Starburst

by Alfred Bester

  I dragged her into the bedroom and threw her down and choked her. Christ! How I strangled her . . ."

  After a pause, I asked: "Liz?"

  "They were pounding on the door outside," Bacon went on. "I knew she was dead. She had to be dead. I went and opened the door. There were six million cops and six million honest Johns still squawking about the screaming. I thought to myself: 'Why, this is just like the show you do every week. Play it like the script.' I said to them: 'Come on in and join the murder.' " He broke off.

  "Was she dead... Freyda?"

  "There was no murder," he said slowly. "There was no Freyda. That apartment was ten floors up in the Kingston Hotel. There wasn't any fire escape. There was only the front door jammed with cops and squares. And there was no one in the apartment but a crazy guy—naked, sweating and swearing. Me."

  "She was gone? Where? How? It doesn't make sense."

  He shook his head and stared at the table in sullen confusion. After a long pause he continued. "There was nothing left from Freyda but a crazy souvenir. It must have busted off in the fight we had—the fight everybody said was imaginary. It was the dial of her watch."

  "What was crazy about it?"

  "It was numbered from two to twenty-four by twos. Two, four, six, eight, ten . . . and so on."

  "Maybe it was a foreign watch. Europeans use the twenty-four hour system. I mean, noon is twelve and one o'clock is thirteen and—"

  "Don't overwhelm me," Bacon interrupted wearily. "I was in the army. I know all about that. But I've never seen a clock-face like that used for it. No one has. It was out of this world. I mean that literally."

  "Yes? How?"

  "I met her again."

  "Freyda?"

  He nodded. "I met her in Coney Island again, hanging around the roller coaster. I was no fool. I went looking for her and I found her."

  "Beat up?"

  "Not a mark on her. Fresh and virgin all over again, though it was only a couple of weeks later. There she was, the Black Widow Spider, smelling the flies as they came staggering off the roller coaster. I went up behind her and I grabbed her. I pulled her around into the alley between the freak tents and I said: 'Let out one peep and you're dead for sure this time.'"

  "Did she fight?"

  "No," he said. "She was loving it. She looked like she just found a million bucks. That glitter in her eyes . . ."

  "I don't understand."

  "I did when I looked at her. . . . When I looked into that virgin face, happy and smiling because I was screaming at her. I said: The cops swear nobody was in the apartment but me. The talk-doctors swear nobody was ever in the apartment but me. That put you into my imagination and that put me into the psycho ward for a week,' I said: 'But I know how you got out and I know where you went.'"

  Bacon stopped and looked hard at me. I looked hard at him.

  "How drunk are you?" he asked.

  "Drunk enough to believe anything."

  "She went out through time," Bacon said. "Understand? Through time. To another time. To the future. She melted and dissolved right out."

  "What? Time travel? I'm not drunk enough to believe that."

  "Time travel." He nodded. "That's why she had that watch—some kind of time machine. That's how she got herself patched up so fast. She could have stayed up there for a year and then come right back to Now or two weeks after Now. And that's why she said 'Sigma, darling.' It's how they talk up there."

  "Now wait a minute, Eddie—"

  "And that's why she wanted to come so close to getting herself killed."

  "But that doesn't make sense. She wanted you to knock her around?"

  "I told you. She loved it. They all love it. They come back here, the bastards, like we go to Coney Island. They don't come back to explore or study or any of that science-fiction crap. Our time's an amusement park for them, that's all. Like the roller coaster."

  "How do you mean, the roller coaster?"

  "Passion. Emotion. Screams and shrieks. Loving and hating and tearing and killing. That's their roller coaster. That's how they get their kicks. It must be forgotten up there in the future, like we've forgotten how it is to be chased by a dinosaur. So they come back here for it. This is the Stone Age for them."

  "But—"

  "All that stuff about the sudden up-swing in crime and violence and rape. It isn't us. We're no worse than we ever were. It's them. They came back here. They goad us. They needle us. They stick pins in us until we blow our tops and give their glands a roller coaster ride."

  "And Liz?" I asked. "Did she believe this?"

  He shook his head. "She never gave me a chance to tell her."

  "I hear she kicked up quite a fuss."

