by Rudy Rucker
The woman gazed off to one side, and Tre suddenly got the suspicion that Cynthia Major was a simmie, a software simulation of a real person. The face turned back to him and named a dollar amount much larger than Tre had imagined anyone wanting to give him in the foreseeable future.
“Myoor!” exclaimed Tre, imitating a surprised cow, as it was currently considered funny to do, at least among Tre’s circle of friends. “I’ll be there. Mur myoor!”
So the next Wednesday, Tre caught the light rail up to San Francisco. Benny Phlogiston rode along with him to provide moral support, also to visit a new live sex show he’d heard about in North Beach.
“It’s layers of uvvy,” Benny explained enthusiastically on the train. “I heard about it on the Web. The club’s called Real Compared To What. There’s actual nude men and women there in the middle of the room, and they’re all wearing uvvies on their necks, and there’s these uvvy dildos as well. You go in there and put on your own uvvy, and you can actually be a dildo. A dildo that talks to a naked girl.”
“That’s great, Benny,” said Tre. “I’m so happy for you. You feeble bufugu pervo. Do you think we should get high right now?”
“Never get high before an important meeting, Tre,” advised Benny. “Being high makes the meeting seem to take too long and makes it seem too important. Go in there and score some gigs, brah, and then we’ll smoke up. Maybe Apex will give you a big advance and you can buy us drinks at Adler’s Museum or Vesuvio. Let’s meet in Washington Square at three-thirty.”
“That sounds good, brah Ben. Have fun being a dildo.”
“You still don’t understand, Tre. It’s that the illusions have illusions inside them. The performers run you the illusion that you are in Real Compared To What being a dildo. But the dildo is smart, and the dildo is dreaming that it’s a user. I want to tweak into moire patterns of uvvy/realtime bestial lust.”
“Floaty. Give out some copies of Perplexing Poultry if you can. Maybe Real Compared To What will give you something free in return. A backstage assignation with a live woman.”
“Fully.”
Tre found Apex Images in a retrofitted Victorian on a back street above Haight Street. Heavily made-up Cynthia Major was sitting there in the flesh behind a desk. She was a real person after all.
“Tre!” she exclaimed pleasantly. “You’re here! I’ll buzz Mr. Kasabian.”
The reception area filled two carpeted rooms. A dark wooden staircase led upstairs. The windows were bay windows that bulged out, leaving nooks occupied by displays of past Apex Image successes. The displays were hollows being run by uvvies. One showed the notorious EAT ME wendy meat ad with Wendy Mooney posed nude on a giant hamburger bun, with most of a big ass cheek bared to the viewer. Her Happy Cloak cape was ruffled like a bolero bed jacket around her shoulders. She was very attractive for being nearly fifty. The ad had the transreal sheen of a classic painting by the great Kustom Kulture artist Robert Williams—Apex Images had, in fact, purchased a license for the Robert Williams style from his estate. Another display showed a teeming cloud of Von Dutch winged eyeballs, a striking image used by ISDN, the main uvvy service provider. Still another showed a single large vibrating drop of water that seemed to sparkle and iridesce and break up the light through the window; this had been an ad for the Big Lift festival in Golden Gate Park this summer.
“Tre,” said a man, coming down the stairs into the reception area. “I’m Dick Kasabian.” Kasabian was a lean blue-chinned man with dark lively eyes and a saturnine cast to his features. He gave an impression of terminal hipness. “Come on up to my office.”
Kasabian’s office had a nice view of downtown San Francisco and the bay. He offered Tre a glass of supersoda, and Tre took it.
“Your Perplexing Poultry philtre,” Kasabian said, picking up two uvvies. “I like it, but I don’t fully understand what’s going on. Can we go into it together?”
“Sure,” said Tre, placing the proffered uvvy on the back of his neck. Although the earliest uvvy-like devices—the Happy Cloaks of the thirties, for instance—had actually punctured the user’s skin with probes in order to connect to the nervous system, today’s uvvies used small superconducting electromagnetic fields. So there was no danger of biological infection in using someone else’s uvvy.
