COMING ATTRACTION - Fritz Leiber


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COMING ATTRACTION
Fritz Leiber

The coupe with the fishhooks welded to the fender shouldered up over the curb like the nose of a
nightmare. The girl in its path stood frozen, her face probably stiff with fright under her mask. For once
my reflexes weren’t shy. I took a fast step toward her, grabbed her elbow, yanked her back. Her black
skirt swirled out.
The big coupe shot by, its turbine humming. I glimpsed three faces. Something ripped. I felt the hot
exhaust on my ankles as the big coupe swerved back into the street. A thick cloud like a black flower
blossomed from its jouncing rear end, while from the fishhooks flew a black shimmering rag.
"Did they get you?" I asked the girl.
She had twisted around to look where the side of her skirt was torn away. She was wearing nylon tights.
"The hooks didn’t touch me," she said shakily. "I guess I’m lucky."
I heard voices around us:
"Those kids! What’ll they think up next?"
"They’re a menace. They ought to be arrested."
Sirens screamed at a rising pitch as two motor police, their rocket-assist jets full on, came whizzing
toward us after the coupe. But the black flower had become an inky fog obscuring the whole street. The
motor police switched from rocket assists to rocket brakes and swerved to a stop near the smoke cloud.
"Are you English?" the girl asked me. "You have an English accent." Her voice came shudderingly from
behind the sleek black satin mask. I fancied her teeth must be chattering. Eyes that were perhaps blue
searched my face from behind the black gauze covering the eyeholes of the mask.
I told her she’d guessed right.
She stood close to me. "Will you come to my place tonight?" she asked rapidly. "I can’t thank you now.
And there’s something else you can help me about."
My arm, still lightly circling her waist, felt her body trembling. I was answering the plea in that as much
as in her voice when I said, "Certainly."
She gave me an address south of Inferno, an apartment number and a time. She asked me my name and I

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told her.
"Hey, you!"
I turned obediently to the policeman’s shout. He shooed away the small clucking crowd of masked
women and barefaced men. Coughing from the smoke that the black coupe had thrown out, he asked for
my papers. I handed him the essential ones.
He looked at them and then at me. "British Barter? How long will you be in New York?"
Suppressing the urge to say, "For as short a time as possible." I told him I’d be here for a week or so.
"May need you as a witness," he explained. "Those kids can’t use smoke on us. When they do that, we
pull them in."
He seemed to think the smoke was the bad thing. "They tried to kill the lady," I pointed out.
He shook his head wisely. "They always pretend they’re going to, but actually they just want to snag
skirts. I’ve picked up rippers with as many as fifty skirt snags tacked up in their rooms. Of course,
sometimes they come a little too close."
I explained that if I hadn’t yanked her out of the way she’d have been hit by more than hooks. But he
interrupted. "If she’d thought it was a real murder attempt, she’d have stayed here."
I looked around. It was true. She was gone.
"She was fearfully frightened," I told him.
"Who wouldn’t be? Those kids would have scared old Stalin himself."
"I mean frightened of more than ‘kids.’ They didn’t look like kids."
"What did they look like?"
I tried without much success to describe the three faces. A vague impression of viciousness and
effeminacy doesn’t mean much.
"Well, I could be wrong," he said finally. "Do you know the girl? Where she lives?"
"No," I half lied.
The other policeman hung up his radiophone and ambled toward us, kicking at the tendrils of dissipating
smoke. The black cloud no longer hid the dingy façades with their five-year-old radiation flash burns,
and I could begin to make out the distant stump of the Empire State Building, thrusting up out of Inferno
like a mangled finger.
"They haven’t been picked up so far," the approaching policeman grumbled. "Left smoke for five

