Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  I was stumped, so I did the obvious thing; I called Celebrity Service. A delicate young man answered.

  I asked, “Can you tell me where the Devil is?”

  “Are you a subscriber to Celebrity Service?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can give you no information.”

  “I can afford to pay a small fee for one item.”

  “You wish limited service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the celebrity, please?”

  “The Devil.”

  “Who?”

  “The Devil—Satan, Lucifer, Scratch, Old Nick—the Devil.”

  “One moment, please.” In five minutes he was back, extremely annoyed. “Veddy soddy. The Devil is no longer a celebrity.”

  He hung up. I did the sensible thing and looked through the telephone directory. On a page decorated with ads for Sardi’s Restaurant I found Satan, Shaitan, Carnage & Bael, 477 Madison Avenue, Judson 3-1900. I called them. A bright young woman answered.

  “SSC&B. Good morning.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan, please?”

  “The lines are busy. Will you wait?”

  I waited and lost my dime. I wrangled with the operator and lost another dime but got the promise of a refund in postage stamps. I called Satan, Shaitan, Carnage & Bael again.

  “SSC&B. Good morning.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan? And please don’t leave me hanging on the phone. I’m calling from a—”

  The switchboard cut me off and buzzed. I waited. The coin box gave a warning click. At last a line opened.

  “Miss Hogan’s office.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “He doesn’t know me. It’s a personal matter.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Satan is no longer with our organization.”

  “Can you tell me where I can find him?”

  There was muffled discussion in broad Brooklyn and then Miss Hogan spoke in crisp Secretary: “Mr. Satan is now with Beelzebub, Belial, Devil & Orgy.”

  I looked them up in the phone directory. 383 Madison Avenue, Murray Hill 2-1900. I dialed. The phone rang once and then choked. A metallic voice spoke in sing-song: “The number you are dialing is not a working number. Kindly consult your directory for the correct number. This is a recorded message.” I consulted my directory. It said Murray Hill 2-1900. I dialed again and got the same recorded message.

  I finally broke through to a live operator, who was persuaded to give me the new number of Beelzebub, Belial, Devil & Orgy. I called them. A bright young woman answered.

  “BBDO. Good morning.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan, please?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Satan.”

  “I’m sorry. There is no such person with our organization.”

  “Then give me Beelzebub or the Devil.”

  “One moment, please.”

  I waited. Every half minute she opened my wire long enough to gasp, “Still ringing the Dev—” and then cut off before I had a chance to answer. At last a bright young woman spoke. “Mr. Devil’s office.”

  “May I speak to him?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  I gave her my name.

  “He’s on another line. Will you wait?”

  I waited. I was fortified with a dwindling reserve of nickels and dimes. After twenty minutes, the bright young woman spoke again: “He’s just gone into an emergency meeting. Can he call you back?”

  “No. I’ll try again.”

  Nine days later I finally got him.

  “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

  I took a breath. “I want to sell you my soul.”

  “Have you got anything on paper?”

  “What do you mean, anything on paper?”

  “The Property, my boy. The Sell. You can’t expect BBDO to buy a pig in a poke. We may drink out of Dixie cups up here, but the sauce has got to be a hundred proof. Bring in your Presentation. My girl’ll set up an appointment.”

  I prepared a Presentation of my soul with plenty of Sell. Then I called his girl.

  “I’m sorry, he’s on the Coast. Call back in two weeks.”

  Five weeks later she gave me an appointment. I went up and sat in the photomontage reception room of BBDO for two hours, balancing my Sell on my knees. Finally I was ushered into a corner office decorated with Texas brands in glowing neon. The Devil was lounging on his contour chair, dictating to an Iron Maiden. He was a tall man with the phony voice of a sales manager; the kind that talks loud in elevators. He gave me a Sincere handshake and immediately looked through my Presentation.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. I think we can do business. Now, what did you have in mind? The usual?”

  “Money, success, happiness.”

