The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  Going to the vidphone, he lifted the receiver and began, for the second time that night, to dial the number of the Hanoi Security Police.

  “Turning me in,” Miss Lee said, “would be the second most regressive decision you could make. I’ll tell them that you brought me here to bribe me; you thought, because of my job at the Ministry, I would know which examination paper to select.”

  He said, “And what would be my first most regressive decision?”

  “Not taking a further dose of phenothiazine,” Miss Lee said evenly.

  Hanging up the phone, Tung Chien thought to himself, I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Two forces, the Party and His Greatness on one hand—this girl with her alleged group on the other. One wants me to rise as far as possible in the Party hierarchy; the other—What did Tanya Lee want? Underneath the words, inside the membrane of an almost trivial contempt for the Party, the Leader, the ethical standards of the People’s Democratic United Front—what was she after in regard to him?

  He said curiously, “Are you anti-Party?”

  “No.”

  “But—” He gestured. “That’s all there is; Party and anti-Party. You must be Party, then.” Bewildered, he stared at her; with composure she returned the stare. “You have an organization,” he said, “and you meet. What do you intend to destroy? The regular function of government? Are you like the treasonable college students of the United States during the Vietnam War who stopped troop trains, demonstrated—”

  Wearily Miss Lee said, “It wasn’t like that. But forget it; that’s not the issue. What we want to know is this: who or what is leading us? We must penetrate far enough to enlist someone, some rising young Party theoretician, who could conceivably be invited to a tête-à-tête with the Leader—you see?” Her voice lifted; she consulted her watch, obviously anxious to get away: the fifteen minutes were almost up. “Very few persons actually see the Leader, as you know. I mean really see him.”

  “Seclusion,” he said. “Due to his advanced age.”

  “We have hope,” Miss Lee said, “that if you pass the phony test which they have arranged for you—and with my help you have—you will be invited to one of the stag parties which the Leader has from time to time, which of course the ‘papes don’t report. Now do you see?” Her voice rose shrilly, in a frenzy of despair. “Then we would know; if you could go in there under the influence of the anti-hallucinogenic drug, could see him face to face as he actually is—”

  Thinking aloud, he said, “And end my career of public service. If not my life.”

  “You owe us something,” Tanya Lee snapped, her cheeks white. “If I hadn’t told you which exam paper to choose you would have picked the wrong one and your dedicated public service career would be over anyhow; you would have failed—failed at a test you didn’t even realize you were taking!”

  He said mildly, “I had a fifty-fifty chance.”

  “No.” She shook her head fiercely. “The heretical one is faked up with a lot of Party jargon; they deliberately constructed the two texts to trap you. They wanted you to fail!”

  Once more he examined the two papers, feeling confused. Was she right? Possibly. Probably. It rang true, knowing the Party functionaries as he did, and Tso-pin, his superior, in particular. He felt weary then. Defeated. After a time he said to the girl, “What you’re trying to get out of me is a quid pro quo. You did something for me—you got, or claim you got—the answer to this Party inquiry. But you’ve already done your part. What’s to keep me from tossing you out of here on your head? I don’t have to do a goddam thing.” He heard his voice, toneless, sounding the poverty of empathic emotionality so usual in Party circles.

  Miss Lee said, “There will be other tests, as you continue to ascend. And we will monitor for you with them too.” She was calm, at ease; obviously she had forseen his reaction.

  “How long do I have to think it over?” he said.

  “I’m leaving now. We’re in no rush; you’re not about to receive an invitation to the Leader’s Yellow River villa in the next week or even month.” Going to the door, opening it, she paused. “As you’re given covert rating tests we’ll be in contact, supplying the answers—so you’ll see one or more of us on those occasions. Probably it won’t be me; it’ll be that disabled war veteran who’ll sell you the correct response sheets as you leave the Ministry building.” She smiled a brief, snuffed-out-candle smile. “But one of these days, no doubt unexpectedly, you’ll get an ornate, official, very formal invitation to the villa, and when you go you’ll be heavily sedated with stelazine . . . possibly our last dose of our dwindling supply. Good night.” The door shut after her; she had gone.