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blocks, from what Ryan says."
The first policeman shook his head. "That’s bad," he observed solemnly.
I was feeling a bit uneasy and ashamed. An Englishman shouldn’t lie, at least not on impulse.
"They sound like nasty customers," the first policeman continued in the same grim tone. "We’ll need
witnesses. Looks as if you may have to stay in New York longer than you expect."
I got the point. I said, "I forgot to show you all my papers," and handed him a few others, making sure
there was a five-dollar bill in among them.
When he handed them back a bit later, his voice was no longer ominous. My feelings of guilt vanished.
To cement our relationship, I chatted with the two of them about their job.
"I suppose the masks give you some trouble," I observed. "Over in England we’ve been reading about
your new crop of masked female bandits."
"Those things get exaggerated," the first policeman assured me. "It’s the men masking as women that
really mix us up. But, brother, when we nab them, we jump on them with both feet."
"And you get so you can spot women almost as well as if they had naked faces," the second policeman
volunteered. "You know, hands and all that."
"Especially all that," the first agreed with a chuckle. "Say, is it true that some girls don’t mask over in
England?"
"A number of them have picked up the fashion," I told him. "Only a few, though—the ones who always
adopt the latest style, however extreme."
"They’re usually masked in the British newscasts."
"I imagine it’s arranged that way out of deference to American taste," I confessed. "Actually, not very
many do mask."
The second policeman considered that. "Girls going down the Street bare from the neck up." It was not
clear whether he viewed the prospect with relish or moral distaste. Likely both.
"A few members keep trying to persuade Parliament to enact a law forbidding all masking," I continued,
talking perhaps a bit too much.
The second policeman shook his head. "What an idea. You know, masks are a pretty good thing, brother.
Couple of years more and I’m going to make my wife wear hers around the house."
The first policeman shrugged. "If women were to stop wearing masks, in six weeks you wouldn’t know


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the difference. You get used to anything, if enough people do or don’t do it."
I agreed, rather regretfully, and left them. I turned north on Broadway (old Tenth Avenue, I believe) and
walked rapidly until I was beyond Inferno. Passing such an area of undecontaminated radioactivity
always makes a person queasy. I thanked God there weren’t any such in England, as yet.
The street was almost empty, though I was accosted by a couple of beggars with faces tunneled by H-
bomb scars, whether real or of make-up putty I couldn’t tell. A fat woman held out a baby with webbed
fingers and toes. I told myself it would have been deformed anyway and that she was only capitalizing
on our fear of bomb-induced mutations. Still, I gave her a seven-and-a-half-cent piece. Her mask made
me feel I was paying tribute to an African fetish.
"May all your children be blessed with one head and two eyes, sir."
"Thanks," I said, shuddering, and hurried past her.
" … There’s only trash behind the mask, so turn your head, stick to your task: Stay away, stay away—
from—the—girls!"
This last was the end of an anti-sex song being sung by some religionists half a block from the circle-
and-cross insignia of a femalist temple. They reminded me only faintly of our small tribe of British
monastics. Above their heads was a jumble of billboards advertising predigested foods, wrestling
instruction, radio handies and the like.
I stared at the hysterical slogans with disagreeable fascination. Since the female face and form have been
banned on American signs, the very letters of the advertiser’s alphabet have begun to crawl with sex—
the fat-bellied, big-breasted capital B, the lascivious double 0. However, I reminded myself, it is chiefly
the mask that so strangely accents sex in America.

A British anthropologist has pointed out that, while it took more than five thousand years to shift the
chief point of sexual interest from the hips to the breasts, the next transition, to the face, has taken less
than fifty years. Comparing the American style with Moslem tradition is not valid; Moslem women are
compelled to wear veils, the purpose of which is to make a husband’s property private, while American
women have only the compulsion of fashion and use masks to create mystery.
Theory aside, the actual origins of the trend are to be found in the antiradiation clothing of World War
III, which led to masked wrestling, now a fantastically popular sport, and that in turn led to the current
female fashion. Only a wild style at first, masks quickly became as necessary as brassieres and lipsticks
had been earlier in the century.


