Mildred Clingerman (1918- ) wrote only a dozen or so SF and fantasy stories, but her works were a memorable feature of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in the 1950s, and often reprinted. Her only book, A Cupful of Space (1961), collects all the stories. She was one of a notable group of women writers, including Judith Merril, Margaret St. Clair, and Shirley Jackson, who helped give F & SF a special aspect in that decade and beyond. I would describe that flavor, with the benefit of four decades of hindsight, as a Twilight Zone flavor.

In addition to genre science fiction and horror, F & SF published stories focused on an ordinary character (and this was unusual because genre science fiction had developed into a literature of extraordinary characters, usually exclusively men), often a woman, experiencing something extraordinary, something fantastic. The emotional point was often sentimental, as well as ironic.

This is the kind of plot Rod Serling appropriated, marketed, and made his own brand name, making television history in the process. Clingerman - along with Richard Matheson, Charles Beaumont and a few other men from Fantasy & Science Fiction who generally get almost all the credit - was one of the true originals.

This story, published in 1952, was her first. The central character is, to say the least, unusual in science fiction. She seems to have stepped out of a mid-century tale in The Saturday Evening Post into an SF story, and then to belong there.

* * * *

MINISTER WITHOUT PORTFOLIO

rs. Chriswell’s little roadster came to a shuddering halt. Here was the perfect spot. Only one sagging wire fence to step over and not a cow in sight. Mrs. Chriswell was terrified of cows, and if the truth were told, only a little less afraid of her daughter-in-law, Clara. It was all Clara’s idea that her mother-in-law should now be lurking in meadows peering at birds. Clara had been delighted with the birdwatching idea, but frankly, Mrs. Chriswell was bored with birds. They flew so much. And as for their colours, it was useless for her to speculate. Mrs. Chriswell was one of those rare women who are quite, quite colour-blind.

“But, Clara,” Mrs. Chriswell had pleaded, “what’s the point if I can’t tell what colour they are?”

“Well, but, darling,” Clara had said crisply, “how much cleverer if you get to know them just from the distinctive markings!”

Mrs. Chriswell, sighing a little as she recalled the firm look of Clara’s chin, manoeuvred herself and her burdens over the sagging wire fence. She successfully juggled the binoculars, the heavy bird book, and her purse, and thought how ghastly it was at sixty to be considered so useless that she must be provided with harmless occupations to keep her out of the way.

Since Mr. Chriswell’s death she had moved in with her son and his wife to face a life of enforced idleness. The servants resented her presence in the kitchen, so cooking was out. Clara and the snooty nursemaid would brook no interference with the nursery routine, so Mrs. Chriswell had virtually nothing to do. Even her crocheted doilies disappeared magically soon after their presentation to Clara and the modern furniture.

Mrs. Chriswell shifted the heavy bird book and considered rebelling. The sun was hot and her load was heavy. As she toiled on across the field she thought she saw the glint of sun on water. She would sit and crochet in the shade nearby and remove the big straw cartwheel hat Clara termed “just the thing.”

Arrived at the trees, Mrs. Chriswell dropped her burdens and flung the hat willy-nilly. Ugly, ridiculous thing. She glanced around for the water she thought she’d seen, but there was no sign of it. She leaned back against a tree trunk and sighed blissfully. A little breeze had sprung up and was cooling the damp tendrils on her forehead. She opened her big purse and scrambled through the muddle of contents for her crochet hook and the ball of thread attached to a half-finished doily. In her search she came across the snapshots of her granddaughters - in colour, they were, but unfortunately Mrs. Chriswell saw them only in various shades of grey. The breeze was getting stronger now, very pleasant, but the dratted old cartwheel monstrosity was rolling merrily down the slight grade to the tangle of berry bushes a few yards away. Well, it would catch on the brambles. But it didn’t. The wind flirted it right around the bushes, and the hat disappeared.

“Fiddle!” Mrs. Chriswell dared not face Clara without the hat. Still hanging on to the bulky purse, she got up to give chase. Rounding the tangle of bushes, she ran smack into a tall young man in uniform.

“Oh!” Mrs. Chriswell said. “Have you seen my hat?”

The young man smiled and pointed on down the hill. Airs. Chriswell was surprised to see her hat being passed from hand to hand among three other tall young men in uniform. They were laughing at it, and she didn’t much blame them. They were standing beside a low, silvery aircraft of some unusual design. Mrs. Chriswell studied it a moment, but, really, she knew nothing about such things… The sun glinted off it, and she realized this was what she had thought was water. The young man beside her touched her arm. She turned towards him and saw that he had put a rather lovely little metal hat on his head. He offered her one with grave courtesy. Mrs. Chriswell smiled up at him and nodded. The young man fitted the hat carefully, adjusting various little ornamental knobs on the top of it.

“Now we can talk,” he said. “Do you hear well?”

“My dear boy,” Mrs. Chriswell said, “of course I do. I’m not so old as all that.” She found a smooth stone and sat down to chat. This was much nicer than birdwatching, or even crochet.

