Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  The Dominie’s program for a devastating Popsy who was to be enchanting, trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, clever, chic, soft-spoken, beautiful, busty, eloquent on demand, and always available to entertain, began as follows:

  Und so weiter. Und good luck to the computer software for creative biogenesis, which couldn’t possibly interest anyone.

  “Anyway, there’s no point in reading the program, Charles. Numbers can’t paint the picture. I’ll just describe the sources I’ve used for the generation of our Popsy. You may not recognize some of the names, but I assure you that most of them were very real and famous celebrities in their time.”

  “What was your lecture to Igor the other day, Reg? ‘A chef is no better than his materials.’”

  “Right on. And I’m using the best. Beauty—Botticelli’s Venus of course, but with Egyptian breasts. I thought of using Pauline Borghese, but there’s a queen in a limestone relief from the Ptolemaic period who’s the ideal model. Callipygian rear elevation. Maidenhair frontispiece, delicate and fritillary. Did you say something, Charles?”

  “Not I, Reg.”

  “I’ve decided not to use Aspasia for the virtues.”

  “But you said that was what Valera wanted.”

  “So I did, but I was wrong. The real Aspasia was a damned premature Women’s Rights activist. Too strong for the chairman’s taste.”

  “And yours?”

  “Any man’s. So I’m using Egeria instead.”

  “Egeria? I haven’t had an education in the classics, Reg.”

  “Egeria, the legendary fountain nymph who was the devoted adviser to King Numa of ancient Rome. She also possessed the gift of prophecy, which might come in handy for Valera. Let’s see. Fashion and chic—a famous couturière named Coco Chanel. Subtle perceptions—the one and only Jane Austen. Voice and theater sense—Sarah Bernhardt. And she’ll add a soupçon of lovely Jew.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “It’s obvious you haven’t met many on the outer planets or you wouldn’t ask. Remarkable race, Jews: freethinking, original, creative, obstinate, impossible to live with or without.”

  “That’s how you described the ideal mistress, wasn’t it?”

  “I did.”

  “But if your Popsy is obstinate, how can she respond to Valera’s desires?”

  “Oh, I’m using Lola Montez for that. Apparently, she was a tigress in the sex department. Hmmm. Next? Victoria Woodhull for business acumen. La Pasionaria for courage. Hester Baterman—she was the first woman silversmith—for skills. Dorothy Parker for wit. Florence Nightingale for sacrifice. Mata Hari for mystery. What else?”

  “Conversation.”

  “Quite right. Oscar Wilde.”

  “Oscar Wilde!”

  “Why not? He was a brilliant talker; held dinner parties spellbound. I’m giving her dancer’s hands, neck, and legs. Dolley Madison hostessing, and—I’ve omitted something… .”

  “Your deliberate mistake.”

  “Of course. The mystery kink which will catch us all by surprise.” Manwright flipped through the software. “It’s programmed somewhere around here. No, that’s Valera’s Persona Profile. Charles, you won’t believe the damned intransigent, stubborn, know-it-all, conceited egomania concealed beneath that polished veneer. It’s going to be hell imprinting our girl with an attraction engram for such an impossible man. Oh, here’s the unexpected in black and white.”

  Manwright pointed to:

  “Wait a minute,” Corque said slowly. That equation looks familiar.”

  “Aha.”

  “I think I remember it from one of my boyhood texts.”

  “Oh-ho.”

  “The … the most probable distance …” Corque was dredging up the words “… from the lamppost after a certain number of … of irregular turns is equal to the average length of each track that is—”

  “Straight track, Charles.”

  “Right. Each straight track that is walked, times the square root of their number.” Corque looked at Manwright with a mixture of wonder and amusement. “Confound you, Reg! That’s the solution to the famous ‘Drunkard’s Walk’ problem from The Law of Disorder. And this is the deliberate uncertainty that you’re programming? You’re either a madman or a genius.”

  “A little of both, Charles. A little of both. Our Popsy will walk straight lines within my parameters, but we’ll never know when or how she’ll hang a right or a left.”

  “Surely she’ll be aiming for Valera?”

