They emptied him . . . he did not fight them . . . going colder and colder . . . flickers of yellow, a whisper of blue, pale as white . . . the tremors blending into one constant shudder . . . the wonderful golden eyes rolled in torment, went flat, brightness dulled, flat metal . . . the platinum hoofs caked with rust . . . and he stood, did not try to escape, gave himself for us . . . and he was emptied. Of everything. Then, like the claimers, we could see through him. Vapors swirled within the transparent husk, a fogged glass, shimmering . . . then nothing. And then they absorbed even the husk.
The chill blue light faded, and the claimers grew indistinct in our sight. The smoke within them seemed thicker, moved more slowly, horribly, as though they had fed and were sluggish and would go away, back across the line to that dark place where they waited, always waited, till their hunger was aroused again. And my unicorn was gone. I was alone with Lizette. I was alone with Paul. The mist died away, and the claimers were gone, and once more it was merely a cemetery as the first rays of the morning sun came easing through the tumble and disarray of headstones.
Westood together as one, her naked body white and virginal in my weary arms; and as the light of the sun struck uswe began to fade, to merge, to mingle our bodies and our wandering spirits one into the other, forming one spirit that would neither love too much, nor too little, having taken our chance on the downhill side.
We faded and were lifted invisibly on the scented breath of that good god who had owned us, and were taken away from there. To be born again as one spirit, in some other human form, man or woman we did not know which. Nor would we remember. Nor did it matter.
This time, love would not destroy us. This time out, we would have luck.
The luck of silken mane and rainbow colors, platinum hoofs and spiral horn.
<
* * * *
* * * *
The Other Perceiveris a story that either is or isn’t funny, but you can’t deny that it has a certain existential resonance, as we say in the trade. Haven’t there been days when you’ve suspected there might be aliens on Earth trying to do to the world just what Oscar does in this story?
THE OTHER PERCEIVER
by Pamela Sargent
The specimen arrived in the early morning, special delivery, packed in a protective carton. Rumborough signed for the package and brought it inside. He walked downstairs to the basement and over to a glass cabinet behind the bar.
On the bar in front of the glass cabinet were two bottles of Johnny Walker Black, a bottle of Cherry Bestle liqueur that played Jingle Bells when one picked it up, and one empty bottle of Canadian Mist, as well as a few dirty glasses and an ice bucket filled with water. The glass cabinet held about two hundred small bottles containing various shades of brown matter. Each bottle was labeled with a name and a number. Rumborough unwrapped the package, removed another small bottle, labeled it Karen Kilpatrick—number 203 with the felt pen he had in his shirt pocket, and put it next to the bottle of Cherry Bestle that playedJingle Bells.
Rumborough felt tired because he did not enjoy getting up in the morning. He also felt tired because he would have to go back upstairs and look for Oscar and tell him that the excrement had arrived and hope that Oscar would be glad and not put him through any more grief.
Rumborough called the creature “Oscar” because he could not pronounce the creature’s name and because he had once had a turtle named Oscar when he was a child. The creature called Oscar looked a bit like a turtle except that his eyes were on stalks attached to his head and he had four rather than two. He also had six fingerlike structures on his feet. Oscar enjoyed reading and would lie on his shell with his feet in the air holding a book, aiming his eyestalks at the pages. He would do this for hours, without getting tired.
Rumborough stood by the bar with the bottle labeled Karen Kilpatrick—number 203 and wondered if Oscar was awake and whether or not he should go upstairs and tell him Karen Kilpatrick’s shit had arrived or whether he should sit at the bar and have a couple of belts of the Johnny Walker. Rumborough could not remember exactly when Oscar had moved in. He wished he had remembered to put dates on the bottles in the glass cabinet but he had not bothered to do so, thus he could not remember when Oscar had arrived. Rumborough could not remember what he had been doing before Oscar came except that he had owned a pet turtle as a child and had had something to do with a girl named Edie who had a pair. He did not remember anything else about her. He also knew that someone who was supposed to be his uncle kept depositing money in his bank account.
Rumborough finally decided to go upstairs because he knew that if he stayed at the bar, he would have too many belts and then he would go over to the picture-phone and start trying to call his uncle. His uncle had an unlisted number, and Rumborough would spend about five or ten minutes trying to talk the operator into giving the number to him. Then he would pull out his Manhattan directory and begin calling all the Edies that were listed. Just to play it safe, he would also call anyone who had E for an initial. He was pretty sure that he had met Edie in New York. He also had copies of the Brooklyn and Bronx directories for when he was finished with Manhattan. Rumborough, when drunk, would begin to worry about how long Oscar had been around, and what he had been doing before he had met him. He would dial an Edie or an E in Manhattan and ask her whether she had gone with Bob Rumborough and whether she had big boobs, while peering intently at the picturephone screen. Usually the Edies and E’s would hang up.
Rumborough wanted to find out who he was.
* * * *
Rumborough went back upstairs but did not go looking for Oscar right away because he had to take a leak first. He went into the bathroom and the homeostatic bathroom scale began whistling at him. It sat on the floor under the sink, a three-inch tall pink pancake with a dial that glowed in the dark. Rumborough did not know why the manufacturer had made it with a dial that glowed in the dark. He wondered if there really were people who weighed themselves without turning on the lights. Maybe they thought they could hide their fat that way. Rumborough lifted the lid on the toilet, pissed, and the toilet flushed itself, then began to gurgle, “Yourrr urrrine sugarrr . . .”
“Oh, shut up,” he said.
“At least you haven’t been drinking,” the toilet replied. As Rumborough went to the sink to look in the mirror, the whistle from the scale grew louder.
He stared into the mirror and turned up its electronic magnification until his right eye took up the entire surface. He looked at the bloodshot portions of his eye. He blinked and watched the giant eyelashes come together. He was repulsed by the pores in the skin of his eyelid.
“You know,” the pink pancake under the sink said, “you really should get on me for a look.”
“Shut up,” Rumborough replied, “you’re getting too goddamn chummy lately.” He was getting annoyed with the things in the bathroom, which were there for his health and should not behave like companions. He readjusted the mirror and went to look for Oscar.
* * * *
Oscar was reading. He was lying on his shell with his feet in the air reading Berkeley’s Principles. Rumborough came into the room and said “Karen Kilpatrick’s shit came today,” and sat down. Oscar laid his book aside and began to roll from side to side until he was able to get a grip on the floor and right himself.
“Did you ever study Berkeley?” Oscar asked Rumborough. Rumborough had a sudden image of sitting in a large lecure hall, looking at ass while some guy in the front mumbled about perceptions. “Esse est percipi,” Rumborough said. The image vanished. Rumborough rubbed his scalp and looked at Oscar. “No,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Now I’m going to have to revise everything,” Oscar said. “My theories are shot to hell.” He moved across the room and settled next to Rumborough.
“Tanaka thought I was a pervert,” Rumborough said. “I don’t think I can keep doing this, Oscar.”
“No sweat,” Oscar replied. “I’ve got enough work for a mon
th of Sundays.”
Sunday, Rumborough thought, last Sunday I was in Makapuu, I had flown to Honolulu, I had to get away from things and I was out on the road, just walking. . . .
“You’re really sick,” Tanaka said. They were sitting at a table drinking while a native dancer who looked half Chinese waved her grass-skirted ass at the customers.
“Listen,” Rumborough said. “It’s ten thousand dollars, Tanaka, just stick this gadget in the can and when she flushes it, you can remove . . .”
“I don’t want to hear it,” the girl said.
“Look, you can’t turn it down,” Rumborough went on. “You want to be a chambermaid the rest of your life?”
“I got standards,” she answered. “I don’t go in for sick stuff like what you say to do.”
“Look,” Rumborough said, grasping her hands, “this is research, Tanaka, you’re helping us. You may help wipe out disease, we need a certain type of excrement and Karen Kilpatrick can help, but I can’t ask her. You can get into her room.”
“How come I never hear about this research in the papers?” Tanaka asked.
“Because,” said Rumborough. “Look, the country isn’t ready for it, but when we find what we’re looking for...”
“Fuck off,” the Hawaiian girl said. She tried to stand, but Rumborough held onto her wrists. She sat down.
“Twenty thousand,” he said. Tanaka didn’t move. “I love you,” he said impulsively.
“I mailed it to myself,” Rumborough said to Oscar. “I couldn’t see carrying it back, you know what a clumsy clod I am. I would have dropped my suitcase in the middle of the airport or something, or they would have detected it at the gate with X-rays and thought I had a gun or something.” He sighed. “She never wanted to see me again, Oscar.”
Oscar started moving toward the next room. “I’d better get my show on the road,” the creature said. “I’ll be working till there’s snowballs in hell.” Oscar stopped and looked back at Rumborough. “You need a vacation,” Oscar said. “You better relax. Read something. Don’t worry about Tanaka.”
Rumborough rubbed his scalp again, puzzled. “Who’s Tanaka?” he asked.
* * * *
Rumborough was taking a vacation. He sat with his bottle of Johnny Walker Black, staring out the window of his bedroom. Sometimes, if he stared hard enough, he could see the city. He looked hard. All he could see were the green hills, the pine trees. He took another swallow from the bottle and tried to focus. No city appeared. He wondered if he should try to call Edie again.
“Really?” Edie said. Her breasts rose as she inhaled, dropped as she exhaled and went on, “I knew some people there. Did you know Mary Weinroth?”
“No.”
“She might have been a year ahead of you. Were you there when the black students took over that building, with the guns?”
Rumborough looked at the bottle of Johnny Walker Black and tried to remember where he had gone to college. He remembered a lot of hills, and a small apartment. There were two guys rooming with him. One guy was named Herbie and he was majoring in architecture. The other guy was named Rich. Rich wasn’t a student. He was a dealer. Whenever he got up in the morning on Mondays, he would say, “It’s a bad day, because it’s Monday.” When it was Tuesday, he would say, “It’s a bad day, because it’s Tuesday.” On Friday and Saturday nights, he would say, “Far out.” Rich didn’t talk much. He would be gone for a week or so and come back with bricks of hashish and marijuana wrapped in foil.
“It was some big school in the East, I think,” Rumborough said to the bottle. He wondered if he should start calling colleges in the East and ask if he had ever been a student instead of calling Edies and asking if they had big tits. He took another drink and looked out the window for the city. For a moment, he thought he saw the faint haze of smog, and then the haze vanished and he saw only trees. Some instructor had lived on South Albany Street and Rich was balling his wife. Rumborough remembered a bridge near the house, a small one, over a small creek. He wondered who Rich was.
Rumborough got up and walked over to the picture-phone. He stood by it, trying to remember who he was going to call.
“Hey, Bob,” Oscar said. He turned around and saw the creature standing in the doorway. “You look beat,” Oscar said. “You better lie down.”
* * * *
“What is it?” Rumborough asked. He was looking at the apparatus Oscar had brought into the hallway near the front door. It looked like a camera on small curved cinder blocks with tentacles dangling from the sides. Oscar was strapping the whole unwieldy mess to his shell, balancing it as he attached it with straps.
Oscar grasped one of the tentacles and said excitedly, “What is it? This, my dear fellow, is the final product of my research. With it, I can transform your earth into a paradise.” He turned towards Rumborough. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” the creature said.
“No more shit?” Rumborough asked.
“Nope,” Oscar replied. “This calls for a celebration. Why don’t you call that pizza place and ask them to send over a giant pizza?”
“Sure,” said Rumborough. He went into the living room to make the call, ordered a giant pizza, then sat down. Oscar slowly waddled in with the apparatus and settled next to Rumborough’s feet.
“I was incredibly foolish,” Oscar said, “thinking I had to break things down into a substratum before reconstruction. And I wasted all that time with the excrement, thinking I would find a key if I acquired enough different types of it, analyzing them, seeing if I could find a clue. I really thought it would guide me to the prime material of things. If you’ll pardon my saying so, it was a waste of time.” Oscar chuckled.
“Then I didn’t help at all,” Rumborough said, thinking of all the bottles with brown matter near the bar in the basement, remembering how he had gotten them. He shuddered, and put it out of his mind.
“But you did help,” Oscar said. “Your library, and particularly Berkeley’s Principles, were what gave me the key. I then used the analysis of the excremental samples you got for me to construct the machine. Your species has developed philosophical thought to a higher degree than I would have thought possible; we never went in for it much. Of course, there are inconsistencies in Berkeley’s thought, but nonetheless, once I was able to throw out a search for a substratum without any of the qualities we perceive, I was able to see where I went wrong and how ridiculous such a conception is. The essence of things is perceptual, of course, and thus the reconstruction of our world is bound up with the changing of the perceptions we receive. But nonetheless real, for all that”
“Sure,” Rumborough said. He thought of altering the essence of his perceptions to allow for a beach and some girls with big breasts. He wondered how long it would take Oscar and his machine to reconstruct his perceptions. “I ordered it with Italian sausage, if that’s all right with you,” he went on.
“A thing exists if it is perceived or perceivable,” said Oscar. “An all-seeing god could perceive it even if we don’t, thus grounding its reality. My apparatus can make this world a paradise because it is able to alter our perceptions and thus the reality of this world. It will be a paradise for our species. Isn’t that terrific?” Oscar looked at Rumborough. “Excuse me, I mean my species, of course.” Oscar tossed his head in joy. “And those feces will do just fine. Isn’t that great? I fooled around with it in the kitchen before, I hope you don’t mind.”
Rumborough got up and wandered out of the living room into the kitchen. Oscar was starting to depress him. He walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. The doorhandle felt slimy. There was an awful stench coming from inside the refrigerator. The food looked fine. He closed the door and covered his mouth with his hand, hoping to keep down what might be coming up at any moment.
Slowly he turned to leave, and noticed that the tiles under his feet seemed sticky. He walked back into the living room. The rug had turned green, and smelled of dung. Rumborough tried to remember if he had fe
rtilized the lawn that morning. “Oscar,” he asked the turtle, “did I fertilize the lawn this morning?” Oscar was lumbering around the room in what was for him a state of agitation.
“Absolutely terrific,” the creature replied. Rumborough looked out the living room window. His garden, the trees and hills, looked as if he were viewing them through a hand magnifier.
The doorbell rang. “That’s the pizza, I guess,” Rumborough said. He went to the door and opened it. A short pimple-faced boy stood there.
Universe 2 - [Anthology] Page 13
