The Last Letter by Fritz Leiber

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make real connections today. In a world where machines process every thought and feeling into

profitable noise, one young man risks catastrophe for a message meant for one pair of human eyes.

When the system convulses under the strain of something it cannot categorize, the question becomes

whether a single handwritten page is worth planetary panic. The last letter by Fritz Leiber,

that's next on the lost sci-fi podcast. Fritz Leiber wrote some interesting and unusual stories.

Today's tale is both of those. It has been translated and reprinted all over the world in French,

Swedish, Finnish, Italian, German and Dutch since it was originally published in the June 1958

Galaxy science fiction. Turn to page 45, the last letter by Fritz Leiber.

On 10th month 1 24 57 AD, at exactly 9 a.m. planetary federation time, but with a permissible error

of a millionth of a second either way, in the fifth sub-level of new New York robot post-ocean 68,

Black Sorter gulped down 10,000 pieces of first-class mail. This breakfast tidbit did not agree with

the mail sorting machine. It was as if a robust dog had been fed a large chunk of good-read meat

with a strict nine pill in it. Black Sorter's innards went, were clunk, a blue electric glow

enveloped him, and he began to shake as if he might break loose from the concrete. He desperately

spat back over his shoulder a single envelope, gave a great hoof and blew out toward the sorting

tubes, a medium-sized snowstorm, consisting of the other 9,999 pieces of first-class mail

chewed to confetti. Then still convulsed, he snapped up a fresh 10,000 and proceeded to

chomp and grind on them. Black Sorter was rugged. The rejected envelope was tunged up by red

sub-sorter, who growled deep in his throat, said a very bad word, and passed it to yellow rerouter,

who passed it to green rerouter, who passed it to brown study, who passed it to pink waste

basket. Unlike Black Sorter, pink waste basket was very delicate, though highly intuitive,

the machine equivalent of a white Russian Countess. She was designed to scan in 3,137

codes, route special delivery space mail to interplanetary liners by messenger rocket,

and distinguished nines from upside down sixes. Pink waste basket hotly inhaled the offending

envelope, and almost instantly turned bright crimson and began to tremble. After a few minutes,

small atomic flames started to flicker from her midsection. White nurse made seven,

and greasy Joe both received pink waste baskets distress signal, and got there as fast as their

wheels would roll them. But the high-born machine's melody was beyond their simple skills of oil can,

and the electric shock. They summoned other machine-tending and repairing machines,

one's far more expert than themselves. But all were baffled. It was clear that pink waste basket

who continued to tremble and flicker uncontrollably, was suffering from the equivalent of a major

psychosis, with severe psychosomatic symptoms. She spat a stream of filthy ions at gray

psychiatrist, not recognizing her old friend. Meanwhile, the paper blizzard from black

shorter was piling up in great drifts between the dark pillars of the sub-level, and flurries had

reached pink waste baskets a aristocratic area. An expedition of sturdy machines, headed by two

hastily summoned snow plows, was dispatched to immobilize black shorter at all costs. Pink waste

basket, quivering like a demented hula dancer, was clearly approaching a crisis. Finally, gray

psychiatrist, after consulting with green surgeon, and even then with an irritated reluctance,

as if he were calling in a witch doctor, summoned a human being. The human being walked respectfully

around pink waste baskets several times, and then gave her a nervous little poke with a rubber

handled probe. Pink waste basket gently regurgitated her last snack. Turn dead white, gave a last flicker

and shake, and expired. Black corner recorded the immediate cause of death, as tinkering by a human

being. The human being, a bald and scrawny one named pot shelter, picked up the envelope responsible

for all the trouble. Stared at it, incredulously, opened it with trembling fingers. Scanned the

contents briefly, gave a great shriek, and ran off at top speed, forgetting to hop on his

barambulator, which followed him, making anxious clocking noises. The nearest human representative of

the solar bureau of investigation, a rather wooden-looking man named Crumbine, also bald,

recognized pot shelter as soon as the latter burst, gasping into his office, squeezing through

the door while it was still dilating. The human beings, whose work took them among the top brass,

as the upper echelon machines were sometimes referred to, formed a kind of human elite,

just one big nervous family. Sit down, pot shelter. The SBI man said.