  He nodded. “The usual. Now, we’re square-shooters in this shop. BBDO doesn’t dry-gulch. We’ll guarantee money, success, and happiness.”

  “For how long?”

  “Normal life span. No tricks, my boy. We take our estimates from the actuary tables. Offhand I’d say you’re good for another forty, forty-five years. We can pinpoint that in the contract later.”

  “No tricks?”

  He gestured impatiently. “That’s all bad public relations, what you’re thinking. I promise you, no tricks.”

  “Guaranteed?”

  “Not only do we guarantee service; we insist on giving service. BBDO doesn’t want any beefs going up to the Fair Practice Committee. You’ll have to call on us for service at least twice a year or the contract will be terminated.”

  “What kind of service?”

  He shrugged. “Any kind. Shine your shoes; empty ashtrays; bring you dancing girls. That can be pinpointed later. We just insist that you use us at least twice a year. We’ve got to give you a quid for your quo. Quid pro quo. Check?”

  “But no tricks?”

  “No tricks. I’ll have our legal department draw up the contract. Who’s representing you?”

  “You mean an agent? I haven’t got one.”

  He was startled. “Haven’t got an agent? My boy, you’re living dangerously. Why, we could skin you alive. Get yourself an agent and tell him to call me.”

  “Yes, sir. M-may I … Could I ask a question?”

  “Shoot. Everything is open and aboveboard at BBDO.”

  “What will it be like for me—wh-when the contract terminates?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t advise it.”

  “I want to know.”

  He showed me. It was like a hideous session with a psychoanalyst, in perpetuity—an eternal, agonizing self-indictment. It was hell. I was shaken.

  “I’d rather have inhuman fiends torturing me,” I said.

  He laughed. “They can’t compare to man’s inhumanity to himself. Well … changed your mind, or is it a deal?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  We shook hands and he ushered me out. “Don’t forget,” he warned. “Protect yourself. Get an agent. Get the best.”

  I signed with Sibyl & Sphinx. That was on March third. I called S&S on March fifteenth. Mrs. Sphinx said, “Oh, yes, there’s been a hitch. Miss Sibyl was negotiating with BBDO for you, but she had to fly to Sheol. I’ve taken over for her.”

  I called April first. Miss Sibyl said, “Oh, yes, there’s been a slight delay. Mrs. Sphinx had to go to Salem for a tryout. A witch-burning. She’ll be back next week.”

  I called April fifteenth. Miss Sibyl’s bright young secretary told me that there was some delay getting the contracts typed. It seemed that BBDO was reorganizing its legal department. On May first Sibyl & Sphinx told me that the contracts had arrived and that their legal department was looking them over.

  I had to take a menial job in June to keep body and soul together. I worked in the stencil department of a network. At least once a week a script would come in about a bargain with the Devil that was si
gned, sealed and delivered before the opening commercial. I used to laugh at them. After four months of negotiation I was still threadbare.

  I saw the Devil once, bustling down Park Avenue. He was running for Congress and was very busy being jolly and hearty with the electorate. He addressed every cop and doorman by his first name. When I spoke to him he got a little frightened, thinking I was a Communist or worse. He didn’t remember me at all.

  In July, all negotiations stopped; everybody was away on vacation. In August everybody was overseas for some Black Mass Festival. In September Sibyl & Sphinx called me to their office to sign the contract. It was thirty-seven pages long, and fluttered with pasted-in corrections and additions. There were half a dozen tiny boxes stamped on the margin of every page.

  “If you only knew the work that went into this contract,” Sibyl & Sphinx told me with satisfaction.

  “It’s kind of long, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the short contracts that make all the trouble. Initial every box, and sign on the last page. All six copies.”

  I initialed and signed. When I was finished, I didn’t feel any different. I’d expected to start tingling with money, success, and happiness.

  “Is it a deal now?” I asked.

  “Not until he’s signed it.”

  “I can’t hold out much longer.”

  “We’ll send it over by messenger.”

  I waited a week and then called.

