If you discovered a fantastic power
like this, you'd use it benevolently, for
the good of the entire human race—wouldn't
you? Sure you would!
a likely story
By DAMON KNIGHT
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
That was the damnedest December I ever saw in New York. Whatever theweather is, Manhattan always gets the worst of it—frying hot insummer, snow or slush up to your ankles in winter—and all along theseaboard, it was a mean season. Coming in from Pennsylvania the daybefore, we'd been held up twice while the tracks were cleared. But whenI stepped out of the hotel that night, the Saturday after Christmas,it was like a mild October; the air was just cool, with a fresh hintof snow in it. There was a little slush in the gutters, not much; thepavements were dry.
I was late, or I would have gone back and ditched the rubbers; Ihate the foolish things to begin with, one reason I moved to thecountry—out there, I wear house slippers half the year, galoshes therest; there's no in-between. I took off my gloves, opened my scarf,and breathed deep lungfuls while I walked to the corner for a cab. Ibegan to wonder if it had been smart to move 90 miles out of town justbecause I didn't like rubbers.
The streets didn't seem overcrowded. I got a cab without any trouble.Nobody was hurrying; it was as if the whole population was sittingpeacefully at home or in some bar, in no rush to be anywhere else.
"Listen," I said to the cabbie, "this is still New York, isn't it?"
He jerked his chin at me. "Hah?"
"Where's the crowds?" I said. "Where's the rotten weather? Whathappened?"
He nodded. "I know whatcha mean. Sure is funny. Crazy weather."
"Well, when did this happen?"
"Hah?"
"I said, how long has this been going on?"
"Cleared up about three o'clock. I looked out the winda, and the sunwas shinin'. Jeez! You know what I think?"
"You think it's them atom bombs," I told him.
"That's right. You know what I think, I think it's them atom bombs."He pulled up opposite a canopy and folded down his flag.
In the lobby, I found an arrow-shaped sign that said, "MEDUSA CLUB."
The Medusa Club is, loosely speaking, an association for professionalscience fiction writers. No two of them will agree on what sciencefiction is—or on anything else—but they all write it, or havewritten it, or pretend they can write it, or something. They have threekinds of meetings, or two and a half. One is for club politics, one isfor drinking, and the third is also for drinking, only more so. As arule, they meet in people's apartments, usually Preacher Flatt's or RayAlvarez', but every year at this time they rent a hotel ballroom andthrow a whingding. I'm a member in bad standing; the last time I paidmy dues was in 1950.
Rod Pfehl (the P is silent, as in Psmith) was standing in the doorway,drunk, with a wad of dollar bills in his hand. "I'm the treasurer," hesaid happily. "Gimme." Either he was the treasurer, or he had conneda lot of people into thinking so. I paid him and started zigzaggingslowly across the floor, trading hellos, looking for liquor.
Tom Q. Jones went by in a hurry, carrying a big camera. That wasunusual; Tom Q. is head components designer for a leading radio-TVmanufacturer, and has sold, I guess, about two million words of sciencefiction, but this was the f