“My God,” I said, alarmed. “Is he in there with her?”
“She's not taking it back!” the same deep voice called out. Another toilet flushed. Mother has two in her bathroom, one for me and one for her.
“I'm on my vacation,” I said. The bathroom doorknob started to turn and I went for a walk. When I got back they were gone and my stuff was on the lawn.
“You could dig a hole,” said Mother, “and cover it.”
I was the first one in the Departure Hall the next morning. But instead of opening my drawer, Squeaky Shoes—Clyde—gave me a paper to sign.
“I already signed a release,” I said.
“This is simply for our own protection,” he said.
I signed. “Good,” he said and smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Now lie down. Now take a deep breath.” The drawer slid shut. I inhaled the Vitazine and it was like waking from a dream.
I was in a formal living room with a cream-colored rug, couch and chair. Chemise was standing at the window wearing an ivory underwire bra in satin jacquard with a low-plunge center and wide-set straps and matching bikini panties with a sheer stretch panel in front. She was holding a cup and saucer, also matching. Through the window I could see rolling hills stretching to a horizon. The dog trotted through the room.
“Chemise,” I said. I wished I had time to explain things to her, but I knew I had to find Bug.
I looked around for a mouse hole. Behind a lamp, in a dark corner, there was a low arch, like the entrance to a tiny cave. I could barely negotiate the narrow passage, shrugging one shoulder through at a time.
“What took you so long?” Bug was sitting in the concrete hallway on the gleaming stack of lumber, her knees pulled up under her chin. She was wearing her MERLYN SISTEMS T-shirt over a tiny thong bikini. And the red hat and the glasses, of course.
“They made me sign another release.”
“And you signed it?”
I nodded. I liked the way the thong made a little V and then disappeared.
“You moron! Do you realize that by signing the release you gave Clyde the right to kill you?”
“I wish you wouldn't call me that,” I said.
“Fucking Bonnie and Clyde! Now I'll never get to the Upper Room!” I was afraid she was about to cry. Instead, she hurled the red hat angrily to the floor and when I bent down to pick it up I saw a crack barely large enough for three fingertips, but I was able to squeeze through by crawling on my belly and pushing one shoulder in at a time. I was in an empty room with bare wood floors and windows so new that the stickers were still on them. Bug was wearing a coral stretch-lace bra cut low for maximum décolleté with a French string bikini that was full in the back and plunged to a tiny triangle of sheer pink lace in front. And the red hat.
I followed her to the window. Below was a mixture of seas and clouds, an earth as bright as a sky.
“We must be getting close to the Upper Room!” I said. “You're going to make it!” I wanted to make her feel better. I liked the way her bra did in front.
“Don't talk nonsense. Do you hear that howling?”
I nodded. It sounded like a pack of hounds getting closer.
“That's the cat. Search and destroy. Find and erase.” She shivered quite extravagantly.
“But you can save yourself!”
“Not so easily. I'm already a backup.”
I was afraid she was about to cry. “Then let's get going!” I said. “I'll take you to the Upper Room. I don't care about the danger.”
“Don't talk nonsense,” Bug said. “You would be trapped forever, if Clyde didn't kill you first. If only I had my resedit, I could get there by myself.”
“So where is it?”
“I lost it when Clyde killed me. I've been looking for it ever since.”
“What does it look like?”
“A pair of big scissors.”
“I saw Chemise with a pair of big scissors,” I said.
“That cunt!”
“I wish you wouldn't call her that,” I began. But the phone was ringing. We hadn't noticed it before.
“Don't answer it!” Bug said, even as she picked it up and handed it to me. How could she help it? I had signed the release. It was for me, of course. The next thing I knew I was staring up at the water-stained ceiling and at the little silver hammer coming down right between my eyes.
And at Clyde's smile. Not a nice smile.
First it got real dark. Then it got light again. It was like waking from a dream.
