The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  Now he lurches about the house looking like a detail from one of the deranged etchings by the Marquis von Bayros, and tells me about Flesh, Dr. Jerkoff, Prince Precious and something called the giant Penisaurus, which is large and wormlike and slides in and out of a soft, pink, moist, undulating cave.

  It is very difficult retaining one’s lunch in company of Edward Winslow Bryant, Jr.

  The story that follows, however, was his first sale. It was, in fact, the first story bought for this book. Which, because of the time it took to put this book together, makes it four years old. Many there may be among you who will contend this makes it unrepresentative of the advances in technique and tone that have informed Mr. Bryant’s subsequent already-published works. Not so. He has made no advance in four years, and this is still the best thing he ever wrote.

  And finally, those out there who have heard unsavory rumors of a novel Bryant is writing, will have to wait a while longer for confirmation. Oh, the novel is almost finished, and he has several publishers nibbling (but then, let’s not get into Bryant’s sexual proclivities), but as I had written and sold a sensational short story titled “At the Mouse Circus,” I felt it a bit crummy of him to title his novel, The Mouse Circus. We had quite a go-around about that. He steadfastly refused to change the title, told me, in fact, to fuckoff. So I “persuaded” him to change it. I waited till four in the ayem, when he was asleep in his cave, and sneaked in with a wet sponge. Sitting on his chest, I awakened him to face the possibility of clean water actually touching his body. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, the thought of water so terrified him, he acceded to my polite request, and as of this writing the novel is untitled. Until he comes up with a new one, he can’t market the book.

  So if you like the story that follows, why not send some title suggestions to Bryant. Send them care of General Delivery, Wheatland, Wyoming, because I swear by the time this book is released, eight months from now, he ain’t gonna be here!

  The 10:00 Report is Brought to You By . . .

  FADE IN:

  EXTERIOR SHOT—NIGHT

  They cornered her in the alley. The chase had been short and never in doubt; not to the three men who stalked, shadowed, between her and the flickering light of the street. The girl crouched among the garbage pails and tried to hold her breath. She had run too far; her lungs were too starved for oxygen. She attempted to hold back a gasp for air, and choked.

  One of the three hunters laughed softly. “Takes your breath away, don’t it, chick?” Softer, “Wait, baby, just wait.”

  The girl cowered deeper into the narrow gap between two pails and the brick flank of a building, the side of her face pressing hard against corrugated chill. Her knees were insensitive to the rough pavement. The three men converged on the stack of pails, making no attempt at stealth. The girl tensed. On three sides of her refuge, leather scuffed on gravel and asphalt.

  She broke for the mouth of the alley. Four steps. An explosion of pain hurled her against the bricks. A hand jerked her violently to her feet. The man slapped her again. There was no pain now; only the dull sensation of something sticky trickling down her face. The man shoved her roughly and she sprawled on her side.

  Above her loomed three shapes, black on black. The girl whimpered and tried to crawl. The man on the left kicked her in the belly; not too hard, just enough to jackknife her body. Her eyes hazed and this time she felt pain because she could not breathe.

  “That’s plenty,” said the man on the right. “The chick’s got to be able to enjoy this. Carl, you’re first. Tico, you hold her shoulders.”

  The girl struggled.

  A deer fights briefly before the wolf pack rends it.

  “Baby, this’ll blow your mind,” said Carl.

  In the darkness, a whir. Overhead, the scarlet Cyclops stare.

  DIRECT CUT TO:

  Barney Chandler stared intently at the television screen and tried to keep his attention on the program. Barney wanted out. Not yet, but he would. Or, to be more precise, his wife wanted out. Ella usually got what she wanted.

  “Barney,” she said, “Hank’s not going to keep that job open forever.” Hank was Ella’s brother; he owned the largest Chevy dealership in Burbank.

  A noncommittal grunt. Barney Chandler used his remote-control switch to turn the television set to Channel 34. He upped the volume. Barney picked up his beer and swore in annoyance when the napkin clung to the bottom of the bottle.

