Selected Stories of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  In this atmosphere, Frankie Alceste maintained a rigid self-control. He was not aided by the fact that he was a celebrity with a tremendous animal magnetism. While a dozen handsome women threw themselves at him, he persevered in the role of big brother and thumped and punched Sima until she protested.

  “I know you’re a wonderful friend to Johnny and me,” she said on the last night out. “But you are exhausting, Frankie. I’m covered with bruises.”

  “Yeah. I know. It’s habit. Some people, like Johnny, they think with their brains. Me, I think with my fists.”

  They were standing before the starboard crystal, bathed in the soft light of the approaching Ross-Alpha, and there is nothing more damnably romantic than the velvet of space illuminated by the white-violet of a distant sun. Sima tilted her head and looked at him.

  “I was talking to some of the passengers,” she said. “You’re famous, aren’t you?”

  “More notorious-like.”

  “There’s so much to catch up on. But I must catch up on you first.”

  “Me?”

  Sima nodded. “It’s all been so sudden. I’ve been bewildered— and so excited that I haven’t had a chance to thank you, Frankie. I do thank you. I’m beholden to you forever.”

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him with parted lips. Alceste began to shake.

  “No,” he thought. “No. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s so crazy happy at the idea of being with Johnny again that she doesn’t realize...”

  He reached behind him until he felt the icy surface of the crystal, which passengers are strictly enjoined from touching. Before he could give way, he deliberately pressed the backs of his hands against the subzero surface. The pain made him start. Sima released him in surprise and when he pulled his hands away, he left six square inches of skin and blood behind.

  So he landed on Ross-Alpha III with one girl in good condition and two hands in bad shape and he was met by the acid-faced Aldous Fisher, accompanied by an official who requested Mr. Alceste to step into an office for a very serious private talk.

  ‘It has been brought to our attention by Mr. Fisher,” the official said, “that you are attempting to bring in a young woman of illegal status.”

  “How would Mr. Fisher know?” Alceste asked.

  “You fool!” Fisher spat. “Did you think I would let it go at that? You were followed. Every minute.”

  “Mr. Fisher informs us,” the official continued austerely, “that the woman with you is traveling under an assumed name. Her papers are fraudulent.”

  “How fraudulent?” Alceste said. “She’s Sima Morgan. Her papers say she’s Sima Morgan.”

  “Sima Morgan died eleven years ago,” Fisher answered. “The woman with you can’t be Sima Morgan.”

  “And unless the question of her true identity is cleared up,” the official said, “she will not be permitted entry.”

  “I’ll have the documentation on Sima Morgan’s death here within the week,” Fisher added triumphantly.

  Alceste looked at Fisher and shook his head wearily. “You don’t know it, but you’re making it easy for me,” he said. ‘The one thing in the world I’d like to do is take her out of here and never let Johnny see her. I’m so crazy to keep her for myself that—” He stopped himself and touched the bandages on his hands. “Withdraw your charge, Fisher.”

  “No,” Fisher snapped.

  “You can’t keep’em apart. Not this way. Suppose she’s interned? Who’s the first man I subpoena to establish her identity? John Strapp. Who’s the first man I call to come and see her? John Strapp. D’you think you could stop him?”

  “That contract,” Fisher began. “I’ll—”

  “To hell with the contract. Show it to him. He wants his girl, not me. Withdraw your charge, Fisher. And stop fighting. You’ve lost your meal ticket.”

  Fisher glared malevolently, then swallowed. “I withdraw the charge,” he growled. Then he looked at Alceste with blood in his eyes. “It isn’t the last round yet,” he said and stamped out of the office.

  Fisher was prepared. At a distance of light-years he might be too late with too little. Here on Ross-Alpha III he was protecting his property. He had all the power and money of John Strapp to call on. The floater that Frankie Alceste and Sima took from the spaceport was piloted by a Fisher aide who unlatched the cabin door and performed steep banks to tumble his fares out into the air. Alceste smashed the glass partition and hooked a meaty arm around the driver’s throat until he righted the floater and brought them safely to earth. Alceste was pleased to note that Sima did not fuss more than was necessary.