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I finally realized that I was not speculating about masks in general, but about what lay behind one in
particular. That’s the devil of the things; you’re never sure whether a girl is heightening loveliness or
hiding ugliness. I pictured a cool, pretty face in which fear showed only in widened eyes. Then I
remembered her blond hair, rich against the blackness of the satin mask. She’d told me to come at the
twenty-second hour—10 P.M.
I climbed to my apartment near the British Consulate; the elevator shaft had been shoved out of plumb
by an old blast, a nuisance in these tall New York buildings. Before it occurred to me that I would be
going out again, I automatically tore a tab from the film strip under my shirt. I developed it just to be
sure. It showed that the total radiation I’d taken that day was still within the safety limit. I’m no phobic
about it, as so many people are these days, but there’s no point in taking chances.
I flopped down on the daybed and stared at the silent speaker and the dark screen of the video set. As
always, they made me think, somewhat bitterly, of the two great nations of the world. Mutilated by each
other, yet still strong, they were crippled giants poisoning the planet with their respective dreams of an
impossible equality and an impossible success.
I fretfully switched on the speaker. By luck, the newscaster was talking excitedly of the prospects of a
bumper wheat crop, sown by planes across a dust bowl moistened by seeded rains. I listened carefully to
the rest of the program (it was remarkably clear of Russian telejamming), but there was no further news
of interest to me. And, of course, no mention of the moon, though everyone knows that America and
Russia are racing to develop their primary bases into fortresses capable of mutual assault and the
launching of alphabet bombs toward Earth. I myself knew perfectly well that the British electronic
equipment I was helping trade for American wheat was destined for use in spaceships.
I switched off the newscast. It was growing dark, and once again I pictured a tender, frightened face
behind a mask. I hadn’t had a date since England. It’s exceedingly difficult to become acquainted with a
girl in America, where as little as a smile often can set one of them yelping for the police to say nothing
of the increasingly puritanical morality and the roving gangs that keep most women indoors after dark.
And, naturally, the masks, which are definitely not, as the Soviets claim, a last invention of capitalist
degeneracy, but a sign of great psychological insecurity. The Russians have no masks, but they have
their own signs of stress.
I went to the window and impatiently watched the darkness gather. I was getting very restless. After a
while a ghostly violet cloud appeared to the south. My hair rose. Then I laughed. I had momentarily
fancied it a radiation from the crater of the Hellbomb, though I should instantly have known it was only
the radio-induced glow in the sky over the amusement and residential area south of Inferno.

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Promptly at twenty-two hours I stood before the door of my unknown girl friend’s apartment. The
electronic say-who-please said just that. I answered clearly, "Wysten Turner," wondering if she’d given
my name to the mechanism. She evidently had, for the door opened. I walked into a small empty living
room, my heart pounding a bit.
The room was expensively furnished with the latest pneumatic hassocks and sprawlers. There were some
midgie hooks on the table. The one I picked up was the standard hard-boiled detective story in which
two female murderers go gunning for each other.
The television was on. A masked girl in green was crooning a love song. Her right hand held something
that blurred off into the foreground. I saw the set had a handie, which we haven’t in England as yet, and
curiously thrust my hand into the handie orifice beside the screen. Contrary to my expectations, it was
not like slipping into a pulsing rubber glove, but rather as if the girl on the screen actually held my hand.
A door opened behind me. I jerked out my hand with as guilty a reaction as if I’d been caught peering
through a keyhole.
She stood in the bedroom doorway. I think she was trembling. She was wearing a gray fur coat, white-
speckled, and a gray velvet evening mask with shirred gray lace around the eyes and mouth. Her
fingernails twinkled like silver.
I hadn’t occurred to me that she’d expect us to go out.
"I should have told you," she said softly. Her mask veered nervously toward the books and the screen
and the room’s dark corners. "But I can’t possibly talk to you here."
I said doubtfully, "There’s a place near the Consulate … "
"I know where we can be together and talk," she said rapidly. "If you don’t mind."
As we entered the elevator I said, "I’m afraid I dismissed the cab."
But the cab driver hadn’t gone, for some reason of his own. He jumped out and smirkingly held the front
door open for us. I told him we preferred to sit in back. He sulkily opened the rear door, slammed it after
us, jumped in front and slammed the door behind him.
My companion leaned forward. "Heaven," she said.
The driver switched on the turbine and televisor.
"Why did you ask if I were a British subject?" I said, to start the conversation.
She leaned away from me, tilting her mask close to the window. "See the moon," she said in a quick,
dreamy voice.

