Free The Dark Side by Damon Knight (ed.)

them.

H. L. Gold, who founded Galaxy in 1950, is warmly remembered for his contributions, ten years earlier, to the magazine Unknown . John Campbell’s Unknown was the first magazine in the world entirely devoted to modern fantasy-stories, like those in this book, in which the fantastic premise is explored as logically and realistically as in good science fiction—and Gold was one of the handful of writers who shaped the magazine and established its pattern.
    This story, to my mind, is a minor classic. The “water gnome” is a weak invention, not meant to be taken seriously, but the people are real. Gold has said that Greenberg’s misadventures were not funny to him when he wrote the story; I think that may be one of the secrets of high comedy.

H. L. Gold
TROUBLE WITH WATER
    Greenberg did not deserve his surroundings. He was the first fisherman of the season, which guaranteed him a fine catch; he sat in a dry boat—one without a single leak—far out on a lake that was ruffled only enough to agitate his artificial fly. The sun was warm, the air was cool; he sat comfortably on a cushion; he had brought a hearty lunch; and two bottles of beer hung over the stern in the cold water.
    Any other man would have been soaked with joy to be fishing on such a splendid day. Normally, Greenberg himself would have been ecstatic, but instead of relaxing and waiting for a nibble, he was plagued by worries.
    This short, slightly gross, definitely bald, eminently respectable businessman lived a gypsy life. During the summer he lived in a hotel with kitchen privileges in Rockaway; winters he lived in a hotel with kitchen privileges in Florida; and in both places he operated concessions. For years now, rain had fallen on schedule every weekend. and there had been storms and floods on Decoration Day, July 4th and Labor Day. He did not love his life, but it was a way of making a living.
    He closed his eyes and groaned. If he had only had a son instead of his Rosie! Then things would have been mighty different—
    For one thing, a son could run the hot dog and hamburger griddle, Esther could draw beer, and he would make soft drinks.
    There would be small difference in the profits, Greenberg admitted to himself; but at least those profits could be put aside for old age, instead of toward a dowry for his miserably ugly, dumpy, pitifully eager Rosie.
    “All right—so what do I care if she don’t get married?” he had cried to his wife a thousand times. “I’ll support her. Other men can set up boys in candy stores with soda fountains that have only two spigots. Why should I have to give a boy a regular International Casino?”
    “May your tongue rot in your head, you no-good piker!” she would scream. “It ain’t right for a girl to be an old maid. If we have to die in the poorhouse, I’ll get my poor Rosie a husband. Every penny we don’t need for living goes to her dowry!”
    Greenberg did not hate his daughter, nor did he blame her for his misfortunes; yet, because of her, he was fishing with a broken rod that he had to tape together.
    That morning his wife opened her eyes and saw him packing his equipment. She instantly came awake. “Go ahead!” she shrilled—speaking in a conversational tone was not one of her accomplishments—“Go fishing, you loafer! Leave me here alone. I can connect the beer pipes and the gas for soda water. I can buy ice cream, frankfurters, rolls, syrup, and watch the gas and electric men at the same time. Go ahead—go fishing!”
    “I ordered everything,” he mumbled soothingly. “The gas and electric won’t be turned on today. I only wanted to go fishing—it’s my last chance. Tomorrow we open the concession. Tell the truth, Esther, can I go fishing after we open?”
    “I don’t care about that. Am I your wife or ain’t I, that you should go ordering everything without asking me—”
    He defended his actions. It was a tactical mistake. While she was still in bed, he should have picked