  "Yeah. Six beautiful feet of Irish rage. She took my gun off the study wall—the one I packed when I was with Patton. If it'd been loaded that wouldn't have been any make-believe murder."

  "So I heard, Eddie. Where's Liz now?"

  "Doing a burn in her old apartment."

  "Where's that?"

  "Ten-ten Park."

  "Mrs. Elizabeth Bacon?"

  "Not after Bacon got D.T.'s nailed to the name in the papers. She's using her maiden name."

  "Oh, yes. Elizabeth Noyes, isn't it?"

  "Noyes? Where the hell did you get that? No. Elizabeth Gorman." He yelled: "Chris! What is this—a desert?"

  I looked at my time-meter. The hand was halfway from twelve to fourteen. That gave me eleven days more before I had to go back up. Just enough time to work Liz Gorman for some action. The gun sounded real promising. Freyda was right. It was a good lead. I got up from the table.

  "Have to be going now, Eddie," I said. "Sigma, pal."

  Oddy and Id

  This is the story of a monster.

  They named him Odysseus Gaul in honor of Papa's favorite hero, and over Mama's desperate objections; but he was known as Oddy from the age of one.

  The first year of life is an egotistic craving for warmth and security. Oddy was not likely to have much of that when he was born, for Papa's real estate business was bankrupt, and Mama was thinking of divorce. But an unexpected decision by United Radiation to build a plant in the town made Papa wealthy, and Mama fell in love with him all over again. So Oddy had warmth and security.

  The second year of life is a timid exploration. Oddy crawled and explored. When he reached for the crimson coils inside the nonobjective fireplace, an unexpected short-circuit saved him from a burn. When he fell out the third floor window, it was into the grass filled hopper of the Mechano-Gardener. When he teased the Phoebus Cat, it slipped as it snapped at his face, and the brilliant fangs clicked harmlessly over his ear.

  "Animals love Oddy," Mama said. "They only pretend to bite."

  Oddy wanted to be loved, so everybody loved Oddy. He was petted, pampered and spoiled through pre-school age. Shopkeepers presented him with largess, and acquaintances showered him with gifts. Of sodas, candy, tarts, chrystons, bobble-trucks, freezies and various other comestibles, Oddy consumed enough for an entire kindergarten. He was never sick.

  "Takes after his father," Papa said. "Good stock."

  Family legends grew about Oddy's luck. .. . How a perfect stranger mistook him for his own child just as Oddy was about to amble into the Electronic Circus, and delayed him long enough to save him from the disastrous explosion of '98. . . . How a forgotten library book rescued him from the Rocket Crash of '99. . . . How a multitude of odd incidents saved him from a multitude of assorted catastrophes. No one realized he was a monster . . . yet.

  At eighteen, he was a nice looking boy with seal-brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a wide grin that showed even white teeth. He was strong, healthy, intelligent. He was completely uninhibited in his quiet, relaxed way. He had charm. He was happy. So far, his monstrous evil had only affected the little Town Unit where he was born and raised.

  He came to Harvard from a Progressive School, so when one of his many new friends popped into the dormitory room and said: "Hey Oddy, come dow
n to the Quad and kick a ball around." Oddy answered: "I don't know how, Ben."

  "Don't know how?" Ben tucked the football under his arm and dragged Oddy with him. "Where you been, laddie?"

  "They didn't think much of football back home," Oddy grinned. "Said it was old fashioned. We were strictly Huxley-Hob."

  "Huxley-Hob! That's for eggheads," Ben said. "Football is still the big game. You want to be famous? You got to be on that gridiron on TV every Saturday."

  "So I've noticed, Ben. Show me."

  Ben showed Oddy, carefully and with patience. Oddy took the lesson seriously and industriously. His third punt was caught by a freakish gust of wind, travelled seventy yards through the air, and burst through the third floor window of Proctor Charley (Gravy-Train) Stuart. Stuart took one look out the window and had Oddy down to Soldier Stadium in half an hour. Three Saturdays later, the headlines read: Oddy Gaul 57—Army O.

  "Snell and Rumination!" Coach Hig Clayton swore. "How does he do it? There's nothing sensational about that kid. He's just average. But when he runs they fall down chasing him. When he kicks, they fumble. When they fumble, he recovers."

  "He's a negative player," Gravy-Train answered. "He lets you make the mistakes and then he cashes in."