  “Barney! Will you turn down the set and listen to me? Hank’s coming over for supper tomorrow. He’s going to want an answer about that manager’s job.”

  “For Chrissake, Ella!” Barney slammed the edge of his hand down on the remote-control and the TV blinked off. “Can’t I even watch the competition in peace without you bugging me?”

  Ella rolled her faded blue eyes heavenward. “Mister Chandler,” she said. “This just happens to be the big chance of your life, and I’m not about to see you blow it.” This was a practiced speech. Barney had heard it often enough the past week. “You’re almost forty. You’ve been a millhand, a taxi driver, and a lousy insurance salesman. Now you’re a news cameraman for a TV station. Barney, it’s just not taking you anywhere. Now Hank’s impressed with you. He really is. He thinks you’d make a fine assistant manager. And once you got into management, there’d be no telling where you could end up. Please, Barney, when Hank comes over tomorrow, tell him you’ll take it.” She turned away and walked into the kitchen.

  Barney looked at his beer and said nothing. He liked being a cameraman. He didn’t particularly relish the idea of becoming the assistant manager in the largest Chevy dealership in Burbank. But Ella wanted him to take Hank’s offer. Barney gulped and drained his bottle. He reached for the opener. Another few beers and he wouldn’t feel so badly about telling Ella that he’d say yes to Hank.

  He sat back heavily in the chair and flicked the TV switch on. Barney turned the channel selector to 27. It was almost time for “Saga of the Sage.” Barney enjoyed watching adventure series. He seldom watched other programs with the exception of newscasts; Barney liked viewing the clips he himself had filmed. Too, he enjoyed keeping up with the work of his competition at the other stations.

  In the hall the phone rang. Ella answered it.

  “Barney,” she called. “It’s for you. It’s Parker down at the studio. He says it’s important.”

  DISSOLVE TO:

  How many forests did it take, Calvin Randall wondered, to panel all these offices? So much of the earth had gone into the making of the KNBS-TV Building; mahogany, polished stone, many metals. Randall glanced around the reception room as he had done so many times before. The decor was just a bit too flashy for his taste. He vaguely wished that the mahogany were back alive and growing in its original groves, that the polished granite was once again buried inside rough Colorado mountains.

  “Mr. Carmine will see you now, sir,” dimpled the blonde receptionist.

  “Thank you,” said Randall. He picked up his attache case and walked past the prominent brass plaque that indicated the imminent presence of L. J. Carmine, Program Director, KNBS-TV. Randall grimaced at the 36-point tempo bold lettering. Ostentatious.

  There was someone new with Carmine today, someone Randall didn’t know. Randall had a bad feeling. The stranger was short and pudgy, gray hair thinning above black-rimmed glasses. “Network” was stamped all over him. Trouble, Randall thought.

  “Cal, baby,” said Carmine, enthusiastically clapping Randall on the shoulder. “Come in, boy, come in. Here, I want you to meet Arthur Hedley. Art’s with the Public Events Department over at the Network.” Randall shook hands with the chubby stranger. Carmine turned and addressed the Network man: “This is the boy I’ve been telling you about, Art. Cal’s one of the bright young talents around here, and he’s definitely the best news director this station’s ever had.”

  What’s he building up to, the axe? Randall speculated.

  “Cal, baby,” Carmine continued, “Art su
ggested that I call you in here today for a little conference.”

  Public execution? wondered Randall.

  “It’s like this,” said Carmine. “KNBS-TV has one of the best equipped, best staffed, most competent news teams of any station in the metro area—in fact, we probably have the best news department. Of course, Cal, the credit’s got to go to you for doing such a tremendous job reorganizing the staff and lifting it to where it is now. Naturally we’re looking forward to seeing you keep up the good work.”

  “The point is, Mr. Randall,” interjected Hedley, “the good work is going to have to be accelerated. The Network has closely studied your operation here at KNBS and we generally agree with Mr. Carmine’s evaluation of your news staff. Unfortunately an external factor has entered the situation. Are you aware of this station’s present rating figures, Mr. Randall?”