With their uvvies on, Tre and Kasabian were in a close mental link. They could talk to each other without moving their lips, and each could see what the other was seeing. It was a highly perfected form of communication. You couldn’t quite read the other person’s mind, but you could quickly pick up any verbal or graphic information that he or she wanted to share. In addition, you could pick up the emotional flavor of the information.
Tre noticed right away that Kasabian was linked into somebody else besides him. Who?
“Oh, that’s the Mentor listening in,” explained Kasabian. “If we offer you the job, I’ll introduce you to him then. For now he’d just like to lurk. He doesn’t like his involvement with Apex to be known outside of the company.”
“All right,” said Tre.
“Let’s load the Poultry into our uvvies,” said Kasabian. Saying this was enough to make it happen. The room’s space wavered and bulged and formed itself into a Jell-O-like linkage of comical chickens and dodoes. Through Tre’s eyes, Kasabian’s head was an upside-down dodo pecking into a bundle of five chickens that made up his chest. Yet, impossibly, he still looked like himself. And in Kasabian’s eyes, Tre’s head was a pair of chickens pecking into three dodoes.
“That’s the kind of thing I’ve been wondering about,” said Kasabian. “Why aren’t our two images more similar? Our bodies aren’t shaped so differently. Is it arbitrary?”
“It’s because the pattern where you are has to fit with the pattern where I am,” explained Tre. “It’s a tessellation of space, a division of space into cells. And because the tessellation is based on quasicrystals, it tends to not want to repeat.”
“Very weightless,” said Kasabian. “But if I wanted to start out with my desk being made of, say, six dodoes, would I be able to do it?”
“Oh yeah,” said Tre. “That’s a special hidden feature, as a matter of fact. I’ll show you how.”
“Good,” said Kasabian. “Because if we wanted to use it to like advertise something, the client might want to specify the way that the image of their product came out—and have everything else constellate itself around that.”
“What would we want to advertise? Imipolex from Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd.?”
“No no. Your first ads will be for wendy meat—just like you guessed when you talked to Cynthia. Emperor Staghorn wants your philtre’s source code all right, but they don’t want it for an ad. One of their limpware engineers wants to use it for quasicrystal design. If we license the design to them, they’ll pay bucks instead of suing.”
“Wow,” said Tre. “I didn’t realize what I’d done was so floatin’. Maybe I should work for Emperor Staghorn instead of for you.”
“Don’t do that,” said Kasabian quickly. “You’d have to move to India. Also I know for a fact that the Emperor Staghorn scientist who wants to use your philtre would never let them hire you. Sri Ramanujan. He’s very secretive and he doesn’t want his assistants to understand what he’s doing. He doesn’t want you, Tre, he just wants your philtre. Plus any more weird tessellations that you can come up with.”
“So you want me to be more of an artist than an engineer,” mused Tre. “Actually, that feels about right. Some of these courses I’ve been taking—”
“You’ve got a great creative talent,” urged Kasabian. “You should go with it!”
They fooled around with the Perplexing Poultry some more, and then Kasabian ran a bunch of Apex Images demos for Tre. Finally they took their uvvies off.
“Apex does really lifty stuff,” said Tre. “The ads are beautiful.”
“Thanks,” said Kasabian. “So now the Mentor wants to know: Are you ready to start working for us?”
�
��Advertising wendy meat is kind of lame, but I’d feel good about inventing new philtres and helping Emperor Staghorn Beetle.”
“Have you ever tasted wendy meat?” asked Kasabian. “No? Guess what—neither have I. The gnarl of the images is all that matters.”
“I wouldn’t have to like physically come in here every day, would I?”
“God no. Nobody comes in here regularly except me and Cynthia Major. Apex can give you a base salary plus royalties on the philtres and any other research work that you produce. You keep the copyrights, but we get exclusive first rights for use. Occasionally we might ask you to do some specific contract work. Like tweaking a philtre to fit an ad.”
They made a firm deal and signed some papers.
“Okay,” said Tre. “Now tell me who the Mentor is.”
“Stahn Mooney,” said Kasabian.
“Ex-Senator Stahn?”
“None other. Stahn owns Apex, also he and his wife own most of Wendy Meat and W. M. Biologicals. When Stahn got voted out of the Senate, he didn’t leave with empty pockets! Put your uvvy back on, he wants to talk with you.”