Hold still a second so the chair can grab you. Hedge onto the hookah and choose a tranquilizer from

the tray at your elbow. Whatever deviation you've uncovered can't be that much of a danger to the

planet. I imagine that when you leave this office, the solar battle fleet will still be orbiting

peacefully around Luna. I seriously doubt that. Pot shelter gulped the large lavender pill and

took a deep breath. Crumbine? A letter turned up in the first class mail this morning. Great scot!

It is a letter from one person to another person. Good lord! The flow of advertising has been

seriously interfered with. At a modest estimate, three hundred million pieces of expensive first-class

advertising have already been chewed to rags, and I'm not sure the steel helms, God bless them,

have the trouble in hand yet. Judas, priest! Naturally, the poor machines weren't able to cope

with the letter. It was utterly outside their experience, beyond the furthest reach of their

programming. It threw them into a terrible spasm. Pink waistbasket is dead at this very instant.

If we're lucky, three police machines of the toughest blue steel are holding down black

and putting a muzzle on him. Great scot! It's incredible, pot shelter, and pink waistbasket dead.

Take another tranquilizer, pot shelter, and hand over the tray. Crumbine received it with trembling

fingers. Started to pick up a big pink pill, but drew back his hand from it, in sudden revulsion

at its color, and swallowed two blue oval ones instead. The man was obviously fighting to control

himself. He said, unsteadily, I almost never take doubles, but this news you bring. Good lord!

I seem to recall a case where someone tried to send a soundtake through the males,

but that was before my time. Incidentally, is there any possibility that this is a letter sent by one

group of persons to another group? A hive or a therapy group? Or a social club?

That would be bad enough, of course, but no. Just one single person sending to another.

Pot shelter's expression set in grimly solicitous lines. I can see you don't quite understand

Crumbine. This is not a sound tape, but a letter written in letters. You know, letters, characters,

like books? Don't mention books in this office. Crumbine drew himself up angrily, and then slumped back.

Excuse me, pot shelter, but I find this very difficult to face squarely.

Do I understand you to say that one person is tried to use the males to send a printed sheet of

some sort to another? Worse than that. A written letter. Written. I don't recognize the word.

It's a way of making characters, forming visual equivalents of sound without using electricity.

The writer, as he's called, employs a black liquid, an appointed stick called a pen.

I know about this, because one hobby of mine is ancient means of communication.

Crumbine frowned and shook his head. Communication is a dangerous business, pot shelter,

especially at the personal level. With you and me, it's all right, because we know what we're doing.

He picked up a third blue tranquilizer, but with most of the high of folk, person-to-person

communication is only a morbid form of advertising, a dangerous travesty of normal newscasting,

catharsis without the analyst, recitation without the teacher, a perversion of promotion,

employed in betraying and subverting. The frown deepened as he put the blue pill in his mouth

and chewed it. But about this pen, do you mean the fellow glues the pointed stick to his tongue,

and then speaks, and the black liquid traces the vibrations on the paper, a primitive non-electrical

oscilloscope, sloppy but conceivable, and producing a record of sorts of the spoken word?

No, no, Crumbine. Pot shelter nervously popped the square orange tablet into his mouth.

It's a handwritten letter. Crumbine watched him. I never mixed tranquilizers. He boasted

absently. Handwritten, eh? You mean that the message was imprinted on a hand, and the skin,

or the entire hand afterward detached, and sent through the males in the fashion of a Martian

reproach? A grizzly find indeed, pot shelter. You still don't quite grasp it, Crumbine.

The fingers of the hand move the stick that applies the ink, producing a crude imitation of the

printed word. Diabolical! Crumbine smashed his fist down on the desk, so that the four phones

and two-score microphones rattling. I tell you, pot shelter. The SBI is ready to cope with the

subtlest modern deceptions. But when fiends search out and revive tricks from the pre-atomic cave

it's almost too much, but great Scott! I dally while the planets are in danger!

What's the sender's code on this hellish letter? No code, pot shelter said darkly,

proffering the envelope. The return address is handwritten. Crumbine blanced as his eyes slowly

trace the uneven lines in the upper left-hand corner, from Richard Rowe, 215 West Tent Street,

horizontal, 2837 rocket-court vertical, high 37, New York, 319, New York, Columbia, Tara.

