Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  Then a man stepped out of the ranks. He was not in uniform. But Delgado was sure he was a high official of some kind. He wore a gleaming ornament on a chain around his neck. Delgado couldn’t tell what it was supposed to represent.

  This man raised a hand. The music stopped. There was a moment of strained silence. Then the man said, “Mr. McDermott, I hereby officially welcome you to our city, an independent city-state under the laws of the Disney Corporation International, our patron and founder. I am Emilio Carrera, retiring police chief of Venice.”

  “Delighted to make you acquaintance,” Delgado said.

  “I hereby hand over to you the emblem of office.” Carrera removed the ornament from around his neck and hung it around Delgado’s neck. Then he stepped back and saluted. “Mr. McDermott, you are now, officially and as of this moment, the new Chief of Police of the Republic of Venice.”

  The assembled policemen broke into a cheer. The band struck up “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Carrera was shaking his hand effusively, and Serra had a hand around his shoulders.

  For his part, Delgado mumbled the usual platitudes that people say at such occasions.

  “And now,” Carrera, the old Chief said, “I’ll leave you to the excellent care of our Lieutenant Serra. I have to leave now to catch my flight to Hong Kong.”

  “You are going to Hong Kong?” Delgado said, unable to think of anything else to say. “What will you do there?”

  “Begin my retirement, of course,” Carrera said. “My wife and children are already there, awaiting my arrival. Lieutenant Serra will bring you up to speed on all matters relating to your new post. Venice is a well-behaved city and should give you no special trouble. Except, of course, for the matter that brought you to us in the first place. I refer to the serial murders, of course.”

  He gave Delgado a knowing look. Delgado gave him an understanding look in return, and hoped the former Chief would expand on his remarks.

  He seemed about to do so. “Venice is unlike most other cities,” Carrera said, “in one respect at least—”

  He stopped. A policeman was tugging at his sleeve. “Sir,” he said, “the Hong Kong shuttle won’t wait. Unless we leave immediately . . .”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Carerra said. “Serra will fill you in. Goodbye, Chief McDermott, and happiness in your new posting.”

  And with that he was off, hurrying to the launch with his aide urging him along. There was a round of applause from the policemen as Carerra got in and the launch sped off.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence after that, as the policemen waited to be told what to do. Delgado decided to break the silence himself.

  “You may dismiss the men, Lieutenant,” he said to Serra. “This reception has been very creditable. I appreciate it very much. But now it’s time for all of us to return to work.”

  “Quite so, sir,” Serra said. He called the policemen to attention, then dismissed them. Then, turning to Delgado, he said, “That takes care of the official part, sir, all except the mayor’s reception, which will take place tomorrow night. Perhaps you would care to freshen up?”

  “Good idea,” Delgado said.

  “We will escort you to your quarters,” Serra said. “I am sure you will find them satisfactory. If I may suggest it, sir, take your time and get settled in. It will be soon enough to start business tomorrow.”

  “Excellent idea, lieutenant,” Delgado said. He followed the lieutenant out to the pier. A launch was waiting for him, its engine already turning over.

  Delgado and the Lieutenant got in. The crewmen cast off and the launch proceeded down the Cannaregio, making a left turn into what Delgado didn’t have to be told was the Grand Canal of Venice.

  Chapter 10

  Venice, Serra

  “Real life is unlike drama. It is characterized by flatness of affect and inapropriate response. When this is transcribed, it takes the form of comedy. Real life is impossible to transcribe in a believable way because the act of writing it down puts it into a literary form that carries its own artistic signature. Real life is not artistic. What is written cannot help but be artistic, even if it is bad artistry.”

  Mozoff, “Some Problems of Artistic Representation in the 23rd Century,” BluePeople Press, Feb. 2298.

  The police launch brought Delgado across the Grand Canal and up a side canal to a landing stage in front of a small, beautiful palazzo.

  “May I come in and show you around?” the Lieutenant asked.

  “No thanks,” Delgado said, “I’d rather look around on my own.”

  “I believe you have Lieutenant Serra’s telephone number in case you want anything. We’ll have a police launch ready for you in the morning.”

  He gave Delgado the keys to the palazzo, carried his suitcases to the entrance, saluted, and left.

  Delgado entered, carried his suitcases inside, fumbled around and found a light switch. He was in a small anteroom. Next to it was a large drawing room, done in an antique style, wallpaper of old ivory, paintings on the walls, A piece of sculpture—a boy riding a dolphin—on a little stand. There was a lot else to see; a wide staircase led to an upstairs landing, and there were rooms on either side of it. Below, down another set of stairs, was a vestibule and the door onto the street. He would have liked to explore, but he was too tired. Leaving his suitcases in the hallway, he went up the stairs. He went through the first open door, found a light switch, and saw he was in a bedroom. He didn’t know if it was the master bedroom or not. He was too tired to look at the rest of the rooms. He kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed. He was planning to wash and unpack, but sleep overtook first.

  In the morning, he awoke filled with a sense of alarm, brought on, perhaps, by the vague but foreboding dreams that had haunted his night, but whose memory vanished as he opened his eyes. His first thought was to get out of there, out of Venice, away from this whole mad charade. He’d take what money he could find around and catch a shuttle somewhere else.

  There was no loose cash in the palazzo, however. Nothing small and of value that he could see. He went to the window overlooking the canal. Below was a police launch, obviously meant for him, with the uniformed crew lounging around and drinking coffee out of paper cups.

  He picked up his suitcases and went to the street door. Opened it and looked out. A policeman, lounging against the wall, stood to attention and saluted smartly.

  “Any orders, sir?”

  “No, what are you doing here?”

  “Lieutenant Serra posted me here last night.”

  “Is that customary?”

  “Indeed it is, sir. The Venice Police Chiefs always have guards on their houses.”

  “But why?”

  “Protection, sir. There are always malcontents around ready to take a shot at someone as important as a Chief of Police if given half a chance.”

  “I see. Well, carry on.”

  Delgado went back inside. That took care of running away, for the moment at least. Although he was supposed to be an important man, he felt like he was in a subtle form of protective custody. He wondered if Serra didn’t know who he really was but was letting him think he was Chief, for whatever reason, but keeping guards on him at all times. Why would he do that? Who could say. But when the moment was right, he’d pounce.

  No, that couldn’t be it. Delgado knew he had to keep his thinking clear, not find deep-laid plots at every turn. Serra was merely doing his duty, this is what he did for all the Chiefs of Police. Apparently the job was largely ceremonial. Leaving his suitcases behind, he went down to the police launch.

  Lieutenant Serra was on the steps of the police station, waiting when Delgado arrived in the launch.

  “Good morning, Chief,” Serra said as Delgado entered his office. “You slept well, I trust?”

  “Very well indeed. It’s a beautiful little house you’ve given me.”

  “Carrera, the old Chief, liked it very well. I’m afraid I neglected to engage servants for you. I’ll
have them in place before you get home tonight.”

  “No, don’t bother,” Delgado said.

  “No bother at all,” Serra said. “Servants go with the post. I see that you haven’t brought along a wife or other partner.”

  “No,” Delgado said. He was about to add that he wasn’t married, then didn’t, since he didn’t know if McDermott was or not.

  “The papers they sent us advising of your arrival didn’t say one way or the other. Shall I provide you with a companion? I know several beautiful and accomplished women who would be more than willing, and might take your fancy.”

  “No,” Delgado said stiffly. “I’ll take care of that myself, if and when I want to.”

  “Of course, of course. I hope I wasn’t being too personal. The old Chief liked to have everything taken care of for him. Shall we go in the station?”

  Lieutenant Serra led Delgado on a stroll around the stationhouse. He named names as he passed them, people nodded, gave Delgado friendly smiles, murmured a word or two of welcome. Delgado met about a dozen people. He didn’t remember any of them except for the last, a tall, thin man in late middle age, balding, with a thin moustache, not in uniform, wearing a brown suit that had seen better days.

  “And this is Lieutenant Sazaki, head of Police Counter Intelligence,” Serra said.

  Sazaki had been deep in a pile of papers, humming and pinching his lower lip. He looked up and offered his hand, not smiling. “Welcome to Venice,” he said in a formal manner. “When you have a moment, Chief McDermott, I’d like to go over your papers with you. There are a one or two irregularities, minor ones, but we like to keep the record straight.”

  “The man’s barely arrived and you’re already giving him trouble!” Serra said, his tone of voice humorous but with an undertone of seriousness. “Can’t the Chief get some breakfast first before your interrogation?”

  “I said it was a minor matter,” Sazaki said, not smiling. “There’s no rush at all. I merely wished to bring it to the Chief’s attention.”

  “And now you have done so,” Serra said. “Come on, Chief. There are a few more people I’d like you to meet. And then I’ll show you your office.”

  Delgado’s office was a fine bright corner room on the fourth floor of the Police Building. From here he had a view of an imposing building-the Doge’s palace, he believed it was; and a high-backed bridge spanning two islands, possibly the famous Bridge of Sighs. He would need to get a good map and guide book. The room was carpeted in turkey red. There was a bookcase filled with books, several chairs for visitors. His desk was very big, a block of rosewood set on lucite mounts. It was perfectly neat. A small cabinet behind it held pens, pencils, pads, and other office material. The window was broad, plate glass, sealed shut. But nearby were two smaller windows in the french style. They were open. A pleasant breeze was coming in from the canal.

  Delgado sat down in the big upholstered chair behind the desk. He liked it immediately. It was comfortable, but not sybaritic; a chair for getting work done in the most pleasant way possible.

  There was a pad on his desk with four switches. They were unlabelled. He supposed he would get to label them himself. One no doubt summoned a secretary. The others might connect to various of his detectives.

  He pressed the topmost button, just to see what would happen. Almost immediately a door in the side of his office opened and a young woman walked in with a steno pad. She appeared to be about twenty years old, blonde, good figure, nice face.

  “I was experimenting with these buttons,” he explained.

  “The top one calls me,” the woman said. “I am Miss Silvana. I’m your secretary.”

  “Excellent. Were you also secretary for the former Chief?”

  “I had the pleasure of working for him during his last two months here. I replaced Miss Gdacchi.”

  “What happened to her?” Delgado asked.

  “She met with a tragic accident. May I bring you some coffee?”

  It was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it. “Yes, please,” Delgado said.

  Later, Serra came by. “Just wanted to tell you, chief. This is the first day of Carnival. You’re supposed to attend the opening of festivities.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll all be plain as it goes along. Would it be convenient for you to leave in half an hour?”

  “I’m ready now,” Delgado said. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

  THE ERYX

  As in his three collaborations with Roger, Bob Sheckley’s story is wild, flip, and cynical, packing a fine sarcastic punch.

  I WOKE UP AND LOOKED AROUND. EVERYTHING WAS JUST about the same

  “Hey, Julie,” I said. “You up yet?”

  Julie didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was my imaginary playmate. Maybe I was crazy, but at least I knew Julie was someone I’d made up.

  I got out of bed, showered, dressed. It was all the same as it always was. And yet, I had the feeling something had changed.

  I didn’t know what annoyed me the most about the setup. I had given up being annoyed. I had one room and a bathroom. Outside of my room was a glassed-in porch. I could walk out on the porch and sun myself. They seemed to have the sun going all day long, every day. I wondered what had happened to the rainy days I’d known back in my youth. Or maybe there were rainy days but I just wasn’t seeing them. I had suspected for a long time that my room and its glassed-in enclosure were inside some other sort of a building, a really big building where they controlled the light and the climate, made it just like they wanted it. Evidently the way they wanted it was with hazy sunlight all day long. I couldn’t see the sun even when I was outside. Just a white sky and light glaring from it. It could come from klieg lights, for all I knew. They didn’t let me see much.

  I had spotted the cameras, however. They were little units, Sonys, I suspected, and their tiny black matte heads rotated all of the time, keeping me in sight. There were cameras inside my one room, too, up in the corners, behind steel netting that I couldn’t tear away even if I wanted to, which I didn’t, and cameras even in my bathroom. I hated that. During my first days here, I’d screamed at the walls, “Hey, what’s it with you guys, don’t you got any sense of privacy? Can’t a guy even take a dump without you watching?” But nobody ever answered me. No one ever talked to me. I’d been here seventy-three days, I made notches on the plastic table to keep count. But sometimes I forgot, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be a lot longer than that. They’d allowed me writing materials, too, but no computer. Were they afraid of what I might do with a computer? I didn’t have any idea. They gave me reading material, too. Old stuff. Moll Flanders. Idylls of the King. The Iliad and Odyssey. Stuff like that. Good stuff, but not exactly up to date. And they never showed themselves.

  Why was that? I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t even know what they looked like. They’d grabbed me back then, seventy-three days ago. Stuff had still been happening back then. I’d been home. I’d received an urgent fax. Office of the President. “We need you urgently.” I’d come. In fact, they’d sent men to bring me to this place. Men who didn’t answer any of my questions. I’d tried to find out. What’s this all about? They’ll tell you more inside, that’s all they’d told me.

  And then I’d been inside. They’d given me a suite of rooms, told me to get some rest, there’d be a meeting soon. I’d gone to sleep that first night, and been awakened by sounds of shooting. I’d gone to the door. It was locked. I could hear men shouting, struggling out in the hall. And then there’d been silence. And the silence had gone on and on.

  At first I’d thought I was pretty well off. The others had gotten killed, I suspected. Those blank-faced men who’d brought me here. All dead, I was sure of it. I was the only one remaining. But what for? What did they want me for?

  I’d heard noises outside my suite of rooms. Sounded like someone was building something. What they were doing was cutting down my mobility.
Reducing my three-room suite to a room, a bathroom, and a glassed-in outside area. Why had they done that? What was it all about?

  The hell of it was, I had a feeling about what it was all about. I thought I knew. But I didn’t want to admit it to myself.

  The time of the tests had come. That had been a few weeks ago. They had poked instruments down through the ceiling. Stuff that looked at me, stuff on the end of wires that recorded me. I’d gone a little crazy during that time. I knew they’d gassed me a couple of times. When I came to, I found cuts and injection marks on my body. Bruises. They’d been experimenting with me. Trying to find out something. Using me as a guinea pig. But for what? Just because I’d started the whole mess? That wasn’t fair. They’d no right to do that. It hadn’t been my fault.

  I invented an imaginary playmate after a while. Someone to talk to. They must have thought I was crazy. But I needed someone to talk to. I just couldn’t go on talking in my head all the time.

  “So listen, Julie, the way I figure it, it all began back then when Gomez and I went out to Alquemar. I don’t think I ever told you about Alquemar, did I?”

  I had, of course. But Julie was always obliging.

  “No, you never mentioned it. What’s Alquemar?”

  “It’s this planet. It’s quite some distance from Earth. A long way. But I went there. Gomez and I. That’s where we found the discovery that changed everything.”

  “What did you find?” Julie asked.

  “Well, let me bring you back to those faraway days . . .”

  I was hanging out in this bar in Taos when I ran into Gomez over a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. We started to talk, as strangers will on a sleepy morning in a sleepy little town in New Mexico with nothing much to do with the long day ahead but drink a lot of beer and dream a lot of dreams.

  Gomez was a short, barrel-chested guy from Santa Fe. A painter. He’d come to Taos to sketch tourists, make a few bucks. He’d taken a degree in art history at the University of New Mexico. But his interest was in alien artifacts.