The tall young man grinned and signalled excitedly to his companions. They too put on little metal hats and came bounding up the hill. Still laughing, they deposited the cartwheel in Mrs. Chriswell’s lap. She patted the stone by way of invitation, and the youngest looking one of the four dropped down beside her.

“What is your name, Mother?” he asked.

“Ida Chriswell,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“My name is Jord,” the boy said.

Mrs. Chriswell patted his hand. “That’s a nice, unusual name.” The boy grabbed Mrs. Chriswell’s hand and rubbed it against the smoothness of his cheek.

“You are like my Mother’s Mother,” the boy explained, “whom I have not seen in too long.” The other young men laughed, and the boy looked abashed and stealthily wiped with his hands at a tear that slid down his nose.

Mrs. Chriswell frowned warningly at the laughter and handed him her clean pocket handkerchief, scented with lavender. Jord turned it over and over in his hands, and then tentatively sniffed at it.

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Chriswell said. “Use it. I have another.” But Jord only breathed more deeply of the faint perfume in its folds.

“This is only the thinnest thread of melody,” he said, “but, Mother Ida, it is very like one note from the Harmony Hills of home!” He passed the handkerchief all around the circle, and the young men sniffed at it and smiled.

Mrs. Chriswell tried to remember if she had ever read of the Harmony Hills, but Mr. Chriswell had always told her she was lamentably weak in geography, and she supposed that this was one of her blank spots, like where on earth was Timbuktu? Or the Hellandgone people were always talking about? But it was rude not to make some comment. Wars shifted people about such a lot, and these boys must be homesick and weary of being strangers, longing to talk of home. She was proud of herself for realizing that they were strangers. But there was something… Hard to say, really. The way they had bounded up the hill? Mountain people, perhaps, to whom hills were mere springboards to heights beyond.

“Tell me about your hills,” she said.

“Wait,” Jord said. “I will show vou.” He glanced at his leader as if for approval. The young man who had fitted her hat nodded. Jord drew a fingernail across the breast of his uniform. Mrs. Chriswell was surprised to see a pocket opening where no pocket had been before. Really, the Air Force did amazing things with its uniforms, though, frankly. Mrs. Chriswell thought the cut of these a bit extreme.

Carefully, Jord was lifting out a packet of gossamer material. He gently pressed the centre of the packet and it blossomed out into voluminous clouds of featherweight threads, held loosely together in a wave like a giant spider web. To Mrs. Chriswell’s eyes the mesh of threads was the colour of fog, and almost as insubstantial.

“Do not be afraid,” Jord said softly, stepping closer to her. “Bend your head, close your eyes, and you shall hear the lovely Harmony Hills of home.”

There was one quick-drawn breath of almost-fear, but before she shut her eyes Mrs. Chriswell saw the love in Jord’s, and in that moment she knew how rarely she had seen this look, anywhere… anytime. If Jord had asked it of her, it was all right. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, and in that attitude of prayer she felt a soft weightlessness descend upon her. It was as if twilight had come down to drape itself on her shoulders. And then the music began. Behind the darkness of her eyes it rose in majesty and power, in colours she had never seen, never guessed. It blossomed like flowers - giant forests of them. Their scents were intoxicating and filled her with joy. She could not tell if the blending perfumes made the music, or if the music itself created the flowers and the perfumes that poured forth from them. She did not care. She wanted only to go on forever listening to all this colour. It seemed odd to be listening to colour, perhaps, but after all, she told herself, it would seem just as odd to me to see it.

She sat blinking at the circle of young men. The music was finished. Jord was putting away the gossamer threads in the secret pocket, and laughing aloud at her astonishment.

“Did you like it, Mother Ida?” He dropped down beside her again and patted her wrinkled face, still pink with excitement.

“Oh, Jord,” she said, “how lovely… Tell me…”

But the leader was calling them all to order. “I’m sorry, Mother Ida, we must hurry about our business. Will you answer some questions? It is very important.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Chriswell said. She was still feeling a bit dazed.

“If I can… If it’s like the quizzes on the TV, though, I’m not very good at it.”

The young man shook his head. “We,” he said, “have been instructed to investigate and report on the true conditions of this… of the world.” He pointed at the aircraft glittering in the sunlight. “We have travelled all around in that slow machine, and our observations have been accurate…” He hesitated, drew a deep breath and continued. “… and perhaps we shall be forced to give an unfavourable report, but this depends a great deal on the outcome of our talk with you. We are glad you stumbled upon us. We were about to set out on a foray to secure some individual for questioning. It is our last task.” He smiled. “And Jord, here, will not be sorry. He is sick for home and loved ones.” He sighed, and all the other young men echoed the sigh.

“Every night,” Mrs. Chriswell said, “I pray for peace on earth. I cannot bear to think of boys like you fighting and dying, and the folks at home waiting and waiting…” She glanced all around at their listening faces. “And I’ll tell you something else,” she said, “I find I can’t really hate anybody, even the enemy.” Around the circle the young men nodded at each other. “Now ask me your questions.” She fumbled in her purse for her crochet work and found it.

Beside her Jord exclaimed with pleasure at the sight of the half-finished doily. Mrs. Chriswell warmed to him even more.

