors dipping long pointed sticks in bubbling black cauldrons. -No wonder Pink Wastebasket couldn't take it, brave girl." - - * * * * * - -Firming himself behind his desk, he pushed a number of buttons and -spoke long numbers and meaningful alphabetical syllables into several -microphones. Banks of colored lights around the desk began to blink -like a theatre marquee sending Morse Code, while phosphorescent -arrows crawled purposefully across maps and space-charts and through -three-dimensional street diagrams. - -"There!" he said at last. "The sender of the letter is being -apprehended and will be brought directly here. We'll see what sort -of man this Richard Rowe is--if we can assume he's human. Seven -precautionary cordons are being drawn around his population station: -three composed of machines, two of SBI agents, and two consisting of -human and mechanical medical-combat teams. Same goes for the intended -recipient of the letter. Meanwhile, a destroyer squadron of the Solar -Fleet has been detached to orbit over NewNew York." - -"In case it becomes necessary to Z-Bomb?" Potshelter asked grimly. - -Krumbine nodded. "With all those villains lurking just outside the -Solar System in their invisible black ships, with planeticide in their -hearts, we can't be too careful. One word transmitted from one spy to -another and anything may happen. And we must bomb before they do, so -as to contain our losses. Better one city destroyed than a traitor -on the loose who may destroy many cities. One hundred years ago, -three person-to-person postcards went through the mails--just three -postcards, Potshelter!--and _pft_ went Schenectady, Hoboken, Cicero, -and Walla Walla. Here, as long as you're mixing them, try one of these -oval blues--I find them best for steady swallowing." - -Bells jangled. Krumbine grabbed up two phones, holding one to each ear. -Potshelter automatically picked up a third. The ringing continued. -Krumbine started to wedge one of his phones under his chin, nodded -sharply at Potshelter and then toward a cluster of microphones at the -end of the table. Potshelter picked up a fourth phone from behind them. -The ringing stopped. - -The two men listened, looking doped, Krumbine with an eye fixed on -the sweep second hand of the large wall clock. When it had made one -revolution, he cradled his phones. Potshelter followed suit. - -"I do like the simplicity of the new on-the-hour Puffyloaf -phono-commercial," the latter remarked thoughtfully. "The Bread That's -Lighter Than Air. Nice." - -Krumbine nodded. "I hear they've had to add mass to the leadfoil -wrapping to keep the loaves from floating off the shelves. Fact." - - * * * * * - -He cleared his throat. "Too bad we can't listen to more -phono-commercials, but even when there isn't a crisis on the agenda, I -find I have to budget my listening time. One minute per hour strikes a -reasonable balance between duty and self-indulgence." - -The nearest wall began to sing: - - Mister J. Augustus Krumbine, - We all think you're fine, fine, fine, fine. - Now out of the skyey blue - Come some telegrams for you. - -The wall opened to a small heart shape toward the center and a sheaf of -pale yellow envelopes arced out and plopped on the middle of the desk. -Krumbine started to leaf through them, scanning the little transparent -windows. - -"Hm, Electronic Soap ... Better Homes and Landing Platforms ... -Psycho-Blinkers ... Your Girl Next Door ... Poppy-Woppies ... -Poopsy-Woopsies...." - -He started to open an envelope, then, after a quick look around and an -apologetic smile at Potshelter, dumped them all on the disposal hopper, -which gargled briefly. - -"After all, there _is_ a crisis this morning," he said in a defensive -voice. - -Potshelter nodded absently. "I can remember back before personalized -delivery and rhyming robots," he observed. "But how I'd miss them -now--so much more distingué than the hives with their non-personalized -radio, TV and stereo advertising. For that matter, I believe there are -some backward areas on Terra where the great advertising potential of -telephones and telegrams hasn't been fully realized and they are still -used in part for personal communication. Now me, I've never in my life -sent or received a message except on my walky-talky." He patted his -breast pocket. - -Krumbine nodded, but he was a trifle shocked and inclined to revise -his estimate of Potshelter's social status. Krumbine conducted his own -social correspondence solely by telepathy. He shared with three other -SBI officials a private telepath--a charming albino girl named Agnes. - -"Yes, and it's a very handsome walky-talky," he assured Potshelter a -little falsely. "Suits you. I like the upswept antenna." He drummed -on the desk and swallowed another blue tranquilizer. "Dammit, what's -happened to those machines? They ought to have the two spies here by -now. Did you notice that the second--the intended recipient of the -letter, I mean--seems to be female? Another good Terran name, too, Jane -Dough. Hive in Upper Manhattan." He began to tap the envelope sharply -against the desk. "Dammit, where _are_ they?" - -"Excuse me," Potshelter said hesitantly, "but I'm wondering why you -haven't read the message inside the envelope." - - * * * * * - -Krumbine looked at him blankly. "Great Scott, I assumed that at least -_it_ was in some