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The Hated By: Frederik Pohl (1919-) |
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By PAUL FLEHR
After space, there was always
one more river to cross ... the
far side of hatred and murder!
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS
The bar didn't have a name. No name of any kind. Not even an indication
that it had ever had one. All it said on the outside was: Cafe
EAT
Cocktails which doesn't make a lot of sense. But it was a bar. It had a big TV set
going ya ta ta ya ta ta in three glorious colors, and a jukebox that
tried to drown out the TV with that lousy music they play. Anyway, it
wasn't a kid hangout. I kind of like it. But I wasn't supposed to be
there at all; it's in the contract. I was supposed to stay in New York
and the New England states. Cafe EAT Cocktails was right across the river. I think the name of the
place was Hoboken, but I'm not sure. It all had a kind of dreamy feeling
to it. I was Well, I couldn't even remember going there. I remembered one minute I
was downtown New York, looking across the river. I did that a lot. And
then I was there. I don't remember crossing the river at all. I was drunk, you know. You know how it is? Double bourbons and keep them coming. And after a
while the bartender stops bringing me the ginger ale because gradually I
forget to mix them. I got pretty loaded long before I left New York. I
realize that. I guess I had to get pretty loaded to risk the pension and
all. Used to be I didn't drink much, but now, I don't know, when I have one
drink, I get to thinking about Sam and Wally and Chowderhead and Gilvey
and the captain. If I don't drink, I think about them, too, and then I
take a drink. And that leads to another drink, and it all comes out to
the same thing. Well, I guess I said it already, I drink a pretty good
amount, but you can't blame me. There was a girl. I always get a girl someplace. Usually they aren't much and this one
wasn't either. I mean she was probably somebody's mother. She was around
thirty five and not so bad, though she had a long scar under her ear
down along her throat to the little round spot where her larynx was. It
wasn't ugly. She smelled nice while I could still smell, you know and
she didn't talk much. I liked that. Only Well, did you ever meet somebody with a nervous cough? Like when you say
something funny a little funny, not a big yock they don't laugh and
they don't stop with just smiling, but they sort of cough? She did that.
I began to itch. I couldn't help it. I asked her to stop it. She spilled her drink and looked at me almost as though she was
scared and I had tried to say it quietly, too. "Sorry," she said, a little angry, a little scared. " Sorry. But you
don't have to " "Forget it." "Sure. But you asked me to sit down here with you, remember? If you're
going to " " Forget it! " I nodded at the bartender and held up two fingers. "You
need another drink," I said. "The thing is," I said, "Gilvey used to do
that." "What?" "That cough." She looked puzzled. "You mean like this?" " Goddam it, stop it! " Even the bartender looked over at me that time.
Now she was really mad, but I didn't want her to go away. I said,
"Gilvey was a fellow who went to Mars with me. Pat Gilvey." " Oh. " She sat down again and leaned across the table, low. " Mars. " The bartender brought our drinks and looked at me suspiciously. I said,
"Say, Mac, would you turn down the air conditioning?" "My name isn't Mac. No." "Have a heart. It's too cold in here." "Sorry." He didn't sound sorry. I was cold. I mean that kind of weather, it's always cold in those
places. You know around New York in August? It hits eighty, eighty five,
ninety. All the places have air conditioning and what they really want
is for you to wear a shirt and tie. But I like to walk a lot. You would, too, you know. And you can't walk
around much in long pants and a suit coat and all that stuff. Not around
there. Not in August. And so then, when I went into a bar, it'd have one
of those built in freezers for the used car salesmen with their dates,
or maybe their wives, all dressed up... Continue reading book >>
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Literature |
Science |
Short stories |
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