by Don DeLillo
“My husband, when we were married,” the young woman said, “didn’t recognize my handwriting. We never left notes for each other. We never wrote letters, even when separated for months. It was always dring-dring the telephone. Isn’t that remarkable? What we’ve come to? His own wife’s handwriting. My own husband’s. Both ways it worked.”
“Is that why your marriage broke up?” Softly said.
“We forgot to have fun. That’s what happened. No kidding, we just forgot. There he goes. A fleeting figure in the dawn.”
“And now you can’t even recognize your own handwriting.”
“I can recognize it all right. I know it’s mine. I just can’t read it. So don’t draw full circles.”
“Remember, you don’t talk to anybody unless I give the word. Edna will not like this. It will take every last ounce of my massive powers of persuasion.”
“Is smoking allowed in this crate?”
“I want you to straighten out those notes so I can have a look. That’s the first order of business. Then you see my friend Terwilliger. Then we go back up. I don’t want to push things. I need Edna’s good will. This is a smuggling operation. You are being smuggled in. When you’re finished interviewing the boy, you will be smuggled out.”
“I’d rather stay in the antrum.”
“You will be smuggled out,” he said.
Serious people. No way no how, Billy thought, to avoid them in this setup. That one sitting inside his chair. The other one standing there in a blouse, a skirt and desert boots, her age and size wearing those tall shoes, not that you can blame her, this setup down here, not even any planks over the ditches. Envelope resting on Lester B.’s knees. Serious very serious. As Lester and Edna spoke of the discipline they would all have to exercise in order to succeed in this venture, Billy put his right index finger in his mouth and bit away part of the fingernail without detaching it completely. He then used this jagged fragment to scrape dirt from under the fingernails of the other hand. Eventually he reversed the process (left index finger, right hand), feeling good about the whole thing, partly because it seemed so ecologically sound. After a while he thought of his own funeral, another favored pastime, resorted to whenever his mood needed a boost, his self-esteem a measure of support. There he is in a heartrendingly cute casket lined with napped fabric, white and velvetlike. Everyone he’s ever known shows up for the wake. They stand about solemnly, shopkeepers and doctors of philosophy, dozens of boys and girls, colleagues by the score. Their sorrow at his passing mingles with his own self-pity (as he watches). It’s fairly obvious. There’s not much doubt about it. Guilt. They feel guilty. What they feel is guilt. They bear this terrible guilt for not having treated him better, loved him more, valued his life above their own.
Jerks.
Inside the drained body little eruptions of rot are already taking place. What once was composed of water, fat, protein, minerals, skeletal ash and assorted fluids is at this moment undergoing structural alteration of the most extreme sort. Mulch, glunk, wort and urg. Nameless wastes. He felt a slight weakness in his upper arms, which probably explained why this part of the death reverie failed to entertain to its usual degree.
“So what’s it like,” Lester Bolin said, “being a radical accelerate?”
“If that’s what I am, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been, at least as far back as the time I first knew what numbers were, so I can’t compare it with anything else, which is probably in general the thing you’re looking for, I mean more than, less than or equal to what it’s like not being a radical accelerate, if I heard the question right.”
“In its own way, a remarkably exact answer,” Lown said. “Note the use of ‘if,’ ‘only,’ ‘at least,’ ‘as far back as,’ ‘anything else,’ ‘probably,’ ‘in general,’ ‘more than,’ ‘less than,’ ‘equal to,’ ‘like,’ and finally ‘if’ again. Good to excellent answer.”
LESTER TELLS US ABOUT ROB
“I’m lowering my voice, so watch my lips. Softly. What Softly’s got is a nonhereditary child-size condition. Rare sort of thing. Diagnosed right from the beginning. He was an abnormally small baby, I mean really small, lopsided as well, badly proportioned. He said considering what he looked like in infancy and early childhood he’s lucky to have emerged as a ‘viewable’ adult. Apparently the thing was caused by a chemical imbalance in the mother’s womb. As I understand it, he’s not a dwarf per se. He told me this himself. I never expected to hear this kind of intimate revelation from someone like Rob. The problem with his hips was there from the start. Part and parcel. One night he just sat himself down and told me the whole thing. I admire the man more than I can say. To have accomplished what he has under such negative conditions. Here, this was delivered to me by mistake.”
He tossed the envelope on the bed and followed Edna Lown out of the cubicle. They stopped off in the kitchen, where Softly was pouring tea.
“So?”
“He has to get used to us,” Edna said.
“He will in time. Any trouble develops, let me know and I’ll work on it.”
“How long have you known him?” Lester said.
“He’s been at the Center for a couple of years. I first met him several years before that.”
“What about your other friend?” Edna said.
“Who’s that?”
“How long have you known her?”
“What other friend?”
“There’s a young woman in your cubicle.”
“She’s sitting on your bed,” Lester said. “Surrounded by sheets of paper. Sorting them.”
“No problem.”
“Who is she, Rob?”
