The Sinful Ones (25 page)

WIND RUSHED CLEANSINGLY to either side. Dark trees sped. Overhead the stars fought with the edges of the mushroom of Chicago’s smoke. Ahead, Chicago’s massed lights glowed pinkish in the air.

Carr and Jane leaned back side by side, holding hands lightly (more than that would not have felt “right” to them this first time), but with their heads close together, so that when they spoke, their voices were masked by the wind and by the old convertible’s roar and rattle.

They watched the heads of Tom and Midge in the front seat. They looked at the trees and the stars and the pink of Chicago. It seemed to Carr infinitely strange, yet infinitely natural, that he should once again be a normally functioning part of a vast machine that included the stars and sky and earth and trees and Chicago and Tom and Midge and Jane and himself, a machine that produced planted and people and winds and words. He wondered: “What purpose?” He wondered: “How much consciousness?” Looking at Tom and Midge, he wondered: “Is there truly only darkness inside their minds? Are they only pleasant automatons?”

But those were questions that could not be answered, so long as you stayed part of the machine, so long as you held to the pattern, so long as you did or said nothing that did not seem “right.’ And he certainly didn’t want to be anything but part of the machine now.

“It’s been a good first date,” Jane whispered to him. “It makes coming back seem a good thing…even my father and mother, my music, Mayberry. I can almost forget…many things.”

“Better not,” Carr reminded her smilingly. “We’re not altogether safe, you know.”

“But we’re back in our lives. They can’t notice us—the other ‘theys’.”

“If we’re careful,” Carr persisted.

Jane smiled again. “If it doesn’t,” she said. “We’ll meet outside the pattern.”

He squeezed her hand. She looked at him. They were silent for a while. Then, “Why do you suppose it happened to us?” she asked him. “Why should it be you and I that came alive?”

“Who knows?” he said. “Maybe it’s like single atoms. They move, they explode, all by chance, no one knowing why.”

Jane frowned faintly. After a while she said, “I wonder if we haven’t been wrong in some of our guesses. I wonder if perhaps there aren’t more awakened people than we realize, living their lives in a trance, sticking to the pattern, but not just because they’re nothing but machines, not just because their minds are black. It’s so hard to think that Midge and Tom there…”

“Yes,” Carr agreed, remembering something he had momentarily felt at Goldie’s Casablanca, “perhaps there are more than we’ve guessed who are aware, or half aware, who are more than blind machines…”

“Perhaps,” Jane suggested softly, “it’s our job to find them, to rouse them fully.”

“We’d have to be very careful, sound them out delicately,” Carr reminded her.

“Yes. But if we
could
 rouse them, if we could make the machine think more and more…”

“Yes,” he said.

“It’s so terrible, Carr, to think of those mean little gangs going around—the ones who would have destroyed us, the ones who saved us without knowing—it’s terrible to think of them as the only awakened forces in the world…”

He agreed. “Though we do have at least one ally,” she remembered.

“Yes. Old Jules.”

For a while they were silent, feeling the rush of the car, watching the darkly gleaming stars keep pace with them.

“I wonder what he was going to tell us,” Jane murmured softly.

“He?”

“Fred. The important thing he thought he’d discovered. Do you suppose it was just that—that we should stop running away, that we should try to rouse the half-awakened ones?”

“Who knows?” said Carr. But in his heart he knew that he agreed with her, he knew that he could never stay wholly a part of the machine, that he would always be venturing outside its preordained patterns, but on guard now, aware of the dangers, aware of the need to do only the “right” thing much of the time, yet always in search of wakened and half-wakened minds.

The old convertible slowed for an intersection. Midge looked back. Her face was rather impudent, her hair kinky and red.

Carr asked himself: face of a dark-lined machine or of a wakened or half-wakened girl?

Midge asked, “What are you two talking about?” Machine-words or alive ones?

The convertible sped on again.

“Oh,” Carr answered, “things.” It somehow seemed the right thing to say.