  “Of course. He’s the lamppost. But she’ll do some unexpected staggering on the way.” Manwright chuckled and sang in an odd, husky voice. “There’s a lamp on a post, There’s a lamp on a post, And it sets the night aglowin’. Boy girl boy girl, Boy boy girl girl, But best when flakes is snowin’.”

  Regis Manwright’s laboratory notes provide a less-than-dramatic description (to put it politely) of the genesis and embryological development of Galatea Galante, the Perfect Popsy.

  GERMINAL

  Day 1: One hundred milliliter Florence flask.

  Day 2: Five hundred milliliter Florence flask.

  Day 3: One thousand milliliter Florence flask.

  Day 4: Five thousand milliliter Florence flask.

  Day 5: Decanted.

  (E & A charging too damn much for flasks!!!)

  (Baby nominal. Charles enchanted with her. Too red for my taste. Poured out of the amnion blowing bubbles and talking. Couldn’t shut her up. Just another fresh kid with a damn big mouth.)

  “Reg. Gaily must have a nurse.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Charles! She’ll be a year old next week.”

  “She must have someone to look after her.”

  “All right. All right. Igor. She can sleep in his room.”

  “No, no, no. He’s a dear creature, but hardly my idea of a nursemaid.”

  “I can convince him he made her. He’ll be devoted.”

  “No good, Reg; he isn’t child oriented.”

  “You want someone child oriented? Hmmm. Ah, yes. Got just the right number for you. I generated The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe for the Positively Peerless Imitation Plastic company to use in their genuine plastics sales promotion.”

  ‘“She had so many children she didn’t know what to do’?”

  “The same.” Manwright punched the CB keyboard. “Seanbhean? This is Regis.”

  The screen sparkled and cleared. A gypsy crone appeared with begging hand outstretched for alms.

  “How’s everything going, Seanbhean?”

  “Scanruil aduafar, Regis.”

  “Why?”

  “Briseadh ina ghno e.”

  “What! PPIP gone bankrupt? That’s shocking. So you’re out of a job?”

  “Deanfaidh sin!”

  “Well perhaps I have something for you, Seanbhean. I’ve just generated—”

  “Cut off, Reg,” Corque broke in sharply.

  Manwright was so startled by Corque’s tone that he obeyed and looked up perplexedly. “Don’t think she’ll do, Charles?”

  “That old hag? Out of the question.”

  “She isn’t old,” Manwright protested. “She’s under thirty. I made her look like that according to specs: Seventy-year-old Irish gypsy. They call ’em ‘tinkers’ in Ireland. Speaks Irish and can handle kid actors who are a pain in the ass. And I delivered, by God.”

  “As you always do, but still out of the question. Please try someone else.”

  “Charles, has that damn infant got you enthralled?”

  “No.”

  “Her first conquest, and she’s just out of the flask! Can you imagine what she’ll do to men in another twenty weeks? Be at each other’s throats. Fighting duels. Ha! I am a genius, and I don’t deny it.”

  “We need a nurse for Gaily, Reg.”

  “Nag, nag, nag.”

  “Someone warm and comforting after the child has endured a session with you.”

  “I can’t think w
hat the man is implying. All right, cradle-snatcher, all right. I’ll call Claudia.” Manwright punched the CB. “She’s warm and maternal and protective. Wish she’d been my nanny. Hello? Claudia? It’s Regis. Switch on, darling.” The screen sparkled and cleared. The magnificent head and face of a black mountain gorilla appeared.

  “!!” she grunted.

  “I’m sorry, love. Been too busy to call. You’re looking well. How’s that no-good husband of yours?”

  “!”

  “And the kids?”

  “!!!”

  “Splendid. Now don’t forget. You promised to send them to me so I can surgify them into understanding our kind of speech. Same like you, love, and no charge. And speaking of kids, I’ve got a new one, a girl, that I’d like you to—”

  At this point the stunned Corque collected himself enough to press the cutoff stud. Claudia faded.

  “Are you mad?” he demanded.

  Manwright was bewildered. “What’s wrong, Charles?”

  “You suggest that terrifying beast for the child’s nurse?”

  “Beast! She’s an angel of mother love. She’ll have the kid climbing all over her, hugging and kissing her. It’s interesting,” he reflected, “I can manipulate the cognition centers, but I can’t overcome muscular limitations. I gave Claudia college-level comprehension of spoken and written communications, but I couldn’t give her human speech. She’s still forced to use Mountain, which is hardly a language of ideas. Damn frustrating. For both of us.”

