From: aaron@space.ualberta.ca (Aaron Humphrey)
Subject: The Three Directives
Reply-To: aaron@space.ualberta.ca
Organization: University Of Alberta, Edmonton Canada
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL4
Date: Sat, 5 Sep 1992 02:21:52 GMT


[This one is for Larry Huntley, who tried to stump me with

Contrapposto
Punkabilly
Kilderkin
Furbelow

After several abortive efforts, I produced something like a coherent story from
it.]

I went over to the Strouds' about 5:30.  Allie was in the front room doing one
of her contrapposto paintings, and listening to that godawful combination of
jangling guitar and incoherent vocals she called "punkabilly".  "Hi, Rad," she
said, not looking up.  "Hillary's upstairs--she had a problem with her dress,
and Mom's fixing it for her.  And she might not even have started her makeup
yet--she hadn't when I talked to her half an hour ago."

"Figures," I said, setting down my burden and sitting on it.

"What is that?" she asked, still not looking at me.  Her peripheral vision is
something amazing.

"What, this?" I slapped the object forming my seat.  "It's a kilderkin."

"What's that?"

"Like a barrel, only smaller."

"Oh."

We sat in companionable silence for another half an hour, she painting, I
watching.  The body on the canvas was horribly twisted, for no reason I could
discern.  Perhaps the reason hadn't been added to the canvas yet.  I didn't
bother to ask Allie, since she never could explain her paintings while they
were in progress--or after, for that matter.

Finally Hillary came down the stairs.  She was wearing a frilly pink strapless
dress and heels.  I said, "My lady comes, all bows and furbelows/her dress the
shade of rose or baby's cheeks."

"Is that Shakespeare?" she asked, her heels clicking on the linoleum as she
stepped into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

"No, just impromptu," I said.

"Never heard of him, but I can never get all those French guys straight.  What
is that?"

"It's a kilderkin.  Like a barrel, only smaller," I said, forestalling her
question.

"I don't know why you use all those strange words, Rad.  I mean, can't you talk
so people can understand you?"

I shrugged.  "Some people can understand me.  Some people could understand me
if I was speaking French, or Burushaski, or Basque."

"Well, I'm not one of them.  I've never even heard of Buru-whatever."  She
picked up her purse.  "Ready to go?"

I picked up the kilderkin.  "Ready."

"You're not going to carry that, are you?"

"You want to do it?"

She fretted.  "No, but you look silly with it on your shoulder like that.  It
makes you look like a construction worker or something."

I shrugged and carried it down to the car, opening the trunk and putting it in
gently.  She waited expectantly for me to open her door, and slipped in when I
did.  "Why did you lock your doors?  You were only in a few minutes, right?"

"Half an hour."

"Oh.  Still, it's not like this is a very crime-heavy neighbourhood.  Never
mind."

We arrived at the gym where the dinner and dance were to be held.  She waited
while I got the kilderkin out of the trunk, and was visibly relieved when I set
it down just inside the gym door.  Her heels clicked on the floor covered with
basketball markings as we headed towards our table.  "What is this thing,
anyway?  I forget."

"Some political rally," I said, trying to appear nonchalant.  Hillary being
who she was, she didn't ask for more details.

The dinner was good enough, for local caterers.  Hillary chatted with the
others sharing our table, finding out they were friends of her uncle who ran
the dry-cleaning chain in the state.  I rebuffed gently all attempts to draw
me into conversation, and eventually they ignored me as I pretended to eat.

As the dinner came to an end and the speaker mounted the podium, I checked my
watch.  It was getting hot, and I couldn't rely on them keeping the gym doors
closed much longer.  I might have to move before schedule.

I waited till the last minute, though.  The speaker hadn't quite reached the
high point in his speech when I saw motion out of the corner of my eye, headed
to open the doors.  I stood up, coughed, and pressed the buttons on my watch.

The kilderkin burst open almost silently, and a cloud of red gas spread quickly
throughout the gym, aided by the fans whirring above us.  There was some panic,
but it quickly stilled as motion stopped.  Soon all in the gym were prostrate
on the ground.

First directive--create chaos.  I took table knives in my hands and slit the
throats of several present, the ones at the head table mostly, although a few
other prominents also deserved my attention.  I pressed the knives into the
hands of several ladies present, selected at random.  I would leave no
fingerprints, of course.

Second directive--remove traces of my presence.  The remains of the kilderkin
had by now disintegrated mostly into dust, which was reacting with the traces
of the gas remaining to produce harmless and innocuous chemicals that would
barely be noticed as they swirled through the air, and certainly wouldn't
attract attention.  And this body would be disposed of soon as well.

So all that was left was the third directive--spread seed.  I returned to
Hillary and raised the skirt of her dress.  Somehow this part was always the
most distasteful, but some things had to be borne.

--
---Alfvaen(Canadian SF Quasi-Activist)
"What have I done to piss the gods off?"  ---Terence Trent D'Arby
Current Album--Indio:Big Harvest
Current Read--John Updike:Rabbit, Run
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