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"But why, really?" I pressed, conscious of an irritation that had nothing to do with her.
"It’s edging up into the purple of the sky."
"And what’s your name?"
"The purple makes it look yellower."
Just then I became aware of the source of my irritation. It lay in the square of writhing light in the front
of the cab beside the driver.
I don’t object to ordinary wrestling matches, though they bore me, but I simply detest watching a man
wrestle a woman. The fact that the bouts are generally "on the level," with the man greatly outclassed in
weight and reach and the masked females young and personable, only makes them seem worse to me.
"Please turn off the screen," I requested the driver.
He shook his head without looking around. "Uh-uh, man," he said. "They’ve been grooming that babe
for weeks for this bout with Little Zirk."
Infuriated, I reached forward, but my companion caught my arm. "Please," she whispered frightenedly,
shaking her head.
I settled back, frustrated. She was closer to me now, but silent, and for a few moments I watched the
heaves and contortions of the powerful masked girl and her wiry masked opponent on the screen. His
frantic scrambling at her reminded me of a male spider.
I jerked around, facing my companion. "Why did those three men want to kill you?" I asked sharply.
The eyeholes of her mask faced the screen. "Because they’re jealous of me," she whispered.
"Why are they jealous?"
She still didn’t look at me. "Because of him."
"Who?"
She didn’t answer.
I put my arm around her shoulders. "Are you afraid to tell me?" I asked. "What is the matter?"
She still didn’t look my way. She smelled nice.
"See here," I said laughingly, changing my tactics, "you really should tell me something about yourself.
I don’t even know what you look like."
I half playfully lifted my hand to the band of her neck. She gave it an astonishingly swift slap. I pulled it


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away in sudden pain. There were four tiny indentations on the back. From one of them a tiny bead of
blood welled out as I watched. I looked at her silver fingernails and saw they were actually delicate and
pointed metal caps.
"I’m dreadfully sorry," I heard her say, "but you frightened me. I thought for a moment you were going
to … "
At last she turned to me. Her coat had fallen open. Her evening dress was Cretan Revival, a bodice of
lace beneath and supporting the breasts without covering them.
"Don’t be angry," she said, putting her arms around my neck. "You were wonderful this afternoon."
The soft gray velvet of her mask, molding itself to her cheek, pressed mine. Through the mask’s lace the
wet warm tip of her tongue touched my chin.
"I’m not angry," I said. "Just puzzled and anxious to help."
The cab stopped. To either side were black windows bordered by spears of broken glass. The sickly
purple light showed a few ragged figures slowly moving toward us.
The driver muttered, "It’s the turbine, man. We’re grounded." He sat there hunched and motionless.
"Wish it had happened somewhere else."
My companion whispered, "Five dollars is the usual amount."
She looked out so shudderingly at the congregating figures that I suppressed my indignation and did as
she suggested. The driver took the bill without a word. As he started up, he put his hand out the window
and I heard a few coins clink on the pavement.
My companion came back into my arms, but her mask faced the television screen, where the tall girl had
just pinned the convulsively kicking Little Zirk.
"I’m so frightened," she breathed.

Heaven turned out to be an equally ruinous neighborhood, but it had a club with an awning and a huge
doorman uniformed like a spaceman, but in gaudy colors. In my sensuous daze I rather liked it all. We
stepped out of the cab just as a drunken old woman came down the sidewalk, her mask awry. A couple
ahead of us turned their heads from the half-revealed face as if from an ugly body at the beach. As we
followed them in I heard the doorman say, "Get along, Grandma, and cover yourself."
Inside, everything was dimness and blue glows. She had said we could talk here, but I didn’t see how.
Besides the inevitable chorus of sneezes and coughs (they say America is fifty per cent allergic these