secret code, of course. Normally I'd have asked you to -have Pink Wastebasket try her skill on it, but...." His eyes widened -and his voice sank. "You don't mean to tell me that it's--" - -Potshelter nodded grimly. "Hand-written, too. Yes." - -Krumbine winced. "I keep trying to forget that aspect of the case." He -dug out the message with shaking fingers, fumbled it open and read: - - _Dear Jane_, - - _It must surprise you that I know your name, for our hives are - widely separated. Do you recall day before yesterday when your - guided tour of Grand Central Spaceport got stalled because the - aide blew a fuse? I was the young man with hair in the tour behind - yours. You were a little frightened and a groupmistress was - reassuring you. The machine spoke your name._ - - _Since then I have been unable to forget you. When I go to sleep, - I dream of your face looking up sadly at the mistress's kindly - photocells. I don't know how to get in touch with you, but my - grandfather has told me stories his grandfather told him that - his grandfather told him about young men writing what he calls - love-letters to young ladies. So I am writing you a love-letter._ - - _I work in a first-class advertising house and I will slip this - love-letter into an outgoing ten-thousand-pack and hope._ - - _Do not be frightened of me, Jane. I am no caveman except for my - hair. I am not insane. I am emotionally disturbed, but in a way - that no machine has ever described to me. I want only your - happiness._ - - _Sincerely_, - - _Richard Rowe_ - -Krumbine slumped back in his chair, which braced itself manfully -against him, and looked long and thoughtfully at Potshelter. "Well, if -that's a code, it's certainly a fiendishly subtle one. You'd think he -was talking to his Girl Next Door." - -Potshelter nodded wonderingly. "I only read as far as where they were -planning to blow up Grand Central Spaceport and all the guides in it." - -"Judas Priest, I think I have it!" Krumbine shot up. "It's a pilot -advertisement--Boy Next Door or--that kind of thing--printed to look -like hand-writtening, which would make all the difference. And the -pilot copy got mailed by accident--which would mean there is no real -Richard Rowe." - -At that instant, the door dilated and two blue detective engines -hustled a struggling young man into the office. He was slim, rather -handsome, had a bushy head of hair that had somehow survived evolution -and radioactive fallout, and across the chest and back of his paper -singlet was neatly stamped: "RICHARD ROWE." - -When he saw the two men, he stopped struggling and straightened up. -"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but these police machines must have -made a mistake. I've committed no crime." - -Then his gaze fell on the hand-addressed envelope on Krumbine's desk -and he turned pale. - - * * * * * - -Krumbine laughed harshly. "No crime! No, not at all. Merely using the -mails to communicate. Ha!" - -The young man shrank back. "I'm sorry, sir." - -"Sorry, he says! Do you realize that your insane prank has resulted -in the destruction of perhaps a half-billion pieces of first-class -advertising?--in the strangulation of a postal station and the -paralysis of Lower Manhattan?--in the mobilization of SBI reserves, the -de-mothballing of two divisions of G. I. machines and the redeployment -of the Solar Battle Fleet? Good Lord, boy, why did you do it?" - -Richard Rowe continued to shrink but he squared his shoulders. "I'm -sorry, sir, but I just had to. I just had to get in touch with Jane -Dough." - -"A girl from another hive? A girl you'd merely gazed at because a guide -happened to blow a fuse?" Krumbine stood up, shaking an angry finger. -"Great Scott, boy, where was Your Girl Next Door?" - -Richard Rowe stared bravely at the finger, which made him look a trifle -cross-eyed. "She died, sir, both of them." - -"But there should be at least six." - -"I know, sir, but of the other four, two have been shipped to the -Adirondacks on vacation and two recently got married and haven't been -replaced." - -Potshelter, a faraway look in his eyes, said softly, "I think I'm -beginning to understand--" - -But Krumbine thundered on at Richard Rowe with, "Good Lord, I can see -you've had your troubles, boy. It isn't often we have these shortages -of Girls Next Door, so that temporarily a boy can't marry the Girl Next -Door, as he always should. But, Judas Priest, why didn't you take your -troubles to your psychiatrist, your groupmaster, your socializer, your -Queen Mother?" - -"My psychiatrist is being overhauled, sir, and his replacement -short-circuits every time he hears the word 'trouble.' My groupmaster -and socializer are on vacation duty in the Adirondacks. My Queen Mother -is busy replacing Girls Next Door." - -"Yes, it all fits," Potshelter proclaimed excitedly. "Don't you see, -Krumbine? Except for a set of mischances that would only occur once in -a billion billion times, the letter would never have been conceived or -sent." - -"You may have something there," Krumbine concurred. "But in any case, -boy, why did you--er--written this letter to this particular girl? What -is there about Jane Dough that made you do it?" - -"Well, you see, sir, she's--" - - * * * * * - -Just then, the door re-dilated and a blue matron machine conducted -a young woman into the office. She