The uvvy fed Tre the visual image of a jaded-looking man in his fifties. The man was sitting in a wood-paneled room with a crackling fire in a huge stone hearth; the flames of the fire were made up of Perplexing Poultry. The man’s mouth spread in a long, sly smile that Tre recognized from the many Stahn Mooney news stories he’d watched over the years.
“Hi, Stahn,” said Tre. “I’m happy to meet you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Stahn. “These Perplexing Poultry of yours are the waviest thing I’ve seen all year. You must be a fellow stoner.”
“I lift,” allowed Tre.
“I’ve been listening in just now while Kasabian here’s been telling you about how we can sell the Poultry for more than just ads.”
“Yeah,” said Tre. “Like for limpware engineering?”
“Big-time.” Stahn gave a wheezy chuckle. He seemed not to be in the best physical condition. “Sri Ramanujan at Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd., is working on some new method for bringing humans and moldies closer together. He won’t give out any details, but it’s bound to be a force for good, the way I look at it. Humans and moldies were meant to be one. Like Wendy and her Happy Cloak! Ramanujan says your Perplexing Poultry would be just the thing for his project if you could make them be four-dimensional. Does that make any sense to you?”
“I might be able to do it,” said Tre after a minute’s thought. “To fit into our space, the new philtre would actually be a three-dimensional projection of a four-dimensional tessellation. Like a shadow. I do know that the generalized Schmitt-Conway biprism will tile aperiodically in all dimensions of the form 3 times M. But dimensions four and five? Conway may also have done some work on aperiodic four-dimensional and five-dimensional tessellations. I can look into it.”
“Stuzzadelic! Welcome aboard, Tre Dietz!” After a few more pleasantries, old Senator Stahn cut the connection.
With Tre all signed up, Kasabian suddenly turned out to be too busy to actually have lunch with Tre, somewhat to Tre’s disappointment. With nothing better to do, Tre walked down Columbus Street to look for Benny at Real Compared To What.
The place had a honky-tonk façade covered with fuff hollows. There were some citified moldies lounging around in front, not doing much of anything, and there was a black man beckoning people in from the sidewalk.
“Light and tight!” the barker exclaimed to Tre. “Real Compared To What. Zoom on it, brah.”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
“Aren’t we all. We got lots of friends inside.”
“Can I peek in for free?”
“Look it over, and if you don’t love it in two minutes, there’s no charge. Gustav! Show the man in.”
One of the moldies came hunching over; it was shaped like a big inchworm, orange with purple spots. “Do you need an uvvy, sir?”
“Not yet,” said Tre. “I’ll just use my eyes for now.” He followed Gustav the moldie in through the thick curtains that hung over Real Compared To What’s door.
Inside there was music and a closed-in smell of bodily fluids. The audience area was pitch-dark, and spotlights were on a stage with crawly uvvies, moldies, random pieces of imipolex, and several nude people, one of whom was Benny Phlogiston, on all fours with an erection, an uvvy on his neck, and a fat limpware dildo reaming his butt.
“Hey, Benny!” shouted Tre. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Benny’s head turned uncertainly in Tre’s direction. His eyes had the glazed-over look of someone who’s fully into mental uvvy space and all but obliv to the realtime world.
“Benny! Are you sure you’re getting what you wanted?”
The dildo chose this instant to pull out of Benny and hop away. Benny came to his senses and stood up with a rapidly developing soft-off. He found his clothes back at his seat, donned them, and followed Tre back to the street. They moved slowly up the block.
“What a burn,” said blushing Benny. “Did that really happen?”
“What did you think was happening?”
“It was this really sexy woman, this dominatrix type. She came off the stage and got me and stripped me and took me—I thought—to her boudoir room so I could be her love slave. She wanted to . . . to—”
“To buttfuck you with a dildo. No need to be embarrassed, Ben. It’s a common male fantasy, pitiful creatures that we are—”
“All right, yes, that’s what I thought was happening. Only—”
“Only there wasn’t any woman behind the dildo,” cackled Tre. “And her so-called boudoir was the lit-up stage!”
“Tre, if you tell anyone about this—”
“What’s to tell? Who would be interested?”