I was in a round, white room with curved windows all around. My head hurt. Through the glass I could see gray stars in a milk-white sky. Bug—
“Over here,” she said. She was standing by the window wearing periwinkle panties of shimmering faux satin, cut high on the sides and full in the back, with delicately embroidered cutouts down each side of the front panel. And nothing on top at all. No bra. No straps, no cups, no detailing, no lace.
My head hurt. But I couldn't help being thrilled at how high I was. “Is this—the Upper Room?” I asked breathlessly.
“Not quite,” she said. She was still wearing the red hat and the glasses. “And now we're out of luck. In case you hadn't noticed, Clyde killed you, too. Just now.”
“Oh no.” I couldn't imagine anything worse.
“Oh yes,” she said. She put her hand on my forehead and I could feel her fingers feel the little dent.
“What did you do, copy me?”
“Pulled you out of the cache. Barely.” Out the window, far below, there was a blue-green ball streaked with white. “Hear that howling? That's Clyde's cat rooting through the palace room by room.”
I shivered. I liked the way her panties did underneath.
“Well, what have we got to lose?” I said, surprised that I wasn't more upset that I was dead. “Let's head for the Upper Room.”
“Don't talk nonsense,” she said. “If you're dead too, you can't pull me through.” The howling was getting louder. “Now we have to find the resedit. Where did you see what's-her-name with the big scissors? Which room was she in?”
“Chemise,” I said. “I can't remember.”
“What was out the window?”
“I can't remember.”
“What was in the room?”
“I can't remember.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A low-cut, smooth-fitting strapless bra in stretch satin and lace with lightly lined underwire cups, and a high-cut, wide-band brief with a sheer lace panel in the front, all in white,” I said.
“Let's go, then,” Bug said. “I know the spot.”
“I thought we couldn't go anywhere without the reswhatever.”
“Down we can go,” Bug said. She threw the red hat and followed it herself. It fell near a tiny hole barely big enough for her fingertips. I squeezed through after her. I still liked the way her panties did underneath. We were in an old-fashioned kitchen and Chemise was stirring a pot with a pair of big scissors. She was wearing a low-cut, smooth-fitting strapless bra in stretch satin and lace with lightly lined underwire cups, and a high-cut, wide-band brief with a sheer lace panel in the front, all in white.
“Give me those!” said Bug, grabbing the scissors. She was also wearing a low-cut, smooth-fitting strapless bra in stretch satin and lace with lightly lined underwire cups, and a high-cut, wide-band brief with a sheer lace panel in the front, all in white. And the red hat. But where were her glasses?
“Bitch,” said Chemise, softly. I was shocked. I didn't know she could talk.
“Cunt,” said Bug.
Just then the dog trotted into the room from nowhere. Literally.
“The cat!” said Bug. She was trying to jimmy the lock on the pantry with the point of the big scissors.
The dog—cat—hissed.
“In here!” said Bug. She pushed me backward into the pantry while she jabbed upward, ramming the point of the big scissors into the dog's belly. The cat's belly. Whatever. Blood was everywhere. I was in a
large, empty, pyramid-shaped room with a white floor and white walls rising to a point. There was one small porthole in each wall. Bug—
Bug was nowhere to be seen.
Outside the portholes, everything was white. There weren't even any stars. There were no doors. I could hear barking and growling below.
“Bug! The cat erased you!” I wailed. I knew she was gone. I was afraid I was going to cry. But before I could, a trapdoor in the floor opened and Bug came through feet first. It was odd to watch. Her arm was covered with blood and she was holding the scissors and she was—
She was nude. She was naked.
“I have erased the cat!” Bug cried triumphantly.
“It's still coming.” I could hear wild barking below.
“Shit! Must be a replicating loop,” she said. She was naked. Nude. Stripped. Bare. Unclad completely. “And quit staring at me,” she said.
“I can't help it,” I said. Even the red hat was gone.
