Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  “You’re exaggerating,” Addyer said. “I’ll bet there are times where I could be very happy. I’ve thought about it for years, and I—”

  “Tcha!” Jelling snorted. “The great illusion. Name one.”

  “The American Revolution.”

  “Pfui! No sanitation. No medicine. Cholera in Philadelphia. Malaria in New York. No anesthesia. The death penalty “for hundreds of small crimes and petty infractions. None of the books and music you like best. None of the jobs or professions for which you’ve been trained. Try again.”

  “The Victorian Age.”

  “How are your teeth and eyes? In good shape? They’d better be. We can’t send your inlays and spectacles back with you. How are your ethics? In bad shape? They’d better be, or you’d starve in that cutthroat era. How do you feel about class distinctions? They were pretty strong in those days. What’s your religion? You’d better not be a Jew or Catholic or Quaker or Moravian or any minority. What’s your politics? If you’re a reactionary today, the same opinions would make you a dangerous radical a hundred years ago. I don’t think you’d be happy.”

  “I’d be safe.”

  “Not unless you were rich; and we can’t send money back. Only the flesh. No, Addyer, the poor died at the average age of forty in those days … worked out, worn out. Only the privileged survived, and you wouldn’t be one of the privileged.”

  “Not with my superior knowledge?”

  Jelling nodded wearily. “I knew that would come up sooner or later. What superior knowledge? Your hazy recollection of science and invention? Don’t be a damned fool, Addyer. You enjoy your technology without the faintest idea of how it works.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be hazy recollection. I could prepare.”

  “What, for instance?”

  “Oh … say, the radio. I could make a fortune inventing the radio.”

  Jelling smiled. “You couldn’t invent radio until you’d first invented the hundred allied technical discoveries that went into it. You’d have to create an entire new industrial world. You’d have to discover the vacuum rectifier and create an industry to manufacture it; the self-heterodyne circuit, the nonradiating neutrodyne receiver and so forth. You’d have to develop electric power production and transmission and alternating current. You’d have to—but why belabor the obvious? Could you invent internal combustion before the development of fuel oils?”

  “My God!” Addyer groaned.

  “And another thing,” Jelling went on grimly. “I’ve been talking about technological tools, but language is a tool, too; the tool of communication. Did you ever realize that all the studying you might do could never teach you how a language was really used centuries ago? Do you know how the Romans pronounced Latin? Do you know the Greek dialects? Could you learn to speak and think in Gaelic, seventeenth-century Flemish, Old Low German? Never. You’d be a deaf-mute.”

  “I never thought about it that way,” Addyer said slowly.

  “Escapists never do. All they’re looking for is a vague excuse to run away.”

  “What about books? I could memorize a great book and—”

  “And what? Go back far enough into the past to anticipate the real author? You’d be anticipating the public, too. A book doesn’t become great until the public’s ready to understand it. It doesn’t become profitable until the public’s ready to buy it.”

  “What about going forward into the future?” Addyer asked.

  “I’ve already told you. It’s the same problem only in reverse. Could a medieval man survive in the twentieth century? Could he stay alive in street traffic? Drive cars? Speak the language? Think in the language? Adapt to the tempo, ideas, and coordinations you take for granted? Never. Could someone from the twenty-fifth century adapt to the thirtieth? Never.”

  “Well, then,” Addyer said angrily, “if the past and future are so uncomfortable, what are those people traveling around for?”

  “They’re not traveling,” Jelling said. “They’re running.”

  “From what?”

  “Their own time.”

  “Why?”

  “They don’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you like yours? Does any neurotic?”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Anyplace but where they belong. They keep looking for the Golden Age. Tramps! Time-stiffs! Never satisfied. Always searching, shifting … bumming through the centuries. Pfui! Half the panhandlers you meet are probably time-bums stuck in the wrong century.”

  “And those people coming here … they think this is a Golden Age?”

  “They do.”

  “They’re crazy,” Addyer protested. “Have they seen the ruins? The radiation? The war? The anxiety? The hysteria?”