“Come on, Tre. Please.”
“Wavy. But you owe me big-time, brah.”
“Fine. Fine.” Benny turned and looked back at the moldies oozing around in front of Real Compared To What. “I hate moldies.”
“They’re not exactly man’s best friend,” agreed Tre. “But without moldies, there’d be no DIMs, no uvvies, no Wad, no Limpware Engineering courses, and no new job for me.”
“You got the job!”
“You know it, little guy. It looks like a heavy deal.”
“So buy me some food and drink!”
“Stratospheric,” said Tre. “And let’s stride. You probably don’t want to be here if whoever was running that dildo comes a-stormin’ out for some face time.”
“Fully,” agreed Benny, and they walked off into the side streets of North Beach for a memorable afternoon of youthful folly.
With the first big payment from Apex Images in hand, Tre let his studies slide. Like why get a degree for a job he already had? That spring he flunked all his courses, and his parents cut off his allowance when he wouldn’t come home to Des Moines. Tre coasted through the summer and into the fall, trying to get the four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry to click, but he kept not being able to get it to happen. It was a hard problem. He was going to have to think about it for a long time. Meanwhile he kept the money coming in from Apex by tweaking uvvy ads when Kasabian asked him to.
By Thanksgiving, 2049, with no other obligations in sight, it suddenly seemed to make sense to go ahead and marry Terri Percesepe. Terri and Tre took over the management of the Clearlight Terrace Court Motel on behalf of Terri’s widowed mother Alice.
After her husband Dom had died, Alice had added the name Clearlight to the motel, which had formerly just been the Terrace Court. Clearlight was the name of the current wave of the perennial New Age philosophy of California: a holistic nature-loving libertarian set of beliefs that fit in well with the surf and the sun and the weirdest new drugs and computational systems on Earth.
Not that the Terrace Court was a particularly Clearlight kind of place—sticking Clearlight in front of its name was just wishful thinking. The same old pasty tourists came there anyway. In any case, as mana
gers, Terri and Tre got to live free in the apartment behind the motel office, which solved a serious rent problem that had been on the point of emerging for Tre.
As well as working on floaty new philtres and now and then doing a contracted tweak for Apex, Tre kept busy helping Terri keep up the motel. And Tre and Terri fell more and more in love. Before they knew it, out popped two babies: first a son, Dolf, born September 23, 2049, and then a daughter, Baby Wren, born June 26, 2052.
The one thing that always seemed the same, whether Tre was high or not, were the children. Tre delighted in them. It was fun to follow them around and watch them doing things.
“Clearly a biped,” he would say, watching Wren stomp around their apartment with her stubby little arms pumping. Baby Wren was so short that if Tre put his arm down at his side, the silky top of standing Wren’s head was still an inch or two below his hand. Wren was about as short as a standing-up person could possibly be. Dolf was a clever lad who liked asking his father questions like “Will our house float if there’s a flood?” or “If we couldn’t get any more food, how long would it take to eat everything in the kitchen?” Little Dolf was determined to survive, come what may.
In the spring of 2053, Tre got an uvvy call from Stahn Mooney. Senator Stahn was way lifted and messed up.
“I’m a wee bummed you never got the fuh-four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry together, Tuh-Tre,” jabbered the middle-aged man. “You luh-loser.” He looked twitchy and hostile. “I’ve been asking Kuh-Kuh-Kasabian why I shouldn’t fire you.”
“Kiss my ass,” said Tre and shakily turned off the uvvy. Early the next morning, Mooney called him back sober.
“Sorry about that last call,” said Mooney. “My legendary problems with substance abuse are back; I’m turning into the bad old Sta-Hi Mooney. Of course your work is excellent, Apex wouldn’t dream of letting you go.”
“Glad to hear it. And I am sorry I never delivered on the four-dimensional Poultry design. It turns out John Horton Conway found four-dimensional and five-dimensional aperiodic monotiles sixty years ago, but it’s not too well documented. UCSC Wad finally unearthed a construction in Conway’s e-mail archives. But turning Conway’s tessellations into beautiful three-dimensional projections—so far I can’t do it, even with UCSC’s Wad. I do still think about it from time to time.”
