Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (269 page)

(1923–1997)

It’s ironic that someone who played such a large role in the field for so many years as a writer, editor, and mentor, Judith Merril (the last name in her
nom de plume
was taken from her daughter Merril’s name) is still best-remembered for the first story she ever wrote. Merril came to science fiction later than many writers; while sick in bed she read some of her first husband’s SF books and was hooked. She joined the Futurians in 1945, and was an editor at Bantam Books two years later. She, Frederik Pohl (who would briefly be her second husband), and others formed the Hydra Club as a gathering place for SF professionals in New York City.

“That Only a Mother” was published in 1948 and Merril’s first novel,
Shadow on the Hearth
came out in 1950, but by then she was already making more of a reputation as an editor and mentor to other writers. She edited her first SF anthology,
Shot in the Dark
, in 1950, and the annual “Year’s Best” collections of SF (which like Robert A. Heinlein she considered as “speculative fiction” rather than “science fiction”) from 1956 to 1967. She worked tirelessly to expand the field to include strong stories that didn’t fit within the field’s established conventions. She worked to expand who wrote SF as well, co-founding the Milford Writer’s Conference (which evolved into Clarion) with James Blish and Damon Knight.

Merril strongly opposed the Vietnam War, and after the brutal suppression of protests at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, she moved to Toronto, eventually becoming a Canadian citizen. In 1970, she donated her massive SF collection to the Toronto Public Library, where it remains a resource.

First published in
Astounding Science Fiction
, June 1948

Margaret reached over to the other side of the bed where Hank should have been. Her hand patted the empty pillow, and then she came altogether awake, wondering that the old habit should remain after so many months. She tried to curl up, cat-style, to hoard her own warmth, found she couldn’t do it any more, and climbed out of bed with a pleased awareness of her increasingly clumsy bulkiness.

Morning motions were automatic. On the way through the kitchenette, she pressed the button that would start breakfast cooking—the doctor had said to eat as much breakfast as she could—and tore the paper out of the facsimile machine. She folded the long sheet carefully to the “National News” section, and propped it on the bathroom shelf to scan while she brushed her teeth.

No accidents. No direct hits. At least none that had been officially released for publication. Now, Maggie, don’t get started on that. No accidents. No hits. Take the nice newspaper’s word for it.

The three clear chimes from the kitchen announced that breakfast was ready. She set a bright napkin and cheerful colored dishes on the table in a futile attempt to appeal to a faulty morning appetite. Then, when there was nothing more to prepare, she went for the mail, allowing herself the full pleasure of prolonged anticipation, because today there would surely be a letter.

There was. There were. Two bills and a worried note from her mother: “Darling, why didn’t you write and tell me sooner? I’m thrilled, of course, but, well one hates to mention these things, but are you certain the doctor was right? Hank’s been around all that uranium or thorium of whatever it is all these years, and I know you say he’s a designer, not a technician, and he doesn’t get near anything that might be dangerous, but you know he used to, back at Oak Ridge. Don’t you think…well, of course, I’m just being a foolish old woman, and I don’t want you to get upset. You know much more about it than I do, and I’m sure your doctor was right. He should know…”

Margaret made a face over the excellent coffee, and caught herself refolding the paper to the medical news.

Stop it, Maggie, stop it! The radiologist said Hank’s job couldn’t have exposed him. And the bombed area we drove past…No, no. Stop it, now! Read the social notes or the recipes, Maggie girl.

A well-known geneticist, in the medical news, said that it was possible to tell with absolute certainty, at five months, whether the child would be normal, or at least whether the mutation was likely to produce anything freakish. The worst cases, at any rate, could be prevented. Minor mutations, of course, displacements in facial features, or changes in brain structure could not be detected. And there had been some cases recently, of normal embryos with atrophied limbs that did not develop beyond the seventh or eighth month. But, the doctor concluded cheerfully, the worst cases could now be predicted and prevented.

“Predicted and prevented.” We predicted it, didn’t we? Hank and the others, they predicted it. But we didn’t prevent it. We could have stopped it in ’46 and ’47. Now…

Margaret decided against the breakfast. Coffee had been enough for her in the morning for ten years; it would have to do for today. She buttoned herself into the interminable folds of material that, the salesgirl had assured her, was the only comfortable thing to wear during the last few months. With a surge of pure pleasure, the letter and newspaper forgotten, she realized she was on the next to the last button. It wouldn’t be long now.

