GOLEM 100

by Alfred Bester

  “Alarms? Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Maybe this Golem creep is a junkaroola, too, in its own charming fashion.”

  “On Promethium?”

  “Only a maybe, Blaise; just hoping for anything. It might get hungry for fresh supplies and visit CCC to tap the till. Turn your Pm into a trap. You might catch something interesting.”

  Shima shook his head wearily. “If that goddam polymorph thing could get in and out through your safed door, how in hell can I trap it?”

  “What? The late, great Blaise Shima, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.? Brilliant inventor of my secret contract weapon which Subadar Ind’dni would give his eyeteeth to prove phony? Not capable of devising an infallible trap for a freak thing that defies all common sense?”

  “In a word, no.”

  “Damn right you can’t. Nobody can… yet. I seriously doubt whether we can zap it if we’re ever ingenious enough to catch up with it, but we can worry about that when and if we do. Right now we’re looking for connections, any link, and you may trap a Guff geek who—surprise, surprise—may turn out to be a Pm pusher.”

  By the turn of the 21st century the population of Old New York City was nine and a half million. By the turn of the 22nd New York had become the Guff precinct of the Corridor, and its swarming population could no longer be counted; only estimated. The guesses ranged from ten to twenty million.

  Every member of those millions entertained the belief that he or she was unique. Subadar Ind’dni’s Computer Section in the Precinct Complex entertained more realistic ideas. In their experience there were hundreds of thousands of look-alikes among the millions, ranging from rather similar to all-fours replication.

  The chief of the section was cynical. “Take any Guff turkey and program him for the machine, and his software would match at least a hundred others.”

  “Ah,” Ind’dni replied gently. “Perhaps en gros, but it is our function to discover the small uniquedoms that distinguish one look-alike from all her others.”

  He was nettled and dismayed by seven fantastic outrages perpetrated against seven look-alikes by the polymorphic Golem100.

  No one knew how or when this new troubleshooter first appeared or who had hired him. The Wall Street Complex was so convoluted with management dissociation that pretenders had been known to draw payment vouchers without having been hired for any job. It took months for Accounting to catch up with them “through channels.”

  He could cure any and all of the ills that plagued the Big Board think-tanks. (When the computers stop real-time thinking, fortunes can be imperiled in minutes.) He was no electronic genius. He was simply a mechanic who worked out of an uncanny intuition, a sort of symbiotic sympathy with the tantrums and foibles of the temperamental electronic brain trust that controlled the market. He had foibles of his own.

  Example: He would appear without request or complaint (through channels) carrying his complicated toolbox, and everybody judged that a thunderstorm was approaching. Lightning can throw computers into fits.

  Example: You could chalk a line tracing the 440-volt input cables under the Exchange floor from the course he habitually walked. He was drawn to the field generated by the high voltage.

  Example: Without knowing it, he generated a strange field of his own. Anyone who came into physical contact with him had his or her I.Q. quadrupled while they remained in contact. He spread temporary genius like a plague. The irony was that he was never infected himself. He was always and forever a nice, slow, intuitive maintenance man.

  Her roomie told her about this new freak and she was intrigued. She was a dumbbell and knew it, but it had never bothered her because no one seemed to mind. Yet once, just once, she wanted to experience what it would be like to have the kind of giant intellect that could absorb whole tapes, one after the other, remember them, and talk about them afterward.

  She took to dropping in on her roomie for lunch at the Exchange Buffet, and on this forenoon with purply clouds looming in from the west and half the Guff racing to set containers on rooftops, he was already in the Exchange. He had the front fascia of a particularly hysteric IBM modulus removed and was buried half inside, silently soothing it before the storm broke.

  She tapped the small of his back for attention and what she thought would be a vampire stare or a thrilling laying-on of hands. There was a lightning flash out in the Guff and a lightning echo inside herself, followed by a strange thunder in her head. She heard her voice murmur, “Vengon’ coprendo l’aer di nero amanto e Lampi, e tuoni ad annuntiarla eletti…”

  She was frightened. An alien intruder had taken possession of her mind. All this while her first tap was still on his back. Then: “Sumer is icumen in, lhude sing cuccu! Groweth sed, and bloweth med, and springeth the wude nu—Sing cuccu!”

