Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  “You know what I mean,” Knight muttered. “The knowledge that life is worth planning. There’s the atom bomb.”

  Boyne nodded quickly. “True. It is a crisis. But then, I’m here. The world will continue. I am proof.”

  “If I believe you.”

  “And if you do not?” Boyne blazed. “You do not lack security. You lack courage.” He nailed the couple with a contemptuous glare. “There is in this country a legend of pioneer forefathers from whom you are supposed to inherit courage in the face of odds. D. Boone, E. Allen, S. Houston, A. Lincoln, G. Washington and others. Fact?”

  “I suppose so,” Knight muttered. “That’s what we keep telling ourselves.”

  “And where is the courage in you? Pfui! It is only talk. The unknown terrifies you. Danger does not inspire you to fight, as it did D. Crockett; it makes you whine and reach for the reassurance in this book. Fact?”

  “But the atom bomb …”

  “It is a danger. Yes. One of many. What of that? Do you cheat at solhand?”

  “Solhand?”

  “Your pardon.” Boyne reconsidered, impatiently snapping his fingers at the interruption to the white heat of his argument. “It is a game played singly against chance relationships in an arrangement of cards. I forget your noun… .”

  “Oh!” Jane’s face brightened. “Solitaire.”

  “Quite right. Solitaire. Thank you, Miss Clinton.” Boyne turned his frightening eyes on Knight. “Do you cheat at solitaire?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Do you enjoy games won by cheating?”

  “Not as a rule.”

  “They are thisney, yes? Boring. They are tiresome. Pointless. Null-coordinated. You wish you had won honestly.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you will suppose so after you have looked at this bound book. Through all your pointless life you will wish you had played honestly the game of life. You will verdash that look. You will regret. You will totally recall the pronouncement of our great poet-philosopher Trynbyll who summed it up in one lightning, skazon line. ‘The Future is Tekon,’ said Trynbyll. Mr. Knight, do not cheat. Let me implore you to give me the almanac.”

  “Why don’t you take it away from me?”

  “It must be a gift. We can rob you of nothing. We can give you nothing.”

  “That’s a lie. You paid Macy to rent this back room.”

  “Macy was paid, but I gave him nothing. He will think he was cheated, but you will see to it that he is not. All will be adjusted without dislocation.”

  “Wait a minute… .”

  “It has all been carefully planned. I have gambled on you, Mr. Knight. I am depending on your good sense. Let me have the almanac. I will disband … reorient … and you will never see me again. Vorloss verdash! It will be a bar adventure to narrate for friends. Give me the almanac!”

  “Hold the phone,” Knight said. “This is a gag. Remember? I—”

  “Is it?” Boyne interrupted. “Is it? Look at me.”

  For almost a minute the young couple stared at the bleached white face with its deadly eyes. The half-smile left Knight’s lips, and Jane shuddered involuntarily. There was chill and dismay in the back room.

  “My God!” Knight glanced helplessly at Jane. “This can’t be happening. He’s got me believing. You?” Jane nodded jerkily.

  “What should we do? If everything he says is true we can refuse and live happily ever after.”

  “No,” Jane said in a choked voice. “There may be money and success in that book, but there’s divorce and death, too. Give him the almanac.”

  “Take it,” Knight said faintly.

  Boyne rose instantly. He picked up the package and went into the phone booth. When he came out he had three books in one hand and a smaller parcel made up of the original wrapping in the other. He placed the books on the table and stood for a moment, holding the parcel and smiling down.

  “My gratitude,” he said. “You have eased a precarious situation. It is only fair you should receive something in return. We are forbidden to transfer anything that might divert existing phenomena streams, but at least I can give you one token of the future.”

  He backed away, bowed curiously, and said: “My service to you both.” Then he turned and started out of the tavern.

  “Hey!” Knight called. “The token?”

  “Mr. Macy has it,” Boyne answered and was gone.

  The couple sat at the table for a few blank moments like sleepers slowly awakening. Then, as reality began to return, they stared at each other and burst into laughter.

  “He really had me scared,” Jane said.

  “Talk about Third Avenue characters. What an act. What’d he get out of it?”