  They were both wrong. Oddy Gaul was a monster.

  With his choice of any eligible young woman, Oddy Gaul went stag to the Observatory Prom, wandered into a darkroom by mistake, and discovered a girl in a smock bending over trays in the hideous green safe-light. She had cropped black hair, icy blue eyes, strong features, and a sensuous boyish figure. She ordered him out and Oddy fell in love with her . . . temporarily.

  His friends howled with laughter when he told them. "Shades of Pygmalion, Oddy, don't you know about her? The girl is frigid. A statue. She loathes men. You're wasting your time."

  But through the adroitness of her analyst, the girl turned a neurotic corner one week later and fell deeply in love with Oddy Gaul. It was sudden, devastating and enraptured for two months. Then just as Oddy began to cool, the girl had a relapse and everything ended on a friendly, convenient basis.

  So far only minor events made up the response to Oddy's luck, but the shock-wave of reaction was spreading. In September of bis Sophomore year, Oddy competed for the Political Economy Medal with a thesis entitled: "Causes of Mutiny." The striking similarity of his paper to the Astraean Mutiny that broke out the day his paper was entered won him the prize.

  In October, Oddy contributed twenty dollars to a pool organized by a crack-pot classmate for speculating on the Exchange according to "Stock Market Trends," an ancient superstition. The prophet's calculations were ridiculous, but a sharp panic nearly ruined the Exchange as it quadrupled the pool. Oddy made one hundred dollars.

  And so it went . . . worse and worse. The monster.

  Now a monster can get away with a lot when he's studying speculative philosophy where causation is rooted in history and the Present is devoted to statistical analysis of the Past; but the living sciences are bulldogs with their teeth clamped on the phenomena of Now. So it was Jesse Migg, physiologist and spectral physicist, who first trapped the monster . . . and he thought he'd found an angel.

  Old Jess was one of the Sights. In the first place he was young . . . not over forty. He was a malignant knife of a man, an albino, pink-eyed, bald, pointed-nosed and brilliant. He affected twentieth century clothes and twentieth century vices . . . tobacco and potation so C2H5OH. He never talked ... He spat. He never walked ... He scurried. And he was scurrying up and down the aisles of the laboratory of Tech I (General Survey of Spatial Mechanics—Required for All General Arts Students) when he ferreted out the monster.

  One of the first experiments in the course was EMF Electrolysis. Elementary stuff. A U-Tube containing water was passed between the poles of a stock Remosant Magnet. After sufficient voltage was transmitted through the coils, you drew off Hydrogen and Oxygen in two-to-one ratio at the arms of the tube and related them to the voltage and the magnetic field.

  Oddy ran his experiment earnestly, got the approved results, entered them in his lab book and then waited for the official check-off. Little Migg came hustling down the aisle, darted to Oddy and spat: "Finished?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Migg checked the book entries, glanced at the indicators at the ends of the tube, and stamped Oddy out with a sneer. It was only after Oddy was gone that he noticed the Remosant Magnet was obviously shorted. The wires were fused. There hadn't been any field to electrolyze the water.

  "Hell and Damnation!" Migg grunted (he also affected twentieth century vituperation) and rolled a clumsy cigarette.

  He checked off possibilities in his comptometer head. 1. Gaul cheated. 2. If so, with what apparatus did he portion out the H2 and 62? 3. Where did he get the pure gases? 4. Why did he do it? Honesty was easier. 5. He didn't cheat. 6. How did he get the right results? 7. How did he get any results?

  Old Jess emptied the U-Tube, refilled it with water and ran off the experiment himself. He too got the correct result without a magnet.

  "Christ on a Raft!" he swore, unimpressed by the miracle, and infuriated by the mystery. He snooped, darting about like a hungry bat. After four hours he discovered that the steel bench supports were picking up a charge from the Greeson Coils in the basement and had thrown just enough field to make everything come out right.

  "Coincidence," Migg spat. But he was not convinced.

  Two weeks later, in Elementary Fission Analysis, Oddy completed his afternoon's work with a careful listing of resultant isotopes from selenium to lanthanum. The only trouble, Migg discovered, was that there had been a mistake in the stock issued to Oddy. He hadn't received any U235 for neutron bombardment. His sample had been a left-over from a Stefan-Boltsmann black-body demonstration.