  On the road level they were picked up by one of a hundred cars that had been pacing the floater from below. At the first shot, Alceste clubbed Sima into a doorway and followed her at the expense of a burst shoulder, which he bound hastily with strips of Sima’s lingerie. Her dark eyes were enormous, but she made no complaint. Alceste complimented her with mighty thumps and took her up to the roof and down into the adjoining building, where he broke into an apartment and telephoned for an ambulance.

  When the ambulance arrived, Alceste and Sima descended to the street, where they were met by uniformed policemen who had official instructions to pick up a couple answering to their description. “Wanted for floater robbery with assault. Dangerous. Shoot to kill.” The police Alceste disposed of, and also the ambulance driver and intern. He and Sima departed in the ambulance, Alceste driving like a fury, Sima operating the siren like a banshee.

  They abandoned the ambulance in the downtown shopping district, entered a department store, and emerged forty minutes later as a young valet in uniform pushing an old man in a wheelchair. Outside the difficulty of the bust, Sima was boyish enough to pass as a valet. Frankie was weak enough from assorted injuries to simulate the old man.

  They checked into the Ross Splendide, where Alceste barricaded Sima in a suite, had his shoulder attended to and bought a gun. Then he went looking for John Strapp. He found him in the Bureau of Vital Statistics, bribing the chief clerk and presenting him with a slip of paper that gave the same description of the long-lost love.

  “Hey, old Johnny,” Alceste said.

  “Hey, Frankie!” Strapp cried in delight.

  They punched each other affectionately. With a happy grin, Alceste watched Strapp explain and offer further bribes to thechief clerk for the names and addresses of all girls over twenty-one who fitted the description on the slip of paper. As they left, Alceste said, “I met a girl who might fit that, old Johnny.”

  That cold look came into Strapp’s eyes. “Oh?” he said.

  “She’s got a kind of half lisp.”

  Strapp looked at Alceste strangely.

  “And a funny way of tilting her head when she talks.”

  Strapp clutched Alceste’s arm.

  “Only trouble is, she isn’t girlie-girlie like most. More like a fella. You know what I mean? Spunky-like.”

  “Show her to me, Frankie,” Strapp said in a low voice.

  They hopped a floater and were taxied to the Ross Splendide roof. They took the elevator down to the twentieth floor and walked to suite 20-M. Alceste code-knocked on the door. A girl’s voice called, “Come in.” Alceste shook Strapp’s hand and said, “Cheers, Johnny.” He unlocked the door, then walked down the hall to lean against the balcony balustrade. He drew his gun just in case Fisher might get around to last-ditch interruptions. Looking out across the glittering city, he reflected that every man could be happy if everybody would just lend a hand; but sometimes that hand was expensive.

  John Strapp walked into the suite. He shut the door, turned and examined the jet-haired inky-eyed girl, coldly, intently. She stared at him in amazement. Strapp stepped closer, walked around her, faced her again.

  “Say something,” he said.

  “You’re not John Strapp?” she faltered.

  “Yes.”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “No! My Johnny’s young. My Johnny is—”r />
  Strapp closed in like a tiger. His hands and lips savaged her while his eyes watched coldly and intently.

  The girl screamed and struggled, terrified by those strange eyes that were alien, by the harsh hands that were alien, by the alien compulsions of the creature who was once her Johnny Strapp but was now aching years of change apart from her.

  “You’re someone else!” she cried. “You’re not Johnny Strapp. You’re another man.”

  And Strapp, not so much eleven years older as eleven years other than the man whose memory he was fighting to fulfill, asked himself, “Are you my Sima? Are you my love—my lost, dead love?” And the change within him answered, “No, this isn’t Sima. This isn’t your love yet. Move on, Johnny. Move on and search. You’ll find her someday—the girl you lost.”

