Summer Guests
By JAMES H. SCHMITZ
No birds were these, and surely not of
a feather, and there was no need to tell
Mel by the company he kept—it told him!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
All through that Saturday night, rain drummed down mercilessly andunseasonably on Sweetwater Beach. Thunder pealed and lightning flared.In between, Mel Armstrong heard the steady boom of the Pacific surf nota block from his snug little duplex apartment. Mel didn't mind any ofit. He was in bed, slightly swacked and wholly comfortable. He dozed,and now and then woke up far enough to listen admiringly to the racket.
At nine A. M., when he opened his eyes once more, he discoveredthe room was full of summer sunshine. Beyond his window gleamed acloudless sky, and only the occasional gusts of wind indicated therehad been anything like a storm during the night.
An exceptionally beautiful Sunday morning—made more beautiful,perhaps, by the fact that it marked the beginning of Mel Armstrong'sannual two-week paid vacation. Mel was a salesman for Marty's FineLiquors, a wholesale house. He was twenty-eight and in fairly goodshape, but his job bored him. This morning, for the first time inmonths, he was fully aware of that. Perhaps it was the weather. At anyrate, he had a sense, almost a premonition, of new and exciting eventsapproaching him rapidly. Events that would break down the boundaries ofhis present humdrum existence and pitch him into the life of romanticadventure that, somehow, he seemed to have missed so far....
Recognizing this as a day-dream, but unwilling to give it upcompletely, Mel breakfasted unhurriedly in his pajamas. Then, struck bya sudden, down-to-earth suspicion, he stuck his head out of his livingroom window.
As he'd guessed, there were other reminders of the storm in the narrowcourtyard before the window. Branches and assorted litter had blownin, including at least one soggily dismembered Sunday paper. The lowrent he paid for his ground-floor apartment in the Oceanview Courtswas based on an understanding with the proprietor that he and theupstairs occupant of the duplex would keep the court clean. The otherfive duplexes that fronted on the court were bulging with vacationingvisitors from the city, which made it a real chore in summer.
Unfortunately, he couldn't count on his upstairs neighbor, a weirdthough rather amiable young character who called herself Maria deGuesgne. Maria went in for painting abstractions, constructing mobiles,and discussing the works of Madame Blavatsky. She avoided the indignityof manual toil.
Mel made himself decent by exchanging his pajamas for swimming trunks.Then he got a couple of brooms and a hose out of a garage back of thecourt and went to work.
He'd cleared the courtyard by the time the first of the seasonal guestsbegan to show up in their doorways, and went on to inspect another,narrower court behind his duplex, which was also his responsibility.There he discovered Maria de Guesgne propped on her elbows on herbedroom window sill, talking reproachfully to a large gray tomcat thatwas sitting in the court. Both turned to look at Mel.
"Good morning, Mel!" Maria said, with unusual animation. She had longblack bangs which emphasized her sallow and undernourished appearance.
"Morning," Mel replied. "Scat!" he added to the cat, whic