  SHOCK CUT TO:

  Naked, the figure of the girl lay motionless. Tico’s rough hands pressed heavily against her shoulders and she felt the gravel bite into her back. Carl and the third man stood above her, panting.

  “Man, this chick’s got a real hang-up about losing her clothes,” Carl said. “If I had to work this hard to undress my old lady I’d be too tired for anything else.”

  “Too tired now?”

  “Hell no.” Carl kneeled and unbuckled his belt. “Now relax, baby. This’ll be a groove.” He touched her hip.

  “Christ!” Carl screamed in agony and toppled onto his side on the rough pavement. His body doubled over, he retched in the darkness.

  The third man laughed. “Keep hold of her shoulders,” he said. He looked down at the girl. “You’re a real tiger, aren’t you baby. Looks like Carl’s going to have to hold your legs when he figures out how to breathe again.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “Sorry you did this, baby. I mean it was just going to be good, clean fun and games. But now it’s going to be something else, chick. Really something else.”

  Overhead, the voyeurs.

  DIRECT CUT TO:

  “The rating figures?” I knew it, Calvin Randall thought. Those goddam ratings. “More or less,” he said.

  “Let me refresh your memory, then,” said Hedley. “As you are no doubt aware, our new rating system is quite reliable. The electronic equipment we have installed in our aircraft and trucks is quite accurate in detecting and measuring the small amounts of radiation emitted by each and every television set in the city. We can depend upon the computer-evaluated interpretation of this data to get a very clear picture of where we stand in the ratings competition. I’m sorry to say that this station has consistently fallen below par in its averages over the past few months, particularly during the time-slots allotted for news broadcasts.”

  “And does the Network have a solution?” asked Randall rather stiffly. Other than firing the news director? “Do we know exactly why KNBS has fewer viewers during our news-shots?”

  “Yes,” said the Network man. “NBS Audience Analysis has discovered what they are confident is the root of the problem.”

  “I’m sure Cal would be interested in hearing about their analysis,” Carmine interjected. Hedley shot an annoyed glare at the Program Director.

  “It’s relatively simple,” continued Hedley, “and it is something I truly regret having to say.” The Network man’s voice took on a distinctly paternal tone, a bit scolding. “Mr. Randall, the Network feels that your news department here at KNBS has been letting the viewing public down.”

  Randall was startled. “Letting them down? My God, we’ve broken our necks getting the most comprehensive news coverage possible.”

  “But you have still failed. We have failed,” said Hedley. “Let me offer two cases in point. If you will, please recall last November when Congressman Coghill was so tragically murdered. You may remember that Channel 34, as it happened, was on the scene taping the final seconds of the Congressman’s speech when the fatal shot was fired. Thirty-four was the only major station present. As a result, they presented the viewing public with a videotape of the assassination a full half-hour before any other metropolitan station could assemble a special newscast. We were one of those other stations. By falling down so badly in our coverage of the tragedy, we did our public a disservice.

  “Another case I might mention was that unfortunate disaster at Los Angeles International when that 737 liner exploded on takeoff. By coincidence it was being filmed by a Channel 34 crew engaged in doing promotional shots for an airline. Because of this chance circumstance, Channel 34 was able to beam live, vital coverage of the catastrophe to the public almost immediately. KNBS crews, however, did not reach the area of the crash until minutes after Thirty-four had already aired their first comprehensive report.

  “What I am trying to illustrate by these examples, Mr. Randall, is that this station must now make an increased effort to keep abreast of the very immediacy of the news. This is certainly not a problem revolving solely around audience ratings. You must realize that we are licensed by the Federal Communications Commission to broadcast in the public interest. In the public interest, Mr. Randall. Our license obliges us to keep that duty always in view; indeed, obligates us.”

  “That’s all well and good,” said Randall. “But the practical aspect of what you’re describing depends a lot on the breaks of the game. My staff has a conscious dedication to covering as much news as quickly and comprehensively as is humanly possible. But we can’t tell the future and figure out where to assign teams to catch the news as it happens. We’re just not—” Randall searched for a word “—not fortune tellers.”

