Pandora’s Bust
Every writer carries a special affection for her first published story. I was so used to receiving my stories back from magazines and anthologies that when the envelope came from Michael Moorcock of New Worlds I looked at it in surprise, wondering why he should be writing to me. Then it struck me that it might mean he wanted to buy my story, and I ran inside to open it.
I came to the New Wave in sf later than most. A great sf fan in college, I had drifted away from it, reading more work from literary magazines. When I found Judith Merril’s anthology. SF 12, which brought together many of the New Wave pieces as well as work from other sources in the same direction, I knew that this was where I wanted to go. I loved the breakdown of linear storytelling, the play with old forms and devices, the openness to surreal images that did not need explanation or justification. I only regret that I did not find this movement at its beginning. By the time I sold “Pandora’s Bust” to Mike Moorcock, the magazine New Worlds had ended, giving way to the paperback quarterly.
I wrote this story during a time when one of my best friends was an ex-Jesuit. The portrayal of the Virgin Mary in this story owes much to my friend Mark, and his wild stories of life in the seminary.
—Rachel Pollack
one
On 17 February,1971, at 0254 hours, the Vagina Police busted Pandora. She was lying on her government-issue Empress bed, and purring as Michelangelo Ben Canaan—statesman, painter, architect, soldier, journalist, boxer, silversmith, gunsmith, blacksmith, and lover rotated his fingertips in her side, under the rib-cage, when the white-robed police lasered the door. They charged her with Improper Orgasm, Section 13 of the Sexual Response Act: “primary rhythmic contractions of more or less than 0.8 seconds apart” (in Pandora’s case, 0.7 seconds). They then wrapped her in platichrome bands, hoisted her to their shoulders, and carried her out to their car.
The operation did not succeed without conflict between the parties involved. Pandora first responded with surprise, not untinged with delight. She had never seen black men before; in her youth she’d Conscientiously Objected from social work in the ghetto and so had passed draft age with her racial curiosity unconsummated. She knew, of course, that the Muskie Doctrine specified exclusive use of Negroes as Vagina Policemen but ordinary citizens rarely encountered the VP.
Ben Canaan, however, was no ordinary citizen. In his lifelong struggle with mechanism he’d encountered black faces many times before. When the bust began he stood up by the side of the bed and glared fiercely at the two policemen.
“We charge you, Pandora, with Improper Orgasm, Section 18 of the Sexual Response Act. You will come with us.”
A vague impression that she knew these men made Pandora feel unreal, disoriented. Such feelings. like being half-awake, had disturbed her all her life. She turned to Michelangelo. “What does he mean?”
But Ben Canaan didn’t hear her, for he sensed a sudden victory. “Section 18?” he said, “You’re sure you haven’t made a mistake? You know, don’t you, that no one’s ever been charged with Section 18 before?”
The police said, “We charge you, Pandora, with Section 18.”
“Hold it.” Ben Canaan grinning, walked up close, obscenely close, to the impassive brown faces. “I think you boys have stretched yourselves a little too far this time.” His penis climbed up and touched a white robe; he stepped back. Pandora, suddenly chill, huddled on the bed.
The police said, “We will now discharge our duty.” They stepped forward in unison.
“Like hell you will. I’m Michelangelo Ben Canaan, senior member of the American Crown Council. I demand you produce evidence.” The Negroes stopped. “Something wrong, boys? Something the captain didn’t tell you?”
The policemen turned a quarter step to look square at Ben Canaan. “We acknowledge your right to examination of evidence.”