  He paid like a gentleman and departed.

  From the balcony, Alceste saw him leave. He was so astonished that he could not call to him. He went back to the suite and found Sima standing there, stunned, staring at a sheaf of money on a table. He realized what had happened at once. When Sima saw Alceste, she began to cry—not like a girl, but boyishly, with her fists clenched and her face screwed up.

  “Frankie,” she wept. “My God! Frankie!” She held out her arms to him in desperation. She was lost in a world that had passed her by.

  He took a step, then hesitated. He made a last attempt to quench the love within him for this creature, searching for a way to bring her and Strapp together. Then he lost all control and took her in his arms.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” he thought. “She’s so scared of being lost. She’s not mine. Not yet. Maybe never.”

  And then, “Fisher’s won, and I’ve lost.”

  And last of all, “We only remember the past; we never know it when we meet it. The mind goes back, but time goes on, and farewells should be forever.”

  * * *

  Will You Wait?

  They keep writing those antiquated stories about bargains with the Devil. You know . . . sulphur, spells and pentagrams; tricks, snares and delusions. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

  Twentieth century diabolism is slick and streamlined, like jukeboxes and automatic elevators and television and all the other modern efficiencies that leave you helpless and infuriated.

  A year ago I got fired from an agency job for the third time in ten months. I had to face the fact that I was a failure. I was also dead broke. I decided to sell my soul to the Devil, but the problem was how to find him. I went down to the main reference room of the library and read everything on demonology and devil lore. Like I said, it was all just talk. Anyway, if I could have afforded the expensive ingredients which they claimed could raise the Devil, I wouldn’t have had to deal with him in the first place.

  I was stumped, so I did the obvious thing; I called Celebrity Service. A delicate young man answered.

  I asked, “Can you tell me where the Devil is?”

  “Are you a subscriber to Celebrity Service?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can give you no information.”

  “I can afford to pay a small fee for one item.”

  “You wish limited service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the celebrity, please?”

  “The Devil.”

  “Who?”

  “The Devil. . . Satan, Lucifer, Scratch, Old Nick . . . The Devil.”

  “One moment, please.” In five minutes he was back, extremely annoyed. “Veddy soddy. The Devil is no longer a celebrity.”

  He hung up. I did the sensible thing and looked through the telephone directory. On a page decorated with ads for Sardi’s Restaurant I found Satan, Shaitan, Carnage & Bael, 477 Madison Avenue, Judson 3-1900. I called them. A bright young woman answered.

  “SSC&B. Good morning.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan, please?”

  “The lines are busy. Will you wait?”

  I waited and lost my dime. I wrangled with the operator and lost another dime but got the promise of a refund in postage stamps. I called Satan, Shaitan, Carnage & Bael again.

  “SSC&B. Good morning.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan? And please don’t leave me hanging on the phone. I’m calling from a—”

  The switchboard cut me off and buzzed. I waited. The coin-box gave a warning click. At last a line opened.

  “Miss Hogan’s office.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “He doesn’t know me. It’s a personal matter.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Satan is no longer with our organization.”

  “Can you tell me where I can find him?”

  There was muffled discussion in broad Brooklyn and then Miss Hogan spoke in crisp Secretary:

  “Mr. Satan is now with Beelzebub, Belial, Devil & Orgy.”

  I looked them up in the phone directory. 383 Madison Avenue, Murray Hill 2-1900. I dialed. The phone rang once and then choked. A metallic voice spoke in sing-song: “The number you are dialing is not a working number. Kindly consult your directory for the correct number. This is a recorded message.” I consulted my directory. It said Murray Hill 2-1900. I dialed again and got the same recorded message.

  I finally broke through to a live operator who was persuaded to give me the new number of Beelzebub, Belial, Devil & Orgy. I called them. A bright young woman answered.