was slim and she had a head of -hair that would have graced a museum beauty, while across the back -and--well, "chest" is an inadequate word--of her paper chemise, -"JANE DOUGH" was silk-screened in the palest pink. - -Krumbine did not repeat his last question. He had to admit to himself -that it had been answered fully. Potshelter whistled respectfully. The -blue detective engines gave hard-boiled grunts. Even the blue matron -machine seemed awed by the girl's beauty. - -But she had eyes only for Richard Rowe. "My Grand Central man," she -breathed in amazement. "The man I've dreamed of ever since. My man -with hair." She noticed the way he was looking at her and she breathed -harder. "Oh, darling, what have you done?" - -"I tried to send you a letter." - -"A letter? For me? Oh, darling!" - - * * * * * - -Krumbine cleared his throat. "Potshelter, I'm going to wind this up -fast. Miss Dough, could you transfer to this young man's hive?" - -"Oh, yes, sir! Mine has an over-plus of Girls Next Door." - -"Good. Mr. Rowe, there's a sky-pilot two levels up--look for the -usual white collar just below the photocells. Marry this girl and -take her home to your hive. If your Queen Mother objects refer her -to--er--Potshelter here." - -He cut short the young people's thanks. "Just one thing," he said, -wagging a finger at Rowe. "Don't written any more letters." - -"Why ever would I?" Richard answered. "Already my action is beginning -to seem like a mad dream." - -"Not to me, dear," Jane corrected him. "Oh, sir, could I have the -letter he sent me? Not to do anything with. Not to show anyone. Just to -keep." - -"Well, I don't know--" Krumbine began. - -"Oh, _please_, sir!" - -"Well, I don't know why not, I was going to say. Here you are, miss. -Just see that this husband of yours never writtens another." - -He turned back as the contracting door shut the young couple from view. - -"You were right, Potshelter," he said briskly. "It was one of those -combinations of mischances that come up only once in a billion billion -times. But we're going to have to issue recommendations for new -procedures and safeguards that will reduce the possibilities to one -in a trillion trillion. It will undoubtedly up the Terran income tax -a healthy percentage, but we can't have something like this happening -again. Every boy must marry the Girl Next Door! And the first-class -mails must not be interfered with! The advertising must go through!" - -"I'd almost like to see it happen again," Potshelter murmured dreamily, -"if there were another Jane Dough in it." - - * * * * * - -Outside, Richard and Jane had halted to allow a small cortege of -machines to pass. First came a squad of police machines with Black -Sorter in their midst, unmuzzled and docile enough, though still -gnashing his teeth softly. Then--stretched out horizontally and borne -on the shoulders of Gray Psychiatrist, Black Coroner, White Nursemaid -Seven and Greasy Joe--there passed the slim form of Pink Wastebasket, -snow-white in death. The machines were keening softly, mournfully. - -Round about the black pillars, little mecho-mops were scurrying like -mice, cleaning up the last of the first-class-mail bits of confetti. - -Richard winced at this evidence of his aberration, but Jane squeezed -his hand comfortingly, which produced in him a truly amazing sensation -that changed his whole appearance. - -"I know how you feel, darling," she told him. "But don't worry about -it. Just think, dear, I'll always be able to tell your friends' wives -something no other woman in the world can boast of: that my husband -once wrote me a letter!" - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Letter, by Fritz Leiber - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST LETTER *** - -***** This file should be named 51530-8.txt or 51530-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/5/3/51530/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/51530-8.zip b/old/51530-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f85351f..0000000 --- a/old/51530-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51530-h.zip b/old/51530-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 5466084..0000000 --- a/old/51530-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51530-h/51530-h.htm b/old/51530-h/51530-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index b590e76..0000000 --- a/old/51530-h/51530-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1077 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=us-ascii" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Last Letter, by Fritz Leiber. - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -div.titlepage { - text-align: center; - page-break-before: always; - page-break-after: always; -} - -div.titlepage p { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; - font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1.5; - margin-top: 3em; -} - -.smcap { font-variant:small-caps; } - -.ph1, .ph2, .ph3 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } -.ph1 { font-size: xx-large; margin: .67em auto; } -.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } -.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } - -.ph4 { text-align: right; text-indent: 0em; } -.