  “Admittedly,” Hedley said, “we cannot foresee the future. But on the other hand, neither can we talk about ‘the breaks of the game.’ The Network feels that competent news reporting cannot afford to deal in such imprecise concepts. That is for the past. This is 1980, and the key word now is professionalism.”

  Wasn’t it always? Randall thought.

  “That’s right,” said Carmine. “Professionalism. The Public Events Department at the Network has been doing some fine work on this. They’ve really come up with something exciting, Cal; what I believe are the freshest and most radical innovative concepts in news coverage I’ve ever seen. Mr. Hedley and I want to bat them around with you.” He picked up a yellowed newspaper clipping from his desk and handed it to Randall. “Here,” Carmine said. “Read this first.”

  Less than an hour later, Calvin Randall, News Director of KNBS-TV, resigned his position. Two hours later, he was very drunk.

  DIRECT CUT TO:

  Sweat flowed and dripped from the florid little man who was mayor of Carroll, California. In the everyday real world he was the owner of a hardware store. Now he cowered shaking in his leather chair in the Carroll City Council chambers. He was stripped of everything that seemed to him important: his clothes, his dignity, his courage.

  “What has this town ever done to you and your friends?” he pleaded.

  “Nothing,” answered the mayor’s black-jacketed warden. “Nothing but exist.”

  “But why us? Why Carroll?”

  The mayor’s captor grinned wolfishly, his dark glasses glinting above bared teeth. “Why not, man?”

  DIRECT CUT TO:

  The rest of the team was assembled in the KNBS briefing room when Barney Chandler arrived. The team director, Mike De La Ree, was speaking as Barney seated himself.

  “Remember that this is a major coverage operation,” said De La Ree. “There’ll be three mobile crews placed at strategic positions through the town. They’ll use hand-held Sony SonoVid units. Chuck”—he gestured at his assistant—“Chuck and I will be back at the chopper with the monitor equipment. Everyone will be plugged into a central radio link.” He checked his watch. “Okay, we’re behind schedule already. Let’s move out. I’ll finish the briefing with you individually in the copter.”

  The men scrambled to their feet and began picking up equipment cases.

  “Hey, Chandler,” called De La Ree. “When did you come in? I think
you missed out on the first part of the briefing. Get Parker to fill you in while you’re getting your gear.”

  “Okay,” responded Barney, unclipping his SonoVid from its rack. “Parker, what gives? How come all the big rush?”

  Parker’s sandy eyebrows rose and he shrugged his thin shoulders. “Beats me, Barney. De La Ree’s been pretty close-mouthed about the whole operation. Apparently there’s some kind of cycle gang running around in the hills out west of Barstow. I guess they’re hitting a town tonight and we’re going to take pretty pictures of the mess.”

  “Oh great,” said Barney. “An all-nighter. Ella’s going to kill me.”

  DISSOLVE TO:

  TEASER

  “Carroll, California, high in the Santa Mira Hills west of Barstow, was attacked tonight by a rampaging motorcycle gang.

  “Hi, this is Irvin Conley. I’ll have a complete report on this and other late-breaking events from around the Golden State at ten tonight on the Enerco Ten O’Clock Report.”

  DIRECT CUT TO:

  Slowly and nearly silent, the dirigible swam across the smoggy sky. From the pods of sophisticated equipment freckling the airship’s belly, electronic fingers reached down and precisely measured the tiny amounts of energy radiated by each of the millions of television sets scattered through the sprawling city. Telemetry relayed each bit of information to a computer miles to the north. Machines and men teamed in the attempt to read the composite mind of that mythic figure, the average televiewer.

  “It’s incredible,” the night-man at the computer center muttered to himself. “Eighty-seven per cent of the sets in the whole city still on at midnight—and more than ninety per cent of those tuned to one station.” He scanned the read-out card again. The numbers hadn’t changed. “The KNBS brass’ll go out of their skulls when they see these figures.”

  DISSOLVE TO:

  “Violence headlines the news tonight.