Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  It was dark in the bog, in a twilight sort of way, and twisting shadows interlaced the long diagonal lines of the tree trunks. There was a hush broken only by the whirring of distant wings. The waters seemed to rise as color bleached out of the evening sky, and it was for a while a white world with a few smudged lines here and there like one of those artful Japanese sketches that some feel are too clever by half. And then the long desolate call of a sea-bird—distant wings against the sky, and the whirr of mosquitoes.

  The bog was old, very old. Lying in it now, in mud-blocked sea-caves far below the surface, congeries of blind skeletons sat in long aisle seats, their delicate tendrils that once were hands applauding soundlessly the sight they could see. Above all, the bog was a motivator of elevated language, bog talk, as it was called, a sort of heightened form of discourse that well set the mood for the next thing that was about to happen.

  With a pull like suction gone berserk, Theseus broke his way through the clinging clay fingers of the mud bank and scrambled up to safe ground. He breathed a sigh of relief. Just then the construct began to collapse due to shoddy constructionmanship. And Theseus found himself walking on a road rather than riding on it, and that the mountains had stopped moving.

  The road ended. Theseus walked through a thicket of thorny plants, not paying too much attention to his surroundings. But he was alert enough to spring back when something long and thin and bluish-gray reached out to grasp him.

  15. Sorrows of the Minotaur.

  Like so many of us, the Minotaur has a greater reputation for monstrousness than he deserves.

  The Minotaur doesn’t feel particularly monstrous. It’s no fault of his that he has an unusual physical appearance. He’s no killer, except in self-defense, as in the case of this crazy person Theseus who keeps on coming after him with intent to do grievous bodily harm.

  The Minotaur would be perfectly willing to shake hands and forget the whole thing, if that could be arranged.

  He’s made his offers, his overtures, but they have been ignored. Apparently there’s nothing he can do but keep on running around Dædalus’ silly maze until he can arrange an ambush, catch Theseus unawares, do for him once and for all, or make him listen to reason.

  None of the variations of his legend favor this outcome.

  The Minotaur finds this discouraging. But, as a creature with Buddhistic leanings, he knows that no situation is entirely unworkable.

  The Minotaur finds it all the more ridiculous having to go on with this monster thing, having to work through his Minotaurish situation, since, in his heart of hearts, he doesn’t really consider himself a Minotaur at all. The Minotaur is convinced that, despite outward appearances, he is actually a unicorn.

  The reason he thinks this is because, from as far back as he can remember, the Minotaur has had this desire to lay his head in the lap of a virgin.

  The Minotaur has the body of a minotaur and the soul of a unicorn.

  So far he has kept the secret of his true nature to himself. He hasn’t even told Theseus, who is his closest friend, circumstances being what they are. He hasn’t told anyone, not that people would think badly of him if they did know. People who work in the maze are show business people, after all, modern and tolerant, well known for their liberal views. It’s the Minotaur himself who is old-fashioned. Well, not exactly old-fashioned, but very much a private person, or monster. He doesn’t want everyone knowing his sexual preferences, discussing them at the parties the Minotaur knows they have, from which they exclude him.

  He’s finicky, and this is very typical of unicorns, who are shy, proud creatures, not at all like Minotaurs, who tend to be hairy-chested monsters who go about their work of sex and violence and don’t give a damn who knows about it.

  To lay his head in the lap of a virgin—that would be very heaven! But the Minotaur never seems to meet any live virgins, only dead ones, through no fault of his own, and anyhow, even if he could meet live virgins, he wouldn’t be interested because he’s in love with Ariadne; she’s the only one he wants, unicorns are not promiscuous and he’s certain he’s a unicorn.

  It is true that Ariadne is probably not a virgin. Or so the Minotaur assumes. Not that he’s ever asked. But after all, she did marry Theseus, a move that carries strong sexual implications.

  But despite her marriage to Theseus, despite the fact that she lives now with Dionysus, Ariadne has a definite virginal air about her, something unicorns have a very strong sense about. Unicorns know the truth about these matters in their infallible virgin-detecting hearts.

  It’s entirely possible that Theseus and Ariadne never consummated their union. For whatever reason. And that could be the real reason why Theseus has abandoned her on Naxos. Because Theseus, a Hellenic jock, a Greek macho, would never stand for his lady not putting out. Heroes don’t stand for that sort of thing. Failure to come across would give Theseus ample grounds for abandoning the lady. And Theseus would be unlikely to talk about it afterwards, because it would reflect badly on his all-important manhood.

  The Minotaur knows how unlikely all of this is. Still, so what? Maybe she’s not virgin enough for other people, but she’s plenty virgin for him. What he wants more than anything else in the world is to get together with her under intimate circumstances and lay his head in her lap.

  He has pictured this to himself many times. He even plans, when he has time, to have one horn cut off to facilitate matters, and to prevent gouging her soft thigh. He hasn’t entirely decided which horn to sacrifice, but he’ll decide that when he finds a good surgeon, Asclepius by preference, the king of the sawbones, and charging fees in accordance with his reputation, wandering around somewhere in the maze with his little black bag.

