Photo courtesy of mknowles from Flickr.
The Thousandth Birthday Party
Durant Imboden, first published in If: Worlds of Science Fiction, December, 1966.
part 5
The official had just unlocked the bin. He stuck his arm down into the Ping-pong balls, up to his shoulder, and stirred them around quite thoroughly.
“What are the odds today?” Carr asked, trying to sound light-hearted about the whole thing.
“4,523 to one. Not very good.”
“No. But then, I guess they never are, are they.”
“I guess not.”
Carr stepped in front of the bin, standing on the spot indicated by the head official.
“You’re taking it pretty calmly,” the official said. “More calmly than most.”
“I’m a fatalist,” said Carr. “I consider the game fatal. I didn’t come here with any hopes or illusions, anyway.”
“Well, you’re an odd one, then.” The official scratched his groin. “Hardly anyone ever comes here really believing that he’s going to die. I don’t think I’m going to, if I reach a thousand. Dying doens’t seem very real these days. Most people hardly ever see it happen, and when you’re like me and you see it happening all the time, it becomes pretty mechanical. Maybe because everyone goes the same way.”
“I guess so.”
“The people back at the party are going to wonder what’s happening,” the official said. “I guess you’d better go ahead and draw. I don’t like to keep the widows waiting. It’s harder on them when things drag on.”
“Sure.”
The officials all stepped back, and Ogilvy Carr reached into the bin.
“You got it?” the head official asked.
“Yes.” Carr sighed. “Come on. The hell with it — go ahead and shoot.”
“Take it easy, pal,” the official said. “We;ve got to follow the rules, even if you’re in a hurry because St. Peter has offered you his job as head doorman at the Pearly Gates. Toss the ball over here.”
“Yeah,” said another of the officials. “Let’s get the ball rolling.” No one thought it was very funny.
Carr tossed the ball to the head official. The head official handed it to one of his assistants, who placed it udner hte ultraviolet lamp.
Oglicy Carr stood quietly, waiting for the inevitable. He listened carefully, wondering if he’d be able to hear the marksman’s rifle hammer click before the bullet reached his grain.
“It’s glowing,” the junior officer mumbled in astonishment. And like the sun rising on a nfew day, the ball was indeed glowing.
In this Sunday series of posts I will be “re-publishing” pulp science fiction short stories that have long since gone out of print. When possible I will seek out author’s and estates for permission.