The tall young man began his grave questioning. They were very simple questions, and Mrs. Chriswell answered them without hesitation. Did she believe in God? Did she believe in the dignity of man? Did she truly abhor war? Did she believe that man was capable of love for his neighbour? The questions went on and on, and Mrs. Chriswell crocheted while she gave her answers.

At last, when the young man had quite run out of questions, and Mrs. Chriswell had finished the doily, Jord broke the sun-lazy silence that had fallen upon them.

“May I have it, Mother?” He pointed to the doily. Mrs. Chriswell bestowed it upon him with great pleasure, and Jord, like a very small boy, stuffed it greedily into another secret pocket. He pointed at her stuffed purse.

“May I look, Mother?”

Mrs. Chriswell indulgently passed him her purse. He opened it and poured the litter of contents on the ground between them. The snapshots of Mrs. Chriswell’s grandchildren stared up at him. Jord smiled at the pretty little-girl faces He groped in the chest pocket and drew out snapshots of his own. “These,” he told Mrs. Chriswell proudly, “are my little sisters. Are they not like these little girls of yours? Let us exchange, because soon I will be at home with them, and there will be no need for pictures. I would like to have yours.”

Mrs. Chriswell would have given Jord the entire contents of the purse if he had asked for them. She took the snapshots he offered and looked with pleasure at the sweet-faced children. Jord still stirred at the pile of possessions from Mrs. Chriswell’s purse. By the time she was ready to leave he had talked her out of three illustrated recipes torn from magazines, some swatches of material, and two pieces of peppermint candy.

The young man who was the leader helped her to remove the pretty little hat when Mrs. Chriswell indicated he should. She would have liked to keep it, but she didn’t believe Clara would approve. She clapped the straw monstrosity on her head, kissed Jord’s cheek, waved goodbye to the rest, and groped her way around the berry bushes. She had to grope because her eyes were tear-filled. They had saluted her so grandly as she left.

Clara’s usually sedate household was in an uproar when Mrs. Chriswell returned. All the radios in the house were blaring. Even Clara sat huddled over the one in the library. Mrs. Chriswell heard a boy in the street crying “EXTRA! EXTRA!” and the upstairs maid almost knocked her down getting out the front door to buy one. Mrs. Chriswell, sleepy and somewhat sunburned, supposed it was something about the awful war.

She was just turning up the stairs to her room when the snooty nursemaid came rushing down to disappear kitchenwards with another newspaper in her hand. Good, the children were alone. She’d stop in to see them. Suddenly she heard the raised voices from the back of the house. The cook was yelling at somebody. “I tell you, I saw it! I took out some garbage and there it was, right over me!” Mrs. Chriswell lingered at the foot of the stairway puzzled by all the confusion. The housemaid came rushing in with the extra edition. Mrs. Chriswell quietly reached out and took it. “Thank you, Nadine,” she said. The nursemaid was still staring at her as she climbed the stairs.

Edna and Evelyn were sitting on the nursery floor, a candy box between them, and shrieking at each other when their grandmother opened the door. They were cramming chocolates into their mouths between shrieks. Their faces and pinafores were smeared with the candy. Edna suddenly yanked Evelyn’s hair, hard. “Pig!” she shouted. “You got three more than I did!”

“Children! Children! Not fighting?” Mrs. Chriswell was delighted. Here was something she could cope with. She led them firmly to the bathroom and washed their faces. “Change your frocks,” she said, “and I’ll tell you my adventure.”

There were only hissing accusals and whispered countercharges behind her as she turned her back on the children to scan the newspaper. The headlines leapt up at her.

Mysterious broadcast interrupts programmes on all wave lengths

Unknown woman saves world, say men from space

One sane human found on earth

Cooking, needlework, home, religious interests sway space judges

Every column of the paper was crowded with the same unintelligible nonsense. Mrs. Chriswell folded it neatly, deposited it on the table, and turned to tie her grandaughters’ sashes and tell her adventure.

“… And then he gave me some lovely photographs. In colour, he said… Good little girls, just like Edna and Evelyn. Would you like to see them?”

Edna made a rude noise with her mouth pursed. Evelyn’s face grew saintlike in retaliation. “Yes, show us,” she said.

Mrs. Chriswell passed them the snapshots, and the children drew close together for the moment before Evelyn dropped the pictures as if they were blazing. She stared hard at her grandmother while Edna made a gagging noise.

“Green!” Edna gurgled. “Gaaa… green skins!”

“Grandmother!” Evelyn was tearful. “Those children are frog-coloured!”

Mrs. Chriswell bent over to pick up the pictures. “Now, now, children,” she murmured absently. “We don’t worry about the colour of people’s skins. Red… yellow… black… we’re all God’s children. Asia or Africa, makes no difference…” But before she could finish her thought, the nursemaid loomed disapprovingly in the doorway. Mrs. Chriswell hurried out to her own room, while some tiny worry nagged at her mind. “Red, yellow, black, white,” she murmured over and over, “and brown… but green… ?” Geography had always been her weak point. Green… Now where on earth… ?