OF ALL MY NOVELS, the unluckiest, the most ill-starred and dogged by misfortune was undoubtedly the one I began early in 1943 and ended about ten years later in two quite different versions, the longer
The Sinful Ones
 and the shorter
You’re All Alone.

Imagine January 1943. I’d just celebrated Pearl Harbor (the subconscious thrives on death, destruction and dread) by writing my first two novels and they’d just been published in the two pulp magazines edited by John W. Campbell, Jr.,
Conjure Wife
 in
Unknown
 and
Gather, Darkness!
 in
Astounding Stories.
 Mid-war. As an otherwise unemployed writer, though with wife and small child, I was beginning to worry about being drafted, but I still had that fear well in hand. What’s more, my subconscious was boiling up again.

I was fascinated by the idea of a person (or people) who lived in the stacks of a big public library (much as they did in big department stores in John Collier’s grand short story “Evening Primrose”). It promised a delightfully melancholy atmosphere, spookiness, all sorts of fantasy devices and endless literary allusions. I thought of combining it with the old philosophical query of solipsism: “Are other people really alive at all? Are there minds like yours behind the faces?” Which tied in nicely with the question of whether behaviourism was an adequate human psychology: mind described entirely in terms of human action without regard for feeling and thought.

So there I was safely launched on a third novel! I swiftly finished four chapters and as I’d profitably done with my first two books, I sent them off to Campbell in New York City (I was in Santa Monica Canyon, California) for his approval an suggestions.

His reply devastated me.
Unknown,
 now
Unknown Worlds,
 was ceasing publication because of the paper shortage. He’d be taking no more supernatural stories or novels. And that essentially meant, in the publishing world of those days, there was no market for my new novel anywhere.
Astounding Stories
 took only science fiction.
Weird Tales
 bough no novels or serials and had been picky about even my shorter offerings. Book publication?—a pulp writer never thought of that, and as a matter of fact, few publishers wanted supernatural tales them, while paperbacks as we know them did not exist.

That was the first bad-luck stroke and probably the shrewdest. If only the news of
Unknown
’s demise had held off for as little as two months! Then I’d have had the book finished and whatever happened then, the material would have been skimmed off my roiling unconscious and that part of me fresh and clean again.

I should have finished the book anyhow, but time and courage had run out on me. I abandoned it and collapsed into a precision inspector’s berth at Douglas Aircraft, Santa Monica plant, continuing to write short stories and poetry at a much-reduced rate.

After the war, and still feeling very keenly the literary defeat the way had finally handed me, I got out the four chapters, wondering what to do with them. A fantasy-writer friend read them carefully and agreed with me that hardcover book publication was the best thing to aim for, especially since the situation had improved a little there. William Sloane, whose brilliant supernatural novels
To Walk the Night
 and
The Edge of Running Water
 had had considerable success, had launched a new publishing house which would favor that
genre.

So for the next four years, while working full time as associate editor of
Science Digest Magazine
 and turning out a few science fiction and horror short stories, writing slowly and carefully I tinkered my third novel into a full 75,000-word existence.

But meanwhile, William Sloane Associates had struck out with Ward Moore’s
Greener Than You Think
 and Fletcher Pratt’s
The Well of the Unicorn
 
(though both of these novels eventually achieved enviable reputations) and that was the end of their favoring fantasy. I started my own novel on the slow rounds of the other hardcover publishers, enduring rejection after rejection.

My own urge to write more fiction, however, though unstimulated by any more easy successes, was becoming stronger and more imperative all the time. I wrote more and more, engaged my first agent, Frederick Pohl, who suggested I submit the book to Howard Brown and Bill Hamling at
Fantastic Adventures
 magazine. I did, and they said they’d take it if I’d cut it to 40,000 words.

I did better than that. In my imagination I went back to 1943, the feelings I’d had then, forget the longer version, and completed
You’re All Alone
 just as I’d been planning to do it, so far as I could judge, for Campbell and
Unknown.
 I was thrilled to see it at last in a magazine.