  The Minotaur will find Asclepius and arrange for the operation, a monohornectomy, a straightforward procedure, one of the simplest of the sex-change operations.

  Then the Minotaur plans to do something about his passion. He will kidnap Ariadne, tuck her under one foreleg and gallop away snorting; it’s the only way of bringing it off, no time for persuasion, not until later. After he has taken her to a safe place, he’ll set her free, or almost free, as free as he dares, for he can’t have her running away from him before they have a chance to talk. He won’t hold her against her will no matter what she decides. But at least he will have had a chance to state his case and to tell Ariadne what he really wants—to provide for her every need and sleep with his head in her lap every night. You can never tell, she might go for it.

  16. Although Minos is king, Dædalus

  is the greatest man in Atlantean Crete, the wealthiest in the ancient world after Midas, the most respected, the one on terms of mutual respect with the gods themselves.

  This is very gratifying, of course, but Dædalus is not entirely satisfied with his situation.

  Granted, his maze is the greatest creation known to men or gods. But he did build it quite a while ago. What has he done recently? This question bothers him.

  And Dædalus has to spend a great deal of his time doing upkeep and general repair work on the maze, and filling in the blank sections. And something is always breaking down. This irritates him because the thing ought to work perfectly. It is apparent that the maze lacks something, and Dædalus knows what it is.

  His maze lacks a unified field theory.

  Dædalus didn’t bother to formulate one at the beginning, because he was busy with other matters. Now the maze is working more or less as it was supposed to, but parts of it keep on breaking down for no discernable reason, and there’s always the danger of a really fatal Anomaly, and all for lack of a unified field theory.

  Dædalus hasn’t told Minos about this. The king wouldn’t understand, because laymen never really grasp these matters. Minos would just get nervous and ask if the whole thing was going to go smash. And Dædalus couldn’t even answer that apparently simple question without the damned missing unified field theory.

  He works on it in the time he can spare from upkeep and maint
enance. He’s got a team of scientists working on it, too, the best men available, selected from everywhere and everywhen. Some of them don’t believe he’ll ever find what he’s looking for. They cite Gödel and smile knowingly.

  Dædalus has dedicated his life to the proposition that everything is quantifiable. He’s been able to build a maze more complicated than the world upon which it is based, an achievement that will go down in universal history. He’s doing all right by any standard, but he’s not really happy.

  It bothers Dædalus that there’s no novelty possible in his maze. Unexpected things do occur rather frequently, but they’re unexpected only because he lacks a unified field theory by which to predict them.

  Sometimes Dædalus would just like to chuck the whole thing, go somewhere else, do something else.

  The trouble is, he can’t figure out where to go and what else to do.

  That’s the situation you get into when you’re master of a maze which incorporates everything except a unified field theory by which it can explain itself.

  Dædalus is working on it.

  17. The Hornectomy.

  The Minotaur has decided to take the big step and get the hornectomy that will transform him from a Minotaur into a unicorn. He will go to Asclepius, the master surgeon of the maze, and have one horn surgically removed. The remaining horn will be off center, but he will still be able to pass himself off as an Asymmetrical or Lopsided Unicorn.

  But there’s a difficulty. The Minotaur doesn’t have the sizable fee that Asclepius charges for cosmetic surgery. Where will he get the money? None of his friends have any. And there are no jobs in the maze, only roles, which pay only in non-negotiable units of fame or in the small change of notoriety.

  18. The Midas Touch.

  Most of the money that exists in the maze tends to accumulate around a few individuals who need it for archetypal reasons. King Midas, for example, is extremely wealthy, since he can produce his own gold objects. But there’s nothing frivolous about Midas; he is aware of his importance as a symbol of eternally unsatisfied greed and he takes his work seriously.

  It is well known that Midas possessed the ability to turn anything into gold by his touch alone. But this was not an instantaneous process as the old legends would have you believe. Small pebbles, twigs, acorns, could be held in the hand or under the armpit and transformed overnight. They provided Midas with plenty of small change and an endless supply of knickknacks useful for birthday presents and bar mitzvahs. Larger objects took months, sometimes years, of Midas’ unique and unremitting tactility, his crysomatic touch. It was a great gift, but Midas had to spend almost all his time holding onto or leaning against the objects he wanted to aurefy, and this was boring, even though he could read or watch television at the same time.

  Midas did make loans from time to time. Although he hated to decrease his treasure trove, even temporarily, he was unable, by virtue of his archetypal drive, to forgo any opportunity to increase it. That is how he came to be known as the Loan Shark of the Gods, and was recognized, even in his own lifetime, as the embodiment of the profit motive.

  One small bonus that Midas gets from his knack: he is able to have all the fillings in his teeth made of wax. Within a day or so they turn into gold of their own accord. It is not a really large economy, but every bit helps when you’re trying to compile a really impressive treasure horde.

  Some people ask why money is needed in the maze at all, since the necessities of life and adventure are supplied free. This is a naive question. You might as well ask why love is needed in the maze, or fame. Money, love, and fame are alike in their ability to provide pleasure on a low level, and motivation for great deeds on a high level.