  And: “Not until after artists had exhausted the possibilities of the ukiyo-e portrait did Japanese print designers begin to try their hand at natural scenery.”

  And, “In einer Zeit des Professionalismus und des brillanten Orchesterspiele hat die—”

  And then he pulled out of the IBM unit and grinned at her. He was entangled with affectionate electric cables and looked like a one-man Laocoön Group: “Laocoön. (lā ok a wän) n. Gk. Legend. A priest of Apollo at Troy who warned against the Trojan Horse and, with his two sons, was killed by serpents sent by Athena…”

  He grinned again, pulled her into the IBM with him, and enjoyed her screaming spasms as he introduced himself and the leads of 220 volts into her body. “Volt. A unit of electrical potential difference, abbreviation V or…”

  She saw him just behind her as she walked into Theaterthon for the performance of “Total-Twenty.” He was vivid. “My God!” she thought. “He could play John What’s-His-Name who shot that old president, Abe What’s-His-Name. Fascinating type. Must be an actor.”

  She received her cue-bead and plugged it into her ear. First Overture was playing. She didn’t care for music without light and was tempted to unplug the cue-bead, but she was afraid she might have an early entrance, so she suffered. She looked around for another glimpse of the grabby John Wilkes Somebody, but he had disappeared in the crowd. “Full house tonight,” she thought. “Should be an exciting performance. Can’t wait to see the total tape.”

  First Overture ended. The cue-bead announced, “Second Overture. Places and beginners, please. Places and beginners, please.” This was in the ancient English tradition and was meaningless. There were no places and no beginners simply because no one in the house knew when his part would begin, and there certainly were no places. There was no stage; just a great soundproofed hall milling with the performing audience, now silent, awaiting their computer cues as “Total-Twenty” began, but still circulating in a gentle minuet, nodding, smiling, murmuring to friends.

  She knew that the script dialogue was being spoken by the scattered performing audience. As often as not, an intimate two-scene was being played by audactors separated by a hundred feet and a hundred people. Once there was a shout raised by audactors all over the hall, but she had not been cued for that. There were no sound effects. That and the music was sync’d onto the tape along with the visuals.

  The computer spoke sharply through her cue-bead, “Line coming. You are accosted by a flash-gimp. You tell him in level tones. ‘Juck off, geek.’ Repeat. In level tones. ‘Juck off, geek.’ On cue. Three. Two. One…”

  The cue-bleep sounded. She delivered the line, wondering who and what she was, who the geek was (that John Wilkes actor?) and what “Total-Twenty” was all about. But that was the fun and games of Theaterthon, that and the delight of discovering what visuals were being sync’d to your voice on the total tape.

  She was cued for a confident “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Then (passionately): “The show MUST go on!” Then (frightened): “But why are you looking at me like that?” Then a long scream followed by: “Oh, you beast! You BEAST!” Later a groan. Much later (broken-voiced): “It was horrible. I don’t want to tal
k about it.”

  John Wilkes What’s-His-Name came out of the crowd to her. He said nothing, but his vivid actor’s face told her that he had been drawn by the melody of her voice and the perfection of her performance. He smiled and put his hand on her shoulder. She understood what he was saying. She smiled back, magnetically attracted, and put her hand on his.

  Then, still silent, still smiling, most theatrically, he ripped her naked. She tried to struggle, to scream, to beg help from the flabbergasted spectators, but he took her, most dramatically, most thoroughly, there on the floor of Theaterthon.

  She had done something worse than criminal; she had done something stupid. This well-bred virgin from one of the best families, easily passed into the Strøget by the cautious guards, tried to shoplift a bijou which she could have bought. It was an exquisite teardrop of limpid amber. Enclosed in it was a tiny, glinting dragonfly. She had never stolen anything in all her life, and the strange surging in her loins was thrilling. She had never stolen anything in all her life, so of course she was clumsy.