Crumbine said shivering, those crawling characters, those letters, as you call them,

those things barely enough like print to be readable. They seem to be on the verge of

awakening all sorts of horrid, racial memories. I find myself thinking of fur-clad witch doctors,

diving long-pointed sticks and bubbling black cauldrons. No wonder pink waste basket couldn't

take it. Brave girl. Firming himself behind his desk he pushed a number of buttons

and spoke long numbers and meaningful alphabetical syllables into several microphones.

Banks of colored lights around the desk began to blink like a theater marquee sending more's code,

while phosphorescent arrows crawled purposefully across maps and space charts, and through

three-dimensional street diagrams. There, he said at last, the sender of the letter is being apprehended,

and will be brought directly here. We'll see what sort of man this richer row is.

If we can assume he's human, seven precautionary cordons are being drawn around his population station,

recomposed to machines, two of SBI agents, and two consisting of human and mechanical medical

combat teams. Same goes for the intended recipient of the letter. Meanwhile,

a destroyer squadron of the solar fleet has been detached to orbit over New New York,

in case it becomes necessary to Z-bomb? Pot shelter-ask grimly.

Crumbine nodded. With all those villains lurking just outside the solar system,

and their invisible black ships, with planeticide in their hearts, we can't be too careful.

One word transmitted from one spy to another, and anything may happen.

And we must bomb before they do, so as to contain our losses.

Better one city destroyed than a traitor on the loose, who may destroy many cities.

One hundred years ago, three person-to-person postcards went through the males.

Just three postcards, pot shelter, and pfft! When's connectivity, Hoboken, Cicero, and Walla Walla?

Here, as long as you're mixing them, try one of these oval blues. I find them best for steady swallowing.

Bells jangled. Crumbine grabbed up two phones, holding one to each ear.

Pot shelter automatically picked up a third. The ringing continued. Crumbine started to wedge one

of his phones under his chin, nodded sharply at pot shelter, and then toward a cluster of microphones

at the end of the table. Pot shelter picked up a fourth phone from behind them. The ringing stopped.

The two men listened, looking doped. Crumbine, with an eye fixed on the sweep second hand of the

large walk-lock. When it had made one revolution, he cradled his phones. Pot shelter followed suit.

I do like the simplicity of the new on-the-hour puffy-low phono commercial. The latter remarked

thoughtfully. The bread that's lighter than air. Nice! Crumbine nodded. My ear, they've had to add

mass to the lead foil wrapping to keep the loaves from floating off the shelves. Fact.

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He cleared his throat. Too bad we can't listen to more phono commercials.

But even when there isn't a crisis on the agenda, I find I have to budget my listening time.

One minute per hour strikes a reasonable balance between duty and self-indulgence.

The nearest wall began to sing. Mr. J. Augustus Crumbine, we all thank your fine, fine, fine.

Now out of the sky, e. blue, come some telegrams for you. The wall opened to a small heartshave toward

the center, and a sheaf of pale yellow envelopes art out and plopped on the middle of the desk.

Crumbine started to leaf through them, scanning the little transparent windows.

Electronic soap. Better homes and lending platforms.

Psycho blinkers. Your girl next door.

Poppy woppies. Poopsie woopsies. He started to open an envelope, then after a quick look around,

and an apologetic smile at Potchelter dumped them all on the disposal hopper, which gargled briefly.

After all, there is a crisis this morning, he said, in an offensive voice. Potchelter nodded

absently. I can remember back before personalized delivery and rhyming robots, he observed.

But how I'd miss them now. So much more distangue than the hives with their non-personalized

radio, TV and stereo advertising. For that matter, I believe there are some backward areas on Terra

where the great advertising potential of telephones and telegrams hasn't been fully realized,

and they are still used in part for personal communication.

Now me, I've never in my life sent or received a message, except on my walkie-talkie,

he padded his breast pocket. Crumbine nodded, but he was a trifles shopped and inclined to revise his

estimate of Potchelter's social status. Crumbine conducted his own social correspondence solely by

telepathy. He shared with three other SBI officials a private telepath, a charming albino girl named

Agnes. Yes, and it's a very handsome walkie-talkie. He assured Potchelter a little falsely.

Sutsu, I like the upswept antenna. He drummed on the desk and swallowed another blue tranquilizer.

Damn it! What's happened to those machines? They ought to have the two spies here by now.