“Journalist, she’s a journalist. Extremely adept and very cooperative. Doesn’t do anything without checking with me first. Comes to me for verification of every note, quote and so on. Will not interfere with the work. Will not make a nuisance of herself. She is no problem, believe me. I’m orchestrating the whole thing. Nobody gets anything out of this project that we don’t want to give.”
“She’s writing an article, is she?” Edna said. “A sort of general background article on Logicon. Is that the idea?”
“Book, she’s writing a book.”
“Rob, I don’t like this.”
“It’s a little book, Edna.”
“What else has she written?”
“Little books,” Softly said. “All her books have been little.”
I READ MY MAIL
Billy decided to take a walk around the area. He got up slowly, envelope in hand, and went along the crude lane that separated the rows of cubicles. There wasn’t much here that he hadn’t already seen when Softly led him in from the elevator. He didn’t go more than a few yards beyond the protective barrier of crates and oil drums. From this short distance the units for living and maintenance resembled a secure campsite, the only source of light in the giant earthen bowl. He was aware of the presence of water. Somewhere up on the slopes water was running along bedding planes and joints. Maybe it was right under him too, dripping into hollows, seeping, cracking rock apart, collecting and finding outlets, only yards below, wells and falls, deep pools, wide living rivers. He sat on a rock and looked for the first time at the front of the envelope Lester Bolin had given him.
Consortium Hondurium
c/o Liberian Ship Registry Inc.
The Guano Exchange
Tax Shelter Liechtenstein
Mr. William D. Terwilliger Jr.
School of Mathematics
Center for the Refinement of Ideational Structures
Pennyfellow, Connecticut
USA
Please forward
The thought of mail depressed him. He would have to open the envelope and read what was written inside. It seemed so burdensome. Worse, it was bound to remind him of the task ahead. Linguistic fission. Less than the measured heft of ordinary language. Less than sentences and phrases. Less than words. Less than word fragments. Less than number words. Less than the customary s
igns and symbols. Less than the usual graphics.
Space Brain Computer Quiz
WIN! WIN! WIN! WIN!
Magnetized plastic symbols
May we congratulate you on the fact that we have selected your name from a carefully guarded mailing list of some of the world’s most distinguished intellects and professional people, culled from hundreds of other lists. This makes you eligible to win an unlimited number of brightly colored redeemable plates embossed with precoded symbols. All you have to do is correctly answer the enclosed bi-level quiz questions designed and formulated by the world’s most famous computer—the fantastic Space Brain!
Eerie and Uncanny
This phenomenal control-process system—more adaptable than anything in the eerie world of science fiction—has not only designed and preprinted the deducto-magic quiz on the enclosed quiz card but is programmed to scan and grade your personalized entry. If you are a selected winner, your redeemable wallet-sized laminated plates will be enclosed in next month’s quiz. A dozen consecutive winning entries—one for each month of the calendar year—will entitle you to redeem your plates at one of our centrally located redemption centers in your color-coded area of the world. See map attached.
Pay—then play
Every statement on the enclosed quiz card has a pair of answers. SIMPLY CHECK THE BOX NEXT TO THE WORD THAT IS MOST LOGICAL. In order to play, you must first pay the preselected entry fee for your particular mailing list. This figure is computer-stamped on the back of your quiz card. All arrangements subject to the provisions of Space Brain leasing agreement. Void where voided.
ENCLOSED QUIZ CARD
Do not use numbers to indicate logical words. Simply check () the correct box. Only perfect solutions win. In the event of a tie, all entries subject to disqualification.
In a tricky situation it is your best friend, above all others, who would find it easiest to _______ you.
deceive believe
The faster you run from nameless danger, the _______ you get.
queasier wheezier
For one of tender years, it is best to approach life and its logical opposite, adult constructions both, with whatever degree of _______ you can hurriedly muster.
fatalism natalism
People who live in caves eventually go _______ .
wan yon
The practice of _______ would be difficult to introduce into alien cultures.
embalming salaaming
The radio doesn’t normally give listeners a chance to hear a _______ .
chap snap lune rune
Active people are _______ than people who just mope around feeling sorry for themselves.
healthier svelthier
Faced with temptingly equivocal data, the annotator immediately begins to _______ .
validate salivate
Being concealed, the woman’s starring _______ was difficult to interpret.
role mole
Some children have to be _______ into playing certain games.
coaxed hoaxed
Logical thought is indispensable to _______ in the midst of this, the most ambiguous of all possible worlds.
surviving conniving
Amusing, isn’t it, how it’s always the most rational of individuals, positioned securely in the dark, beyond reach of even the faintest trace of sunlight, who refuses to entertain the notion that under these or similar circumstances he’ll ever be _______ by his own shadow.
heightened frightened
After observing that the introductory bulletin accompanying the quiz card was stamped with the attesting emblem of a notary public, he made his way back to the cubicle, where a young woman was waiting.
“Hi.”
“H’o.”
Her visit was brief and the interview she conducted, although it had its opaque moments, was pretty easy to take. She rolled the TV table over to the chair and took notes as they talked. Billy sat on the bed, his back against the partition.
