Selected Stories of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  “And yet the irony lies in the fact that he is indeed devil-ridden,” Salem Burne reported.

  The Chairman could make nothing of this.

  “Psychiatry and diabolism use different terms for the same phenomenon,” Burne explained. “So perhaps I’d better translate. Those missing four hours are fugues.”

  The Chairman was not enlightened. “Do you mean the musical expression, Mr. Burne ?”

  “No, sir. A fugue is also the psychiatric description of a more advanced form of somnambulism... sleepwalking.”

  “Blaise Skiaki walks in his sleep?”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s more complicated than that. The sleepwalker is a comparatively simple case. He is never in touch with his surroundings. You can speak to him, shout at him, address him by name, and he remains totally oblivious.”

  “And the fugue?”

  “In the fugue the subject is in touch with his surroundings. He can converse with you. He has awareness and memory for the events that take place within the fugue, but while he is within his fugue he is a totally different person from the man he is in real life. And—and this is most important, sir—after the fugue he remembers nothing of it”

  “Then in your opinion Dr. Skiaki has these fugues two or three times a week.”

  “That is my diagnosis, sir.”

  “And he can tell us nothing of what transpires during the fugue?”

  “Nothing:”

  “Can you?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. There’s a limit to my powers.” “Have you any idea what is causing these fugues?”

  “Only that he is driven by something. I would say that he is possessed by the devil, but that is the cant of my profession. Others may use different terms—compulsion or obsession. The terminology is unimportant. The basic fact is that something possessing him is compelling him to go out nights to do—what? I don’t know. All I do know is that this diabolical drive most probably is what is blocking his creative work for you.”

  One does not summon Gretchen Nunn, not even if you’re CCC whose common stock has split twenty-five times. You work your way up through the echelons of her staff until you are finally admitted to the Presence. This involves a good deal of backing and forthing between your staff and hers, and ignites a good deal of exasperation, so the Chairman was understandably put out when at last he was ushered into Miss Nunn’s workshop, which was cluttered with the books and apparatus she used for her various investigations.

  Gretchen Nunn’s business was working miracles: not in the sense of the extraordinary, anomalous or abnormal brought about by a superhuman agency, but rather in the sense of her extraordinary and/or abnormal perception and manipulation of reality. In any situation she could and did achieve the impossible begged by her desperate clients, and her fees were so enormous that she was thinking of going public.

  Naturally the Chairman had anticipated Miss Nunn as looking like Merlin in drag. He was flabbergasted to discover that she was a Watusi princess with velvety black skin, aquiline features, great black eyes, tall, slender, twentyish, ravishing in red.

  She dazzled him with a smile, indicated a chair, sat in one opposite and said, “My fee is one hundred thousand. Can you afford it?”

  “I can. Agreed.”

  “And your difficulty—is it worth it?”

  “It is.” “Then we understand each other so far. Yes, Alex?”

  The young secretary who had bounced into the workshop said, “Excuse me. LeClerque insists on knowing how you made the positive identification of the mold as extraterrestrial.”

  Miss Nunn clicked her tongue impatiently. “He knows that I never give reasons. I only give results.”

  “Yes’N.”

  “Has he paid?”

  “Yes’N.”

  “All right. I’ll make an exception in his case. Tell him that it was based on the levo and dextro probability in amino acids and tell him to have a qualified exobiologist carry on from there. He won’t regret the cost.”

  “Yes’N. Thank you.”

  She turned to the Chairman as the secretary left. “You heard that. I only give results.”

  “Agreed, Miss Nunn.”

  “Now your difficulty. I’m not committed yet. Understood?”

  “Yes, Miss Nunn.”

  “Go ahead. Everything. Stream of consciousness, if necessary.”

  An hour later she dazzled him with another smile and said, “Thank you. This one is really unique. A welcome change. It’s a contract, if you’re still willing.”

  “Agreed, Miss Nunn. Would you like a deposit or an advance?”

  “Not from CCC.”

  “What about expenses? Should that be arranged?”

  “No. My responsibility.”

  “But what if you have to—if you’re required to—if—”

  She laughed. “My responsibility. I never give reasons and I never reveal methods. How can I charge for them? Now don’t forget; I want that Skip-Trace report.”

  A week later Gretchen Nunn took the unusual step of visiting the Chairman in his office at CCC. “I’m calling on you, sir, to give you the opportunity of withdrawing from our contract.”

  “Withdraw? But why?”

  “Because I believe you’re involved in something far more serious than you anticipated:”

  “But what?”

  “You won’t take my word for it?”

  “I must know.”

  Miss Nunn compressed her lips. After a moment she sighed. “Since this is an unusual case I’ll have to break my rules. Look at this, sir.” She unrolled a large map of a segment of the Corridor and flattened it on the Chairman’s desk. There was a star in the center of the map. “Skiaki’s residence,” Miss Nunn said.

  There was a large circle scribed around the star. “The limits to which a man can walk in two hours,”

  Miss Nunn said. The circle’ was crisscrossed by twisting trails all emanating from the star. “I got this from the Skip-Trace report. This is how the tails traced Skiaki.”