  "God in Heaven!" Migg swore, and double-checked. Then he triple-checked. When he found the answer—a remarkable coincidence involving improperly cleaned apparatus and a defective cloud-chamber—he swore further. He also did some intensive thinking.

  "There are accident prones," Migg snarled at the reflection in his Self-Analysis Mirror. "How about Good Luck prones? Horse Manure!"

  But he was a bulldog with his teeth sunk in phenomena. He tested Oddy Gaul. He hovered over him in the laboratory, cackling with infuriated glee as Oddy completed experiment after experiment with defective equipment. When Oddy successfully completed the Rutherford Classic—getting 8o17 after exposing nitrogen to alpha radiation, but in this case without the use of nitrogen or alpha radiation—Migg actually clapped him on the back in delight. Then the little man investigated and found the logical, improbable chain of coincidences that explained it.

  He devoted his spare time to a check-back on Oddy's career at Harvard. He had a two hour conference with a lady astronomer's faculty analyst, and a ten minute talk with Hig Clayton and Gravy-Train Stuart. He rooted out the Exchange Pool, the Political Economy Medal, and half a dozen other incidents that filled him with malignant joy. Then he cast off his twentieth century affectation, dressed himself properly in formal leotards, and entered the Faculty Club for the first time in a year.

  A four-handed chess game on a transparent toroid board was in progress in the Diathermy Alcove. It had been in progress since Migg joined the faculty, and would probably not be finished before the end of the century. In fact, Johansen, playing Red, was already training his son to replace him in the likely event of his dying before the completion of the game.

  As abrupt as ever, Migg marched up to the glowing board, sparkling with vari-colored pieces, and blurted: "What do you know about accidents?"

  "Ah?" said Bellanby, Philosopher in Res at the University. "Good evening, Migg. Do you mean the accident of substance, or the accident of essence? If, on the other hand, your question implies—"

  "No, no," Migg interrupted. "My apologies, Bellanby. Let me rephrase the question. Is there such a thing as Compulsion of Probability?"

  Hrrdnikkisch completed his move and gave full at
tention to Migg, as did Johansen and Bellanby. Wilson continued to study the board. Since he was permitted one hour to make his move and would need it, Migg knew there would be ample time for the discussion.

  "Compulthon of Probability?" Hrrdnikkisch lisped. "Not a new conthept, Migg. I recall a thurvey of the theme in 'The Integraph' Vol. LVIII, No. 9. The calculuth, if I am not mithtaken—"

  "No," Migg interrupted again. "My respects, Signoid. I'm not interested in the mathematic of Probability, nor the philosophy. Let me put it this way. The Accident Prone has already been incorporated into the body of Psychoanalysis. Paton's Theorem of the Lease Neurotic Norm settled that. But I've discovered the obverse. I've discovered a Fortune Prone."

  "Ah?" Johansen chuckled. "It's to be a joke. You wait and see, Signoid."

  "No," answered Migg. "I'm perfectly serious. I've discovered a genuinely lucky man."

  "He wins at cards?"

  "He wins at everything. Accept this postulate for the moment. ... I'll document it later. . . . There is a man who is lucky. He is a Fortune Prone. Whatever he desires, he receives. Whether he has the ability to achieve it or not, he receives it. If his desire is totally beyond the peak of his accomplishment, then the factors of chance, coincidence, hazard, accident . . . and so on, combine to produce his desired end."

  "No." Bellanby shook his head. "Too far-fetched."

  "I've worked it out empirically," Migg continued. "It's something like this. The future is a choice of mutually exclusive possibilities, one or other of which must be realized in terms of favorability of the events and number of the events...."

  "Yes, yes," interrupted Johansen. "The greater the number of favorable possibilities, the stronger the probability of an event maturing. This is elementary, Migg. Go on."

  "I continue," Migg spat indignantly. "When we discuss" Probability in terms of throwing dice, the predictions or odds are simple. There are only six mutually exclusive possibilities to each die. The favorability is easy to compute. Chance is reduced to simple odds-ratios. But when we discuss probability in terms of the Universe, we cannot encompass enough data to make a prediction. There are too many factors. Favorability cannot be ascertained."