“Canapés?”
“Ta evah so. Lahvely pahty, Ms. Galante.”
“Thank you, Lady Agatha. Canapés?”
“Grazie, Signorina.”
“Prego, Commendatore. Canapés?”
“A dank, meyd’l. Lang leb’n zolt ir.”
“Nito far vus, General. Hot canapés, dear Professor Corque?”
“Thank you, adorable hostess. Igor’s?”
“Mine.”
“And perfection. Don’t be afraid of the Martian consul. He won’t bite.”
“Canapés, M’sieur Consul?”
“Ah! Mais oui! Merci, Mademoiselle Gallée. Que pensez-vous du lumineux Dominie Manwright?”
“C’est un type très compétent.”
“Oui. Romanésque, mais formidablement compétent.”
“Quoi? Manwright? Romanésque? Vous me gênez, mon cher consul.”
“Ma foi, oui, romanésque, Mademoiselle Gallée. C’est justement son côté romanésque qui lui cause du mal à se trouver une femme.”
“These damn do’s are a drag, Charles.”
“But isn’t she wonderful?”
“And they’re making my nightmares worse. A sexy Indian squaw tore my clothes off last night.”
“Mi interesso particolarmente ai libri di fantascienza, magia-orrore, umorismo, narrativa, attualità, filosofia, sociologia, e cattivo, putrido Regis Manwright.”
“Charles, this is the last literary talk-in I ever attend.”
“Did you see how Gaily handled those Italian publishers?”
“Yes, gibes at my expense. She put iron claws on her hands.”
“My dear Reg, Gaily did no such thing.”
“I was referring to that sexy squaw.”
“Então agora sabes dançer?”
“Sim. Danço, falo miseravelmente muchas linguas, estudo ciên-cia e filosofia, escrevo uma lamentával poesia, estoirome com experiências idiotas, egrimo como un louco, jogo so boxe como up palhaco. Em suma, son a célébra bioroid, Galatea Galante, de Dominie Manwright.”
“She was magnificent dancing with that Portuguese prince, Reg.”
“Portuguese ponce, you mean.”
“Don’t be jealous.”
“She’s heating the claws in a damned campfire, Charles.”
“Didn’t you ever fight back, Sandy?”
“Yes, I know, he’s a bully. But all bullies are cowards at heart. You should have fought him to a standstill, like me. Did he ever make a pass at you?”
“Un-huh. Me neither. He’s an arrogant egomaniac, too much in love with himself to love anyone else.”
“What, Sandy? Me? Give the come-on to that dreadful man? Never! Did you?
“Uh-huh. And he didn’t even have to lash himself to the mast. Iceberg City. Ah, Mr. Jessamy. So sweet of you to give us your box for the concert. I’ve just been comparing notes with your adorable wife on our common enemy, whose name escapes me. He’s the gentleman on my right, who slept through the Mozart.”
“And dreamed that she’s torturing me with her burning claws, Charles, all over my bod.”
“Man nehme: zwei Teile Selbstgefälligkeit, zwei Teile Selbstsucht, einen Teil Eitelkeit, und einen Teil Esel, mische kräftig, füge etwas Geheimnis hinzu, und man erhält Dominie Regis Manwright.”
“Especially my private parts.”
“Dominie Manwright’s biodroid está al día en su manera de tratar los neologismos, palabras coloquiales, giro y modismos, clichés y términos de argot, senor. Yo soy Galatea Galante, la biodroid.”
“Thank you, madame. I am not Spanish; I merely admire and respect the old Castilian style.”
“Oh. Scuse me, chorley guy. You toller-day donsk?”
He burst out laughing. “I see you’re very much with the classics, madame. Let me think. Yes. The proper response in that James Joyce litany is ‘N.’”
“You talkatiff scowegian?”
“Nn.”
“You spigotty anglease?”
“Nnn.”
“You phonio saxo?”
“Nnnn.”
“Clear all so. ‘Tis a Jute. Let us swop hats and excheck a few strong verbs weak oach eather yapyazzard.”
“Brava, madame! Bravissima!”