  “Very ingenious, but I see nothing serious in this, Miss Nunn.”

  “Look closely at the trails. What do you see?”

  “Why… each ends in a red cross.”

  “And what happens to each trail before it reaches the red cross ?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all, except—except that the dots change to dashes.”

  “And that’s what makes it serious.”

  “I don’t understand, Miss Nunn.”

  “I’ll explain. Each cross represents the scene of a murder. The dashes represent the backtracking of the actions and whereabouts of each murder victim just prior to death.”

  “Murder!”

  “They could trace their actions just so far back and no further. Skip-Trace could tail Skiaki just so far forward and no further. Those are the dots. The dates join up. What’s your conclusion?”

  “It must be coincidence,” the Chairman shouted. “This brilliant, charming young man. Murder? Impossible!”

  “Do you want the factual data I’ve drawn up?”

  “No, I don’t. I want the truth. Proof-positive without any inferences from dots, dashes and dates.”

  “Very well, Mr. Chairman. You’ll get it.”

  She rented the professional beggar’s pitch alongside the entrance to Skiaki’s Oasis for a week. No success. She hired a Revival Band and sang hymns with it before the Oasis. No success. She finally made the contact after she promoted a job with the Organic Nursery. The first three dinners she delivered to the penthouse she came and went unnoticed; Skiaki was entertaining a series of girls, all scrubbed and sparkling with gratitude. When she made the fourth delivery he was alone and noticed her for the first time.

  “Hey,” he grinned. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Sir?”

  “Since when has Organic been using girls for delivery boys?”

  “I am a delivery person, sir,” Miss Nunn answered with dignity. “I have been working for the Organic Nursery
since the first of the month.”

  “Knock off the sir bit.”

  “Thanks you, s—Dr. Skiaki .”

  “How the devil do you know that I’ve got a doctorate?”

  She’d slipped. He was listed at the Oasis and the Nursery merely as B. Skiaki, and she should have remembered. As usual, she turned her mistake into an advantage. “I know all about you, sir. Dr.Blaise Skiaki, Princeton, MIT, Dow Chemical.Chief Scent Chemist at CCC.”

  “You sound like Who’s Who.”

  “That’s where I read it, Dr. Skiaki .”

  “You read me up in `Who’s Who’? Why on earth?”

  “You’re the first famous man I’ve ever met”

  “Whatever gave you the idea that I’m famous, which I’m not.”

  She gestured around. “I knew you had to be famous to live like this.”

  “Very flattering. What’s your name, love?”

  “Gretchen, sir.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “People from my class don’t have last names, sir.”

  “Will you be the delivery person tomorrow, Gretchen?”

  “Tomorrow is my day off, Doctor.”

  “Perfect. Bring dinner for two.”

  So the affair began and Gretchen discovered, much to her astonishment, that she was enjoying it very much. Blaise was indeed a brilliant, charming young man, always entertaining, always considerate, always generous. In gratitude he gave her (remember he believed she came from the lowest Corridor class) one of his most prized possessions, a five-carat diamond he had synthesized at Dow. She responded with equal style: she wore it in her navel and promised that it was for his eyes only.

  Of course he always insisted on her scrubbing up each time she visited, which was a bit of a bore; in her income bracket she probably had more fresh water than he did. However, one convenience was that she could quit her job at the Organic Nursery and attend to other contracts while she was attending to Skiaki.

  She always left his penthouse around eleven-thirty but stayed outside until one. She finally picked him up one night just as he was leaving the Oasis. She’d memorized the Salem Burne report and knew what to expect. She overtook him quickly and spoke in an agitated voice. “Mistuh.Mistuh.” He stopped and looked at her kindly without recognition.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “If yuh gone this way kin I come too. I scared.”

  “Certainly, my dear.”

  “Thanks, mistuh. I gone home. You gone home?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Where you gone? Y’ain’t up to nothin’ bad, is you? I don’t want no part.”

  “Nothing bad, my dear. Don’t worry.”

  “Then what you up to?”

  He smiled secretly. “I’m following something.”

  “Somebody?”

  “No, something.”

  “What kine something?”

  “My, you’re curious, aren’t you. What’s your name?”

  “Gretchen.How ‘bout you?”

  “Me?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Wish. Call me Mr. Wish.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I have to turn left here.”

  “Thasokay, Mistuh Wish. I go left, too.”

  She could see that all his senses were pricking, and reduced her prattle to a background of unobtrusive sound. She stayed with him as he twisted, turned, sometimes doubling back, through streets, alleys, lanes and lots, always assuring him that this was her way home too. At a rather dangerous-looking refuse dump he gave her a fatherly pat and cautioned her to wait while he explored its safety. He explored, disappeared and never reappeared.

  “I replicated this experience with Skiaki six times,” Miss Nunn reported to CCC. “They were all significant. Each time he revealed a little more without realizing it and without recognizing me. Burne was right. It is fugue.”

  “And the cause, Miss Nunn?”

  “Pheromone trails.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you gentlemen would know the term, being in the chemistry business. I see I’ll have to explain. It will take some time so I insist that you do not require me to describe the induction and deduction that led to my conclusion. Understood?”