  Midas was a son of the Great Goddess of Ida by one of those anonymous satyrs who spring up all over the ancient world. A lot of stories have sprung up around Midas. The fact is, he managed the gold thing very nicely.

  19. The Profit Motive.

  Dædalus had never considered the profit motive when he set up the maze as the world’s first welfare state. He thought it wasn’t important. He provided everyone with food, shelter, clothing, weapons, everything you’d need to conduct your life and kill your enemies. He thought that would be enough. More than enough, in fact. He saw no need for commerce. Shopping bored him. The pleasures of consumption were beyond his understanding. He had built his maze back in the old days before commerce first became respectable, then habitual, and finally, indispensable.

  Back when Dædalus was a boy, if someone wanted a fur coat they went out into the woods and shot one, rather than the more humane modem method of going to a store and buying one.

  But times change, and since the maze is contemporaneous with all space and time, it is susceptible to new ideas. Buying things began as a novelty, but soon replaced making things as the standard way of getting a hold of things.

  There’s no stopping an idea whose time has come.

  Dædalus passed a law forbidding most categories of buying and selling, but this was about as effective as a proclamation against measles.

  People acquired money by selling to Midas and other middlemen who were legally entitled, demanded of, in fact, by archetypal force, to acquire the statues, golden cups, ivory combs, amber amulets, embroidered tapestries, and so forth, with which the maze was furnished. Midas paid for them in gold and silver coins and resold them at a great profit to museums and private collectors in the 20th century.

  It wasn’t perfect but at least it provided everyone with a source of income.

  Soon everyone had money. But for a long time there was nothing to buy with it. Back then there were no bookstores, no movies, no boutiques or supermarkets. Of more concern, there was no entertainment.

  Dædalus had tried to do something about the entertainment gap. He provided classical dramas in open-air theaters. They were free for everyone and about as interesting as government sponsored art usually is.

  The people of Dædalus’ maze weren’t content with classical stuff. It was Dædalus’ fault. He had provided everyone with spherical television sets so that they could communicate with each other electronically, instantaneously and at no cost, since, Dædalus proclaimed, it was the duty of the state to provide freedom of communication. Fine, said the Maze dwellers, how soon can we get cable? How soon can we tune in on the past and the future, which you say is all around us?

  In vain Dædalus preached the old-fashioned pleasures, everyone gathering around the lyre on a Friday night singing the old songs. No use, pirate cable stations sprang up and set themselves to recording and presenting segments of the future which Dædalus had tried to forbid to his people, arguing that such knowledge was Anomalous and sure to bring on Catastrophe. And he decreed stem penalties for those caught sullying the philosophical purity of the maze with commercialism.

  And of course it did no good at all. Dædalus was active in policing his maze, but he couldn’t be everywhere at the same time. Clandestine enterprises sprang up here and there, usually run by furtive men with black mustaches selling from the backs of station wagons which of course shouldn’t be in ancient Greece at all, brought there god knows how by the quick-witted exploiters of official government secrets, like Prometheus stealing fire from heaven. These unlicensed and illegal enterprises could be moved quickly if Dædalus was reported in the vicinity.

  Prediction of where Dædalus would turn up next became an important industry in itself, a meta-industry, since the survival of all other commercial pursuits was ultimately based upon it. Predicting the times and locations of Dædalus became a career in itself, Dædalology, the science of knowing at all times where Dædulus was. There were quite a few systems of prognostication, most of them based upon data bases of the Master Builder’s previous visits and, of course, Dædalus’ psychological profile. But no heuristic could be established, it was all haphazard, unscientific, unreliable, and the resultant anxiety had potentially serious social consequences, especially since, given the unsettled conditions and the u
ncertainty of land tenure due to Dædalus’ wiping out of industry wherever he found it, mankind could not take the next great step forward and build shopping malls.

  The great breakthrough came when Pythagoras published his Locative Proposition, stating that, whereas it was impossible to predict where Dædalus was likely to show up next, due to the general condition of commercial indeterminacy, one could predict with a high degree of correlation where he was least likely to appear, and for how long.

  The equations of Pythagoras’ method of Negative Inference are very elegant, but we cannot go into them now. Suffice it to say that this powerful reasoning tool enabled men to build shopping malls at last, thus ending the Age of Commercial Furtiveness.

  20. The Attack of the Self Pity Plant.

  “Ah, no you don’t!” Theseus cried, for he had recognized just in time the telltale trefoil leaves marked with dark spatulate blotches that characterized the Flowering Mood Dump, popularly known as the Self Pity Plant, a small, squat ambulatory shrub with a talent for indiscernability.

  The self pity plant grasps passersby with its hooked leaf-ends, implanting tendrils of self-deprecating irony into the victim. This preliminary stage frequently goes unnoticed. The poison goes to work at once in the bloodstream, where it creeps along the artery walls holding as it were a cloak in front of its face and trying to pass as a member of the family. In this way it deceives the antibodies, who go on playing cards as if nothing had happened.

  Reaching the central nervous system, the poison begins propagating dolons, tiny herring-shaped creatures that generate the enzyme of metaphysical doubt. Once it has reached this stage, you’ve got a pounding headache and you can consider your day is shot.