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days), there was a band going full blast in the latest robop style, in which an electronic composing
machine selects an arbitrary sequence of tones into which the musicians weave their raucous little
individualities.
Most of the people were in booths. The band was behind the bar. On a small platform beside them a girl
was dancing, stripped to her mask. The little cluster of men at the shadowy far end of the bar weren’t
looking at her.
We inspected the menu in gold script on the wall and pushed the buttons for breast of chicken, fried
shrimps and two Scotches. Moments later, the serving bell tinkled. I opened the gleaming panel and took
out our drinks.
The cluster of men at the bar filed off toward the door, but first they stared around the room. My
companion had just thrown back her coat. Their look lingered on our booth. I noticed that there were
three of them.
The band chased off the dancing girls with growls. I handed my companion a straw and we sipped our
drinks.
"You wanted me to help you about something," I said. "Incidentally, I think you’re lovely."
She nodded quick thanks, looked around, leaned forward. "Would it be hard for me to get to England?"
"No," I replied, a bit taken aback. "Provided you have an American passport."
"Are they difficult to get?"
"Rather," I said, surprised at her lack of information. "Your country doesn’t like its nationals to travel,
though it isn’t quite as stringent as Russia."
"Could the British Consulate help me get a passport?"
"It’s hardly their—"
"Could you?"
I realized we were being inspected. A man and two girls had paused opposite our table. The girls were
tall and wolfish-looking, with spangled masks. The man stood jauntily between them like a fox on its
hind legs.
My companion didn’t glance at them, but she sat back. I noticed that one of the girls had a big yellow
bruise on her forearm. After a moment they walked to a booth in the deep shadows.
"Know them?" I asked. She didn’t reply. I finished my drink. "I’m not sure you’d like England," I said.
"The austerity’s altogether different from your American brand of misery."

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She leaned forward again. "But I must get away," she whispered.
"Why?" I was getting impatient.
"Because I’m so frightened."
There was chimes. I opened the panel and handed her the fried shrimps. The sauce on my breast of
chicken was a delicious steaming compound of almonds, soy and ginger. But something must have been
wrong with the radionic oven that had thawed and heated it, for at the first bite I crunched a kernel of ice
in the meat. These delicate mechanisms need constant repair and there aren’t enough mechanics.
I put down my fork. "What are you really scared of?" I asked her.
For once her mask didn’t waver away from my face. As I waited I could feel the fears gathering without
her naming them, tiny dark shapes swarming through the curved night outside, converging on the
radioactive pest spot of New York, dipping into the margins of the purple. I felt a sudden rush of
sympathy, a desire to protect the girl opposite me. The warm feeling added itself to the infatuation
engendered in the cab.
"Everything," she said finally.
I nodded and touched her hand.
"I’m afraid of the moon," she began, her voice going dreamy and brittle, as it had in the cab. "You can’t
look at it and not think of guided bombs."
"It’s the same moon over England," I reminded her.
"But it’s not England’s moon any more. It’s ours and Russia’s. You’re not responsible. Oh, and then,"
she said with a tilt of her mask, "I’m afraid of the cars and the gangs and the loneliness and Inferno. I’m
afraid of the lust that undresses your face. And"—her voice hushed—"I’m afraid of the wrestlers."
"Yes?" I prompted softly after a moment.
Her mask came forward. "Do you know something about the wrestlers?" she asked rapidly. "The ones
that wrestle women, I mean. They often lose, you know. And then they have to have a girl to take their
frustration out on. A girl who’s soft and weak and terribly frightened. They need that, to keep them men.
Other men don’t want them to have a girl. Other men want them just to fight women and be heroes. But
they must have a girl. It’s horrible for her."
I squeezed her fingers tighter, as if courage could be transmitted granting I had any. "I think I can get
you to England," I said.