  “Sure. That’s what appeals to them. Don’t ask me why. Think of it this way: You like the American Colonial period, yes?”

  “Among others.”

  “Well, if you told Mr. George Washington the reasons why you liked his time, you’d probably be naming everything he hated about it.”

  “But that’s not a fair comparison. This is the worst age in all history.”

  Jelling waved his hand. “That’s how it looks to you. Everybody says that in every generation; but take my word for it, no matter when you live and how you live, there’s always somebody else somewhere else who thinks you live in the Golden Age.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Addyer said.

  Jelling looked at him steadily for a moment. “You will be,” he said sorrowfully. “I’ve got bad news for you, Addyer. We can’t let you remain. You’ll talk and make trouble, and our secret’s got to be kept. We’ll have to send you out one-way.”

  “I can talk wherever I go.”

  “But nobody’ll pay attention to you outside your own time. You won’t make sense. You’ll be an eccentric … a lunatic … a foreigner … safe.”

  “What if I come back?”

  “You won’t be able to get back without a visa, and I’m not tattooing any visa on you. You won’t be the first we’ve had to transport, if that’s any consolation to you. There was a Jap, I remember—”

  “Then you’re going to send me somewhere in time? Permanently?”

  “That’s right. I’m really very sorry.”

  “To the future or the past?”

  “You can take your choice. Think it over while you’re getting undressed.”

  “You don’t have to act so mournful,” Addyer said. “It’s a great adventure. A high adventure. It’s something I’ve always dreamed.”

  “That’s right. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  “I could refuse,” Addyer said nervously.

  Jelling shook his head. “We’d only drug you and send you anyway. It might as well be your choice.”

  “It’s a choice I’m delighted to make.”

  “Sure. That’s the spirit, Addyer.”

  “Everybody says I was born a hundred years too soon.”

  “Everybody generally says that … unless they say you were born a hundred years too late.”

  “Some people say that too.”

  “Well, think it over. It’s a permanent move. Which would you prefer … the phonetic future or the poetic past?”

  Very slowly Addyer began to undress as he undressed each night when he began the prelude to his customary fantasy. But now his dreams were faced with fulfillment and the moment of decision terrified him. He was a little blue and rather unsteady on his legs when he stepped to the copper disc in the center of the floor. In answer to Jelling’s inquiry he muttered his choice. Then he turned argent in the aura of an incandescent glow and disappeared from his time forever.

  Where did he go? You know. I know. Addyer knows. Addyer traveled to the land of Our pet fantasy. He escaped into the refuge that is Our refuge, to the time of Our dreams; and in practically no time at all he realized that he had in truth departed from the only time for himself.

  Through the vistas of the years every a
ge but our own seems glamorous and golden. We yearn for the yesterdays and tomorrows, never realizing that we are faced with Hobson’s Choice … that today, bitter or sweet, anxious or calm, is the only day for us. The dream of time is the traitor, and we are all accomplices to the betrayal of ourselves.

  Can you spare price of one coffee, honorable sir? No, sir, I am not panhandling organism. I am starveling Japanese transient stranded in this so-miserable year. Honorable sir! I beg in tears for holy charity. Will you donate to this destitute person one ticket to township of Lyonesse? I want to beg on knees for visa. I want to go back to year 1945 again. I want to be in Hiroshima again. I want to go home.

  OF TIME AND THIRD AVENUE

  What Macy hated about the man was the fact that he squeaked. Macy didn’t know if it was the shoes, but he suspected the clothes. In the back room of his tavern, under the poster that asked: WHO FEARS MENTION THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE? Macy inspected the stranger. He was tall, slender, and very dainty. Although he was young, he was almost bald. There was fuzz on top of his head and over his eyebrows. Then he reached into his jacket for a wallet, and Macy made up his mind. It was the clothes that squeaked.

  “MQ, Mr. Macy,” the stranger said in a staccato voice. “Very good. For rental of this back room included exclusive utility for one chronos—”

  “One whatos?” Macy asked nervously.