  My god, he thought. They can blackmail me. For what I’ve done. And she didn’t even bother to mention it; in view of what they’re involved with it was not worth mentioning.

  But blackmail for what? He had already told the Secpol squad that he had been given a drug which had proved to be a phenothiazine. Then they know, he realized. They’ll watch me; they’re alert. Technically I haven’t broken a law, but—they’ll be watching, all right.

  However, they always watched anyhow. He relaxed slightly, thinking that. He had, over the years, become virtually accustomed to it, as had everyone.

  I will see the Absolute Benfactor of the People as he is, he said to himself. Which possibly no one else has done. What will it be? Which of the subclasses of non-hallucination? Classes which I do not even know about . . . a view which may totally overthrow me. How am I going to be able to get through the evening, to keep my poise, if it’s like the shape I saw on the TV screen? The Crusher, the Clanker, the Bird, the Climbing Tube, the Gulper—or worse.

  He wondered what some of the other views consisted of . . . and then gave up that line of speculation; it was unprofitable. And too anxiety-inducing.

  The next morning Mr. Tso-pin and Mr. Darius Pethel met him in his office, both of them calm but expectant. Wordlessly, he handed them one of the two “exam papers.” The orthodox one, with its short and heart-smothering Arabian poem.

  “This one,” Chien said tightly, “is the product of a dedicated Party member or candidate for membership. The other—” He slapped the remaining sheets. “Reactionary garbage.” He felt anger. “In spite of a superficial—”

  “All right, Mr. Chien,” Pethel said, nodding. “We don’t have to explore each and every ramification; your analysis is correct. You heard the mention regarding you in the Leader’s speech last night on TV?”

  “I certainly did,” Chien said.

  “So you have undoubtedly inferred,” Pethel said, “that there is a good deal involved in what we are attempting, here. The Leader has his eye on you; that’s clear. As a matter of fact, he has communicated to myself regarding you.” He opened his bulging briefcase and rummaged. “Lost the goddam thing. Anyhow—” He glanced at Tso-pin, who nodded slightly. “His Greatness would like to have you appear for dinner at the Yangtze River Ranch next Thursday night. Mrs. Fletcher in particular appreciates—”

  Chien said, “‘Mrs. Fletcher’? Who is ‘Mrs. Fletcher’?”

  After a pause Tso-pin said dryly, “The Absolute Benefactor’s wife. His name—which you of course had never heard—is Thomas Fletcher.”

  “He’s a Caucasian,” Pethel explained. “Originally from the New Zealand Communist Party; he participated in the difficult take-over there. This news is not in the strict sense secret, but on the other hand it hasn’t been noised about.” He hesitated, toying with his watchchain. “Probably it would be better if you forgot about that. Of course, as soon as you meet him, see him face to face, you’ll realize that, realize that he’s a Cauc. As I am. As many of us are.”

  “Race,” Tso-pin pointed out, “has nothing to do with loyalty to the Leader and the Party. As witness Mr. Pethel, here.”

  But His Greatness, Chien thought, jolted. He did not appear, on the TV screen, to be occidental. “On TV—” he began.

  “The image,” Tso-pin interr
upted, “is subjected to a variegated assortment of skillful refinements. For ideological purposes. Most persons holding higher offices are aware of this.” He eyed Chien with hard criticism.

  So everyone agrees, Chien thought. What we see every night is not real. The question is, How unreal? Partially? Or—completely?

  “I will be prepared,” he said tautly. And he thought, There has been a slip-up. They weren’t prepared for me—the people that Tanya Lee represents—to gain entry so soon. Where’s the anti-hallucinogen? Can they get it to me or not? Probably not on such short notice.

  He felt, strangely, relief. He would be going into the presence of His Greatness in a position to see him as a human being, see him as he—and everybody else—saw him on TV. It would be a most stimulating and cheerful dinner party, with some of the most influential Party members in Asia. I think we can do without the phenothiazines, he said to himself. And his sense of relief grew.