* * * *

The city in the early morning had always been a special kind of excitement for her. Last night it had rained, and the sidewalks were still damp-gray instead of dusty. The air smelled the fresher, to a city-bred woman, for the occasional pungency of acrid factory smoke. She walked the six blocks to work, watching the lights go out in the all-night hamburger joints, where the plate-glass walls were already catching the sun, and the lights go on in the dim interiors of cigar stores and dry-cleaning establishments.

The office was in a new Government building. In the rolovator, on the way up, she felt, as always, like a frankfurter roll in the ascending half of an old-style rotary toasting machine. She abandoned the air-foam cushioning gratefully at the fourteenth floor, and settled down behind her desk, at the rear of a long row of identical desks.

Each morning the pile of papers that greeted her was a little higher. These were, as everyone knew, the decisive months. The war might be won or lost on these calculations as well as any others. The manpower office had switched her here when her old expediter’s job got to be too strenuous. The computer was easy to operate, and the work was absorbing, if not as exciting as the old job. But you didn’t just stop working these days. Everyone who could do anything at all was needed.

And—she remembered the interview with the psychologist—I’m probably the unstable type. Wonder what sort of neurosis I’d get sitting home reading that sensational paper…

She plunged into the work without pursuing the thought.

February 18

Hank darling,

Just a note—from the hospital, no less. I had a dizzy spell at work, and the doctor took it to heart. Blessed if I know what I’ll do with myself lying in bed for weeks, just waiting—but Dr. Boyer seems to think it may not be so long.

There are too many newspapers around here. More infanticides all the time, and they can’t seem to get a jury to convict any of them..

It’s the fathers who do it. Lucky thing you’re not around, in case—

Oh, darling, that wasn’t a very funny joke, was it? Write as often as you can, will you? I have too much time to think. But there really isn’t anything wrong, and nothing to worry about.

Write often, and remember I love you.

Maggie

SPECIAL SERVICE TELEGRAM

February 21, 1955

22:04 LK37G

From: Tech: Lieut. H. Marvell X47-016 GCNY

To: Mrs. H. Marvell, Women’s Hospital New York City

HAD DOCTOR’S GRAM STOP WILL ARRIVE FOUR OH TEN STOP SHORT LEAVE STOP YOU DID IT MAGGIE STOP LOVE HANK

February 25

Hank dear,

So you didn’t see the baby either? You’d think a place this size would at least have visiplates on the incubators, so the fathers could get a look, even if the poor benighted mommas can’t. They tell me I won’t see her for another week, or maybe more—but of course, mother always warned me if I didn’t slow my pace, I’d probably even have my babies too fast. Why must she always be right?

Did you meet that battle-ax of a nurse they put on here? I imagine they save her for people who’ve already had theirs, and don’t let her get too near the prospectives—but a woman like that simply shouldn’t be allowed in a maternity ward. She’s obsessed with mutations, can’t seem to talk about anything else. Oh, well, ours is all right, even if it was in an unholy hurry. I’m tired. They warned me not to sit up so soon, but I
had
to write you. All my love, darling,

Maggie

February 29

Darling,

I finally got to see her! It’s all true, what they say about new babies and the face that only a mother could love—but it’s all there, darling, eyes, ears, and noses—no, only one!—all in the right places. We’re so
lucky,
Hank.

I’m afraid I’ve been a rambunctious patient. I kept telling that hatchet-faced female with the mutation mania that I wanted to
see
the baby. Finally the doctor came in to “explain” everything to me, and talked a lot of nonsense, most of which I’m sure no one could have understood, any more than I did. The only thing I got out of it was that she didn’t actually
have
to stay in the incubator; they just thought it was “wiser.”

I think I got a little hysterical at that point. Guess I was more worried than I was willing to admit, but I threw a small fit about it. The whole business wound up with one of those hushed medical conferences outside the door, and finally the Woman in White said: “Well, we might as well. Maybe it’ll work out better that way.”

I’d heard about the way doctors and nurses in these places develop a God complex, and believe me it is as true figuratively as it is literally that a mother hasn’t got a leg to stand on around here.

