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Read Ebook: The Beautiful People by Beaumont Charles
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Ebook has 261 lines and 8529 words, and 6 pages
THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE
Mary sat quietly and watched the handsome man's legs blown off; watched further as the great ship began to crumple and break into small pieces in the middle of the blazing night. She fidgeted slightly as the men and the parts of the men came floating dreamily through the wreckage out into the awful silence. And when the meteorite shower came upon the men, gouging holes through everything, tearing flesh and ripping bones, Mary closed her eyes.
"Mother."
Mrs. Cuberle glanced up from her magazine.
"Hmm?"
"Do we have to wait much longer?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
Mary said nothing but looked at the moving wall.
"Does it have to be on, Mother?"
"Well, nobody seems to be watching. I don't think the doctor would mind if I switched it off."
Mrs. Cuberle rose from the couch and walked to the wall. She depressed a little button and the life went from the wall, flickering and glowing.
Mary opened her eyes.
"Honestly," Mrs. Cuberle said to a woman sitting beside her, "you'd think they'd try to get something else. We might as well go to the museum and watch the first landing on Mars. The Mayoraka Disaster--really!"
The woman replied without distracting her eyes from the magazine page. "It's the doctor's idea. Psychological."
Mrs. Cuberle opened her mouth and moved her head up and down knowingly.
"The children do. Makes them think, makes them grateful or something."
"Ohhh."
"Psychological."
Mary picked up a magazine and leafed through the pages. All photographs, of women and men. Women like Mother and like the others in the room; slender, tanned, shapely, beautiful women; and men with large muscles and shiny hair. Women and men, all looking alike, all perfect and beautiful. She folded the magazine and wondered how to answer the questions that would be asked.
"Mother--"
"Gracious, what is it now! Can't you sit still for a minute?"
"But we've been here three hours."
Mrs. Cuberle sniffed.
"Do--do I really have to?"
An olive-skinned woman in a transparent white uniform came into the reception room.
"Cuberle. Mrs. Zena Cuberle?"
"Yes."
"Doctor will see you now."
Mrs. Cuberle took Mary's hand and they walked behind the nurse down a long corridor.
A man who seemed in his middle twenties looked up from a desk. He smiled and gestured toward two adjoining chairs.
"Well--well."
"Doctor Hortel, I--"
The doctor snapped his fingers.
"Of course, I know. Your daughter. Ha ha, I certainly do know your trouble. Get so many of them nowadays--takes up most of my time."
"You do?" asked Mrs. Cuberle. "Frankly, it had begun to upset me."
"Upset? Hmm. Not good. Not good at all. Ah, but then--if people did not get upset, we psychiatrists would be out of a job, eh? Go the way of the early M. D. But, I assure you, I need hear no more." He turned his handsome face to Mary. "Little girl, how old are you?"
"Eighteen, sir."
"Oh, a real bit of impatience. It's just about time, of course. What might your name be?"
"Mary."
"Charming! And so unusual. Well now, Mary, may I say that I understand your problem--understand it thoroughly?"
Mrs. Cuberle smiled and smoothed the sequins on her blouse.
"Madam, you have no idea how many there are these days. Sometimes it preys on their minds so that it affects them physically, even mentally. Makes them act strange, say peculiar, unexpected things. One little girl I recall was so distraught she did nothing but brood all day long. Can you imagine!"
"That bad, eh? Afraid we'll have to start a re-education program, very soon, or they'll all be like this. I believe I'll suggest it to the senator day after tomorrow."
"I don't quite understand, doctor."
"Simply, Mrs. Cuberle, that the children have got to be thoroughly instructed. Thoroughly. Too much is taken for granted and childish minds somehow refuse to accept things without definite reason. Children have become far too intellectual, which, as I trust I needn't remind you, is a dangerous thing."
"Yes, but what has this to do with--"
"With Mary? Everything, of course. Mary, like half the sixteen, seventeen and eighteen year olds today, has begun to feel acutely self-conscious. She feels that her body has developed sufficiently for the Transformation--which of course it has not, not quite yet--and she cannot understand the complex reasons that compel her to wait until some future date. Mary looks at you, at the women all about her, at the pictures, and then she looks into a mirror. From pure perfection of body, face, limbs, pigmentation, carriage, stance, from simon-pure perfection, if I may be allowed the expression, she sees herself and is horrified. Isn't that so, my dear child? Of course--of course. She asks herself, why must I be hideous, unbalanced, oversize, undersize, full of revolting skin eruptions, badly schemed organically? In short, Mary is tired of being a monster and is overly anxious to achieve what almost everyone else has already achieved."
"But--" said Mrs. Cuberle.
"This much you understand, doubtless. Now, Mary, what you object to is that our society offers you, and the others like you, no convincing logic on the side of waiting until age nineteen. It is all taken for granted, and you want to know why! It is that simple. A non-technical explanation will not suffice--mercy no! The modern child wants facts, solid technical data, to satisfy her every question. And that, as you can both see, will take a good deal of reorganizing."
"But--" said Mary.
"No, no, doctor! You're all mixed up," cried Mrs. Cuberle.
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