  “You forgot to initial one of the boxes,” they told me.

  I went to the office and initialed. After another week I called.

  “He forgot to initial one of the boxes,” they told me that time.

  On October first I received a special-delivery parcel. I also received a registered letter. The parcel contained the signed, sealed and delivered contract between me and the Devil. I could at last be rich, successful, and happy. The registered letter was from BBDO and informed me that in view of my failure to comply with Clause 27-A of the contract, it was considered terminated, and I was due for collection at their convenience. I rushed down to Sibyl & Sphinx.

  “What’s Clause 27-A?” they asked.

  We looked it up. It was the clause that required me to use the services of the Devil at least once every six months.

  “What’s the date of the contract?” Sibyl & Sphinx asked.

  We looked it up. The contract was dated March first, the day I’d had my first talk with the Devil in his office.

  “March, April, May …” Miss Sibyl counted on her fingers. “That’s right. Seven months have elapsed. Are you sure you didn’t ask for any service?”

  “How could I? I didn’t have a contract.”

  “We’ll see about this,” Mrs. Sphinx said grimly. She called BBDO and had a spirited argument with the Devil and his legal department. Then she hung up. “He says you shook hands on the deal March first,” she reported. “He was prepared in good faith to go ahead with his side of the bargain.”

  “How could I know? I didn’t have a contract.”

  “Didn’t you ask for anything?”

  “No. I was waiting for the contract.”

  Sibyl & Sphinx called in their legal department and presented the case.

  “You’ll have to arbitrate,” the legal department said, and explained that agents are forbidden to act as their client’s attorney.

  I hired the legal firm of Wizard, Warlock, Vodoo, Dowser & Hag (99 Wall Street, Exchange 3-1900) to represent me before the Arbitration Board (479 Madison Avenue, Lexington 5-1900). They asked for a two-hundred-dollar retainer plus 20 percent of the contract’s benefits. I’d managed to save thirty-four dollars during the four months I was working in the stencil department. They waived the retainer and went ahead with the Arbitration preliminaries.

  On November fifteenth the network demoted me to the mail room, and I seriously contemplated suicide. Only the fact that my soul was in jeopardy in an arbitration stopped me.

  The case came up December twelfth. It was tried before a panel of three impartial Arbitrators and took all day. I was told they’d mail me their decision. I waited a week and called Wizard, Warlock, Voodoo, Dowser & Hag.

  “They’ve recessed for the Christmas holidays,” they told me.

  I called January second.

  “One of them’s out of town.”

  I called January tenth.

  “He’s back, but the other two are out of town.”

  “When will I get a decision?”

  “It could take months.”

  “How do you think my chances look?”

  “Well, we’ve never lost an arbitration.”

  “That sounds pretty good.”

  “But there can always be a first time.”

  That sounded pretty bad. I got scared and figured I’d better copper my bets. I did the sensible thing and hunted through the telephone directory until I found Seraphim, Cherubim and Angel, 666 Fifth Avenue, Templeton 4-1900. I called them. A bright young woman answered.

  “Seraphim, Cherubim and Angel. Good morning.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Angel, please?”

  “He’s on another line. Will you wait?”

  I’m still waiting.

  THE FLOWERED THUNDERMUG

  We will conclude this first semester of Antiquities 107,” Professor Paul Muni said, “with a reconstruction of an average day in the life of a mid-twentieth-century inhabitant of the United States of America, as Great L.A. was known five hundred years ago.

  “Let us refer to him as Jukes, one of the proudest names of the times, immortalized in the Kallikak-Jukes-feud sagas. It is now generally agreed that the mysterious code letters JU, found in the directories of Hollywood East, or New York City as it was called then—viz., JU 6-0600 or JU 2-1914—indicate in some manner a genealogical relationship to the powerful Jukes dynasty.