But that still left the larger version going the slow hardcover rounds. It seemed a pity that so much at-least painstaking work should blush unseen, so when Fred uncovered a possible publisher, I was favorably inclined from the start. Universal Publishers and Distributors were issuing a series of paperback doubles (two novels by different authors bound together) rather like the Ace ones. When they’d heard I had a longer version of
You’re All Alone,
 they’d pricked up their ears. So off I sent it to them. When they offered me a $500 advance I jumped at it, incidentally signing incautiously a contract without a revision of rights clause.

When it came out in 1953, I discovered that, without consulting me, they’d changed the title to
The Sinful Ones,
 inserted a set of more or less sexy chapter titles, and teamed it with a short novel about a lady bull-fighter called
Blood, Bulls, and Passion.
 Examining it a little more closely, I found that they’d sexed up two or three of my love scenes in the extremely “soft porn” style and language of the 1950s.

One shouldn’t envy the writers who must work in a period of slowly decreasing and liberalizing censorship. Much better, artistically speaking, to turn out books when there’s strict and unchanging censorship or none at all, I’ve been one and I know.

In such transition periods, you see, each writer, if he tries to handle sex at all, is trying to go a little further than he (or the others) did last time, with the result that many “partway” expressions and metaphors are used, ones that only a few years later begin to seem strange, grotesque, even ludicrous.

One of the finest and most moving novels I’ve ever read is Richard Aldington’s
All Men are Enemies,
 but turn to the few overt sex scenes (especially the one where the lovers go skinny-dipping) and you’ll see how there his language becomes…well, I can only say “mighty strange.” (One of the best ways of handling it is to make elaborate “fool the censor” jokes of it, as James Branch Cabell did, but that often isn’t appropriate in other ways.)

Often it becomes a literally word-by-word battle. When Dashiell Hammett’s
The Thin Man
 first appeared, the thing I remember people whispering to each other was that it had the word “erection” in it used in its sexual sense. Very oddly, that word no longer appears in new editions of the book, at least the paperback ones. Maybe it sounded too literary to someone, too medical.

Well, anyhow, the contract I’d signed on
The Sinful Ones
 had no author’s approval for changes clause in it either, so there was nothing I could do about that.

The scene shifts forward about fifteen years to when the paperback publisher, Ace, wanted to bring out the shortish
You’re All Alone
 as a paperback book, beefed up in length with two of my novelettes, “Four Ghosts in Hamlet” and “The Creature from Cleveland Depths.” Perhaps overconscientiously, I thought we ought to have Universal Publishers’ permission. They dithered over that for years, although there was never a hint even of reprinting the
Blood, Bulls, and Passion
 combo. Eventually I regained rights to
The Sinful Ones
 by paying them $500, the exact total I’d got from them in the first place.

Do you wonder that I call my two-head third novel “ill-starred?” Why, even that phrase is too damn good, too poetic, for what happened to that book!

And now
The Sinful Ones
 is coming out once more, all by itself this time. I reexamined the book, still more carefully this time. I once had a carbon copy of my original manuscript, but it got lost about seven years ago and I had to work from the paperbook text. I had no copy, for example, of my original love scenes and I was unable to reconstruct them from memory.

I decided along with my publisher, that the book title and the chapter titles too should stay as they were in the Universal edition. After all, they’d been there for twenty-seven years and they helped identify the book for someone who had seen it in its first form.

In editing the text, I chiefly confined myself to correcting mistakes and confusions that had been introduced during Universal’s editings and splicings of the book. And some of those, in all justice, may have been confusions and mistakes in my original manuscript.

But I couldn’t leave the sex scenes untouched—they were just too silly and dated, too 1953 soft port. So I reworked those, writing as I would today, working without the old censorship, yet trying to keep the behavior true to the characters as I’d first conceived them.