by Russell, Ray
I laughed, and ventured the opinion that he was feeling the brandy.
He stared pensively into his empty glass. ‘If there is a God of some kind, a Creator, perhaps you are merely His tool, doing His bidding. It may be His way of... wiping the slate dean. So that He may start afresh.’ He rose to leave, looking at his watch. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘Late,’ he repeated. ‘Good night, Martin. I will talk to you tomorrow—if there is one.’
The Darwin Sampler
It hung on the apartment wall, in an old-fashioned frame, the letters stitched on cloth in that Bless-Our-Home way they used to call a sampler. I guess it was supposed to be funny. What it said, though, was perfectly straight, the same thing you’d find on anybody’s wall:
ADAPT
OR DIE
—Darwin
The landlady had called us when she couldn’t get any response by knocking on her tenant’s door. We broke in and sized up the situation at a glance. The landlady screamed. My partner, Sergeant Fred Nagel, told her to go on about her business, so she left us there.
‘Too bad he didn’t pay more attention to it,’ I said, nodding first to the sampler and then to the stiff on the floor.
Fred said, ‘That damned thing gets to be invisible after a while. You don’t really see it anymore.’
‘Like the pictures of Lenin that used to hang everywhere in the Soviet.’
‘I guess. Up on the wall in every home, every office, every public place... but I feel sorry for poor bastards like this. They just can’t accept, can’t adjust...’
‘The dinosaurs couldn’t adjust, either,’ I said, ‘and look what happened to them.’
‘If he’d been an old-timer, I’d understand it better. But he was just a young fellow.’ Fred fingered the desk calendar that was turned to December 31,1999. ‘Not much of a Happy New Year for him,’ he said. Outside, the sounds of celebrating had already started.
‘The young ones are the worst,’ I said. ‘You know that. They don’t remember the way it was—they only know the stories, and of course they think of themselves as rebels. This kid was probably a member of G.O.D., want to bet?’
‘“Good Old Days”? That collection of nuts? No bet. He probably was. But I still feel sorry for him.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You’re a tough customer,’ Fred said, but I think he was being sarcastic. ‘Why do they do it?’ he added, not necessarily to me. ‘Is it curiosity? A yen to know what it was like way back when? Or is there a death-wish thing mixed up in it? What a lousy shame. What a waste.’
I asked him if he wanted me to call the coroner’s boys. ‘That’s all right, I’ll do it,’ he said, and walked over to the phone. He was taking it hard. Fred’s like that. Sort of a bleeding heart, but not a bad guy to work with.
While he made the call, I looked at the sampler again, and thought about Darwin and dinosaurs and those adaptor injections we’ve all been required to take at birth, for the past couple of generations. Instead of being grateful, nuts like this dead kid resent them, think they’re evil or sinister. Don’t they know they’re for their own good? Don’t they realise the shots just give the adaptive process a helping hand? It’s something that would have happened naturally, anyway, in time. But time was the one thing we didn’t have. Things had snowballed, and there was no other way out of the mess. No, I didn’t feel sorry for that kind of malcontent...
Fred was finishing up his phone call to the coroner’s office: ‘Yeah, we’ll stick around, but try to hurry it up. I’d prefer to spend New Year’s Eve with my wife.’
He hung up. Then he bent over and took the inhalation mask and tank from the dead sniffer’s body. He shook his head sadly, looking like a big St Bernard dog. He read the label aloud: ‘78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, 1% other gases. What they used to call “air”. Might just as well have put a bullet through his brain. Hard to believe we actually used to breathe this stuff. Open a window, will you?’
I did, and took a deep lungful. It was as thick as minestrone—rich in the pollutants on which we had made ourselves thrive. A drunk down on the street looked up at me and yelled, ‘Happy New Year!’
I corrected him. ‘Happy New Century, you mean.’
Acres of Bread
‘Writer’s block, man?’ purred a slurring, sneering voice.
Grant Hayward’s heart jumped and he turned from his typewriter to find a stranger standing in a particularly squalid corner of the shabby room he laughingly called his Hollywood apartment. The stranger looked young, wore his hair shoulder-length and greasy, was dressed in a skin-tight suit of black velvet with white neon-like piping, had a mouth like a shark, eyes like a heavily-sedated vulture, and lacked only an electric guitar to complete his resemblance to an acid rock singer.
‘Who are you?’ barked Hayward. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Oh, pretty long,’ drawled the stranger, ‘in one form or another. Long enough to know you’ve been glommin’ that blank piece of paper for like an hour now. And before that, there was another blank piece of paper. You typed two words on it, maybe three, then ripped it out and crumpled it up and shot it under the sink. And before that...’
‘All right. Now who are you and what do you want?’
‘Cool it, baby, that’s my line—what do you want? A swingin’ pad? Acres of bread? Fame? Chicks? You name it, I push it.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Like I said, man, I push. I am The Pusher.’
Hayward got the picture. ‘I see. So this is the way it happens. Interesting. Now what? A flaming contract, written in blood?’
The Pusher winced. ‘Oooh. That whole bag has got sides on it, Ferd. No, a plain old ballpoint will do fine. You want I should make you an offer?’
Hayward thought about it, but not for long. After a no moderate success with his first short stories, five years before, his career had steadily disintegrated. Three completed novels languished, unpublished and dusty, in his bottom dresser drawer. About once a year, he managed to get a low-grade TV assignment. Every Thursday he stood in line to collect his $65 unemployment compensation. ‘Why not?’ he said, rising and reaching for his jacket. ‘But not here.’
‘Where we goin’, Charlie?’
‘The name is not Charlie. Neither is it Ferd, Baby, or Man. It is Grant Hayward, Mister Hayward to the likes of you, and we are going to lunch at the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel.’
‘How come?’
‘Because that’s the only place Sid Armstrong ever talks a deal.’
‘Sid what?’
‘Come on,’ said Hayward, opening the door. ‘I never make a move without my agent.’
The negotiations lasted all through cocktails, guacamole, bluepoints, soup, were almost broken off in the middle of the sirloin, and were resumed over coffee and cognac. During this time, Barbra Streisand. Raquel Welch, and Marty Ransohoff all strolled past their table in bikinis but the three negotiators never gave them a first, much less a second, glance.
Sid Armstrong, bald as the eagle he resembled, peered down through his bifocals at a much-interlineated rough draft contract written by him in longhand on a special sandwich of paper consisting of three thin sheets divided by carbon paper and bound at the top, with a perforation for easy separating. ‘Let’s go through it once more,’ he said, manfully struggling with a belch. ‘You, Mr Pusher, agree to famish my client, Mr Hayward here, with an idea for precisely one novel, no more, no less, which you guarantee will bring him “acres of bread,” a term which shall be construed to mean that Mr Hayward will be personally enriched by the sum of no less than One Million Dollars in the form of publisher’s advance, royalties, paperback and foreign editions, and motion picture rights. In return for this, my client agrees to bind himself exclusively to your company and render certain unspecified services unto the aforesaid company for a stipulated length of time which is to begin exactly seven years from this moment, and which is to last for, like you said, eternity. It is further understood that suc
h subsidiary or “fringe” benefits as a swinging pad, fame, chicks, et cetera, although not to be specifically provided by you, are assumed to be the natural concomitant of the aforesaid “bread” or One Million Dollars. You acknowledge that you enter into this contract freely and openly, without any mental reservations or hidden codicils, terms which in this context are construed to mean any of the usual double-meanings, switches, tricks, betrayals, or other such diabolic devices familiar to legend, grand opera, and popular literature. You acknowledge that your service provided hereunder is of a special, unique, unusual, extraordinary and intellectual character, the loss of which cannot be reasonably or adequately compensated in damages in an action at law, and by reason thereof you further agree that, should you break any of the terms of this contract, or should you fail to cause the delivery of the aforesaid One Million Dollars into the personal fortune of my client, this contract will be considered null and void.’ Sid Armstrong looked up, through the top half of his bifocals. ‘All in order, Mr Pusher?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said The Pusher in a bored whisper, ‘it’s all groovy except for one little thing.’
Sid smiled. ‘You drive a hard bargain. But you’re right, I left out a clause. We’ll put it back in. Because of the unusual nature of this contract, and because the diminution of the stated sum by even one cent would nullify the contract (as stated in the above paragraph), it is agreed that the ten percent commission customarily collected by Air Hayward’s authorised representative, Sidney K. Armstrong, will, in this case, not be collected and Mr Armstrong will receive no fee for his services in this transaction. Sign here, gentlemen. And initial over here in the margin. That’s it. Fine.’ With a single sharp snap, Sid popped the perforation and distributed the three copies.
‘Later, man,’ The Pusher leered at Hayward. ‘Like seven years later.’ And then he was gone.
‘Sid,’ said Hayward, ‘I hope you don’t mind if I eat and run? All of a sudden I have this terrific idea I want to get to work on right away...’
‘Sure, kid, go ahead,’ said Sid Armstrong, and when Hayward left the Lounge, the agent unfolded the contract and read it again, slowly, with an ever broadening smile.
Acres of Breads the new novel by Grant Hayward, was snapped up by one of the big new computerised superpublishers, Tribourne Press, for a modest advance of $15,000.00. Chihuahua Books advanced $30,000.00 for the paperback rights. Tantamount Studios paid $500,000.00 for the film rights. English and foreign editions, plus royalties on all editions including the Book of the Month Club edition, resulted in another $455,000.00. Total: One Million Dollars.
In the six years that followed, Hayward blew the dust off the manuscripts in his bottom dresser drawer and unloaded every one of them, through Sid Armstrong, for enormous sums, on the strength of his now famous name. These novels it turned out, were not bad, they had merely been written before their time, and now, their time having come, they sold like crazy and Hayward received the praise of critics and public alike. He had a swinging pad, fame, chicks, acres of bread, but was he happy? He certainly was.
Then, precisely seven years to the millisecond after the signing of that contract in the Polo Lounge, The Pusher appeared in the posh, study of Hayward’s swinging pad. ‘Come on, Melvin,’ he mumbled, ‘let’s split.’
‘Hi there,’ said a slightly plumper Hayward. ‘Been expecting you. I take it you’re here in regard to our contract?’
‘You better believe it,’ said The Pusher.
‘Then I think you should speak to my agent,’ smiled Hayward, as Sid Armstrong strolled in from the living room. ‘Hello, Pusher,’ Sid said. ‘You want something?’
‘I want him,’ snarled The Pusher, thrusting a grimy, nail-bitten finger at Hayward.
Sid yawned. ‘No deal. Read your contract again.’
‘I don’t have to! This cat’s made more than a million in the last seven years. Every book he’s touched has been a gass. And—’
‘Correct,’ said Sid. ‘But what have his other books got to do with it? The fact that we were fortunate enough to market some earlier manuscripts of his for a great deal of money has nothing to do with our agreement. You have no claim on him on that score.’
‘Then cool that. He made a million on the first one, and—’ Sid shook his head and smiled. ‘You’ve got a reputation as a shrewd cookie, but you’re not on your toes. You may dress modern and talk modern, but face it, Pusher, you’re a back number, you’re behind the times, you don’t keep up with things. Our contract definitely states that my client is bound to your company only if he is personally enriched by the sum of no less than One Million Dollars from the novel based on the idea you furnished him...’
‘You think I don’t read Publishers Weekly and Variety and The Hollywood Reporter?’ screamed The Pusher. ‘One million skins is exactly what he got!’
‘One million skins,’ said Sid, ‘is what he grossed. The Government took most of that. Of course, my client didn’t mind too much, because he’s done very well on his other books, and I haven’t done so bad myself since I did collect commission on those... all of which has nothing whatever to do with you. So long, Mr P. My client has no business to conduct with you. Why don’t you try dragging the Department of Internal Revenue to damnation? It would make you an awful lot of friends.’
At last report, The Pusher was working on that, along with several other deals, through his newly authorised representative, Sidney K. Armstrong. Nowadays, he never makes a move without his agent.
The Devil’s Mirror
Alan sold himself to the Devil for a mirror.
The moment the contract was signed, Alan’s front doorbell rang and the Devil slipped out the back. When Alan answered the ringing, two thick-thewed delivery men carried into his house a large flat oval shape wrapped in brown paper. Alan instructed them to bring it into his study and lean it against the south wall. After they left, he locked himself into the study, drew the blinds, and tore the paper off his acquisition.
The oval mirror was as tall as Alan, of good quality glass set in an ormolu frame. It was quite handsome. Alan was pleased.
But the image that stared back at him from the glass was obviously displeased. It was merely himself, dressed exactly as the real Alan, in shirtsleeves and pearl-grey slacks, but the expression on the face was angry and the writhing mouth spat three silent syllables, the last of which (Alan deduced from the placement of upper teeth on lower lip) began with an ‘f’.
Alan grew furious and blurted out: ‘It’s a fraud!’
The image in the glass turned its back to Alan and strode out of sight.
Alan, perplexed and vexed, turned away from the mirror and left the room.
Having carefully relocked the door to his study, Alan now paced the floor outside that room. His furrowed face hardened into a mask of bitterness as the truth became clear.
He had requested, for his private use, a magic glass in which he could see the future. The Devil had given him precisely that.
What Alan had meant was a glass that would foretell all future events, like the crystal ball of fable, magazine cartoon, and cliché.
Of what conceivable earthly or, for that matter, unearthly value was a mirror that did no more than reflect an image five seconds ahead of time?
If the reflection were twenty-four hours in the future, or even twelve, he could put it to some use; hold up newspapers to the mirror, read the next day’s racing results and stock market listings. He could win wagers on elections, predict earthquakes and other disasters, beat Broadway critics to the punch, become famous as a prophet, make a lot of money, be praised and feared and sought after.
But five seconds?
Alan howled with rage. The stinking goat had tricked him?
He did not sleep all night. He paced, cursed, smoked cigarettes, drank whiskey, drank coffee, scribbled thoughts on paper, tore up the paper in frustration, pounded his head with his fists, formed and rejected a dozen ideas, two dozen, a hundred. None of them were a
ny good. He could do nothing with those absurd five seconds. The mirror was utterly worthless.
As the dawn began to reach hesitantly into his house, he fell into a sleep of total exhaustion. Five hours later he awoke, much refreshed, with a new idea in his head. That evening, he would have cause to wonder who had put it there.
He made several telephone calls, inviting a variety of people to cocktails in the afternoon. He then phoned a modish caterer, to order liquor and exotic hors-d’oeuvres.
Next, he carried the mirror out of the study and into the living room, where he hung it in a conspicuous place.
Alan’s idea was simple, if not brilliant. The mirror would be made useful to him, after all. Not as directly as he had hoped, but indirectly. It would become a conversation piece. It would fascinate all sorts of people. Among his invited guests were a nationally-syndicated gossip columnist, several show people of all sexes, tattle-tales of all ages, beauteous if vacuous ladies of the beau monde, a nice sampling of that worthless world Alan despised and admired.
These creatures would be impressed and awed by his mirror. They would squeal and gibber and ask how the trick was done. They would question him about the mirror’s origins; he would be deliciously cryptic, hinting at other dark, nameless forces at his beck and call. Word would spread, by mouth and print, about the mysterious Cagliostro in their midst. He would be lionised, feted, adulated. His lightest statement would carry weight. He would be a frequent guest on television talk shows, entering the homes of millions of people. He would be written up in magazines of huge circulation. His photo would appear everywhere. Publishers would offer him gigantic sums for his ghost-written autobiography. He would be in great demand on the lecture circuit, at stunning fees. He would be considered a sage, and his advice on all matters would urgently be sought. He would be deemed delightfully dangerous, and women would fall at his presumably cloven feet, yearning to learn the arcane amatory techniques of which surely he was a master. He would become a legend in his own time, for in our epoch, Alan well knew, it is not necessary to be gifted or accomplished in order to attain legendary status. And perhaps, some distant day, when he was very old, he might sell the mirror for a vast amount of money.