  “Here it is, finally,” Pethel said suddenly, producing a white envelope from his briefcase. “Your card of admission. You will be flown by Sino-rocket to the Leader’s villa Thursday morning; there the protocol officer will brief you on your expected behavior. It will be formal dress, white tie and tails, but the atmosphere will be cordial. There are always a great number of toasts.” He added, “I have attended two such stag gets-together. Mr. Tso-pin”—he smiled creakily—“has not been honored in such a fashion. But as they say, all things come to him who waits. Ben Franklin said that.”

  Tso-pin said, “It has come for Mr. Chien rather prematurely, I would say.” He shrugged philosophically. “But my opinion has never at any time been asked.”

  “One thing,” Pethel said to Chien. “It is possible that when you see His Greatness in person you will be in some regards disappointed. Be alert that you do not let this make itself apparent, if you should so feel. We have, always, tended—been trained—to regard him as more than a man. But at table he is”—he gestured—“a forked radish. In certain respects like ourselves. He may for instance indulge in moderately human oral-aggressive and -passive activity; he possibly may tell an off-color joke or drink too much. . . . To be candid, no one ever knows in advance how these things will work out, but they do generally hold forth until late the following morning. So it would be wise to accept the dosage of amphetamines which the protocol officer will offer you.”

  “Oh?” Chien said. This was news to him, and interesting.

  “For stamina. And to balance the liquor. His Greatness has amazing staying power; he often is still on his feet and raring to go after everyone else has collapsed.”

  “A remarkable man,” Tso-pin chimed in. “I think his—indulgences only show that he is a fine fellow. And fully in the round; he is like the ideal Renaissance man; as, for example, Lorenzo de’ Medici.”

  “That does come to mind,” Pethel said; he studied Chien with such intensity that some of last night’s chill returned. Am I being led into one trap after another? Chien wondered. That girl—was she in fact an agent of the Secpol probing me, trying to ferret out a disloyal, anti-Party streak in me?

  I think, he decided, I will make sure that the legless peddler of herbal remedies does not snare me when I leave work; I’ll take a totally different route back to my conapt.

  He was successful. That day he avoided the peddler and the same the next, and so on until Thursday.

  On Thursday morning the peddler scooted from beneath a parked truck and blocked his way, confronting him.

  “My medication?” the peddler demanded. “It helped? I know it did; the formula goes back to the Sung Dynasty—I can tell it did. Right?”

  Chien said, “Let me go.”

  “Would you be kind enough to answer?” The tone was not the expected, customary whining of a street peddler operating in a marginal fashion, and that tone came across to Chien; he heard loud and clear . . . as the Imperialist puppet troops of long ago phrased it.

  “I know what you gave me,” Chien said. “And I don’t want any more. If I change my mind I can pick it up at a pharmacy. Thanks.” He started on, but the cart, with the legless occupant, pursued him.

  “Miss Lee was talking to me,” the peddler said loudly.

  “Hmm,” Chien said, and automatically increased his pace; he spotted a hovercab and began signaling for it.

  “It’s tonight you’re going to the stag dinner at the Yangtze River villa,” the peddler said, panting for breath in his effort to keep up. “Take the medication—now!” He held out a flat packet, imploringly. “Please, Party Member Chien; for your own sake, for all of us. So we can tell what it is we’re up against. Good lord, it may be non-terran; that’s our most basic fear. Don’t you understand, Chien? What’s your goddam career compared with that? If we can’t find out—”

  The cab bumped to a halt on the pavement; its door slid open. Chien started to board it.

  The packet sailed past him, landed on the entrance sill of the cab, then slid into the gutter, damp from earlier rain.

  “Please,” the peddler said. “And it won’t cost you anything; today it’s free. Just take it, use it before the stag dinner. And don’t use the amphetamines; they’re a thalamic stimulant, contra-indicated whenever an adrenal suppressant such as a phenothiazine is—”

  The door of the cab closed after Chien. He seated himself.

  “Where to, comrade?” the robot drive-mechanism inquired.

  He gave the ident tag number of his conapt.

  “That half-wit of a peddler managed to infiltrate his seedy wares into my clean interior,” the cab said. “Notice; it reposes by your foot.”