  “Chronos. The incorrect word? Oh yes. Excuse me. One hour.”

  “You’re a foreigner,” Macy said. “What’s your name? I bet it’s Russian.”

  “No. Not foreign,” the stranger answered. His frightening eyes whipped around the back room. “Identify me as Boyne.”

  “Boyne!” Macy echoed incredulously.

  “MQ. Boyne.” Mr. Boyne opened a wallet shaped like an accordion, ran his fingers through various colored papers and coins, then withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. He jabbed it at Macy and said: “Rental fee for one hour. As agreed. One hundred dollars. Take it and go.”

  Impelled by the thrust of Boyne’s eyes, Macy took the bill and staggered out to the bar. Over his shoulder he quavered: “What’ll you drink?”

  “Drink? Alcohol? Pfui!” Boyne answered.

  He turned and darted to the telephone booth, reached under the pay phone and located the lead-in wire. From a side pocket he withdrew a small glittering box and clipped it to the wire. He tucked it out of sight, then lifted the receiver.

  “Coordinates West 73-58-15,” he said rapidly. “North 40-45-20. Disband sigma. You’re ghosting …” After a pause, he continued: “Stet. Stet! Transmission clear. I want a fix on Knight. Oliver Wilson Knight. Probability to four significant figures. You have the coordinates… . 99.9807? MQ. Stand by____”

  Boyne poked his head out of the booth and peered toward the tavern door. He waited with steely concentration until a young man and a pretty girl entered. Then he ducked back to the phone. “Probability fulfilled. Oliver Wilson Knight in contact. MQ. Luck my Para.” He hung up and was sitting under the poster as the couple wandered toward the back room.

  The young man was about twenty-six, of medium height, and inclined to be stocky. His suit was rumpled, his seal-brown hair was rumpled, and his friendly face was crinkled by good-natured creases. The girl had black hair, soft blue eyes, and a small private smile. They walked arm in arm and liked to collide gently when they thought no one was looking. At this moment they collided with Mr. Macy.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Knight,” Macy said. “You and the young lady can’t sit back there this afternoon. The premises have been rented.”

  Their faces fell. Boyne called: “Quite all right, Mr. Macy. All correct. Happy to entertain Mr. Knight and friend as guests.”

  Knight and the girl turned to Boyne uncertainly. Boyne smiled and patted the chair alongside him. “Sit down,” he said. “Charmed, I assure you.”

  The girl said: “We hate to intrude, but this is the only place in town where you can get genuine Stone ginger beer.”

  “Already aware of the fact, Miss Clinton.” To Macy he said: “Bring ginger beer and go. No other guests. These are all I’m expecting.”

  Knight and the girl stared at Boyne in astonishment as they sat down slowly. Knight placed a wrapped parcel of books on the table. The girl took a breath and said, “You know me … Mr… . ?”

  “Boyne. As in Boyne, Battle of. Yes, of course. You are Miss Jane Clinton. This is Mr. Oliver Wilson Knight. I rented premises particularly to meet you this afternoon.”

  “This supposed to be a gag?” Knight asked, a dull flush appearing on his cheeks.

  “Ginger beer,” answered Boyne gallantly as Macy arrived, deposited the bottles and glasses, and departed in haste.

  “You couldn’t know we were coming here,” Jane said. “We didn’t know ourselves … until a few minutes ago.”

  “Sorry to contradict, Miss Clinton,” Boyne smiled. “The probability of your arrival at Longitude 73-58-15 Latitude 40-45-20 was 99.9807 per cent. No one can escape four significant figures.”

  “Listen,” Knight began angrily, “if this is your idea of—”

  “Kindly drink ginger beer and listen to my idea, Mr. Knight.” Boyne leaned across the table with galvanic intensity. “This hour has been arranged with difficulty and much cost. To whom? No matter. You have placed us in an extremely dangerous position. I have been sent to find a solution.”

  “Solution for what?” Knight asked.