  “Agreed, Miss Nunn.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Surely you all know hormones, from the Greek hormaein, meaning ‘to excite’. They’re internal secretions which excite other parts of the body into action. Pheromones are external secretions which excite other creatures into action. It’s a mute chemical language.

  “The best example of the pheromone language is the ant. Put a lump of sugar somewhere outside an ant hill. A forager will come across it, feed and return to the nest. Within an hour the entire commune will be single-filing the pheromone trail first laid down quite undeliberately by the first discoverer. It’s an unconscious but compelling stimulant.”

  “Fascinating. And Dr. Skiaki ?”

  “He follows human pheromone trails. They compel him; he goes into fugue and follows them.”

  “Ah! An outer aspect of The Nose. It makes sense, Miss Nunn. It really does. But what trails is he compelled to follow?”

  “The death-wish.”

  “Miss Nunn!”

  “Surely you’re aware of this aspect of the human psyche. Many people suffer from an unconscious but powerful death-wish, especially in these despairing times. Apparently this leaves a pheromone trail which Dr. Skiaki senses, and he is compelled to follow it.”

  “And then?”

  “Apparently he grants the wish.”

  “Apparently! Apparently!” the Chairman shouted. “I ask you for proof-positive of this monstrous accusation.”

  “You’ll get it, sir. I’m not finished with Blaise Skiaki yet. There are one or two things I have to wrap up with him, and in the course of that I’m afraid he’s in for a shock. You’ll have your proof-pos-”

  That was a half-lie from a woman half in love. She knew she had to see Blaise again but her motives were confused. To find out whether she really loved him, despite what she knew? To find out whether he loved her? To warn him or save him or run away with him? To fulfill her contract in a cool, professional style? She didn’t know. Certainly she didn’t know that she was in for a shock from Skiaki.

  “Were you born blind?” he murmured that night.

  She sat bolt upright in the bed. “What? Blind? What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’ve had perfect sight all my life.”

  “Ah. Then you don’t know, darling. I rather suspected that might be it.”

  “I certainly don’t know what you’re talking about, Blaise.”

  “Oh, you’re blind all right,” he said calmly. “But you’ve never known because you’re blessed with a fantastic freak facility. You have extrasensory perception of other people’s senses. You see through other people’s eyes. For all I know you may be deaf and hear through their ears. You may feel with their skin. We must explore it some time.”

  “I never heard of anything more absurd in all my life,” she said angrily.

  “I can prove it to you, if you like, Gretchen.”

  “Go ahead, Blaise. Prove the impossible.”

  “Come into the lounge.”

  In the living room he pointed to a vase, “What color is that?”

  “Brown, of course.”

  “What color is that?” A tapestry.

  “Gray.”

  “And that lamp?”

  “Black.”

  “QED,” Skiaki said. “It has been demonstrated.”

  “What’s been demonstrated?”

  “That you’re seeing through my eyes.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I’m color-blind. That’s what gave me the clue in the first place.”

  “What?”

  He took her in his arms to quiet her trembling. “Darling Gretchen, the vase is green. The tapestry is amber and gold. The lamp is crimson. I can’t see the
colors but the decorator told me and I remember. Now why the terror? You’re blind, yes, but you’re blessed with something far more miraculous than mere sight; you see through the eyes of the world. I’d change places with you any time.”

  “It can’t be true,” she cried.

  “It’s true, love.”

  “What about when I’m alone?”

  “When are you alone? When is anybody in the Corridor ever alone?”

  She snatched up a shift and ran out of the penthouse, sobbing hysterically. She ran back to her own Oasis nearly crazed with terror. And yet she kept looking around and there were all the colors: red, orange, yellow, green, indigo , blue, violet. But there were also people swarming through the labyrinths of the Corridor as they always were, twenty-four hours a day.

  Back in her apartment she was determined to put the disaster to the test. She dismissed her entire staff with stern orders to get the hell out and spend the night somewhere else. She stood at the door and counted them out, all amazed and unhappy. She slammed the door and looked around. She could still see.

  “The lying son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered and began to pace furiously. She raged through the apartment, swearing venomously. It proved one thing; never get into personal relationships. They’ll betray you, they’ll try to destroy you, and she’d made a fool of herself. But why, in God’s name, did Blaise use this sort of dirty trick to destroy her? Then she smashed into something and was thrown back. She recovered her balance and looked to see what she had blundered into. It was a harpsichord.

  “But… but I don’t own a harpsichord,” she whispered in bewilderment. She started forward to touch it and assure herself of its reality. She smashed into the something again, grabbed it and felt it. It was the back of a couch. She looked around frantically. This was not one of her rooms. The harpsichord. Vivid Brueghels hanging on the walls, Jacobean furniture, Linenfold paneled doors, Crewel drapes.

  “But… this is the… the Raxon apartment downstairs. I must be seeing through their eyes. I must… he was right. I… ” She closed her eyes and looked. She saw a mélange of apartments, streets, crowds, people, events. She had always seen this sort of montage on occasion but had always thought it was merely the total visual recall which was a major factor in her extraordinary abilities and success. Now she knew the truth.