She tilted her auburn head and looked at him strangely. “Against my will,” she said slowly, “I’m compelled to invite you to a dinner party tonight.”
“More classics, madame? The Beatrice and Benedict scene from Much Ado About Nothing?”
“No, it’s the Galatea and—I don’t know your name.”
“Valera. Antony Valera.”
“It’s the Galatea and Valera scene. Can you come?”
“With delight.”
“When this bash is finished I’ll give you the address.”
“I know it, Galatea.”
“My friends call me Gaily. How do you know my address? We’ve never met.”
“I contracted with—I’m acquainted with Dominie Manwright, Gaily. Tonight? Eight o’clock?”
“Eight tonight.”
“Dress party?”
“Optional.” She shook her head dizzily. “I don’t know what’s got into me, Valera. The moment I saw you at this clambake I knew I had to see you again, intimately. I’m possessed!”
The rest of the household was dining in The Gastrologue, and their moods were not compatible.
“Thrown out.” Corque kept repeating. “Thrown out without a moment’s notice by that ungrateful tyrant!”
“Naturally. She wants to be alone with Valera, Charles. Instant, devoted attraction, as per my brilliant programming. I tell you, I’m a genius.”
“She athed me to make month-terth for her to therve, maththter.”
“Quite right, Igor. We must all pitch in and abet Valera’s romance. He was so turned on meeting her at that bash this afternoon that he sent his check by messenger. Payment in full … to protect his claim on my Perfect Popsy, no doubt.”
“Thrown out! Thrown out by that tyrant!”
“And good riddance to her very soon, Charles. The house will be back to normal.
“But she didn’t order a brain, mahth-ter.”
“Not to worry, Igor. Tell you what: we’ll order cervelles de veau au beurre noir, and if Gastrologue doesn’t have any calves’ brains you can go out and steal some.” He beamed and bobbed his pale, streaky head.
“Thank you, mahth-ter.”
“Evicted!”
The silent Claudia printed: PLANTAINS FR ME PLS RELLENOS DE AMARILLO.
At one minute past eight Valera said, “It’s fashionable to be a half-hour late, but I— Is it all right to come in?”
“Oh please! I’ve been biting my nails for a whole minute.”
“Thank you. To tell the truth, I tried to be chic, but it didn’t take as long as I thought it would to walk up from Old Slip.”
“Old Slip? Isn’t that where your office is? Were you working late, poor soul?”
“I live there too, Gaily. A penthouse on top of the tower.”
“Ah, à la Alexander Eiffel?”
“Somewhat, but the Syndicate complex is no Tour Eiffel. What a fantastic place this is. I’ve never done more than peep beyond the waiting room.”
“D’you want the full tour?”
“I’d like nothing better.”
“You’ve got it, but drink first. What would you like?”
“What are you serving?”
“My dear Valera, I—”
“Tony.”
“Thank you. My dear Tony, I share this house with two and a half men and a mountain gorilla. We have everything in stock.”
“Stolichnaya, please. Half?”
“Igor, our housekeeper,” Galatea explained as she brought a tray with a bucket of ice, a bottle, and shot glasses. She opened the vodka deftly and began revolving the bottle in the ice. “A biodroid replica of Baron Frankenstein’s accomplice.”
“Oh yes, I’ve met him. The lisping hunchback.”
“A dear, dear
soul, but only half with it.”
“And a gorilla?”
“That’s Claudia, my beloved nanny. She’s beautiful. This vodka really isn’t chilled enough yet, but let’s start anyway.” She filled the glasses. “Russian style, eh? Knock it back, Tony. Death to the fascist, imperialist invaders from outer space.”
“And their Conestoga star-wagons.”
They knocked their shots back.
“Gaily, what miracle are you wearing?”
“Là, sir!” She did a quick kick-turn. “Like it?”
“I’m dazzled.”
“If I tell you, promise not to turn me in?”
“I promise.”
“I copied it from a Magda.”
“Who or what is a Magda? Oh, thank you.”
“I’m afraid I filled it too high, but boys like big sandwiches and big drinks. She’s the vogue designer of the year. Down with countertenors.”