  “The year is 1950. Mr. Jukes, a typical ‘loner’—i.e., ‘bachelor’—lives on a small ranch outside New York. He rises at dawn, dresses in spurred boots, Daks slacks, rawhide shirt, gray flannel waistcoat and black knit tie. He arms himself with a Police Positive revolver or a Frontier Six Shooter and goes out to the Bar-B-Q to prepare his breakfast of curried plankton or converted algae. He may or may not surprise juvenile delinquents or red Indians on his ranch in the act of lynching a victim or rustling his automobiles, of which he has a herd of perhaps one hundred and fifty.

  “These hooligans he disperses after single combat with his fists. Like all twentieth-century Americans, Jukes is a brute of fantastic strength, giving and receiving sledgehammer blows, or being battered by articles of furniture with inexhaustible resilience. He rarely uses his gun on such occasions; it is usually reserved for ceremonial rituals.

  “Mr. Jukes journeys to his job in New York City on horseback, in a sports car (a kind of open automobile), or on an electric trolley car. He reads his morning newspaper, which will feature such stories as: ‘The Discovery of the North Pole,’ ‘The Sinking of the Luxury Liner Titanic,’ ‘The Successful Orbiting of Mars by Manned Space Capsule,’ or ‘The Strange Death of President Harding.’

  “Jukes works in an advertising agency situated on Madison Avenue (now Sunset Boulevard East), which, in those days, was a rough muddy highway, traversed by stagecoaches, lined with gin mills and populated by bullies, corpses, and beautiful night-club performers in abbreviated dresses. Jukes is an agency man, dedicated to the guidance of taste, the improvement of culture, the election of public officers, and the selection of national heroes.

  “His office on the twentieth floor of a towering skyscraper is decorated in the characteristic style of the mid-twentieth century. He has a rolltop desk, a Null-G, or Free Fall chair and a brass spittoon. Illumination is by Optical Maser light pumps. Large fans suspended from the ceiling cool him in the summer, and an infrared Franklin stove warms him in the winter.

  “The walls are decorated with rare pictures executed by such famous painters as Michelangelo, Renoir, and Sunday. Alongside the desk is a tape recorder, wh
ich he uses for dictation. His words are later written down by a secretary using a pen and carbon ink. (It has, by now, been clearly demonstrated that the typewriting machine was not developed until the onset of the Computer Age at the end of the twentieth century.)

  “Mr. Jukes’s work involves the creation of the spiritual slogans that uplift the consumer half of the nation. A few of these have come down to us in more or less fragmentary condition, and those of you who have taken Professor Rex Harrison’s course, Linguistics 916, know the extraordinary difficulties we are encountering in our attempts to interpret: ‘Good to the Last Drop’ (for ‘good’ read ‘God’?); ‘Does She or Doesn’t She?’ (what?); and ‘I Dreamed I Went to the Circus in My Maidenform Bra’ (incomprehensible).

  “At midday, Mr. Jukes takes a second meal, usually a community affair with thousands of others in a giant stadium. He returns to his office and resumes work, but you must understand that conditions were not ideal for concentration, which is why he was forced to labor as much as four and six hours a day. In those deplorable times there was a constant uproar of highway robberies, hijackings, gang wars and other brutalities. The air was filled with falling bodies as despairing brokers leaped from their office windows.

  “Consequently it is only natural for Mr. Jukes to seek spiritual peace at the end of the day. This he finds at a ritual called a ‘cocktail party.’ He and many other believers stand close-packed in a small room, praying aloud, and filling the air with the sacred residues of marijuana and mescaline. The women worshippers often wear vestments called ‘cocktail dresses,’ otherwise known as ‘basic black.’

  “Afterward, Mr. Jukes may take his last meal of the day in a night club, an underground place of entertainment where raree shows are presented. He is often accompanied by his ‘expense account,’ a phrase difficult to interpret. Dr. David Niven argues most cogently that it was cant for ‘a woman of easy virtue,’ but Professor Nelson Eddy points out that this merely compounds the difficulty, since no one today knows what ‘a woman of easy virtue’ was.