  “And you actually want her to mother Gaily?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Your Claudia will frighten the daylights out of the infant.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “She’s hideous.”

  “Are you mad? She’s beautiful. Pure. Majestic. And a hell of a lot brighter than your Remedial Table Tennis bums at Syrtus University.”

  “But she can’t talk. She only grunts.”

  “Talk? Talk? For God’s sake, Charles! That damn red Popsy was poured out talking sixteen to the dozen. We can’t shut her up. She’s filling the house with enough of her jabber as it is. Be grateful for some silence.”

  So Claudia, the black mountain gorilla, moved into the Manwright ménage, and Igor was furiously jealous.

  The first morning that Claudia joined Manwright and Corque at breakfast (while Igor glowered at his massive rival), she printed a message on a pad and handed it to the Dominie: R DD YU GV G TLT TRG IN YR PRGRM?

  “Let’s see if I remember your abbreviations, darling. Did you … that’s me … give Galatea … yes, toilet training in your program? My God, Claudia! I gave her the best of 47 women. Surely at least one of them must have been toilet trained.”

  BY DPRS

  “By what, Claudia?”

  “Buy diapers, Reg.”

  “Oh, Ah. Of course. Thank you, Charles. Thank you, Claudia. More coffee, love? It’s frustrating, Charles. Muscular dyspraxia again. Claudia can manage caps in her writing but she can’t hack lower case. How many diapers, Claudia?”

  1 DZ.

  “Right. One doz. Zu Befehl. Did you bring your kids to play with the baby?”

  TO OD

  “Too old for what?”

  TOO OLD

  “Your kids?”

  G

  “What? Galatea? Too old for your boys? And still in diapers? I’d best see for myself.”

  One of the top-floor bedrooms had been converted into a nursery. The usual biodroid cellar accommodations weren’t good enough for Manwright’s magnum opus. When the Dominie entered with Claudia, the red infant was on the floor, flat on her belly, propped on a pillow, and deep in a book. She looked up and crawled enthusiastically to Claudia.

  “Nanny dear, I’ve found the answer, the old linear shorthand. Just slashes, dots, and dashes, and you won’t have to worry your hand and head over cursive abbreviations. It’s a simple style, and we can practice together.” She climbed up on Claudia and kissed her lovingly. “One would think this might have occurred to that egotistical know-it-all whose name escapes me.” The infant turned her auburn head. “Why, good morning, Dominie Manwright. What an unpleasant surprise.

  “You’re right, Claudia,” Manwright growled. “She’s too damned old for your kids. Diaper her.”

  “My sphincter will be under control by tomorrow, Dominie,” Galatea said sweetly. “Can you say the same for your tongue?”

  “Guh!” And Manwright withdrew with what he hoped was impressive dignity.

  Of course, she shot up like a young bamboo plant and filled the house with joy as she entertained them with her escapades. She taught herself to play Manwright’s Regency harpsichord, which was sadly out of repair. She convinced Igor that it was a monster in the making, and together they refinished and tuned it. The sound of concert-A on the tuning fork droned through the house with agonizing penetration. The others were forced to eat out because she gave Igor no time for cooking.

  She studied linear shorthand with Claudia and then translated it into finger language. They had glorious raps, silently talking to each other until Manwright banned the constant finger waggling, which he denounced as a damned invasion of vision. They simply held hands and talked into each other’s palm in their secret code, and Manwright was too proud to ask what they were gossiping about.

  “As if I’d get an answer anyway,” he growled to Corque.

  “D’you think that’s her mystery surprise, Reg?”

  “Damned if I know. She’s unexpected enough as it is. Rotten kid!”

  She stole liquid licorice from Igor’s sacred pantry and tarred herself; phosphorus from Manwright’s sacred laboratory and irradiated herself. She burst into Corque’s dark bedroom at three in the morning, howling, “ME METHOPHYTE MOTHER FROM GANNYMEEDYI YOU KILL ALL MY CHILDERS, ALIEN INVADER FROM OUTSIDE SPACE! NOW ME KILL YOU!”