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Shadows crawled onto the table and stayed there. I looked up at the three men who had been at the end
of the bar. They were the men I had seen in the big coupe. They wore black sweaters and close-fitting
black trousers. Their faces were as expressionless as dopers. Two of them stood about me. The other
loomed over the girl.
"Drift off, man," I was told. I heard the other inform the girl, "We’ll wrestle a fall, sister. What shall it
be? Judo, slapsie or kill-who-can?"
I stood up. There are times when an Englishman simply must be maltreated. But just then the foxlike
man came gliding in like the star of a ballet. The reaction of the other three startled me. They were
acutely embarrassed.
He smiled at them thinly. "You won’t win my favor by tricks like this," he said.
"Don’t get the wrong idea, Zirk," one of them pleaded.
"I will if it’s right," he said. "She told me what you tried to do this afternoon. That won’t endear you to
me, either. Drift."
They backed off awkwardly. "Let’s get out of here," one of them said loudly as they turned. "I know a
place where they fight naked with knives."
Little Zirk laughed musically and slipped into the seat beside my companion. She shrank from him, just
a little. I pushed my feet back, leaned forward.
"Who’s your friend, baby?" he asked, not looking at her.
She passed the question to me with a little gesture. I told him. "British," he observed. "She’s been asking
you about getting out of the country? About passports?" He smiled pleasantly. "She likes to start running
away. Don’t you, baby?" His small hand began to stroke her wrist, the fingers bent a little, the tendons
ridged, as if he were about to grab and twist.
"Look here," I said sharply. "I have to be grateful to you for ordering off those bullies, but—"
"Think nothing of it," he told me. "They’re no harm except when they’re behind steering wheels. A well-
trained fourteen-year-old girl could cripple any one of them. Why, even Theda here, if she went in for
that sort of thing … " He turned to her, shifting his hand from her wrist to her hair. He stroked it, letting
the strands slip slowly through his fingers. "You know I lost tonight, baby, don’t you?" he said softly.
I stood up. "Come along," I said to her. "Let’s leave."
She just sat there. I couldn’t even tell if she was trembling. I tried to read a message in her eyes through
the mask.


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"I’ll take you away," I said to her. "I can do it. I really will."
He smiled at me. "She’d like to go with you," he said. "Wouldn’t you, baby?"
"Will you or won’t you?" I said to her. She still just sat there.
He slowly knotted his fingers in her hair.
"Listen, you little vermin," I snapped at him. "Take your hands off her."
He came up from the seat like a snake. I’m no fighter. I just know that the more scared I am, the harder
and straighter I hit. This time I was lucky. But as he crumpled back I felt a slap and four stabs of pain in
my cheek. I clapped my hand to it. I could feel the four gashes made by her dagger finger caps, and the
warm blood oozing out from them.
She didn’t look at me. She was bending over little Zirk and cuddling her mask to his cheek and
crooning, "There, there, don’t feel bad, you’ll be able to hurt me afterward."
There were sounds around us, but they didn’t come close. I leaned forward and ripped the mask from her
face.
I really don’t know why I should have expected her face to be anything else. It was very pale, of course,
and there weren’t any cosmetics. I suppose there’s no point in wearing any under a mask. The eyebrows
were untidy and the lips chapped. But as for the general expression, as for the feelings crawling and
wriggling across it …
Have you ever lifted a rock from damp soil? Have you ever watched the slimy white grubs?
I looked down at her, she up at me. "Yes, you’re so frightened, aren’t you?" I said sarcastically. "You
dread this little nightly drama, don’t you? You’re scared to death."
And I walked right out into the purple night, still holding my hand to my bleeding cheek. No one
stopped me, not even the girl wrestlers. I wished I could tear a tab from under my shirt and test it then
and there, and find I’d taken too much radiation, and so be able to ask to cross the Hudson and go down
New Jersey, past the lingering radiance of the Narrows Bomb, and so on to Sandy Hook to wait for the
rusty ship that would take me back over the seas to England.



Scan Notes:
[14 jul 2001—left to wander the world as UC txt]
[10 feb 2004—proofed by Escaped Chicken Spirits]


 file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswij...ten/spaar/Fritz%20Leiber%20-%20Coming%20Attraction.htm (12 of 12)19-2-2006 20:26:39