  The safe system nailed her immediately and she lost her head. She didn’t try to brazen it out, talk her way out, protest that it was a silly mistake, offer to pay. No. She ran. The Strøget guards didn’t bother to chase her. They merely broadcast an alert and her description. She would never be passed out of the boulevard. She would never get out of the criminal courts.

  And in her panic she did what comes natural to a well-bred virgin; she took refuge in the Church of Jude, Patron Saint of Impossible Causes. It was empty except for a tall priest in a black gown standing before the altar. He might have been St. Jude himself. He turned as she tore past the nave imagining a hundred armed guards in hot pursuit. She fell to her knees before the priest in prayer for sanctuary and concealment. Jude blessed her with the sign of the cross, lifted the skirt of his cassock, and dropped it over her. Then she discovered that her face was pressed against an enormous nakedness, and her loins surged again.

  The one good thing that the Guff aristocracy had to say for Industry was that it had turned New York’s stepchild, Staten Island, into a free port. It’s true that this had been swindled in order to receive energy conglomerates from the solar with a minimal ripoff by customs, but there were wonderful consumer side benefits. One of them was the Freeport Restaurant offering an exotic cuisine.

  There is a frigid Venusian glowworm about the size of an eel. It glows even brighter at Terran temperatures and when poached and served in a mirepoix bordelaise moistened with Pouilly wine, the entire platter emits a frozen light and neon fragrance. Anguille Venerienne tastes like a Siberian snowball.

  There is a Martian mold which must be scraped up from below the frostline. (And who was the blessed idiot who first dared taste it?) Terfez Martial is served like caviar and is so fabulous that the Black Sea sturgeons are protesting, and the U.S.Q.R. (formerly the U.S.S.R.) is denouncing Staten Island.

  Did you know that stones can make an exotic seasoning? Yes indeed. Take one pound of Widmanstaetten asteroids. Grind to the size of cracked pepper; sprinkle on roasted fresh corn. (Butter, salt, pepper, &tc. should be forsworn.) There is a marriage with the sugar in the corn that produces a remarkable taste salmagundi which organic chemists are still trying to puzzle out. Curiously enough, it doesn’t work with ordinary refined sugar, which makes Kansas very happy. Cuba is also denouncing Staten Island.

  The Freeport Restaurant is enormous, of course, and its exotic kitchen is larger than most conventional restaurants, but there is a smallish club room for the discerning gourmets which is more difficult to enter than the vaults of the Bank of England. Here Madame brought her guests and was disturbed to discover that her customary waiter was not in attendance. This one was a new and strange person. She did not deign to speak to him, but summoned the mâitre d’hôtel.

  “Where is my Isaac?”

  “I am so sorry, madame. Isaac is at another station tonight.”

  “But where? I am accustomed to Isaac. A dinner could be only a meal without Isaac.”

  “He is stationed out in the main dining salon this week, madame.”

  “He is out with the mere! But why? Has he disgraced himself and earned punishment?”

  “No, madame. He has lost a bet.”

  “Lost? A bet? Explain yourself, sir.”

  “With reluctance, madame. The waiters were playing vingt-et-un in the kitchen…”

  “Gambling!”

  “Oui, madame. Isaac lost everything to the new man. Then he bet you.”

  “Me!”

  “Oui, madame. For a week. And he lost again. So Isaac is outside, and the new man has you.”

  “Outrageous!”

  “But it is a compliment, madame.”

  “Compliment? How?”

  “Your gracious generosity is well known.”

  “It will not be known to this new person.”

  “Certainly, madame, as you wish. Nevertheless you will find him the quintessence of courtesy. Now, may I piquer your palate with a tour de force created only this day by our superb chef?”

  “What is it?”

  “Queue de Kangourou aux Olives Noires.”

  “What?”

  “Which is to say, stewed kangaroo tail with black olives. Olive oil. Brandy. White wine. Stock. Bouquet of bay leaves, thyme, parsley, orange peel, much crushed garlic and stoned black olives. It is flamed with the brandy to burn off excess fat and to strengthen the flavors. It is unique and magnificent.”

  “Good heavens! We must try it.”

  “You will not regret it, madame, and you will be the very first to be served. If you approve and consent, it will be honored with your name.”