“I’m Jean Sweet Venable. I’m sure Rob’s told you about me.”
“Terwilliger, William.”
“I’m sure you were warned about a writer on the prowl.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Rob gave me permission to research this whole project and eventually do a book. Sounds fairly intriguing, this Logicon business. The fact that someone like you is involved makes it all the more so.”
“What’s your question?”
“Do you calculate in longhand or on the typewriter?”
“I use a pencil.”
“What are some of your other work habits?”
“I write in the dark.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing I want.”
“I write in the dark.”
“Give me more like that,” she said. “I pounce on stuff like that. I eat it up.”
“Are you something Rob keeps on the side? Because it’s fine with me but you have to understand he probably doesn’t take this book you’re doing too seriously. Wherever he goes there’s something on the side.”
“I’m fairly well known in my own right.”
“For what?”
“My books.”
“Have I heard of them?”
“So I don’t think this is a case of somebody keeping somebody else on the side. Eminent Stammerers. That was my first. Got a fair share of attention considering the limited scope of the subject matter. I’ve done scores of magazine pieces.”
“Anything else I might have read or know of someone who did?”
“The Gobbledygook Cook Book.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Fourteen weeks on the list.”
“Not bad.”
“So I don’t think, despite appearances, that this is a case of somebody not taking something too seriously.”
“Keep believing it. I do.”
“What’s the essence of your work?” she said. “I want to know what happens inside your mind. What is mathematics? Poincaré talked about getting flashes. Do you get flashes? He also said, I think he was the one, that mathematics is the art of giving the same name to different things.”
There was a trace of hoarseness in her voice, of lightly sanded cunning, somehow at odds with her appearance. Certain words she spoke seemed almost to vibrate with the kind of ironic connotation difficult to isolate from its sexual core. There was in addition an offhand and even cavalier element to her note-taking. She scribbled what he said. Line after line of catchpenny scrawl. Not even remotely legible. Maybe, he thought, she was just thinking ahead to the next question.
“What else should I ask?”
“I write using big letters.”
“I like it,” she said. “Now this business of deciphering what the ARS extants are saying. Is this being abandoned in favor of the Logicon project?”
“I am keeping going on it.”
“You’re a good subject,” she said. “Give me some more like writing in the dark with big letters. Most subjects insist on telling me about every so-called fascinating job they’ve had since the age of puberty, or what good athletes they used to be, or the year they spent in a beach house in shorts. I much prefer the offbeat item. Give me more, give me more.”
She liked to stand clutching herself as she talked. Hands under opposite elbows. Only one hand to elbow if she had a phone or drink in the other. Leaning back against the nearest large object as she talked. Sometimes her right foot scraping the floor. Her head sometimes tilted left. Jean believed in very little. All around her all her life people went around believing. They believed in horticulture, pets, theosophy and yogurt, often in that order, flickeringly, going on to periodic meditation, to silence and daunted withdrawals. Despite their belief in staying single they all believed in marriage. This was the collectivization of all other beliefs. All other beliefs were located in the pulpy suburbs of marriage. To entertain other beliefs without being married was to put oneself in some slight danger of being forced to be serious about the respective merits o
f these beliefs. Dishevelment would result. True belief. The end of one’s utter presentableness. Recently ex-married, Jean had not yet detected flaws in her presentableness. But this was because she had not yet experienced the onset of the danger of belief. The links were thrilling if indeed true links, if more than mere envisioned instants.
“I think we should wear uniforms,” Bolin said.
So, if she had been standing and talking, which she wasn’t, being encamped by now in Softly’s cubicle, “sorting impressions,” trying to read “notes,” there would have been on display some related version of that casual posture, that sleeveless V-neck sweater, that knit shirt, the acute crease in those flannel pants. Her husband had left without warning one morning. No hint since of whereabouts. All around her people accused him of cowardice. If willing to grant this, she realized she would have had to concede the corollary, that to live with her in wedlock required courage. (Is that really logical?) A certain marital valor. An intrepidity and grit. She didn’t hate him, miss him or wonder where he was. Never a thought of some swell revenge. Among the things she didn’t believe was that we learn from experience. Nothing of value accrued to her from the fact of his disappearance except for one insight, that there seems to be in men a universal mechanism, a preconscious warning hum that is activated upon mention of certain details of a woman’s prior life. And so each man she met, on being told of her husband’s sudden departure, would himself suddenly depart. It began to take on the rhythm of a biological cycle. All of them assumed she had made life unbearable. No doubt an expert in chaos administration. A magic-wielding bitch despite her utter presentableness. Discovery of the chromosomal hum did not interest her much, being useful only when she was in bed with someone she wanted to wake up in bed without, in which case she had only to remember not to go to sleep without first mentioning that one morning without warning her husband had left. All around her all her life all the others believed, forever attending classes to solidify old beliefs and obtain knowledge that would lead to new beliefs, grown people going to school for instruction in coloring with goo, in lifting the dress to sit on the pot, in spitting out buttons to prevent strangulation, believers, flickering.