  “Well … he got your almanac.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense.” Knight began to laugh again. “All that business about paying Macy but not giving him anything. And I’m supposed to see that he isn’t cheated. And the mystery token of the future …”

  The tavern door burst open and Macy shot through the saloon into the back room. “Where is he?” Macy shouted. “Where’s the thief? Boyne, he calls himself. More likely his name is Dillinger.”

  “Why, Mr. Macy!” Jane exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”

  “Where is he?” Macy pounded on the door of the men’s room. “Come out, ye blaggard!”

  “He’s gone,” Knight said. “He left just before you got back.”

  “And you, Mr. Knight!” Macy pointed a trembling finger at the young lawyer. “You, to be party to thievery and racketeers. Shame on you!”

  “What’s wrong?” Knight asked.

  “He paid me one hundred dollars to rent this back room,” Macy cried in anguish. “One hundred dollars. I took the bill over to Bernie the pawnbroker, being cautious-like, and he found out it’s a forgery. It’s a counterfeit.”

  “Oh, no,” Jane laughed. “That’s too much. Counterfeit?”

  “Look at this,” Mr. Macy shouted, slamming the bill down on the table.

  Knight inspected it closely. Suddenly he turned pale and the laughter drained out of his face. He reached into his inside pocket, withdrew a checkbook and began to write with trembling fingers.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Jane asked.

  “Making sure that Macy isn’t cheated,” Knight said. “You’ll get your hundred dollars, Mr. Macy.”

  “Oliver! Are you insane? Throwing away a hundred dollars …”

  “And I won’t be losing anything, either,” Knight answered. “All will be adjusted without dislocation! They’re diabolical. Diabolical!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look at the bill,” Knight said in a shaky voice. “Look closely.”

  It was beautifully engraved and genuine in appearance. Benjamin Franklin’s benign features gazed up at them mildly and authentically; but in the lower right-hand corner was printed: Series 1980 D. And underneath that was signed: Oliver Wilson Knight, Secretary of the Treasury.

  TIME IS THE TRAITOR

  You can’t go back and you can’t catch up. Happy endings are always bittersweet.

  There was a man named John Strapp: the most valuable, the most powerful, the most legendary man in a world containing seven hundred planets and seventeen hundred billion people. He was prized for one quality alone. He could make Decisions. Note the capital D. He was one of the few men who could make Major Decisions in a world of incredible complexity, and his Decisions were 87 percent correct. He sold his Decisions for high prices.

  There would be an industry named, say, Bruxton Biotics, with plants on Deneb Alpha, Mizar III, Terra, and main offices on Alcor IV. Bruxton’s gross income was Cr. 270 billions. The involutions of Bruxton’s trade relations with consumers and competitors required the specialized services of two hundred company economists, each an expert on one tiny facet of the vast overall picture. No one was big enough to coordinate the entire picture.

  Bruxton would need a Major Decision on polic
y. A research expert named E. T. A. Goland in the Deneb laboratories had discovered a new catalyst for biotic synthesis. It was an embryological hormone that rendered nucleonic molecules as plastic as clay. The clay could be modeled and developed in any direction. Query: Should Bruxton abandon the old culture methods and retool for this new technique? The Decision involved an intricate ramification of interreacting factors: cost, saving, time, supply, demand, training, patents, patent legislation, court actions and so on. There was only one answer: Ask Strapp.

  The initial negotiations were crisp. Strapp Associates replied that John Strapp’s fee was Cr. 100,000 plus 1 percent of the voting stock of Bruxton Biotics. Take it or leave it. Bruxton Biotics took it with pleasure.

  The second step was more complicated. John Strapp was very much in demand. He was scheduled for Decisions at the rate of two a week straight through the first of the year. Could Bruxton wait that long for an appointment? Bruxton could not. Bruxton was TT’d a list of John Strapp’s future appointments and told to arrange a swap with any of the clients as best he could. Bruxton bargained, bribed, blackmailed and arranged a trade. John Strapp was to appear at the Alcor central plant on Monday, June 29, at noon precisely.

  Then the mystery began. At nine o’clock that Monday morning, Aldous Fisher, the acidulous liaison man for Strapp, appeared at Bruxton’s offices. After a brief conference with Old Man Bruxton himself, the following announcement was broadcast through the plant: ATTENTION! ATTENTION! URGENT! URGENT! ALL MALE PERSONNEL NAMED KRUGER REPORT TO CENTRAL. REPEAT. ALL MALE PERSONNEL NAMED KRUGER REPORT TO CENTRAL. URGENT. REPEAT. URGENT!

  Forty-seven men named Kruger reported to Central and were sent home with strict instructions to stay at home until further notice. The plant police organized a hasty winnowing and, goaded by the irascible Fisher, checked the identification cards of all employees they could reach. Nobody named Kruger should remain in the plant, but it was impossible to comb out 2,500 men in three hours. Fisher burned and fumed like nitric acid.

  By eleven-thirty, Bruxton Biotics was running a fever. Why send home all the Krugers? What did it have to do with the legendary John Strapp? What kind of man was Strapp? What did he look like? How did he act? He earned Cr. 10 millions a year. He owned 1 percent of the world. He was so close to God in the minds of the personnel that they expected angels and golden trumpets and a giant bearded creature of infinite wisdom and compassion.

  At eleven-forty Strapp’s personal bodyguard arrived—a security squad of ten men in plainclothes who checked doors and halls and cul-de-sacs with icy efficiency. They gave orders. This had to be removed. That had to be locked. Such and such had to be done. It was done. No one argued with John Strapp. The security squad took up positions and waited. Bruxton Biotics held its breath.

  Noon struck, and a silver mote appeared in the sky. It approached with a high whine and landed with agonizing speed and precision before the main gate. The door of the ship snapped open. Two burly men stepped out alertly, their eyes busy. The chief of the security squad made a sign. Out of the ship came two secretaries, brunette and redheaded, striking, chic, efficient. After them came a thin, fortyish clerk in a baggy suit with papers stuffed in his side pockets, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a harassed air. After him came a magnificent creature, tall, majestic, clean-shaven but of infinite wisdom and compassion.

  The burly men closed in on the beautiful man and escorted him up the steps and through the main door. Bruxton Biotics sighed happily. John Strapp was no disappointment. He was indeed God, and it was a pleasure to have 1 percent of yourself owned by him. The visitors marched down the main hall to Old Man Bruxton’s office and entered. Bruxton had waited for them, poised majestically behind his desk. Now he leaped to his feet and ran forward. He grasped the magnificent man’s hand fervently and exclaimed, “Mr. Strapp, sir, on behalf of my entire organization, I welcome you.”

  The clerk closed the door and said, “I’m Strapp.” He nodded to his decoy, who sat down quietly in a corner. “Where’s your data?”

  Old Man Bruxton pointed faintly to his desk. Strapp sat down behind it, picked up the fat folders and began to read. A thin man. A harassed man. A fortyish man. Straight black hair. China-blue eyes. A good mouth. Good bones under the skin. One quality stood out—a complete lack of self-consciousness. But when he spoke there was a hysterical undercurrent in his voice that showed something violent and possessed deep inside him.

  After two hours of breakneck reading and muttered comments to his secretaries, who made cryptic notes in Whitehead symbols, Strapp said, “I want to see the plant.”

  “Why?” Bruxton asked.

  “To feel it,” Strapp answered. “There’s always the nuance involved in a Decision. It’s the most important factor.”

  They left the office and the parade began: the security squad, the burly men, the secretaries, the clerk, the acidulous Fisher, and the magnificent decoy. They marched everywhere. They saw everything. The “clerk” did most of the legwork for “Strapp.” He spoke to workers, foremen, technicians, high, low, and middle brass. He asked names, gossiped, introduced them to the great man, talked about their families, working conditions, ambitions. He explored, smelled and felt. After four exhausting hours they returned to Bruxton’s office. The “clerk” closed the door. The decoy stepped aside.

  “Well?” Bruxton asked. “Yes or No?”

  “Wait,” Strapp said.