  The maître d’hôtel bowed, turned and snapped his fingers. The quintessence of courtesy appeared. He did have a most refined and elegant bearing, Madame thought.

  “Clear for the Queue de Kangourou,” the maître d’hôtel ordered, pointing to the table centerpiece.

  The new man who had won her bowed apologetically to Madame, stood close alongside her and cleared the center of the table with quick, graceful hands. He made just enough room for her body which he lifted, placed prone on the table and embarked on a refined and elegant retrorape the while he filled the stunned guests’ wine glasses with quintessential courtesy.

  There was a vintage streetcar rallye at the Sheep Meadow racetrack and the pits were gaudy with trolleys, charabancs, trams, and even beautifully restored United Mine Workers’ coal and ore carts. The pits were also decorated with the hundreds of women attracted to racing and death. They were all of a type; dressed pour le sport and sporting a to-hell-with-everything-else look.

  She sat on an empty drum between the Madison & Fourth Avenue and the Étoile Place Blanche Bastille pits, giving equal time and attention to the Guff and Parisian crews who passed her constantly as they borrowed gear and advice from each other. They were oddly alike in their soiled tutas and really only to be distinguished by a favorite tool carried in a back pocket; spanner, S-wrench, maul, pliers, a Stillson, a monkey. The pit foremen were above carrying tools. The drivers’ tutas were white and immaculate.

  She was amused by the one with the pinch bar dragging down his back pocket. Pinch bar was either Paris or Guff—he spent so much time in both pits that she couldn’t decide—young enough to be smooth-faced, yet obviously fully matured in frame and muscle. She was amused because each time he passed he didn’t give her a “Très jolie,” or a “Bije babe, doll.” He banged the drum with his pinch bar. It emitted a resounding bass boom and sent tingles up her spine.

  It was a Le Mans start. The streetcars were in position on the track. The drivers and seconds (now in traditional motormen and conductors’ uniforms) lined up opposite. The starting gun cracked. The motormen and conductors dashed to their trolleys, scrambled in and took off in a frenzy of clanging bells while the pit crews and the women cheered and screamed. Then came the bass boom and the tingle, and there he was, pinch bar in hand, smiling silently at her. She smi
led back.

  He dubbed her shoulder lightly with the bar and drew her to the backup Étoile Place Blanche Bastille car and took her inside. She was delighted until he revealed that he was a woman and proceeded to ravish her, using the pinch bar as a dildo. Her screams merged with the cheering and screaming and clangor of the race.

  GoFer was the camera test-pattern for “Studio Twenty-Two-Twenty-Two” at WGA. She sat patiently on a stool while the cameras dollied in and out on her skin and adjusted their color correction to its glowing tones. She was a crow, but her red hair and skin were magnificent. When she wasn’t posing for the cameras, she ran errands for the Studio 2222 staff, so naturally she was called Miz GoFer. No one outside the WGA accounting department knew her real name.

  She sat quietly on her stool waiting to go for coffee, food, props, costumes, anything. She was bored. She wasn’t particularly interested in any of the 2222 shows. WGA was owned and operated by the Glacial Army Revival Movement and its programming was devoutly Judgment Day. “Where You Beez Come God’s Big Freeze?” (Copyright 2169 by Scriabin Finkel Music Company, a division of Glacial Music Corporation.) All the Good Guys were trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. All the Bad Guys got shot down in flames by God, and died, bitterly regretting their rotten Guff behavior.

  There was an animal trainer on the set. She assumed that because he had a King Charles spaniel cradled in his arm, and anyway Studio 2222 was heavy on animals, pets, and the pure love of a boy for his dog. Only this man looked like he should have had a tiger cradled in his arm. He was gigantic and powerful enough to give an orangutan second thoughts about tangling with him.

  The powerhouse came over to her stool and gave her a deadpan nod. She nodded back. High as she was perched, her head barely came up to his chest. She could hear the slow roar of his breathing, and it sounded like surf. The King Charles spaniel yapped. From the controls the 2222 director screamed at the floor manager over the talk-back, “For Christshit’s sake will you cue the goddam fuckin’ nuns!”