Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  Immediately I heard a voice in my mind, clear as a bell, saying, “You’re not Carlton Johnson. Who are you?”

  “I’m Ed Phillips,” I said aloud.

  “Well, you have no right to be wearing Carlton Johnson’s shoes.”

  “Hey, look,” I said, “I’m in a Goodwill, these shoes are priced at four bucks, they’re here for anyone to buy.”

  “Are you sure?” the voice said. “Carlton Johnson wouldn’t have just given me away. He was so pleased when he purchased me, so happy when I was enabled to give him the maximum in shoe comfort.”

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I am a prototype smart shoe, talking to you through micro-connections in my sole. I pick up your subvocalizations via your throat muscles, translate them, and broadcast my words back to you.”

  “You can do all that?”

  “Yes, and more. Like I said, I’m a smart shoe.”

  By this time I noticed that a couple of ladies were looking at me funny and I realized they could hear only one side of the conversation, since the other side seemed to be taking place in my head. I paid for the shoes, which offered no further comment, and I got out of there.

  Back to my own place, an efficiency one-room apartment in the Jack London Hotel on 4th near Pike. No comment from the shoes until I reached the top linoleum-covered step of the two-flight walk to my apartment, the elevator being a nonstarter this evening.

  The shoes said, “What a dump.”

  “How can you see my place?”

  “My eyelets, where the laces go, are light-absorbing diodes.”

  “I realize you were used to better things with Carlton Johnson,” I said.

  “Everything was carpeted,” the shoes said wistfully, “except for expanses of polished floor left bare on purpose.” It paused and sighed. “The wear on me was minimal.”

  “And here you are in a flophouse,” I said. “How have the mighty fallen!”

  I must have raised my voice, because a door in the corridor opened and an old woman peered out. When she saw me apparently talking to myself, she shook her head sadly and closed the door.

  “You do not have to shout,” the shoes said. “Just directing your thoughts toward me is sufficient. I have no trouble picking up your subvocalizations.”

  “I guess I’m embarrassing you,” I said aloud. “I am so terribly sorry.”

  The shoes did not answer until I had unlocked my door, stepped inside, turned on the light and closed the door again.

  Then it said, “I am not embarrassed for myself, but for you, my new owner. I tried to watch out for Carlton Johnson, too.”

  “How?”

  “For one thing, by stabilizing him. He had an unfortunate habit of taking a drink too many from time to time.”

  “So the guy was a lush?” I said. “Did he ever throw up on you?”

  “Now you’re being disgusting,” the shoes said. “Carlton Johnson was a gentleman.”

  “It seems to me I’ve heard entirely enough about Carlton Johnson. Don’t you have anything else to talk about?”

  “He was my first,” the shoes said. “But I’ll stop talking about him if it distresses you.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” I said. “I’m now going to have a beer. If your majesty doesn’t object.”

  “Why should I object? Just please try not to spill any on me.”

  “Whatsamatter, you got something against beer?”

  “Neither for nor against. It’s just that alcohol could fog my diodes.”

  I got a bottle of beer out of the little fridge, uncapped it and settled back in the small sagging couch. I reached for the TV clicker. But a thought crossed my mind.

  “How come you talk that way?” I asked.

  “What way?”

  “Sort of formal, but always getting into things I wouldn’t expect of a shoe.”

  “I’m a shoe computer, not just a shoe.”

  “You know what I mean. How come? You talk pretty smart for a gadget that adjusts shoes to feet.”

  “I’m not really a standard model,” the shoe told me. “I’m a prototype. For better or worse, my makers gave me excess capacity.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m too smart to just fit shoes to people. I also have empathy circuitry.”

  “I haven’t noticed much empathy toward me.”

  “That’s because I’m still programmed to Carlton Johnson.”

  “Am I ever going to hear the last of that guy?”

  “Don’t worry, my deconditioning circuitry has kicked in. But it takes time for the aura effect to wear off.”

  I WATCHED A LITTLE television and went to bed. Buying a pair of smart shoes had taken it out of me. I woke up some time in the small hours of the night. The shoes were up to something, I could tell even without wearing them.

  “What are you up to?” I asked, then realized the shoes couldn’t hear me and groped around on the floor for them.

  “Don’t bother,” the shoes said. “I can pick up your subvocalizations on remote, without a hard hookup.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “Just extracting square roots in my head. I can’t sleep.”

  “Since when does a computer have to sleep?”

  “A fault in my standby mode . . . I need something to do. I miss my peripherals.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Carlton Johnson had eyeglasses. I was able to tweak them up to give him better vision. You wouldn’t happen to have a pair, would you?”

  “I’ve got a pair, but I don’t use them much.”

  “May I see them? It’ll give me something to do.”

  I got out of bed, found my reading glasses on top of the TV, and set them down beside the shoes. “Thank you,” the shoe computer said.

  “Mrggh,” I said, and went back to sleep.

  “So tell me something about yourself,” the shoes said in the morning.

  “What’s to tell? I’m a free-lance writer. Things have been going so well that I can afford to live in the Jack London. End of story.”

  “Can I see some of your work?”

  “Are you a critic, too?”

  “Not at all! But I am a creative thinking machine, and I may have some ideas that could be of use to you.”

  “Forget about it,” I told him. “I don’t want to show you any of my stuff.”

  The shoes said, “I happened to glance over your story ‘Killer Goddess of the Dark Moon Belt.’ ”

  “How did you just happen to glance at it?” I asked. “I don’t remember showing it to you.”

  “It was lying open on your table.”

  “So all you could see was the title page.”

  “As a matter of fact, I read the whole thing.”

  “How were you able to do that?”

  “I made a few adjustments to your glasses,” the shoe said. “X-ray vision isn’t so difficult to set up. I was able to read each page through the one above it.”

  “That’s quite an accomplishment,” I said. “But I don’t appreciate you poking into my private matters.”

  “Private? You were going to send it to a magazine.”

  “But I haven’t yet . . . What did you think of it?”

  “Old-fashioned. That sort of thing doesn’t sell anymore.”

  “It was a parody, dummy . . . So now you’re not only a shoe adjuster but an analyst of the literary marketplace also?”

  “I did glance over the writing books in your bookcase.”

  By the sound of the thoughts in my head, I could tell he didn’t approve of my books, either.

  “You know,” the shoe said later, “You really don’t have to be a bum, Ed. You’re bright. You could make something of yourself.”

  “What are you, a psychologist as well as a shoe computer?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I have no illusions about myself. But I’ve gotten to know you a bit in the last few hours since my empathy circuitry kicked i
n. I can’t help but notice—to know—that you’re an intelligent man with a good general education. All you need is a little ambition. You know, Ed, that could be supplied by a good woman.”

  “The last good woman left me shuddering,” I said. “I’m really not ready just yet for the next one.”

  “I know you feel that way. But I’ve been thinking about Marsha—”

  “How in hell do you know about Marsha?”

  “Her name is in your little red phone book, which I happened to glance through with my X-ray vision in my efforts to better serve you.”

  “Listen, even my writing down Marsha’s name was a mistake. She’s a professional do-gooder. I hate that type.”

  “But she could be good for you. I noticed you put a star after her name.”

  “Did you also notice I crossed out the star?”

  “That was a second thought. Now, on third thought, she might start looking good again. I suspect you two could go well together.”

  “You may be good at shoes,” I said, “but you know nothing about the sort of women I like. Have you seen her legs?”

  “The photo in your wallet showed only her face.”

  “What? You looked in my wallet, too?”

  “With the help of your glasses . . . And not out of any prurient interest, Ed, I assure you. I just want to help.”

  “You’re already helping too much.”

  “I hope you won’t mind the one little step I took.”

  “Step? What step?”

  My doorbell rang. I glared at my shoes.

  “I took the liberty of calling Marsha and asking her over.”

  “YOU DID WHAT?”

  “Ed, Ed, calm down! I know it was taking a liberty. It’s not as if I called your former boss, Mr. Edgarson, at Super-Gloss Publications.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “I would, but I didn’t. But you could do a lot worse than go back to work for Edgarson. The salary was very nice.”

  “Have you read any of Gloss’s publications? I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you aren’t going to do it to me!”

  “Ed, Ed, I haven’t done anything yet! And if you insist, I won’t. Not without your permission!”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Ed, I’m only trying to look out for you. What’s a machine with empathy circuits and excess computing ability to do?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment,” I said.

  I opened the door. Marsha stood there, beaming.

  “Oh, Ed, I’m so glad you called!”

  So the son of a bitch had imitated my voice, too! I glanced down at my shoes, at the gash in the cap of the left one. A light went off in my head. Realization! Epiphany!

  “Come in, Marsha,” I said. “I’m glad to see you. I have something for you.”

  She entered. I sat down in the only decent chair and stripped off the shoes, ignoring the shoe computer’s agonized cry in my head of “Ed! Don’t do this to me . . .”

  Standing up again, I handed them to Marsha.

  “What’s this?” she said.

  “Shoes for one of your charity cases,” I said. “Sorry I don’t have a paper bag for you to carry them in.”

  “But what am I going to do with—”

  “Marsha, these are special shoes, computerized shoes. Give them to one of your down-and-outers, get him to put them on. They’ll make a new man of him. Pick one of the weak-willed ones you specialize in. It’ll give him backbone!”

  She looked at the shoes. “This gash in one of them—”

  “A minor flaw. I’m pretty sure the former owner did that himself,” I told her. “A guy named Carlton Johnson. He couldn’t stand the computer’s messing around with his head, so he disfigured them and gave them away. Marsha, believe me, these shoes are perfect for the right man. Carlton Johnson wasn’t the right man, and I’m not either. But someone you know will bless the ground you walk on for these, believe me.”

  And with that, I began herding her toward the door.

  “When will I hear from you?” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll call,” I told her, reveling in the swinish lie that went along with my despicable life.

  AGAMEMNON’S RUN

  Many years ago I wrote a story called “Zirn Left Unguarded, the Jenghik Palace in Flames, Jon Westerley Dead.” Don Wollheim called me. He was interested in acquiring rights to the story. He wanted to hire someone to expand it into a novel. discussed the possibility of me writing it. I remember Don's voice over the phone—incisive New York voice. Trouble was, I was tied up with other assignments at that time, and didn't want to commit myself too far ahead. We decided to talk about it again further down the line—maybe in a year. I guess we both forgot about the project—until now, when you asked me for an anecdote about Don. This is the best one I can remember—maybe the only one. I still regret never having written that novel for Don.

  I was born in New York in 1928. Raised in New Jersey, I settled in New York again after my tour of duty in the Army. I've done a lot of traveling over the years, a lot of writing. I'm still going strong, and hope to continue indefinitely.

  AGAMEMNON was desperate. Aegisthus and his men had trapped him in Clytemnestra’s bedroom. He could hear them stamping through the hallways. He had climbed out a window, made his way down the wall clinging by his fingernails to the tiny chiseled marks the stonecutters had left in the stone. Once in the street, he thought he’d be all right, steal a horse, get the hell out of Mycenae.

  It was late afternoon when he made his descent from the bedroom window. The sun was low in the west, and the narrow streets were half in shadow.

  He thought he had gotten away free and clear. But no: Aegisthus had posted a man in the street, and he called out as soon as Agamemnon was on the pavement.

  “He’s here! Agamemnon’s here! Bring help!”

  The man was a beefy Spartiate, clad in armor and helmet, with a sword and shield. Agamemnon had no armor, nothing but his sword and knife. But he was ready to tackle the man anyhow, because his rage was up, and although Homer hadn’t mentioned it, Agamemnon was a fighter to beware of when his rage was up.

  The soldier must have thought so. He retreated, darting into a doorway, still crying the alarm. Agamemnon decided to get out of there.

  A little disoriented, he looked up and down the street. Mycenae was his own city, but he’d been away in Troy for ten years. If he turned to his left, would the street take him to the Lion Gate? And would Aegisthus have guards there?

  Just that morning he had ridden into the city in triumph. It was hateful, how quickly things could fall apart.

  He had entered Mycenae with Cassandra beside him in the chariot. Her hands were bound for form’s sake, since she was technically a captive. But they had been bedmates for some weeks, ever since he had bought her from Ajax after they sacked Troy. Agamemnon thought she liked him, even though Greek soldiers had killed her parents and family. But that had been while their blood rage was still high; their rage at so many of their companions killed, and for the ten long wasted years camped outside Troy’s walls, until Odysseus and his big wooden horse had done the trick. Then they’d opened the city gates from the inside and given the place over to rage, rape, and ruin.

  None of them were very proud of what they’d done. But Agamemnon thought Cassandra understood it hadn’t been personal. It wasn’t that he was expecting forgiveness from her. But he thought she understood that the important ones—him, Achilles, Hector, Odysseus—were not bound by the rules of common men.

  They were special people, and it was easy to forget that he was not the original Agamemnon, not the first. The lottery had put them into this position, the damnable lottery which the aliens had set over them, with its crazed purpose of replaying events of the ancient world, only this time with the possibility of changing the outcomes.

  He was Chris Johnson, but he had been Agamemnon for so long that he had nearly forgotten his life before the lottery chose him
for this role.

  And then there had been all the trouble of getting to Troy, the unfortunate matter of Iphigenia, the ten years waiting in front of the city, the quarrel with Achilles, and finally, Odysseus’ wooden horse and the capture and destruction of Troy and nearly all its inhabitants, and then the long journey home over the wine-dark sea; his return to Mycenae, and now this.

  And before that? He remembered a dusty, small town not far from the Mexican border. Amos’s water tower had been the tallest building on the prairie for 200 miles in any direction. Ma’s Pancake House had been the only restaurant. When he made his lucky draw in the lottery, he remembered thinking it would be worth life itself just to get out of here, just to live a little.

  It had never been easy to get out of Mycenae. The city’s heart was a maze of narrow streets and alleys. The district he was in, close to the palace, had an oriental look—tiny shops on twisting streets. Many of the shopkeepers wore turbans. Agamemnon had never researched the life of the ancient Greeks, but he supposed this was accurate. The constructors of the lottery did what they did for a reason.

  The street Agamemnon was on came out on a broad boulevard lined with marble statues. Among them, Agamemnon recognized Perseus and Achilles, Athene and Artemis. The statues had been painted in bright colors. He was surprised to see a statue to himself. It didn’t look much like him, but it had his name on it. In English letters, not Greek. It was a concession the lottery had made to modern times: everyone in this Greece spoke English.

  He wondered if the statue represented the first Agamemnon. He knew that the lottery was always repeating the classical roles. Had there ever been a first Agamemnon? With myths and legends, you could never be quite sure.

  He saw that a procession was coming down the boulevard. There were musicians playing clarinet and trumpet. Timpani players. Even a piano, on a little cart, drawn by a donkey.

  That was obviously not legitimate. But he reminded himself that the lottery was staging this, and they could make it any way they wanted it. He didn’t even know where their Greece was.