  “BBDO. Good morning.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Satan, please?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Satan.”

  “I’m sorry. There is no such person with our organization.”

  “Then give me Beelzebub or the Devil.”

  “One moment, please.”

  I waited. Every half minute she opened my wire long enough to gasp: “Still ringing the Dev—” and then cut off before I had a chance to answer. At last a bright young woman spoke. “Mr. Devil’s office.”

  “May I speak to him?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  I gave her my name.

  “He’s on another line. Will you wait?”

  I waited. I was fortified with a dwindling reserve of nickels and dimes. After twenty minutes, the bright young woman spoke again: “He’s just gone into an emergency meeting. Can he call you back?”

  “No. I’ll try again.”

  Nine days later I finally got him.

  “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

  I took a breath. “I want to sell you my soul.”

  “Have you got anything on paper?”

  “What do you mean, anything on paper?”

  “The Property, my boy. The Sell. You can’t expect BBDO to buy a pig in a poke. We may drink out of dixie cups up here, but the sauce has got to be a hundred proof. Bring in your Presentation. My girl’ll set up an appointment.”

  I prepared a Presentation of my soul with plenty of Sell. Then I called his girl.

  “I’m sorry, he’s on the Coast. Call back in two weeks.”

  Five weeks later she gave me an appointment. I went up and sat in the photo-montage reception room of BBDO for two hours, balancing my Sell on my knees. Finally I was ushered into a corner office decorated with Texas brands in glowing neon. The Devil was lounging on his contour chair, dictating to an Iron Maiden. He was a tall man with the phony voice of a sales manager; the kind that talks loud in elevators. He gave me a Sincere handshake and immediately looked through my Presentation.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. I think we can do business. Now what did you have in mind? The usual?”

  “Money, success, happiness.”

  He nodded. “The usual. Now we’re square shooters in this shop. BBDO doesn’t dry-gulch. We’ll guarantee money, success and happiness.”

  “For how long?”

  “Normal lifespan. No tricks, my boy. We take our estimates from the Actuary Tables. Offhand I’d say you’re good for another forty, forty-five years. We can pinpoint that in the contract la
ter.”

  “No tricks?”

  He gestured impatiently. “That’s all bad public relations, what you’re thinking. I promise you, no tricks.”

  “Guaranteed?”

  “Not only do we guarantee service; we insist on giving service. BBDO doesn’t want any beefs going up to the Fair Practice Committee. You’ll have to call on us for service at least twice a year or the contract will be terminated.”

  “What kind of service?”

  He shrugged. “Any kind. Shine your shoes; empty ashtrays; bring you dancing girls. That can be pinpointed later. We just insist that you use us at least twice a year. We’ve got to give you a quid for your quo Quid pro quo. Check?”

  “But no tricks?”

  “No tricks. I’ll have our legal department draw up the contract. Who’s representing you?”

  “You mean an agent? I haven’t got one.”

  He was startled. “Haven’t got an agent? My boy, you’re living dangerously. Why, we could skin you alive. Get yourself an agent and tell him to call me.”

  “Yes, sir. M-May I . . . Could I ask a question?”

  “Shoot. Everything is open and above-board at BBDO.”

  “What will it be like for me . . . wh-when the contract terminates?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t advise it.”

  “I want to know.”

  He showed me. It was like a hideous session with a psychoanalyst, in perpetuity . . . an eternal, agonizing self-indictment. It was hell. I was shaken.

  “I’d rather have inhuman fiends torturing me,” I said.

  He laughed. “They can’t compare to man’s inhumanity to himself. Well. . . changed your mind, or is it a deal?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  We shook hands and he ushered me out. “Don’t forget,” he warned. “Protect yourself. Get an agent. Get the best.”

  I signed with Sibyl & Sphinx. That was on March 3. I called S & S on March 15. Mrs. Sphinx said: