The Sex Sphere

by Rudy Rucker

  "Da is' er!" barked one of the Polizei.

  "Aber unmöglich! Fliegt er denn?"

  The MPs peered apologetically into the bedroom, while Herr Blöd examined the bathroom.

  "Whut all are they sayin'?" one of the American MPs asked Sybil with a nod towards the patio.

  "That my husband can fly. It's true, he really can."

  The man's eyes bulged out, and his mouth worked for words. In the silence Sybil had time to read the name on his uniform. RON BLEVINS, SR. With some vague intent of lodging a complaint, she read the other soldier's name as well. BING BONE. That one looked drunk. Dark, wiry and shifty . . . a little pirate of a man. The first one, Blevins, had a fat body and sticklike arms . . . arms that waved about like an excited potato bug's feelers. A pirate and a potato bug, our nation's finest.

  "What's going on, Mommy?" Sorrel clung anxiously to her leg. In the next room Ida had started to cry.

  "Go in there and take care of Ida, honey. The police won't hurt us. They just made a mistake."

  "But, Mommy . . . "

  "Please, Sorrel!"

  "I'm scared."

  "I'll tuck you back in." Glaring her hardest at Herr Blöd, Sybil ushered Sorrel into the bedroom. All three kids were upset and full of questions. She shushed them as best she could, and returned to the living-room.

  "Did you say your husband can fly?" asked Bing Bone, the little pirate. He made a flying gesture with his left hand, and Sybil noticed some rust-red stains under his nails. Blood?

  "Mah waafe had her a Baahble vision just this naaht," put in potato-bug Blevins. "She phoned me up. After the call is when ah noticed yore husband had made good his escape. You say he rilly flaaaahs?"

  "I . . . I saw my dead wife," put in Bone.

  "These are the last taahms!" bleated Blevins.

  "Was sagen die Soldaten?" asked one of the Polizei. Apparently Sybil was supposed to be translator for her husband's international hunting-party.

  "Quatsch," she said simply. "Nonsense."

  "Wir suchen weiter." The three Polizei trotted out of the apartment, weapons held smartly across their bodies. Herr Blöd stayed, eyeing Sybil and the soldiers with blind suspicion. Actually she was glad he was still there. Crazed yokels like Blevins made her nervous. And that sinister little pirate with blood on his hand, talking about his dead wife. Ugh!

  "I'm terribly sorry I can't be of any further help," Sybil said in her best upper-class accent. "Good-bye."

  Blevins looked like he wanted to stay and discuss the Book of Revelations, but Bone had the decency to lead him out.

  "Good-bye, Mrs. Bitter."

  "Baa-aaah," chimed in Blevins. "And, ma'am, you should take yore Baahble in yore lap tonaaht. It's done mah waafe a world of good."

  Purple-faced Herr Blöd got off the last shot. "Ab Morgen sind Sie ausgewiesen." "Tomorrow you have to move out."

  "Nein!" shouted Sybil, forgetting all her German but the word for no. "Nein, nein, nein!" She slammed the door behind Blöd and hooked the inner chain. Good thing they already had a lawyer.

  The children were in an uproar, and it took a half hour to calm them down. Finally that was done, and Sybil could sit back down with her cigarette and glass of wine.

  The phone rang again. Something in Sybil snapped. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the phone cord out of the wall. The phone kept right on ringing. With a sigh, she picked up the receiver.

  "Hello, Alwin."

  "How'd you know it was me?"

  "Where are you?"

  "Do you think the line's tapped?"

  "No. I just pulled it out of the wall."

  "What for? Are you in a bad mood? You sound cranky."

  "Alwin, I'm leaving. I'm taking the children and flying back to America tomorrow. I can't take this . . . this sitting around and being Frau Professor while you're in dimension Z."

  "Where will you get the money for the tickets?"

  This gave Sybil pause. Their bank-account was low. Her father would never pay to have her go back to the US . . . he'd want Sybil to stay and keep her mother company in Frankfurt. The horror and helplessness of her situation welled up, and she began to cry.

  "Hey," came Alwin's voice over the phone. "Hey, Sybil, don't cry. I'll get the money. I'll put it in our account at the Deutsche Bank."

  "How."

  "I can do anything. I can! I'll just reach into their computer and . . . " his voice broke off. Sybil sat there for a minute, holding the dead phone.

  Holding a dead, unplugged phone. She must be hallucinating. Oh, this was bad. This was the worst it had ever been. She had to get back to America, back to some friends. She could go stay with the DeLongs or . . .

  "Sybil? Sybil?" Alwin's voice was back on the phone. "I've done it. Switched twenty thousand deutsche marks over to our account. That's about ten thousand dollars. Get it tomorrow, get it in cash dollars before they straighten things out. Deutsche Bank has a branch at the Frankfurt airport. Go ahead and go to America. Go first class! I'll look for you there, once I get things rolling here. I'll miss you, baby."

  "Where . . . " Sybil had trouble controlling her voice. "Where should I go? How will I take care of the kids alone, Alwin? You can't just send me off like this."

  "I'll be there. I promise I'll be there . . . next week or sooner. Why don't you go up to Maine. I'll meet you there." Alwin's family had a summer cottage near Boothbay Harbor.

  "I'll be all alone."

  "Get my mother to come. Or one of your friends. Get Nancy from Boston."

  "Where are you, Alwin?"

  "I'm in a tree right now. Outside Huba's. I might spend the night at his place. He can help me get things rolling."

  "Get what rolling?"

  "The end of the world. The apocalypse. Babs is going to help the whole human race move to a higher plane. It's gonna be great. Don't you want to learn to fly?"

  "I'd rather have a husband. And a father for my children."

  "Sybil, I don't want to get into all that. This is much bigger."

  "For you."

  "Good-bye, honey. See you in Maine, if not in heaven first."

  "Oh, good-bye."

  The phone went dead again. Sybil put the receiver in its cradle. It was almost midnight, but there was no hope of sleeping.

  Something came rolling out of the bedroom. Ida's mousie. Babs again.

  "Get out of here!" cried Sybil in sudden fear. She snatched up the mouse, went in the bedroom and found the set of doll-heads, took them all out on the patio and threw them up into the sky.

  I don't want the next world, she thought. I want this one.

  Chapter Fifteen: Fishing with Huba

  I didn't want to startle Huba too much, so I entered his apartment the normal way: by ringing his bell and walking up the stairs. His wife Ute opened the door.

  Ute was German. Short and swarthy, yet quite attractive. Huba was a Hungarian refugee who'd come out through Yugoslavia a few years back. By marrying Ute he'd been able to get German citizenship. He worked in a place that made dentures, and she worked in the local grocery. They lived quite comfortably, and they loved to party, especially Huba.

  "Professor Bitter," cried Huba from the living room when he heard my voice. "Phantastisch! Wein, Ute! Musik! Rolling Stones!" Although neither of us spoke perfect German, it was the one language we had in common.

  "So what brings you here so late?" asked Ute in the front hall. "Where's Sybil?"

  "Didn't you see the news?"

  "What for news?"

  "They arrested me as a terrorist. I've just escaped."

  At this Huba stuck his head out from the living room. He was a big, tall man with curly hair and a bushy beard. He had made a denture with four false teeth for himself. Sometimes, when we were drunk together, he'd take the bridge out and put it in upside down.

  "Waaas?" he said, eyes dancing. "Terrorist? I knew it all along."

  "Does Sybil know you've escaped?" asked Ute, leading me into the living room.

  "Yes, I ju
st talked to her on the . . . phone. The bulls were already there looking for me. Can I spend the night here?"

  "But, naturally," said Huba. "You take Ute and I'll take the couch." He didn't mean this, of course . . . . This was just typically exaggerated Hungarian hospitality.

  "Schwein," scolded Ute with a laugh. Then, to me, "It's really no problem for me to fix the couch. It's meant as an extra bed. But why are the Polizei after you?"

  I hesitated. It was such a long story. Why bother telling it word-by-word in my inelegant German? Instead, I let my consciousness flow out and mingle with Ute and Huba's. An instant later they knew the whole chain of events. There was a moment's silence while it sank in.

  "What . . . ?" said Huba slowly. "I didn't catch at the end what you want to do now?"

  "He's a devil," cried Ute, looking frightened and backing away. "Make him leave, Huba!" Later I would realize that she'd seen Babs's plans better than any of us.

  "But no," protested Huba, jumping to his feet. "Alwin is my best friend. How about some of that good French wine, Alwin? Drink, listen to music . . . I got a new disk, you know. Pink Floyd. Ute, bring the wine, bring two bottles. Here, Alwin, have a cigar." I could tell Huba was thinking over what I'd just "told" him, but for the moment he was playing his usual host persona.

  Ute sighed heavily, then went to get the wine.

  "This sex sphere," asked Huba as soon as his wife was gone. "Can I see her?"

  "I think she's outside. She was out there with me a few minutes ago. I told her to wait till I told you."

  "Well, let's go out on the balcony."

  Huba's apartment building was sandwiched between the Neckar highway in front and a railroad track in back. The balcony jutted out over the track. The steep hill to the Gästehaus apartments rose up right beyond the track. Looking up, I could see Babs hovering there like a full moon. I beckoned her with my mind.

  In a flash she was at our sides, round and lovely: the sex sphere.

  "Was fur ein Asch!" exclaimed Huba, running an exploratory hand over her peachcleft. "What an ass! First class. But really, Alwin, that's not the only . . . "

  Ute's step sounded in the living room. I hurriedly got Babs to shrink down to pocket size. Huba and I went back in, and Ute joined us in a round of wine. Her initial shock had worn off.

  "So, Alwin, you see yourself as the Savior of mankind. But what about women?"

  "Women, too," I insisted. "I want everyone to start living in Hilbert Space. We can totally dissolve present-day reality."

  "Just for an ass?" Huba questioned. "There's more to life than that, Alwin. I like the physical as much as the next man, but it's conversation that counts. The life of the mind."

  "You don't understand," I said shortly. "Neither one of you does. But I love this wine." It was an excellent sweetish and a bit tart. Like condensed sunshine. Huba and Ute had bought it at a vineyard near Strasbourg.

  "Listen to this," urged Huba, passing me the earphones. "Pink Floyd."

  I put on the phones. A single sharp drumbeat whhACKKed, and then a whole cream-pie of guitar lines splatted me. I closed my eyes. For a minute I forgot I was the Messiah and just dug the sounds.

  When the song ended I took the phones off. There was an abrupt silence. They'd been talking about me. It occurred to me that I had no way of knowing if they'd properly decoded the information I had beamed them earlier. If you say something out loud, then there's a definite skein of words to go back to. But if you telepathically put information into someone's head, there's no objectivity, no way of going back and extirpating errors. There was no telling what garbled notions Ute and Huba might have about my mission.

  "More wine?" asked Huba too hastily.

  "Sure." Suddenly I felt very tired. I hadn't slept on a real bed for days. Thursday night on some rags in the Colosseum, Friday night on a couch in the Green Death hideout, Saturday . . . well, yeah, Saturday I'd slept at the Savoy with Sybil. Fucked and slept. But Sunday had been on some horrible fart-scented pallet in the train, and today I'd had to put up with being arrested. I sucked down the wine Huba poured me and held out my glass for more.

  "Can you get off work tomorrow?" I asked him. "I'd like to have a chance to discuss this stuff with you. I'm not sure the direct thought-transmission worked right."

  "Did you really set off an atomic bomb? I think I heard something about that. That was you?"

  "It was on the news, Huba. What have you been doing all weekend?"

  "We were in Mannheim. I have a friend there . . . what a party. You wouldn't believe it. Whole kegs of beer and cases of wine, a roast pig, a cheese this big . . . ."

  "Are you hungry, Alwin?" asked Ute politely.

  "I'm tired. God, I'm tired."

  "I'll fix the couch. Just stand up." Ute went out to get some sheets and pillows. A good, organized German housewife.

  "Look," said Huba, "I'll call in sick tomorrow. We'll go fishing . . . right down there by the Neckar. It's the last place the bulls would think to look for you. And . . . " He glanced over his shoulder, checking that Ute was out of earshot. "Give me that sphere. I want to try it after the wife's asleep."

  "OK." I took the soft little bean out of my pocket and handed it over. "Just make a kissing noise with your lips when you want her."

  * * *

  Huba woke me at 6:00 the next morning.

  "Come on, Herr Professor. The fish are biting."

  Ute had already left for work at the grocery. She and her boss went to the farmers' vegetable market at 5:00 every day. Huba gave me some coffee for breakfast, and a stale bun. In Europe they don't really understand about breakfast.

  Sipping my coffee, I stared out the kitchen window. The Neckar was covered with mist. Cars streamed into Heidelberg, bumper-to-bumper, everyone's lights on and the whole procession looking like a pearl necklace.

  "She's Hungarian," said Huba suddenly.

  "Who is."

  "Your Sex Kugel. Babs."

  "You fucked her?"

  He looked a bit embarrassed. He wasn't Westernized enough to be comfortable talking dirty. "Well . . . if you so flatly ask, I have to say yes. But she talks too; she talks Hungarian."

  "That's because . . . " I was about to explain how Babs had eaten Zsuzsi, then thought better of it. What if Babs decided to chew up all the women who wouldn't go along with her? No point upsetting Huba. I myself felt oddly neutral about this prospect. "Oh, never mind. Do you have a fishing-rod for me?"

  "But naturally. How about a little slivovitz?" He reached down a medallion-shaped bottle of plum brandy from the cupboard. My stomach heaved.

  "Maybe later."

  "I'll bring it along. We're going only right down there." He pointed out the window to the grassy band on the other side of the road. "Did I show you my movie of the rats?"

  "No."

  "This you have to see. In the apartment across the hall live two old women. Cows. Always complaining about noise. Sisters. They put bread down there, down on the railing by the river. They think they are feeding the swans. They are like this, these women." Huba widened his eyes and let his mouth go slack, then moved his open palm slowly back and forth in front of his face, miming the unresponsiveness of extreme idiocy. "Rats eat their bread, lots of big rats. From here, from this window I made a movie of them. Wait!" Huba rushed into his dining room and set up his film projector. "Look, Alwin, look at the rats!"

  He really did have a film of river rats as big as cats creeping through the grass, then climbing onto the railing to get the bread. More and more rats came, a fight started, the film ran out, the projector squeaked.

  "And they won't listen to me," muttered Huba.

  "You should show them this movie."

  "Stupid cows. Before I woke you today, they were already fighting. I'm surprised you didn't hear the screams. You'd think they were being eaten alive. Ach, let's go fish, away from women."

  "OK. But could you lend me a sweater? It looks chilly out there."

  "Sure, of course, take
mine."

  When we got down to the river, the sun was starting to show. The river was still foggy, foggy in an interesting way. Instead of just coming up all over like steam, the fog seemed to come off the river along certain lines. It was as if there were invisible atmospheric vortex rings over the river, and the fog could appear only at the boundaries between cells. There was a picnic table to sit on. I took a bit of slivovitz. The rats were lying low.

  "Bacon rind," Huba was saying. "That makes the best bait. You see? I use a long piece that's shaped like a little fish."

  He baited a hook for each of us and we cast. His cast went a good ten meters, but I did it wrong and landed my hook in the shallows. Some tiny fish, minnows smaller than the hook, nibbled at my bacon rind. A long barge chuffed past and the backwash pulled the little minnows upstream, then down. I tried another cast.

  "Let it sit on the bottom," urged Huba. "There's eels down there. Delicious, but very hard to kill."

  The sun was out in earnest now, burning away the fog and dew. I laid down on the grass and closed my eyes. The sunlight through my eyelids was a pleasant yellow-orange. It was nice not to have any women around. I drifted toward Hilbert Space.

  "Don't you want her back?" asked Huba just then.

  "Who?" I shaded my eyes against the sun.

  "The sex sphere."

  "There's lots of copies, all connected in some higher dimension. Like fingers. Babs plans to saturate the Earth, and to make everyone love with her. I'm supposed to make speeches that she's good for you." But today I barely had the energy to sit up, let alone go out and start a new religion.

  "I don't see how you and Babs can enlist the women," said Huba. "They don't think like us, you know."

  "Babs doesn't have to be just a big ass," I protested. "She can be a crystal ball showing nice things, or a man's head. Don't you think women would like a man's head that always listens to them and agrees?"

  Huba shrugged. "Women have no fantasy. They want the world just like it is. With all the little touches and details."

  "Yeah . . . maybe you're right. Women care about specifics. Men care about generalities, about abstract principles. I'm ready to wipe out all the details of the world as it is, just for the sake of the beautiful general principle of Hilbert Space. Sort of like selling the family silver to buy drugs. The women won't like it. But . . . " My voice trailed off. It was as if Babs had hypnotized me.