  He saw the packet—no more than an ordinary-looking envelope. I guess, he thought, this is how drugs come to you; all of a sudden they’re lying there. For a moment he sat, and then he picked it up.

  As before, there was a written enclosure above and beyond the medication, but this time, he saw, it was handwritten. A feminine script: from Miss Lee:

  We were surprised at the suddenness. But thank heaven we were ready. Where were you Tuesday and Wednesday? Anyhow, here it is, and good luck. I will approach you later in the week; I don’t want you to try to find me.

  He ignited the note, burned it up in the cab’s disposal ashtray.

  And kept the dark granules.

  All this time, he thought. Hallucinogens in our water supply. Year after year. Decades. And not in wartime but in peacetime. And not to the enemy camp but here in our own. The evil bastards, he said to himself. Maybe I ought to take this; maybe I ought to find out what he or it is and let Tanya’s group know.

  I will, he decided. And—he was curious.

  A bad emotion, he knew. Curiosity was, especially in Party activities, often a terminal state careerwise.

  A state which, at the moment, gripped him thoroughly. He wondered if it would last through the evening, if, when it came right down to it, he would actually take the inhalant.

  Time would tell. Tell that and everything else. We are blooming flowers, he thought, on the plain, which he picks. As the Arabic poem had put it. He tried to remember the rest of the poem but could not.

  That probably was just as well.

  The villa protocol officer, a Japanese named Kimo Okubara, tall and husky, obviously a quondam wrestler, surveyed him with innate hostility, even after he presented his engraved invitation and had successfully managed to prove his identity.

  “Surprise you bother to come,” Okubara muttered. “Why not stay home and watch on TV? Nobody miss you. We got along fine without up to right now.”

  Chien said tightly, “I’ve already watched on TV.” And anyhow the stag dinners were rarely televised; they were too bawdy.

  Okubara’s crew double-checked him for weapons, including the possibility of an anal suppository, and then gave him his clothes back. They did not find the phenothiazine, however. Because he had already taken it. The effects of such a drug, he knew, lasted approximately four hours; that would be more than enough. And, as Tanya had said, it was
a major dose; he felt sluggish and inept and dizzy, and his tongue moved in spasms of pseudo Parkinsonism—an unpleasant side effect which he had failed to anticipate.

  A girl, nude from the waist up, with long coppery hair down her shoulders and back, walked by. Interesting.

  Coming the other way, a girl nude from the bottom up made her appearance. Interesting, too. Both girls looked vacant and bored, and totally self-possessed.

  “You go in like that too,” Okubara informed Chien.

  Startled, Chien said, “I understood white tie and tails.”

  “Joke,” Okubara said. “At your expense. Only girls wear nude; you even get so you enjoy, unless you homosexual.”

  Well, Chien thought, I guess I had better like it. He wandered on with the other guests—they, like him, wore white tie and tails or, if women, floor-length gowns—and felt ill at ease, despite the tranquilizing effect of the stelazine. Why am I here? he asked himself. The ambiguity of his situation did not escape him. He was here to advance his career in the Party apparatus, to obtain the intimate and personal nod of approval from His Greatness . . . and in addition he was here to decipher His Greatness as a fraud; he did not know what variety of fraud, but there it was: fraud against the Party, against all the peace-loving democratic peoples of Terra. Ironic, he thought. And continued to mingle.

  A girl with small, bright, illuminated breasts approached him for a match; he absent-mindedly got out his lighter. “What makes your breasts glow?” he asked her. “Radioactive injections?”

  She shrugged, said nothing, passed on, leaving him alone. Evidently he had responded in the incorrect way.

  Maybe it’s a wartime mutation, he pondered.

  “Drink, sir.” A servant graciously held out a tray; he accepted a martini—which was the current fad among the higher Party classes in People’s China—and sipped the ice-cold dry flavor. Good English gin, he said to himself. Or possibly the original Holland compound; juniper or whatever they added. Not bad. He strolled on, feeling better; in actuality he found the atmosphere here a pleasant one. The people here were self-assured; they had been successful and now they could relax. It evidently was a myth that proximity to His Greatness produced neurotic anxiety: he saw no evidence here, at least, and felt little himself.