I Have No Mouth & I Must Scream by Ellison Harlan

Author:Ellison, Harlan [Ellison, Harlan]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: eReads
Published: 1983-11-10T22:00:00+00:00

Iris could be heard laughing gaily in her laboratory, after Rennert had returned to her from a Visioning—as the trips had grown to be called—with detailed accounts of what he had done. It was during one of these sessions, late in the evening, that it happened.

Cornfeld was lounging half–in, half–out of the ship, his legs dangling a foot above the warm evening sands. He hardly noticed when Iris Crosse’s resonant laughter tinkled hesitantly into awkward silence. But his mind resigned itself, and only subliminally did he hear her annoyed exclamation; another; her request in strained tones that Wayne stop. And then Cornfeld heard her scream.

It was that same nightmare, come to haunt him again.

He swung his legs up into the ship, and slammed through the tilting corridor toward the tiny laboratory.

Rennert had not even paid him the compliment of locking the stateroom. It stood open, and Iris Crosse was in plain sight, lying across her bunk, her chiton about her hips, her hair wild and dark, while she struggled with Rennert between her legs.

Cornfeld came through the doorway at a dead run and laid both hands with a thwack across the bigger man’s shoulders. He heaved back, and Rennert’s hands untangled themselves from the woman’s clothing. He lost balance, and came tumbling back on Cornfeld. Cornfeld stepped to the side; the larger man fell to the deck.

He tried to rise, and Cornfeld brought up his booted foot, catching Rennert across the bridge of the nose. The captain of the ship squealed high and soprano, and fell back, clutching his broken nose. He lay there whimpering.

Iris Crosse sprawled across her bunk; she too whimpered.

Cornfeld stared at them. Both of them. God, how these two deserved each other.

Rennert could not be blamed entirely. She had no doubt flirted and goaded him, till he had lost his sense of right and propriety. But then, had he ever really had such a sense? Rennert was not of that cut. She lay there, her legs still splinted in the healing packs, and her white thighs were only cream against the whiter material of the splint–packs.

“You maniac!” Cornfeld found himself yelling at Rennert, lying at his feet. “You maniac! You couldn’t wait. You had to try it now, didn’t you? You had to have her again before the beamspitter got here, wasn’t that it? You scum…she’s in splints, you scum, in splints yet, can’t you see?”

Fury drained through him. He dragged Rennert up by the collar, and forced his head toward the woman, lying disheveled, wracked by sobs, on her bunk.

Then Rennert got to his feet.

His face had crumbled and all expression but self–pity and degradation were gone. His nose was streaming crimson down across his tunic, and he made no effort to staunch the violent flow.

He stared at her an instant, and then, without his head turning, he stared at Cornfeld, livid in his wrath. Without warning, without preamble, he turned and ran from the lab–stateroom, the tool belt tinkling faintly at his waist.

Cornfeld heard his heavy boots go clattering down the decks, and then there was silence.

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