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -.poetry .stanza -{ - margin: 1em auto; -} - -.poetry .verse -{ - padding-left: 3em; -} - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Letter, by Fritz Leiber - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Last Letter - -Author: Fritz Leiber - -Release Date: March 22, 2016 [EBook #51530] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST LETTER *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="362" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>THE LAST LETTER</h1> - -<p>By FRITZ LIEBER</p> - -<p>Illustrated by DILLON</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Galaxy Science Fiction June 1958.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="ph3"><i>Who or what was the scoundrel that kept<br /> -these couriers from the swift completion<br /> -of their handsomely appointed rondos?</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>On Tenthmonth 1, 2457 A.D., at exactly 9 A.M. Planetary Federation -Time—but with a permissible error of a millionth of a second either -way—in the fifth sublevel of NewNew York Robot Postal Station 68, -Black Sorter gulped down ten thousand pieces of first-class mail.</p> - -<p>This breakfast tidbit did not agree with the mail-sorting machine. It -was as if a robust dog had been fed a large chunk of good red meat with -a strychnine pill in it. Black Sorter's innards went <i>whirr-klunk</i>, a -blue electric glow enveloped him, and he began to shake as if he might -break loose from the concrete.</p> - -<p>He desperately spat back over his shoulder a single envelope, gave -a great <i>huff</i> and blew out toward the sorting tubes a medium-size -snowstorm consisting of the other nine thousand, nine hundred and -ninety-nine pieces of first-class mail chewed to confetti. Then, still -convulsed, he snapped up a fresh ten thousand and proceeded to chomp -and grind on them. Black Sorter was rugged.</p> - -<p>The rejected envelope was tongued up by Red Subsorter, who growled deep -in his throat, said a very bad word, and passed it to Yellow Rerouter, -who passed it to Green Rerouter, who passed it to Brown Study, who -passed it to Pink Wastebasket.</p> - -<p>Unlike Black Sorter, Pink Wastebasket was very delicate, though highly -intuitive—the machine equivalent of a White Russian countess. She -was designed to scan in 3,137 codes, route special-delivery spacemail -to interplanetary liners by messenger rocket, and distinguish 9s from -upside-down 6s.</p> - -<p>Pink Wastebasket haughtily inhaled the offending envelope and almost -instantly turned a bright crimson and began to tremble. After a few -minutes, small atomic flames started to flicker from her mid-section.</p> - -<p>White Nursemaid Seven and Greasy Joe both received Pink Wastebasket's -distress signal and got there as fast as their wheels would roll them, -but the high-born machine's malady was beyond their simple skills of -oilcan and electroshock.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>They summoned other machine-tending-and-repairing machines, ones far -more expert than themselves, but all were baffled. It was clear that -Pink Wastebasket, who continued to tremble and flicker uncontrollably, -was suffering from the equivalent of a major psychosis with severe -psychosomatic symptoms. She spat a stream of filthy ions at Gray -Psychiatrist, not recognizing her old friend.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, the paper blizzard from Black Sorter was piling up in great -drifts between the dark pillars of the sublevel, and flurries had -reached Pink Wastebasket's aristocratic area. An expedition of sturdy -machines, headed by two hastily summoned snowplows, was dispatched to -immobilize Black Sorter at all costs.</p> - -<p>Pink Wastebasket, quivering like a demented hula dancer, was clearly -approaching a crisis. Finally Gray Psychiatrist—after consulting with -Green Surgeon, and even then with an irritated reluctance, as if he -were calling in a witch-doctor—summoned a human being.</p> - -<p>The human being walked respectfully around Pink Wastebasket several -times and then gave her a nervous little poke with a rubber-handled -probe.</p> - -<p>Pink Wastebasket gently regurgitated her last snack, turned dead -white, gave a last flicker and shake, and expired. Black Coroner -recorded the immediate cause of death as tinkering by a human being.</p> - -<p>The human being, a bald and scrawny one named Potshelter, picked up the -envelope responsible for all the trouble, stared at it incredulously, -opened it with trembling fingers, scanned the contents briefly, gave -a great shriek and ran off at top speed, forgetting to hop on his -perambulator, which followed him making anxious clucking noises.</p> - -<p>The nearest human representative of the Solar Bureau of Investigation, -a rather wooden-looking man named Krumbine, also bald, recognized -Potshelter as soon as the latter burst gasping into his office, -squeezing through the door while it was still dilating. The human -beings whose work took them among the Top Brass, as the upper-echelon -machines were sometimes referred to, formed a kind of human elite, just -one big nervous family.</p> - -<p>"Sit down, Potshelter," the SBI Man said. "Hold still a second so the -chair can grab you. Hitch onto the hookah and choose a tranquilizer -from the tray at your elbow. Whatever deviation you've uncovered can't -be that much of a danger to the planets. I imagine that when you leave -this office, the Solar Battle Fleet will still be orbiting peacefully -around Luna."