  Jane tried to rise. “I … I think we’d b-better be go—”

  Boyne waved her back, and she sat down like a child. To Knight he said: “This noon you entered premises of J. D. Craig & Co., dealer in printed books. You purchased, through transfer of money, four books. Three do not matter, but the fourth …” He tapped the wrapped parcel emphatically. “That is the crux of this encounter.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Knight exclaimed.

  “One bound volume consisting of collected facts and statistics.”

  “The almanac?”

  “The almanac.”

  “What about it?”

  “You intended to purchase a 1950 almanac.”

  “I bought the ’50 almanac.”

  “You did not!” Boyne blazed. “You bought the almanac for 1990.”

  “What?”

  “The World Almanac for 1990,” Boyne said clearly, “is in this package. Do not ask how. There was a carelessness that has already been disciplined. Now the error must be adjusted. That is why I am here. It is why this meeting was arranged. You cognate?”

  Knight burst into laughter and reached for the parcel. Boyne leaned across the table and grasped his wrist. “You must not open it, Mr. Knight.”

  “All right.” Knight leaned back in his chair. He grinned at Jane and sipped ginger beer. “What’s the payoff on the gag?”

  “I must have the book, Mr. Knight. I would like to walk out of this tavern with the almanac under my arm.”

  “You would, eh?”

  “I would.”

  “The 1990 almanac?”

  “Yes.”

  “If,” said Knight, “there was such a thing as a 1990 almanac, and if it was in that package, wild horses couldn’t get it away from me.”

  “Why, Mr. Knight?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. A look into the future? Stock market reports … Horse races … Politics. It’d be money from home. I’d be rich.”

  “Indeed yes.” Boyne nodded sharply. “More than rich. Omnipotent. The small mind would use the almanac from the future for small things only. Wagers on the outcome of games and elections. And so on. But the intellect of dimensions … your intellect … would not stop there.”

  “You tell me,” Knight grinned.

  “Deduction. Induction. Inference.” Boyne ticked the points off on his fingers. “Each fact would tell you an entire history. Real estate investment, for example. What lands to buy and sell. Population shifts and census reports would tell you. Transportation. Lists of marine disasters and railroad wrecks would tell you
whether rocket travel has replaced the train and ship.”

  “Has it?” Knight chuckled.

  “Flight records would tell you which company’s stock should be bought. Lists of postal receipts would indicate the cities of the future. The Nobel Prize winners would tell you which scientists and what new inventions to watch. Armament budgets would tell you what factories and industries to control. Cost-of-living reports would tell you how best to protect your wealth against inflation and deflation. Foreign exchange rates, stock exchange reports, bank suspensions, and life insurance indexes would provide the clues to protect you against any and all disasters.”

  “That’s the idea,” Knight said. “That’s for me.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I know so. Money in my pocket. That world in my pocket.”

  “Excuse me,” Boyne said keenly, “but you are only repeating the dreams of childhood. You want wealth. Yes. But only won through endeavor … your own endeavor. There is no joy in success as an unearned gift. There is nothing but guilt and unhappiness. You are aware of this already.”

  “I disagree,” Knight said.

  “Do you? Then why do you work? Why not steal? Rob? Burgle? Cheat others of their money to fill your own pockets?”

  “But I—” Knight began, and then stopped.

  “The point is well taken, eh?” Boyne waved his hand impatiently. “No, Mr. Knight. Seek a mature argument. You are too ambitious and healthy to wish to steal success.”

  “Then I’d just want to know if I would be successful.”

  “Ah? Stet. You wish to thumb through the pages looking for your name. You want reassurance. Why? Have you no confidence in yourself? You are a promising young attorney. Yes, I know that. It is part of my data. Has not Miss Clinton confidence in you?”

  “Yes,” Jane said in a loud voice. “He doesn’t need reassurance from a book.”

  “What else, Mr. Knight?”

  Knight hesitated, sobering in the face of Boyne’s overwhelming intensity. Then he said: “Security.”

  “There is no such thing. Life is danger. You can only find security in death.”