“They’ll miss us,” Vandaleur whispered. “Keep quiet. That’s an order. They’ll miss us. We’ll beat them. We’ll beat the fire. We’ll—”
Three distinct shots sounded less than a hundred feet from the fugitives. Blam! Blam! Blam! They came from the last three cartridges in my gun as the marsh fire reached it where it had dropped, and exploded the shells. The searchers turned toward the sound and began working directly toward us. Vandaieur cursed hysterically and tried to submerge even deeper to escape the intolerable heat of the fire. The android began to twitch.
The wall of flame surged up to them. Vandaleur took a deep breath and prepared to submerge until the flame passed over them. The android shuddered and burst into an earsplitting scream.
“All reet! All reet!” it shouted. “Be fleet be fleet!”
“Damn you!” I shouted. I tried to drown it.
“Damn you!” I cursed him. I smashed his face.
The android battered Vandaleur, who fought it off until it burst out of the mud and staggered upright. Before I could return to the attack, the live flames captured it hypnotically. It danced and capered in a lunatic rumba before the wall of fire. Its legs twisted. Its arms waved. The fingers writhed in a private rumba of their own. It shrieked and sang and ran in a crooked waltz before the embrace of the heat, a muddy monster silhouetted against the brilliant sparkling flare.
The searchers shouted. There were shots. The android spun around twice and then continued its horrid dance before the face of the flames. There was a rising gust of wind. The fire swept around the capering figure and enveloped it for a roaring moment. Then the fire swept on, leaving behind it a sobbing mass of synthetic flesh oozing scarlet blood that would never coagulate.
The thermometer would have registered 1200° wondrously Fahrenheit.
Vandaleur didn’t die. I got away. They missed him while they watched the android caper and die. But I don’t know which of us he is these days. Psychotic projection, Wanda warned me. Projection, Nan Webb told him. If you live with a crazy machine long enough, I become crazy too. Reet!
But we know one truth. We know they were wrong. The new robot and Vandaleur know that because the new robot’s started twitching too. Reet! Here on cold Pollux, the robot is twitching and singing. No heat, but my fingers writhe. No heat, but it’s taken the little Talley girl off for a solitary walk. A cheap labor robot... A servo-mechanism... all I could afford... but it’s twitching and humming and walking alone with the child somewhere and I can’t find them. Christ! Vandaleur can’t fmd me before it’s too late. Cool and discreet, honey, in the dancing frost while the thermometer registers 10° fondly Fahrenheit.
* * *
Galatea Galante
He was wearing a prefaded jump suit, beautifully tailored, the dernier cri in the nostalgic 2100s, but really too youthful for his thirty–odd years. Set square on his head was a vintage (circa 1950) English motoring cap with the peak leveled on a line with his brows, masking the light of lunacy in his eyes.
Dead on a slab, he might be called distinguished, even handsome, but alive and active? That would depend on how much demented dedication one could stomach. He was shouldering his way through the crowded aisles of
THE SATURN CIRCUS
50 PHANTASTIK PHREAKS 50
!!!ALL ALIENS!!!
He was carrying a mini sound–camera that looked like a chrome–and–ebony pepper mill, and he was filming the living, crawling, spasming, gibbering monstrosities exhibited in the large showcases and small vitrines, with a murmured
running commentary. His voice was pleasant; his remarks were not.
“Ah, yes, the Bellatrix basilisk, so the sign assures us. Black–and–yellow bod of a serpent. Looks like a Gila–monster head attached. Work of that Tejas tailor who's so nitzy with surgical needle and thread.
Peacock coronet on head. Good theater to blindfold its eyes. Conveys the conviction that its glance will kill. Hmmm. Ought to gag the mouth, too. According to myth the basilisk's breath also kills ....
“And the Hyades hydra. Like wow. Nine heads, as per revered tradition. Looks like a converted iguana. The Mexican again. That seamstress has access to every damn snake and lizard in Central America. She's done a nice join of necks to trunk – got to admit that – but her stitching shows to my eye ....
“Canopus cerberus. Three dog heads. Look like oversized Chihuahuas. Mastiff bod. Rattlesnake tail. Ring of rattlers around the waist. Authentic but clumsy. That Tejas woman ought to know you can't graft snake scales onto hound hide. They look like crud; but at least all three heads are barking. . .
“Well, well, well, here's the maladroit who claims he's my rival; the Berlin butcher with his zoo castoffs. His latest spectacular, the Rigel griffin. 'Pa–daaa! Do him justice, it's classic. Eagle head and wings, but it's molting. Lion bod implanted with feathers. And he's used ostrich claws for the feet. I would have generated authentic dragon's feet ....
“Now Martian monoceros; horse bod, elephant legs, stag's tail. Yes, convincing, but why isn't it howling as it should, according to legend? Mizar manticora. Kosher. Ko–sher. Three rows of teeth. Look like implanted shark's. Lion bod. Scorpion tail. Wonder how they produced that red –eyed effect. The Ares assida. Dull. Dull. Dullsville. Just an ostrich with camel feet, and stumbling all over them, too. No creative imagination!
“Ah, but I call that poster over the Sirius sphinx brilliant theater. My compliments to the management. It's got to be recorded for posterity: THE PUBLIC IS RESPECTFULLY REQUESTED NOT TO GIVE THE CORRECT ANSWER TO THE ENIGMA POSED BY THE SPHINX.
“Because if you do give the correct answer, as Oedipus found out, she'll destroy herself out of chagrin. A sore loser. I ought to answer the riddle, just to see how they stage it, but no. Theater isn't my shtick; my business is strictly creative genesis ....
“The Berlin butcher again, Castor chimera. Lion head. Goat's bod. Looks like an anaconda tail. How the hell did he surgify to get it to vomit those flames? Some sort of catalytic gimmick in the throat, I suppose. It's only a cold corposant fire, quite harmless but very dramatic – and those fire extinguishers around the showcase are a lovely touch. Damn good theater. Again, my compliments to the management. . .
“Aha! Beefcake on the hoof. Zosma centaur. Good–looking Greek joined to that Shetland pony. Blood must have been a problem. They probably drained both and substituted a neutral surrogate. The Greek looks happy enough; in fact, damn smug. Anyone wondering why has only to see how the pony's hung ....
“What have we here? Antares unicorn, complete with grafted narwhal tusk but not with the virgin who captured it, virgin girls being the only types that can subdue unicorns, legend saith. I thought narwhals were extinct. They may have bought the tusk from a walking–stick maker. I know virgins are not extinct. I make'em every month; purity guaranteed or your money back ....
“And a Spica siren. Lovely girl. Beautiful. She – But damn my eyes, she's no manufactured freak! That's Sandra, my Siren! I can recognize my genesis anywhere. What the hell is Sandy doing in this damn disgusting circus? Naked in a showcase! This is an outrage!”
He charged the showcase in his rage. He was given to flashes of fury that punctuated his habitual exasperated calm. (His deep conviction was that it was a damned intransigent world because it wasn't run his way, which was the right way.)
He beat and clawed at the supple walls, which gave but did not break. He cast around wildly for anything destructive, then darted to the chimera exhibit, grabbed a fire extinguisher, and dashed back to the Siren. Three demoniac blows cracked the plastic, and three more shattered an escape hatch. His fury outdrew the freaks, and a fascinated crowd gathered.
He reached in and seized the smiling Siren. “Sandy, get the hell out. What were you doing there in the first place?”
“Where's your husband?”
“For God's sake!” He pulled off his cap, revealing pale, streaky hair. “Here, cover yourself with this. No, no, girl, downstairs. Use an arm for upstairs, and hide your rea
r elevation against my back.”
“No, I am not prudish. I simply will not have my beautiful creation on public display. D'you think I–” He turned fiercely on three security guards closing in on him and brandished the heavy brass cylinder. “One more step, and I let you have it with this. In the eyes. Ever had frozen eyeballs?”
They halted. “Now look, mister, you got no–”
“I am not called `mister.' My degree is Dominie, which means master professor. I am addressed as Dominie, Dominie Manwright, and I want to see the owner at once. Immediately. Here and now. Sofort! Immediatamente! Mr. Saturn or Mr. Phreak or whatever!
“Tell him that Dominie Regis Manwright wants him here now. He'll know my name, or he'd better, by God! Now be off with you. Split. Cut.” Manwright glared around at the enthralled spectators. “You turkeys get lost, too. All of you. Go eyeball the other sights. The Siren show is kaput.”
As the crowd shuffled back from Manwright's fury, an amused gentleman in highly unlikely twentieth–century evening dress stepped forward. “I see you understand Siren, sir. Most impressive.” He slung the opera cape off his shoulders and offered it to Sandra. “You must be cold, madame. May I?”
“Thank you,” Manwright growled. “Put it on, Sandy. Cover yourself. And thank the man.”
“I don't give a damn whether you're cold or not. Cover yourself. I won't have you parading that beautiful body I created. And give me back my cap.”
“Women!” Manwright grumbled. “This is the last time I ever generate one. You slave over them. You use all your expertise to create beauty and implant sense and sensibility, and they all turn out the same. Irrational! Women! A race apart! And where the hell's 50 Phantastik Phreaks 50?”
“At your service, Dominie,” the gentleman smiled.
“What? You? The management?”
“Indeed yes.”
“In that ridiculous white tie and tails?”
“So sorry, Dominie. The costume is traditional for the role. And by day I'm required to wear hunting dress. It is grotesque, but the public expects it of the ringmaster.”
“Hmph! What's your name? I'd like to know the name of the man I skin alive.”
“Corque?”
“Cork? As in Ireland?”
“But with a Q U E.”
“Corque?” Cor–kew–ee?” Manwright's eyes kindled. “Would you by any chance be related to Charles Russell Corque, Syrtus professor of ETM biology? I'll hold that in your favor.”
“Thank you, Dominie. I am Charles Russell Corque, professor of extraterrestrial and mutation biology at Syrtus University.”
“What!”
“Yes.”
“In that preposterous costume?”
“Alas, yes.”
“Here? On Terra?”
“In person.”
“What a crazy coincidence. D'you know, I was going to make that damned tedious trip to Mars just to rap with you.”
“And I brought my circus to Terra hoping to meet and consult with you.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two days.”
“Then why haven't you called?”
“Setting up a circus show takes time, Dominie. I haven't had a moment to spare.”
“This monstrous fakery is really yours?”
“It is.”
“You? The celebrated Corque? The greatest researcher into alien life forms that science has ever known? Revered by all your colleagues, including myself, and swindling the turkeys with a phony freak show? Incredible. Corque! Unbelievable!”
“But understandable, Manwright. Have you any idea of the cost of ETM research? And the reluctance of the grants committees to allocate an adequate amount of funds? No, I suppose not. You're in private practice and can charge gigantic fees to support your research, but I'm forced to moonlight and operate this circus to raise the money I need.”
“Nonsense, Corque. You could have patented one of your brilliant discoveries – that fantastic Jupiter III methophyte, for instance. Gourmets call it `The Ganymede Truffle.' D'you know what an ounce sells for?”
“I know, and there are discovery rights and royalties. Enormous. But you don't know university contracts, my dear Dominie. By contract, the royalties go to Syrtus, where” – Professor Corque's smile soured – “where they are spent on such studies as Remedial Table Tennis, Demonia Orientation, and The Light Verse of Leopold von Sacher–Masoch.”
Manwright shook his head in exasperation. “Those damned faculty clowns! I've turned down a dozen university offers, and no wonder. It's an outrage that you should be forced to humiliate yourself and – Listen, Corque, I've been dying to get the details on how you discovered that Ganymede methophyte. When will you have some time? I thought – Where are you staying on Terra?”
“The Borealis.”
“What? That fleabag?”
“I have to economize for my research.”
“Well, you can economize by moving in with me. It won't cost you a cent. I've got plenty of room, and I'll put you up for the duration, with pleasure. I've generated a housekeeper who'll take good care of you – and rather startle you, I think. Now do say yes, Corque. We've got a hell of a lot of discussing to do and I've got a lot to learn from you.”
“I think it will be the other way around, my dear Dominie.”