“May they be heard only in Siberia. Why must I keep it a secret about your copy?”
“Good Lord! They hang, draw, and quarter you if you pinch a designer original.”
“How did you manage?”
“I fell in love with it at one of her openings and memorized it.”
“And made it yourself? From memory? You’re remarkable!”
“You’re exaggerating. Don’t you remember complicated stock manipulations?”
“Well, yes.”
“So with me it’s the same damn thing. Oops! That’s the tag of a dirty joke. Apologies to the chairman.”
“The chairman needs all the dirty jokes he can get for client entertainment. What’s this one?”
“Maybe someday, if you coax me nicely.”
“Where do you get them? Surely not from Dominie Manwright.”
“From Claudia’s naughty boys. Another shot to the damnation of Blue Laws, and then the guided tour.”
Valera was bewildered and delighted by the madness of Manwright’s house, and enchanted by the high style with which Galatea flowed through it with equally mad comments. An old song lyric haunted him:
Hey, diddle-dee-dee,
I’ve found the girl for me.
With raunchy style
And virgin guile
She’s just the girl for me.
“Never mind the polite compliments, Tony,” she said, pulling him down on a couch beside her and refilling his glass. “I’ll give you the acid test. Of all things in this house, which would you be most likely to steal?”
“You.”
“I didn’t say kidnap. Come on, man, steal something.”
“I think I spilled my drink.”
“It’s my fault; I joggled your arm. Don’t mop. So?”
“You’re so sudden, Gaily. Well … don’t laugh… . The scarecrow mobile in the garden.”
“Oh, I love you for that! / made it, when I was a little kid months ago.” She gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek and jumped up. “Like some music?” She turned on the hi-fi and a soft murmuring drifted through the house.
Valera glanced at his watch. “Your guests must be frightfully chic.”
“Oh?”
“You said eight. That was an hour ago. Where’s everybody?”
“As a matter of fact, they came early.”
“I’m the only one who was early.”
“That’s right.”
“You mean I’m … ?”
“That’s right.”
“But you said a dinner party, Gaily.”
“It’s ready any time you are.”
“The party is us? Just us?”
“I can call some more people if you’re bored with me.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“No? What did you mean?”
“I—” He stopped himself.
“Go ahead,” she bullied. “Say it, I dare you.”
He capitulated. For perhaps the first time in his suave life he was overpowered. In a low voice he said, “I was remembering a tune from twenty years ago. Hey, diddle-dee-dee/ I’ve found the girl for me/With raunchy style/And virgin guile/She’s just the girl for me.”
She flushed and began to tremble. Then she took refuge in the hostess role. “Dinner,” she said briskly. “Beef Stroganoff, potatoes baked with mushrooms, salad, lemon pie, and coffee. Mouton Rothschild. No, not upstairs, Tony; I’ve made special arrangements for you. Help me with the table.”
Together, in a sort of domestic intimacy, they arranged a gaming table alongside the marble pool with two painted Venetian chairs. She had already set the table with Spode china and Danish silver, so it needed some careful balancing. Before she began serving, she drew the cork from the Bordeaux bottle and poured a few drops into Valera’s goblet.
“Try it, Tony,” she said. “I’ve never been able to decide whether the concept of ‘letting a wine breathe’ is fact or show-offy. I appeal to your sophistication. Give me your opinion.”
He tasted and rolled his eyes to heaven. “Superb! You’re magnificent with your compliments, Gaily. Sit down and try it yourself. I insist.” And he filled her glass.
“Wait,” she laughed. “The floor show first. I snowed electronics into bootlegging ultralight into the pool. That’s why I wanted our table here. Wait till you see 20 Performing Piranhas 20.” She ran to a wall, extinguished the living room lights, and flipped a switch. The pool glowed like lava, and the excited fish became a ballet of darting embers. Galatea returned to the table, sat opposite Valera, and raised her goblet to him. He smiled back into her face.
“Hey, diddle-dee—” he began and then froze. He stared. Then he started to his feet so violently that he overturned the table.