Did you notice that the second, the intended recipient of the letter, I mean, seems to be female?

Another good terra name to Jane Doe, hive, and upper Manhattan. He began to tap the envelope

sharply against the desk. Damn it! Where are they? Excuse me, Potchelter said hesitantly.

But I'm wondering why you haven't read the message inside the envelope.

Crumbine looked at him blankly. Great Scott, I assume that at least it was in some secret cold, of course.

Normally, I'd have asked you to have pink waistbasket try her scale on it. But his eyes widened

and his voice sank. You don't mean to tell me that it's Potchelter not a grimly.

Hand-written, too. Yes, Crumbine wins. I keep trying to forget that aspect of the case.

He dug out the message with shaking fingers, fumbled it open and read. Dear Jane, it must surprise you

that I know your name, for our hives are widely separated. Do you recall day before yesterday

when your guided tour of Grand Central Spaceport got stalled because the guide blew a fuse?

I was the young man with hair in the tour behind yours. You were a little frightened and a group

mistress was reassuring you. The machine spoke your name. Since then, I have been unable to forget

you. When I go to sleep, I dream of your face, looking up sadly at the mistress's kindly photo

sales. I don't know how to get in touch with you, but my grandfather has told me stories his

grandfather told him that his grandfather told him about young men writing what he calls love

letters to young ladies. So I am writing you a love letter. I work in a first-class advertising

house, and I will slip this love letter into an outgoing 10,000 pack and hope. Do not be frightened

of me, Jane. I am no caveman, except for my hair. I am not insane. I am emotionally disturbed,

but in a way that no machine has ever described to me. I want only your happiness,

sincerely, Richard Row. Crumbine slumped back in his chair, which braced itself manfully against him,

and looked long and thoughtfully at Potchelter. Well, if that's a code, it's certainly a fiendishly

subtle one. You think he was talking to his girl next door? Potchelter nodded wonderingly.

I only read as far as where they were planning to blow up Grand Central Spaceport,

and all the guides in it. Judas Priest, I think I have it. Crumbine shot up. It's a pilot

advertisement. Boy next door or that kind of thing. Printed to look like hand-writtening,

which would make all the difference. And the pilot copy got mailed by accident, which would mean

there is no real Richard Row. At that instant, the door dilated, and two blue detective engines

hustled a struggling young man into the office. He was slim. Rather handsome, had a bushy head of

hair that had somehow survived evolution and radioactive fallout, and across the chest and

back of his paper singlet was neatly stamped Richard Row. When he saw the two men, he stopped

struggling and straightened up. Excuse me, gentlemen, he said. But these police machines must have made

a mistake. I've committed no crime. Then his gaze fell on the hand-addressed envelope on Crumbine's

desk, and he turned pale. Crumbine laughed harshly. No crime. No, not at all, merely using the mails

to communicate. The young man shrank back. I'm sorry, sir. Sorry, he says. Do you realize that

your insane prank has resulted in the destruction of perhaps a half billion pieces of first-class

advertising in the strangulation of a postal station and the paralysis of lower Manhattan?

In the mobilization of SBI reserves, the D-Mothballing of two divisions of GI machines,

and the redeployment of the solar battle fleet? Good Lord, boy. Why did you do it?

Richard Row continued to shrink, but he squared his shoulders. I'm sorry, sir, but I just had to.

I just had to get in touch with Jane Doe. A girl from another hive? A girl you'd merely gazed at

because a guide happened to blow a fuse? Crumbine stood up, shaking an angry finger.

Great Scott, boy. Where was your girl next door?

Richard Row stared bravely at the finger, which made him look a trifle crosshide.

She died, sir. Both of them, but there should be at least six. I know, sir, but of the other four,

two have been shipped to the Adirondacks on vacation, and two recently got married and haven't

been replaced. Hot Shelter, a far away look in his eye, said softly, I think I'm beginning to

understand. But Crumbine thundered on it, Richard Row with...

Good Lord, I can see you've had your troubles, boy. It isn't often we have these shortages of

girls next door. So that temporarily a boy can't marry the girl next door, as he always should.

But Judas Priest, why didn't you take your troubles to your psychiatrist, your group master,

your socializer, your Queen Mother? My psychiatrist is being overhauled, sir,

and his replacement short circuits every time he hears the word trouble.

My group master and socializer are on vacation duty in the Adirondacks.

My Queen Mother is busy replacing girls next door. Yes, it all fits.

Hot Shelter proclaimed excitedly. Don't you see Crumbine? Except for a set of mischances that

would only occur once in a billion, billion times, the letter would never have been conceived,

or sent. You may have something there, Crumbine concurred. But in any case, boy,

why did you written this letter to this particular girl? What is there about Jane Doe that made

you do it? Well, you see, sir. She's...

Just then, the door re-diilated, and the blue matron machine conducted a young woman into the

office. She was slim, and she had a head of hair that would have graced a museum beauty while

across the back, and, well, chest is an inadequate word. Of her paper chemise, Jane Doe was silkscreened

in the palest pink. Crumbine did not repeat his last question. He had to admit to himself that it

had been answered fully. Pot shelter whistled respectfully. The blue detective engines gave hard

boiled grunts. Even the blue matron machines seemed awed by the girl's beauty, but she had eyes

only for Richard Row. My grand central man, she breathed in amazement. The man I've dreamed of

ever since. My man with hair. She noticed the way he was looking at her, and she breathed harder.

Oh, darling, what have you done? I tried to send you a letter. A letter? For me? Oh, darling.

Crumbine cleared his throat. Pot shelter, I'm going to wind this up fast.

Miss Doe, could you transfer to this young man's hive? Oh, yes, sir. Mine has an over-plus of

girl's next door. Good. Mr. Row, there's a skypilot, two levels up. Look for the usual white

collar just below the photo cells. Mary this girl, and take her home to your hive. If your queen mother

objects refer her to... Pot shelter here. He cut short the young people's thanks. Just one thing,

he said, wagging a finger at Row. Don't written any more letters. Why ever would I? Richard answered.

Already my action is beginning to seem like a mad dream. Not to me, dear. Jane corrected him.

Oh, sir, could I have the letter he sent me? Not to do anything with. Not to show anyone.

Just to keep. Well, I don't know. Crumbine began. Oh, please, sir.

Well, I don't know why not I was going to say. Here you are, miss. Just see that this husband of yours

never returns another. He turned back as the contracting door shut the young couple from view.

You were right, pot shelter. He said briskly. It was one of those combinations of mischances that

come up only once in a billion, billion times. But we're going to have to issue recommendations for

new procedures and safeguards that will reduce the possibilities to one in a trillion, trillion.

It will undoubtedly up the terrain income tax a healthy percentage, but we can have something

like this happening again. Every boy must marry the girl next door, and the first class males

must not be interfered with. The advertising must go through. I'd almost like to see it happen

again. Pot shelter murmured dreamily. If there were another Jane doe in it.

Outside, Richard and Jane had halted to allow a small cortege of machines to pass.

First came a squad of police machines with black sorter in their midst, unmuzzled and docile enough,

though still gnashing his teeth softly, then stretched out horizontally and born on the shoulders

of gray psychiatrist, black corner, white nursemaid seven, and greasy Joe. Their past the slim

form of pink wastemasket, snow white in death. The machines were keening softly, mournfully.

Round about the black pillars, little meco mobs were scurrying like mice,

cleaning up the last of the first class male bits of confetti. Richard wins at this evidence

of his aberration, but Jane squeezed his hand comfortingly, which produced in him a truly

amazing sensation that changed his whole appearance. I know how you feel, darling. She told him.

But don't worry about it. Just think, dear. I'll always be able to tell your friends why

something no other woman in the world can boast of, that my husband once wrote me a letter.

Next, on the lost sci-fi podcast, a lone meteor miner risks everything to board a drifting

interplanetary liner, only to find blood on the deck, and something unseen stalking the corridors.

To claim the fortune within, he must decide whether he can face the invisible terror,

that destroyed an entire crew. Salvage in Space by Jack Williamson.

With no fees or minimums on checking accounts, it's no wonder the Capital One bank guy is so

passionate about banking with Capital One. If he were here, he wouldn't just tell you about

no fees or minimums. He'd also talk about how most Capital One cafes are open seven days a week

to assist with your banking needs. Yep, even on weekends, it's pretty much all he talks about,

in a good way. What's in your wallet?

Terms apply. See CapitalOne.com slash bank, CapitalOneNA member FDIC.

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