“Don't argue! Just pack up, get the hell out of the Borealis, and –”
“What, Sandy?”
“Where?
“Oh, yes, I see the rat–fink.”
“What now, Manwright?”
“Her husband. I'll trouble you to use restraint on me, or he'll become her late husband.”
An epicene hove into view – tall, slender, elegant, in flesh–colored SkinAll – with chest, arms, and legs artfully padded to macho dimensions, as was the ornamented codpiece. Manwright juggled the extinguisher angrily, as though groping for the firing pin of a grenade. He was so intent on the encounter that Corque was able to slip the cylinder out of his hands as the epicene approached, surveyed them, and at last spoke.
“Ah, Manwright.”
“Jessamy!” Manwright turned the name into a denunciation.
“Sandra.”
“And our impresario.”
“Good evening, Mr. Jessamy”
“Manwright, I have a bone to pick with you.”
“You? Pick? A bone? With me? Why, you damned pimp, putting your own wife, my magnificent creation, into a damned freak show!” He turned angrily on Professor Corque. “And you bought her, eh?”
“Not guilty, Dominie. I can't supervise everything. The Freak Foreman made the purchase.”
“He did, did he?” Manwright returned to Jessamy. “And how much did you get for her?”
“That is not germane.”
“That little? Why, you padded procurer? Why? God knows, you don't need the money.”
“Dr. Manwright–”
“Don't you ‘Doctor' me. It's Dominie.”
“Dominie–”
“Speak.”
“You sold me a lemon.”
“What!”
“You heard me. You sold me a lemon.”
“How dare you!”
“I admit I'm a jillionaire.”
“Admit it? You broadcast it.”
“But nevertheless I resent a rip–off.”
“Rip! I'll kill the man. Don't restrain me. I'll kill! Look, you damned minty macho, you came to me and contracted for the perfect wife. A Siren, you said. The kind that a man would have to lash himself to the mast to resist, à la Ulysses. Well? Didn't you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Yes, you did. And did I or did I not generate a biodroid miracle of beauty, enchantment, and mythological authenticity, guaranteed or your money back?”
“Yes, you did.”
“And one week after delivery I discover my Pearl of Perfection sold to the distinguished Charles Russell Corque's obscene freak show and displayed naked in a bizarre show-case. My beautiful face and ne
ck! My beautiful back and buttocks! My beautiful breasts! My beautiful mons veneris! My–”
“That's what she wanted.”
“Did you, Sandy?”
“Shame on you, girl. I know you're vain – that was a glitch in my programming – but you don't have to flaunt it. You're a damned exhibitionist.” Back to Jessamy: “But that doesn't excuse your selling her. Why, did you do it, dammit? Why?”
“She was tearing my sheets.”
“What?”
“Your beautiful, enchanting Pearl of Perfection was tearing my monogrammed silk sheets, woven at incredible cost by brain damaged nuns. She was tearing them with her mythologically authentic feet. Look at them.”
There was no need to look. It was undeniable that the beautiful, enchanting Siren was feathered from the knees down and had delicate pheasant feet.
“So?” Manwright demanded impatiently.
“She was also scratching my ankles.”
“Damn you!” Manwright burst out. “You asked for a Siren. You paid for a Siren. You received a Siren.”
“With bird feet?”
“Of course with bird feet. Sirens are part bird. Haven't you read your Bulfinch? Aristotle? Sir Thomas Browne? Matter of fact, you're lucky Sandy didn't turn out bird from the waist down. Ha!”
“Very funny,” Jessamy muttered.
“But it wasn't luck.” Manwright went on. “No, it was genius. My biodroid genius for creative genesis, and my deep understanding of the sexual appetites.”
“Don't be impudent, girl. I have sexual appetites, too, but when I guarantee a virgin, I – No matter. Take her home, Jessamy. Don't argue, or I'll kill you, if I can find that damned brass thing I thought I had. Take Sandra home. I'll refund Professor Corque in full. Got to support his brilliant research. Sandy, trim your talons, for God's sake! Sense and sensibility, girl!. Corque, go pack up and move in with me. Here's my card with the address. What the devil are you doing with that silly-looking fire extinguisher?”
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 14