“Tony!” She was appalled.
“You goddamn bitch,” he shouted. His face was black. “Where’s the CB?”
“Tony!”
“Where’s the goddamn CB? Tell me before I break your goddamn neck!”
“Th-that table.” She pointed. “B-but I don’t understand. What’s—”
“You’ll understand soon enough.” He punched buttons. “By God, you and this whole damn lying house will understand. Rip me? Play me for a patsy?” His rage was a terrifying echo of Manwright at his worst. “Hello. Larson? Valera. Don’t waste time with visual. Crash mission. Call full Security and comb the city for a son of a bitch named Regis Manwright. Yes, that’s the pig. I give you a half hour to find him and—”
“B-but I know where he is,” Galatea faltered.
“Hold it, Larson. You do? Where?”
“The Gastrologue.”
“The bastard’s in The Gastrologue Club, Larson. Go get him and bring him to his house, which is where I am now. And if you want to get rough with him I’ll pay all legals and add a bonus. I’m going to teach that lying pimp and his bitch a lesson they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.”
The four were herded into the main floor of Manwright’s house at the point of a naked laser which Larson thought advisable in view of the threat of Claudia’s mass. They saw a grotesque Valera and Galatea silhouetted before the glowing pool in the dark room. Valera was holding the weeping girl by her hair, for all the world like a chattel in a slave market.
In this ominous crise Manwright displayed an aspect of his character which none had ever seen: a tone of quiet command that took obedience for granted, as if by divine right, and won it through its assurance.
“Mr. Larson, you may pocket that laser now. It was never needed. Valera, you will let Galatea go.” he said softly. “No, dear, don’t move. Stay alongside him. You belong to him, unless he’s changed his mind. Have you, Valera?”
“You’re goddamn right I have,” the chairman stormed. “I want no part of this cheap secondhand trash. Larson, keep that gun handy and get on the CB. I want my check stopped.”
“Don’t bother, Mr. Larson. The check has not been deposited and will be returned. Why, Valera? Doesn’t Galatea meet your exalted standards?”
“Of course she does,” Corque burst out. “She’s br
illiant! She’s beautiful! She’s perfection! She—”
“I’m handling this, Charles. I repeat: Why, Valera?”
“I don’t buy whores at your prices.”
“You think Galatea’s a whore?”
“Think? I know.”
“You contracted for the perfect mistress who would be faithful and loving and devoted to you.”
Galatea let out a moan.
“I’m sorry, my love, you never knew. I’d planned to tell you, but only after I was sure you were genuinely attracted to him. I never had any intention of forcing him on you.”
“You wicked men!” she cried. “You’re all hateful!”
“And now, Valera, you think of a mistress as a whore? Why this sudden eruption of archaic morality?”
“It isn’t a question of morality, damn you. It’s a question of secondhand goods. I want no part of a shopworn woman.”
“Must I stay here with him? Does he own me? Am I bought and paid for?”
“No, love. Come to us.”
She dashed away from Valera’s side and then hesitated. Claudia held out her arms, but Galatea surprised everybody by going to Manwright, who took her gently.
“All right, Valera,” he said. “Go now and take your army with you. Your check will be returned first thing in the morning.”
“Not until I know who it was.”
“Not until who what was?”
“The goddamn lover-boy who knocked her up.”
“What?”
“She’s pregnant, you goddamn pimp. The bitch has been sleeping around, and I want to know the stud who knocked her up. He’s got plenty coming.”
After a long pause, Manwright asked, “Are you under a psychiatrist’s care?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No more ridiculous than your slander. Galatea pregnant? My lovely, tasteful young lady sleeping around with studs? You’re obviously quite mad. Go.”
“Mad, am I? Ridiculous? You can’t see that she’s pregnant? Turn her around and look at her face in this ultralight. Look at her!”
“I’ll go through the motions only to get rid of you.”
Manwright smiled at Galatea as he turned the girl around. “Just a gesture, love. You’ll have your dignity back in a moment, and I swear you’ll never lose it ag—”
Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester Page 36