  Corque let our a yell and then couldn’t stop laughing for the rest of the day. “The beautiful shock of the apparition, Reg!” Manwright didn’t think it was funny.

  “That damned child is giving me real nightmares,” he complained. “I keep dreaming that I’m lost in the Grand Teton mountains and Red Indians are chasing me.”

  She sneaked up into the sacred penthouse and decorated the robotlike neutrinoscope with items stolen from Manwright’s wardrobe. The construct assumed a ludicrous resemblance to the Dominie himself.

  The innocent child fast-talked E & A Chemical delivery—“My Daddy forgot to order it. So absent-minded, you know”—into an extra gallon of ethyl alcohol which she poured into the marble pool and got the piranhas disgustingly drunk. Then she jumped in and was discovered floating with her plastered pals.

  “Doesn’t know the meaning of fear, Reg.”

  “Pah! Just the Pasionaria I programmed.”

  She stole two hundred meters of magnetic tape from the library and fashioned a scarecrow mobile. The gardener was enraptured. Manwright was infuriated, particularly because art-dealer friends offered huge amounts for the creation.

  “But that’s her charming unexpected, Reg. Gally’s a born artist.”

  “Like hell she is. That’s only the Hester Bateman I gave her. No yet. And the nightmares are continuing in sequence. Those damned Red Indians have cut me off at the pass.”

  Claudia took Galatea to her home, where the girl got on famously with Claudia’s two sons and brought them to Manwright’s house to demonstrate a new dance which she’d devised called: “The Anthro Hustle.” It was performed to a song she’d composed entitled: “Who Put the Snatch on Gorilla Baby?” which she banged out fortis-simously on the harpsichord.

  “Bring back the tuning fork,” Manwright muttered.

  Corque was applauding enthusiastically. “Music’s her surprise kink, Reg.”

  “Call that music?”

  Corque took her to his Saturn Circus, where she mesmerized him into letting her try riding bareback and leaping through burning hoops, acting as target for a knife thrower, trapeze aerobatics, and thrus
ting her auburn head into a lion’s mouth. He couldn’t understand how she’d persuaded him to let her take such horrifying risks.

  “Perhaps cajolery’s her mystery quality,” he suggested. “But she did miraculously well, Reg. My heart was in my mouth. Gaily never turned a hair. Pure aplomb. She’s a magnificent creation. You’ve generated a Super-Popsy for Valera.”

  “Guh.”

  “Could her unexpected kink be psychic?”

  “The redskins have got me surrounded,” Manwright fretted. He seemed strangely disoriented.

  What disturbed him most were the daily tutoring sessions with the young lady. Invariably they degenerated into bickering and bitching, with the Dominie usually getting the worst of it.

  “When our last session ended in another bitch we both steamed for the library door,” he told Corque. “I said, ‘Age before beauty, my dear,’ which you must admit was gracious, and started out. That red Popsy snip said, ‘Pearls before swine,’ and swaggered past me like a gladiator who’s wiped an entire arena.”

  “She’s wonderful!” Corque laughed.

  “Oh, you’re insanely biased. She’s been twisting you around her fingers since the moment she was poured.”

  “And Igor and Claudia and her two boys and the CB repair and the plumber and the electronics and the gardener and the laundry and E & A Chemical and half of my circus? All insanely biased?”

  “Evidently I’m the only sanity she can’t snow. You know the simple psychological truth, Charles; we’re always accusing others of our own faults. That saucebox has the impudence to call me intransigent, stubborn, know-it-all, conceited. Me! Out of her own mouth. Q.E.D.”

  “Mightn’t it be the other way around, Reg?”

  “Do try to make sense, Charles. And now that the Grand Teton breastworks are making her top-heavy (I think maybe I was a little too generous with my Egyptian programming) there’ll be no living with her vanity. Women take the damned dumbest pride in the thrust of their boozalums.”

  “Now Reg, you exaggerate. Gaily knows we’d all adore her even if she were flatchested.”

  “I know I’m doing a professional job, and I know she has too much ego in her cosmos. But next week we start schlepping her to parties, openings, talk-ins, routs, and such to train her for Valera. That ought to take her down a peg. The Red Indians have got me tied to a stake,” he added gloomily.