I
am awfully weak, still. I’ll write again soon. Love,

Maggie

March 8

Dearest Hank,

Well the nurse was wrong if she told you that. She’s an idiot anyhow. It’s a girl. It’s easier to tell with babies than with cats, and I
know.
How about Henrietta?

I’m home again, and busier than a betatron. They got
everything
mixed up at the hospital, and I had to teach myself how to bathe her and do just about everything else. She’s getting prettier, too. When can you get a leave, a
real
leave?

Love,

Maggie

May 26

Hank dear,

You should see her now—and you shall. I’m sending along a reel of color movie. My mother sent her those nighties with drawstrings all over. I put one on, and right now she looks like a snow-white potato sack with that beautiful, beautiful flower-face blooming on top. Is that me talking? Am I a doting mother? But wait till you see her!

July 10

…Believe it or not, as you like, but your daughter can talk, and I don’t mean baby talk. Alice discovered it—she’s a dental assistant in the WACs, you know—and when she heard the baby giving out what I thought was a string of gibberish, she said the kid knew words and sentences, but couldn’t say them clearly because she has no teeth yet. I’m taking her to a speech specialist.

September 13

…We have a prodigy for real! Now that all her front teeth are in, her speech is perfectly clear and—a new talent now—she can sing! I mean really carry a tune! At seven months! Darling, my world would be perfect if you could only get home.

November 19

…At last. The little goon was so busy being clever, it took her all this time to learn to crawl. The doctor says development in these cases is always erratic…

SPECIAL SERVICE TELEGRAM

December 1, 1953

08:47 LK59F

From: Tech. Lieut. H. Marvell X47-016 GCNY

To: Mrs. H. Marvell, Apt. K-17, 504 E. 19 St., N.Y. N.Y.

WEEK’S LEAVE STARTS TOMORROW STOP WILL ARRIVE AIRPORT TEN OH FIVE STOP DON’T MEET ME STOP LOVE LOVE LOVE HANK

* * * *

Margaret let the water run out of the bathinette until only a few inches were left, and then loosed her hold on the wriggling baby.

“I think it was better when you were retarded, young woman,” she informed her daughter happily. “You
can’t
crawl in a bathinette, you know.”

“Then why can’t I go in the bathtub?” Margaret was used to her child’s volubility by now, but every now and then it caught her unawares. She swooped the resistant mass of pink flesh into a towel, and began to rub.

“Because you’re too little, and your head is very soft, and bathtubs are very hard.”

“Oh. Then when can I go in the bathtub?”

“When the outside of your head is as hard as the inside, brainchild.” She reached toward a pile of fresh clothing. “I cannot understand,” she added, pinning a square of cloth through the nightgown, “why a child of your intelligence can’t learn to keep a diaper on the way other babies do. They’ve been used for centuries, you know, with perfectly satisfactory results.”

The child disdained to reply; she had heard it too often. She waited patiently until she had been tucked, clean and sweet-smelling, into a white-painted crib. Then she favored her mother with a smile that inevitably made Margaret think of the first golden edge of the sun bursting into a rosy pre-dawn. She remembered Hank’s reaction to the color pictures of his beautiful daughter, and with the thought, realized how late it was.

“Go to sleep, puss. When you wake up, you know, your Daddy will be here.”

“Why?” asked the four-year-old mind, waging a losing battle to keep the ten-month-old body awake.

Margaret went into the kitchenette and set the timer for the roast. She examined the table, and got her clothes from the closet, new dress, new shoes, new slip, new everything, bought weeks before and saved for the day Hank’s telegram came. She stopped to pull a paper from the facsimile, and, with clothes and news, went into the bathroom, and lowered herself gingerly into the steaming luxury of a scented tub.

She glanced through the paper with indifferent interest. Today at least there was no need to read the national news. There was an article by a geneticist. The same geneticist. Mutations, he said, were increasing disproportionately. It was too soon for recessives; even the first mutants, bom near Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1946 and 1947 were not old enough yet to breed. But my baby’s all right. Apparently, there was some degree of free radiation from atomic explosions causing the trouble. My baby’s fine. Precocious, but normal. If more attention had ben paid to the first Japanese mutations, he said…