“I guess not,” she said. She was nude. Naked. She was wearing nothing, nothing at all. She ran to one of the four portholes and began prying at the frame with the point of the scissors.
“There's nothing out there,” I said. The howling was getting louder. The trapdoor had closed but I had the feeling it would open again, all dogs. Or cats. And soon.
“Can't stay here!” Bug said. She gave up on the frame and shattered the glass with the scissors.
“I'm going with you,” I said.
“Don't talk nonsense,” she said. She put her hand on my forehead again. Her touch was cool. I liked the way it felt. “The dent is deep but not all that deep. You may not be dead. Just knocked out.”
“He hit me pretty hard! And I'm trapped here anyway.”
“Not if you're not dead, you're not. They'll shut down and reset once I'm gone. You'll probably just wake up with a headache. You can go home.”
The barking was getting closer. “I don't want to go home.”
“What about your mother?”
“I left her a note,” I lied.
“What about your stuff?”
“I buried all my stuff.” She was nude. Naked, except for her lovely glasses. Nothing on the bottom, nothing on top. Even the red hat was gone. The hole was barely big enough for my hand but I followed her through, one shoulder at a time. Everything was white and the howling was gone and something was moaning like the wind. I took Bug's hand and I was rolling. We were rolling. I was holding her hand and we were rolling, rolling, rolling through warm, blank snow.
It was like waking from a dream. I was wrapped in a foul-smelling fur, looking up at the translucent ceiling of a little house made of ice and leaves. Bug was lying beside me wrapped in the same smelly fur.
“Where are we?” I asked. “I hear cats barking.”
“Those are our dogs,” she said.
“Dogs?” I got up and went to the door. It was covered with a scratchy blanket. I pulled it back and looked out across miles of new snow to a distant line of trees, hung with vines. Silvery dogs were peeing on the outside of the little house. One was shaking a snake to death. It was a big snake.
“They all come together here,” Bug said. “The Upper Room, the North Pole, the headquarters of the Amazon.”
“Headwaters,” I said. “Where are your glasses?”
“I don't need them anymore.”
“I liked them.”
“I'll put them back on.”
I got back under the fur with her, curious to find out what she was wearing. There's no way I can tell you, from here, what it was. But you would have liked it, too. If you're anything like me.
Thinkertoy
JOHN BRUNNER
John Brunner was one of the finest living science fiction writers. He died suddenly of a stroke on the Friday morning of the World Science Fiction Convention in Glasgow, Scotland in 1995, shocking the community. He was the author of many first-rate science fiction stories and novels throughout a career that began when he was seventeen in the 1950s. Brunner was known for his vast, encyclopedic knowledge; his clever logical extrapolations; his clean, sharp style in the tradition of Asimov and his peer Robert Silverberg; and his complex plots. His ability at characterization was underrated. Among his SF masterpieces are The Squares of the City, Telepath, Stand on Zanzibar, and The Shockwave Rider. His last stories appeared in 1996. This story was written at the request of Roger Zelazny who, at the time of Brunner's death in 1995, was assembling an original anthology in honor of Jack Williamson. The book was completed by Jim Frenkel and The Williamson Effect was published in 1996. But Brunner died before he could write his afterword to the story, explaining its exact relation to Williamson and his work. He must have had something clever in mind (he always did), but now we'll never know precisely what. What is clear is that Williamson was a pioneer, in investigating the idea of robots as a possible threat to human life, in such novels as The Humanoids. But this piece particularly reminds me of Williamson's sharp and nasty little story about children and robots, “Jamboree.” Insight into human psychology is essential to the punch. And it packs a real punch.
Paul Walker was afraid of his children. For months now he had been afraid for them, ever since the fatal accident, but this was different—not a rapid change, but the gradual kind that is recognized one morning as having happened.
And he and Lisa had been so proud of their outstanding intelligence.…
He could not tell which of them he found the more distrubing. Logically it should have been Rick because of the way the crash had altered him. He bore no visible scars, but it had done incontestable damage. Whether directly, as the result of trauma, or indirectly, through showing him his mother hideously dead, had proved impossible to establish.
Yet in many ways Kelly, two years the older, affected him worse. There was something unnerving about the composure she maintained: in particular, the way she cared for Rick now that he showed so little interest in the world. It wasn't right for a child barely into her teens to be so organized, so self-possessed: to rouse her brother in the mornings, make sure he was neatly dressed and came to breakfast on time, arrange their return home because though Paul could drop them at school on his way to the office, he was still at work when classes finished. Most days they came back by bus, now and then in the car of one of the numerous other parents living nearby who had been shocked by Lisa's death.… It was in principle a great arrangement; as his friends kept reminding him, it meant he could keep his job and even work overtime now and then, without worrying.
But he had worried all along. Now he had progressed beyond that. He had grown used to the sense of Rick not being wholly present anymore, yet not resigned to it. The boy went to school without protest, and endured his classes and maybe soaked up the odd droplet of information. But on regaining his room he would sit, both before and after supper unless Kelly coaxed him to watch TV, in front of his computer or his games console, perhaps with a game loaded, more often watching a net display scrolling of its own accord, looking—this had crossed Paul's mind weeks ago and fitted better than any other description—bored. Bored as though he was tired of being able to remember that he had used to operate these expensive gadgets, without recalling what he had actually done to make them work. For a while Paul had offered to partner him, but was defeated by his frustrating wall of indifference.
Every weekend he sought some stimulus that might reawaken his son's dormant personality, making a trip to a game or a show or some place of interest out of town. This time, though, Kelly had asked to visit a shopping mall, to which he gladly consented because he felt she ought to let him buy her new and more stylish clothes to keep up with her school friends. It was fruitless; she insisted on the same kind of items as usual, inexpensive, practical, plain.
However, there proved to be a compensation. He was double-checking his grocery list for the coming week before continuing to the supermarket when Kelly—in T-shirt, jeans, and trainers as she would remain until it was time for sweater, jeans, and boots
—returned to him with a thoughtful air.
“Dad, I think you ought to see this.”
Instantly: “Where's Rick? Why isn't he with you?”
“That's what I want you to see. Look.”
And there the boy was, standing riveted before a display in a section of the mall it had not crossed Paul's mind to make for.
But why did I not think of toys? After all, in some ways he has become a child again.…
Hastening in Kelly's wake, he wondered what could have broken through that armor of remoteness. It must be something special, for there were as many adults and even teenagers, normally contemptuous of childish things, as there were children gathered here. A smiling salesman was putting his wares through their paces.
And quite some paces they were.
They were performing under an arch bearing the name THINKERTOY in brightly colored letters, on a display one part of which modeled a modern city block with buildings of various heights; another, a medieval castle with donjon, moat, and curtain wall; another, an icebound coastline lapped by miniature waves. All over these were roaming little machines, some with wheels, some arms and/or legs, some tentacles, some hooks and suckers for hauling themselves up cliffs or trees or vertical walls. Occasionally they came to an obstacle they could neither surmount nor traverse, whereupon, seemingly of their own volition, they repaired to a heap of miscellaneous parts at the side of the display, disconnected part of their or another's current fitments, plugged in replacements and renewed their progress. Now and then the onlookers clapped and laughed at some particularly ingenious configuration, such as a scaling-ladder. Also there were a pair of video screens showing other actions they were capable of. Paul found himself fascinated along with all the rest.
“Excuse me.”
A tentative voice. The salesman deployed his broadest beam.
“Suppose you change things around.”
Rick? Could it be?… Yes, it was Rick who had spoken! This was fantastic!
“You mean like shifting things to new places? They keep right on going. They learn in moments. For instance—” He reached for a handful of the spare parts, then checked.
Year's Best SF 2 Page 6
