Lovers and Other Monsters by Marvin Kaye

Author:Marvin Kaye [Kaye, Marvin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 1993-01-28T00:00:00+00:00

Theodore Sturgeon

The Deadly Ratio

Here is another remarkable tale by Theodore Sturgeon (1918-85), International Fantasy Award winner (for More Than Human) and author of such popular novels and short story collections as The Cosmic Rape, The Dreaming Jewels, E Pluribus Unicorn and Without Sorcery. Like “The Perfect Host,” included in Weird Tales, the Magazine that Never Dies, “The Deadly Ratio” is a Ted Sturgeon tour de force that, according to its protagonist, might actually happen to you-the-reader.

BETTER NOT READ IT. I mean it. No—this isn’t one of those “perhaps it will happen to you” things. It’s a lot worse than that. It might very possibly be happening to you right now. And you won’t know until it’s over. You can’t, by the very nature of things.

(I wonder what the population really is?)

On the other hand, maybe it won’t make any difference if I do tell you about it. Once you got used to the idea, you might even be able to relax and enjoy it. Heaven knows there’s plenty to enjoy—and again I say it—by the very nature of things.

All right, then, if you think you can take it....

I met her in a restaurant. You may know the place—Murphy’s. It has a big oval bar and then a partition. On the other side of the partition are small tables, then an aisle, then booths.

Gloria was sitting at one of the small tables. All of the booths but two were empty; all the other small tables but one were unoccupied, so there was plenty of room in the place for me.

But there was only one place I could sit—at her table. That was because, when I saw Gloria, there wasn’t anything else in the world. I have never been through anything like that. I just stopped dead. I dropped my briefcase and stared at her. She had gleaming auburn hair and olive skin. She had delicate high-arched nostrils and a carved mouth, lips that were curved above like gull’s wings on the down-beat, and full below. Her eyes were as sealed and spice-toned as a hot buttered rum, and as deep as a mountain night.

Without taking my eyes from her face, I groped for a chair and sat opposite her. I’d forgotten everything. Even about being hungry. Helen hadn’t, though. Helen was the head waitress and a swell person. She was fortyish and happy. She didn’t know my name but used to call me “The Hungry Fella.” I never had to order. When I came in she’d fill me a bar-glass full of beer and pile up two orders of that day’s Chef’s Special on a steak platter. She arrived with the beer, picked up my briefcase, and went for the fodder. I just kept on looking at Gloria, who by this time, was registering considerable amazement, and a little awe. The awe, she told me later, was conceived only at the size of the beer-glass, but I have my doubts about that.

She spoke first. “Taking an inventory?”

She had one of those rare voices which make noises out of all other sounds.

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