</p> - -<p>"I seriously doubt that."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Potshelter gulped a large lavender pill and took a deep breath. -"Krumbine, a letter turned up in the first-class mail this morning."</p> - -<p>"Great Scott!"</p> - -<p>"It is a letter from one person to another person."</p> - -<p>"Good Lord!"</p> - -<p>"The flow of advertising has been seriously interfered with. At a -modest estimate, three hundred million pieces of expensive first-class -advertising have already been chewed to rags and I'm not sure the Steel -Helms—God bless 'em!—have the trouble in hand yet."</p> - -<p>"Judas Priest!"</p> - -<p>"Naturally the poor machines weren't able to cope with the letter. -It was utterly outside their experience, beyond the furthest reach -of their programming. It threw them into a terrible spasm. Pink -Wastebasket is dead and at this very instant, if we're lucky, three -police machines of the toughest blued steel are holding down Black -Sorter and putting a muzzle on him."</p> - -<p>"Great Scott! It's incredible, Potshelter. And Pink Wastebasket dead? -Take another tranquilizer, Potshelter, and hand over the tray."</p> - -<p>Krumbine received it with trembling fingers, started to pick up a big -pink pill but drew back his hand from it in sudden revulsion at its -color and swallowed two blue oval ones instead. The man was obviously -fighting to control himself.</p> - -<p>He said unsteadily, "I almost never take doubles, but this news you -bring—Good Lord! I seem to recall a case where someone tried to -send a sound-tape through the mails, but that was before my time. -Incidentally, is there any possibility that this is a letter sent by -one <i>group</i> of persons to another group? A hive or a therapy group or a -social club? That would be bad enough, of course, but—"</p> - -<p>"No, just one single person sending to another." Potshelter's -expression set in grimly solicitous lines. "I can see you don't quite -understand, Krumbine. This is not a sound-tape, but a letter written in -letters. You know, letters, characters—like books."</p> - -<p>"Don't mention books in this office!" Krumbine drew himself up angrily -and then slumped back. "Excuse me, Potshelter, but I find this very -difficult to face squarely. Do I understand you to say that one person -has tried to use the mails to send a printed sheet of some sort to -another?"</p> - -<p>"Worse than that. A written letter."</p> - -<p>"Written? I don't recognize the word."</p> - -<p>"It's a way of making characters, of forming visual equivalents of -sound, without using electricity. The writer, as he's called, employs -a black liquid and a pointed stick called a pen. I know about this -because one hobby of mine is ancient means of communication."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Krumbine frowned and shook his head. "Communication is a dangerous -business, Potshelter, especially at the personal level. With you and -me, it's all right, because we know what we're doing."</p> - -<p>He picked up a third blue tranquilizer. "But with most of the -hive-folk, person-to-person communication is only a morbid form of -advertising, a dangerous travesty of normal newscasting—catharsis -without the analyst, recitation without the teacher—a perversion of -promotion employed in betraying and subverting."</p> - -<p>The frown deepened as he put the blue pill in his mouth and chewed it. -"But about this pen—do you mean the fellow glues the pointed stick to -his tongue and then speaks, and the black liquid traces the vibrations -on the paper? A primitive non-electrical oscilloscope? Sloppy but -conceivable, and producing a record of sorts of the spoken word."</p> - -<p>"No, no, Krumbine." Potshelter nervously popped a square orange tablet -into his mouth. "It's a hand-written letter."</p> - -<p>Krumbine watched him. "I never mix tranquilizers," he boasted absently. -"Hand-written, eh? You mean that the message was imprinted on a hand? -And the skin or the entire hand afterward detached and sent through -the mails in the fashion of a Martian reproach? A grisly find indeed, -Potshelter."</p> - -<p>"You still don't quite grasp it, Krumbine. The fingers of the hand move -the stick that applies the ink, producing a crude imitation of the -printed word."</p> - -<p>"Diabolical!" Krumbine smashed his fist down on the desk so that the -four phones and two-score microphones rattled. "I tell you, Potshelter, -the SBI is ready to cope with the subtlest modern deceptions, but when -fiends search out and revive tricks from the pre-Atomic Cave Era, it's -almost too much. But, Great Scott, I dally while the planets are in -danger. What's the sender's code on this hellish letter?"</p> - -<p>"No code," Potshelter said darkly, proferring the envelope. "The return -address is—hand-written."</p> - -<p>Krumbine blanched as his eyes slowly traced the uneven lines in the -upper left-hand corner:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p><i>from</i> Richard Rowe<br /> -215 West 10th St. (horizontal)<br /> -2837 Rocket Court (vertical)<br /> -Hive 37, NewNew York 319, N. Y.<br /> -Columbia, Terra</p></div> - -<p>"Ugh!" Krumbine said, shivering. "Those crawling characters, those -letters, as you call them, those <i>things</i> barely enough like print -to be readable—they seem to be on the verge of awakening all sorts -of horrid racial memories. I find myself thinking of fur-clad -witch-doctors dipping long pointed sticks in bubbling black cauldrons. -No wonder Pink Wastebasket couldn't take it, brave girl."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Firming himself behind his desk, he pushed a number of buttons and -spoke long numbers and meaningful alphabetical syllables into several -microphones. Banks of colored lights around the desk began to blink -like a theatre marquee sending Morse Code, while phosphorescent -arrows crawled purposefully across maps and space-charts and through -three-dimensional street diagrams.</p> - -<p>"There!" he said at last. "The sender of the letter is being -apprehended and will be brought directly here. We'll see what sort -of man this Richard Rowe is—if we can assume he's human. Seven -precautionary cordons are being drawn around his population station: -three composed of machines, two of SBI agents, and two consisting of -human and mechanical medical-combat teams. Same goes for the intended -recipient of the letter. Meanwhile, a destroyer squadron of the Solar -Fleet has been detached to orbit over NewNew York."</p> - -<p>"In case it becomes necessary to Z-Bomb?" Potshelter asked grimly.</p> - -<p>Krumbine nodded. "With all those villains lurking just outside the -Solar System in their invisible black ships, with planeticide in their -hearts, we can't be too careful. One word transmitted from one spy to -another and anything may happen. And we must bomb before they do, so -as to contain our losses. Better one city destroyed than a traitor -on the loose who may destroy many cities. One hundred years ago, -three person-to-person postcards went through the mails—just three -postcards, Potshelter!—and <i>pft</i> went Schenectady, Hoboken, Cicero, -and Walla Walla. Here, as long as you're mixing them, try one of these -oval blues—I find them best for steady swallowing."</p> - -<p>Bells jangled. Krumbine grabbed up two phones, holding one to each ear. -Potshelter automatically picked up a third. The ringing continued. -Krumbine started to wedge one of his phones under his chin, nodded -sharply at Potshelter and then toward a cluster of microphones at the -end of the table. Potshelter picked up a fourth phone from behind them. -The ringing stopped.</p> - -<p>The two men listened, looking doped, Krumbine with an eye fixed on -the sweep second hand of the large wall clock. When it had made one -revolution, he cradled his phones. Potshelter followed suit.</p> - -<p>"I do like the simplicity of the new on-the-hour Puffyloaf -phono-commercial," the latter remarked thoughtfully. "The Bread That's -Lighter Than Air. Nice."</p> - -<p>Krumbine nodded. "I hear they've had to add mass to the leadfoil -wrapping to keep the loaves from floating off the shelves. Fact."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He cleared his throat. "Too bad we can't listen to more -phono-commercials, but even when there isn't a crisis on the agenda, I -find I have to budget my listening time. One minute per hour strikes a -reasonable balance between duty and self-indulgence."</p> - -<p>The nearest wall began to sing:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Mister J. Augustus Krumbine,</div> - <div class="verse">We all think you're fine, fine, fine, fine.</div> - <div class="verse">Now out of the skyey blue</div> - <div class="verse">Come some telegrams for you.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>The wall opened to a small heart shape toward the center and a sheaf of -pale yellow envelopes arced out and plopped on the middle of the desk. -Krumbine started to leaf through them, scanning the little transparent -windows.</p> - -<p>"Hm, Electronic Soap ... Better Homes and Landing Platforms ... -Psycho-Blinkers ... Your Girl Next Door ... Poppy-Woppies ... -Poopsy-Woopsies...."</p> - -<p>He started to open an envelope, then, after a quick look around and an -apologetic smile at Potshelter, dumped them all on the disposal hopper, -which gargled briefly.</p> - -<p>"After all, there <i>is</i> a crisis this morning," he said in a defensive -voice.</p> - -<p>Potshelter nodded absently. "I can remember back before personalized -delivery and rhyming robots," he observed. "But how I'd miss them -now—so much more distingué than the hives with their non-personalized -radio, TV and stereo advertising. For that matter, I believe there are -some backward areas on Terra where the great advertising potential of -telephones and telegrams hasn't been fully realized and they are still -used in part for personal communication. Now me, I've never in my life -sent or received a message except on my walky-talky." He patted his -breast pocket.</p> - -<p>Krumbine nodded, but he was a trifle shocked and inclined to revise -his estimate of Potshelter's social status. Krumbine conducted his own -social correspondence solely by telepathy. He shared with three other -SBI officials a private telepath—a charming albino girl named Agnes.</p> - -<p>"Yes, and it's a very handsome walky-talky," he assured Potshelter a -little falsely. "Suits you. I like the upswept antenna." He drummed -on the desk and swallowed another blue tranquilizer. "Dammit, what's -happened to those machines? They ought to have the two spies here by -now. Did you notice that the second—the intended recipient of the -letter, I mean—seems to be female? Another good Terran name, too, Jane -Dough. Hive in Upper Manhattan." He began to tap the envelope sharply -against the desk. "Dammit, where <i>are</i> they?"</p> - -<p>"Excuse me," Potshelter said hesitantly, "but I'm wondering why you -haven't read the message inside the envelope."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Krumbine looked at him blankly. "Great Scott, I assumed that at least -<i>it</i> was in some secret code, of course. Normally I'd have asked you to -have Pink Wastebasket try her skill on it, but...." His eyes widened -and his voice sank. "You don't mean to tell me that it's—"</p> - -<p>Potshelter nodded grimly. "Hand-written, too. Yes."</p> - -<p>Krumbine winced. "I keep trying to forget that aspect of the case." He -dug out the message with shaking fingers, fumbled it open and read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>Dear Jane</i>,</p> - -<p><i>It must surprise you that I know your name, for our hives are widely -separated. Do you recall day before yesterday when your guided tour -of Grand Central Spaceport got stalled because the guide blew a fuse? -I was the young man with hair in the tour behind yours. You were a -little frightened and a groupmistress was reassuring you. The machine -spoke your name.</i></p> - -<p><i>Since then I have been unable to forget you. When I go to sleep, -I dream of your face looking up sadly at the mistress's kindly -photocells. I don't know how to get in touch with you, but my -grandfather has told me stories his grandfather told him that -his grandfather told him about young men writing what he calls -love-letters to young ladies. So I am writing you a love-letter.</i></p> - -<p><i>I work in a first-class advertising house and I will slip this -love-letter into an outgoing ten-thousand-pack and hope.</i></p> - -<p><i>Do not be frightened of me, Jane. I am no caveman except for my hair. -I am not insane. I am emotionally disturbed, but in a way that no -machine has ever described to me. I want only your happiness.</i></p> - -<p class="ph4"><i>Sincerely</i>,<br /> -<i>Richard Rowe</i></p></div> - -<p>Krumbine slumped back in his chair, which braced itself manfully -against him, and looked long and thoughtfully at Potshelter. "Well, if -that's a code, it's certainly a fiendishly subtle one. You'd think he -was talking to his Girl Next Door."</p> - -<p>Potshelter nodded wonderingly. "I only read as far as where they were -planning to blow up Grand Central Spaceport and all the guides in it."</p> - -<p>"Judas Priest, I think I have it!" Krumbine shot up. "It's a pilot -advertisement—Boy Next Door or—that kind of thing—printed to look -like hand-writtening, which would make all the difference. And the -pilot copy got mailed by accident—which would mean there is no real -Richard Rowe."</p> - -<p>At that instant, the door dilated and two blue detective engines -hustled a struggling young man into the office. He was slim, rather -handsome, had a bushy head of hair that had somehow survived evolution -and radioactive fallout, and across the chest and back of his paper -singlet was neatly stamped: "<span class="smcap">Richard Rowe</span>."</p> - -<p>When he saw the two men, he stopped struggling and straightened up. -"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but these police machines must have -made a mistake. I've committed no crime."</p> - -<p>Then his gaze fell on the hand-addressed envelope on Krumbine's desk -and he turned pale.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Krumbine laughed harshly. "No crime! No, not at all. Merely using the -mails to communicate. Ha!"</p> - -<p>The young man shrank back. "I'm sorry, sir."</p> - -<p>"Sorry, he says! Do you realize that your insane prank has resulted -in the destruction of perhaps a half-billion pieces of first-class -advertising?—in the strangulation of a postal station and the -paralysis of Lower Manhattan?—in the mobilization of SBI reserves, the -de-mothballing of two divisions of G. I. machines and the redeployment -of the Solar Battle Fleet? Good Lord, boy, why did you do it?"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" width="353" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Richard Rowe continued to shrink but he squared his shoulders. "I'm -sorry, sir, but I just had to. I just had to get in touch with Jane -Dough."</p> - -<p>"A girl from another hive? A girl you'd merely gazed at because a guide -happened to blow a fuse?" Krumbine stood up, shaking an angry finger. -"Great Scott, boy, where was Your Girl Next Door?"</p> - -<p>Richard Rowe stared bravely at the finger, which made him look a trifle -cross-eyed. "She died, sir, both of them."</p> - -<p>"But there should be at least six."</p> - -<p>"I know, sir, but of the other four, two have been shipped to the -Adirondacks on vacation and two recently got married and haven't been -replaced."</p> - -<p>Potshelter, a faraway look in his eyes, said softly, "I think I'm -beginning to understand—"</p> - -<p>But Krumbine thundered on at Richard Rowe with, "Good Lord, I can see -you've had your troubles, boy. It isn't often we have these shortages -of Girls Next Door, so that temporarily a boy can't marry the Girl Next -Door, as he always should. But, Judas Priest, why didn't you take your -troubles to your psychiatrist, your groupmaster, your socializer, your -Queen Mother?"</p> - -<p>"My psychiatrist is being overhauled, sir, and his replacement -short-circuits every time he hears the word 'trouble.' My groupmaster -and socializer are on vacation duty in the Adirondacks. My Queen Mother -is busy replacing Girls Next Door."</p> - -<p>"Yes, it all fits," Potshelter proclaimed excitedly. "Don't you see, -Krumbine? Except for a set of mischances that would only occur once in -a billion billion times, the letter would never have been conceived or -sent."</p> - -<p>"You may have something there," Krumbine concurred. "But in any case, -boy, why did you—er—written this letter to this particular girl? What -is there about Jane Dough that made you do it?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, sir, she's—"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Just then, the door re-dilated and a blue matron machine conducted -a young woman into the office. She was slim and she had a head of -hair that would have graced a museum beauty, while across the back -and—well, "chest" is an inadequate word—of her paper chemise, -"<span class="smcap">Jane Dough</span>" was silk-screened in the palest pink.</p> - -<p>Krumbine did not repeat his last question. He had to admit to himself -that it had been answered fully. Potshelter whistled respectfully. The -blue detective engines gave hard-boiled grunts. Even the blue matron -machine seemed awed by the girl's beauty.</p> - -<p>But she had eyes only for Richard Rowe. "My Grand Central man," she -breathed in amazement. "The man I've dreamed of ever since. My man -with hair." She noticed the way he was looking at her and she breathed -harder. "Oh, darling, what have you done?"</p> - -<p>"I tried to send you a letter."</p> - -<p>"A letter? For me? Oh, darling!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Krumbine cleared his throat. "Potshelter, I'm going to wind this up -fast. Miss Dough, could you transfer to this young man's hive?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, sir! Mine has an over-plus of Girls Next Door."</p> - -<p>"Good. Mr. Rowe, there's a sky-pilot two levels up—look for the -usual white collar just below the photocells. Marry this girl and -take her home to your hive. If your Queen Mother objects refer her -to—er—Potshelter here."</p> - -<p>He cut short the young people's thanks. "Just one thing," he said, -wagging a finger at Rowe. "Don't written any more letters."</p> - -<p>"Why ever would I?" Richard answered. "Already my action is beginning -to seem like a mad dream."</p> - -<p>"Not to me, dear," Jane corrected him. "Oh, sir, could I have the -letter he sent me? Not to do anything with. Not to show anyone. Just to -keep."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know—" Krumbine began.</p> - -<p>"Oh, <i>please</i>, sir!"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know why not, I was going to say. Here you are, miss. -Just see that this husband of yours never writtens another."</p> - -<p>He turned back as the contracting door shut the young couple from view.</p> - -<p>"You were right, Potshelter," he said briskly. "It was one of those -combinations of mischances that come up only once in a billion billion -times. But we're going to have to issue recommendations for new -procedures and safeguards that will reduce the possibilities to one -in a trillion trillion. It will undoubtedly up the Terran income tax -a healthy percentage, but we can't have something like this happening -again. Every boy must marry the Girl Next Door! And the first-class -mails must not be interfered with! The advertising must go through!"</p> - -<p>"I'd almost like to see it happen again," Potshelter murmured dreamily, -"if there were another Jane Dough in it."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Outside, Richard and Jane had halted to allow a small cortege of -machines to pass. First came a squad of police machines with Black -Sorter in their midst, unmuzzled and docile enough, though still -gnashing his teeth softly. Then—stretched out horizontally and borne -on the shoulders of Gray Psychiatrist, Black Coroner, White Nursemaid -Seven and Greasy Joe—there passed the slim form of Pink Wastebasket, -snow-white in death. The machines were keening softly, mournfully.</p> - -<p>Round about the black pillars, little mecho-mops were scurrying like -mice, cleaning up the last of the first-class-mail bits of confetti.</p> - -<p>Richard winced at this evidence of his aberration, but Jane squeezed -his hand comfortingly, which produced in him a truly amazing sensation -that changed his whole appearance.</p> - -<p>"I know how you feel, darling," she told him. "But don't worry about -it. Just think, dear, I'll always be able to tell your friends' wives -something no other woman in the world can boast of: that my husband -once wrote me a letter!"</p> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Letter, by Fritz Leiber - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST LETTER *** - -***** This file should be named 51530-h.htm or 51530-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/5/3/51530/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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