  He glanced through his secretary’s notes, absorbed them, closed his eyes and stood still and silent in the middle of the office like a man straining to hear a distant whisper.

  “Yes,” he Decided, and was Cr. 100,000 and 1 percent of the voting stock of Bruxton Biotics richer. In return, Bruxton had an 87 percent assurance that the Decision was correct. Strapp opened the door again, the parade reassembled and marched out of the plant. Personnel grabbed its last chance to take photos and touch the great man. The clerk helped promote public relations with eager affability. He asked names, introduced, and amused. The sound of voices and laughter increased as they reached the ship. Then the incredible happened.

  “You!” the clerk cried suddenly. His voice screeched horribly. “You sonofabitch! You goddamned lousy murdering bastard! I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve waited ten years!” He pulled a flat gun from his inside pocket and shot a man through the forehead.

  Time stood still. It took hours for the brains and blood to burst out of the back of the head and for the body to crumple. Then the Strapp staff leaped into action. They hurled the clerk into the ship. The secretaries followed, then the decoy. The two burly men leaped after them and slammed the door. The ship took off and disappeared with a fading whine. The ten men in the plainclothes quietly drifted off and vanished. Only Fisher, the Strapp liaison man, was left alongside the body in the center of the horrified crowd.

  “Check his identification,” Fisher snapped.

  Someone pulled the dead man’s wallet out and opened it.

  “William F. Kruger, biomechanic.”

  “The damned fool!” Fisher said savagely. “We warned him. We warned all the Krugers. All right. Call the police.”

  That was John Strapp’s sixth murder. It cost exactly Cr. 500,000 to fix. The other five had cost the same, and half the amount usually went to a man desperate enough to substitute for the killer and plead temporary insanity. The other half went to the heirs of the deceased. There were six of these substitutes languishing in various penitentiaries, serving from twenty to fifty years, their families Cr. 250,000 richer.

  In their suite in the Alcor Splendide, the Strapp staff consulted gloomily.

  “Six in six years,” Aldous Fisher said bitterly. “We can’t keep it quiet much longer. Sooner or later somebody’s going to ask why John Strapp always hires crazy clerks.”

  “Then we fix him too,” the redheaded secretary said. “Strapp can afford it.”

  “He can afford a murder a month,” the magnificent decoy murmured.

  “No.” Fisher shook his head
sharply. “You can fix so far and no further. You reach a saturation point. We’ve reached it now. What are we going to do?”

  “What the hell’s the matter with Strapp anyway?” one of the burly men inquired.

  “Who knows?” Fisher exclaimed in exasperation. “He’s got a Kruger fixation. He meets a man named Kruger—any man named Kruger. He screams. He curses. He murders. Don’t ask me why. It’s something buried in his past.”

  “Haven’t you asked him?”

  “How can I? It’s like an epileptic fit. He never knows it happened.”

  “Take him to a pschoanalyst,” the decoy suggested.

  “Out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re new,” Fisher said. “You don’t understand.”

  “Make me understand.”

  “I’ll make an analogy. Back in the nineteen hundreds, people played card games with fifty-two cards in the deck. Those were simple times. Today everything’s more complex. We’re playing with fifty-two hundred in the deck. Understand?”

  “I’ll go along with it.”

  “A mind can figure fifty-two cards. It can make decisions on that total. They had it easy in the nineteen hundreds. But no mind is big enough to figure fifty-two hundred—no mind except Strapp’s.”

  “We’ve got computers.”

  “And they’re perfect when only cards are involved. But when you have to figure fifty-two hundred cardplayers, too, their likes, dislikes, motives, inclinations, prospects, tendencies and so on—what Strapp calls the nuances—then Strapp can do what a machine can’t do. He’s unique, and we might destroy his uniqueness with psychoanalysis.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s an unconscious process in Strapp,” Fisher explained irritably. “He doesn’t know how he does it. If he did he’d be one hundred percent right instead of eighty-seven percent. It’s an unconscious process, and for all we know it may be linked up with the same abnormality that makes him murder Krugers. If we get rid of one, we may destroy the other. We can’t take the chance.”

  “Then what do we do?”