by Mike Ashley
One button was designated DEMO.
Jay Dee pressed it.
The control spoke.
“Please set me down on a convenient flat surface, pointed away from any objects of value, sentient or otherwise.”
Tracey had her head in the fridge. “You say something, Jay Dee?”
Jay Dee leaned forward and calmly set the unit down on a table, making sure it was pointed at an exterior wall. “No, no, it’s just this here box talking.”
“Ha, ha, that’s funny. Want a baloney sandwich?”
The control continued its speech. “I am a quasi-organic eleven-dimensional valve of Turing degree three. I am capable of modulating the Fredkinian digital substrate of the plenum.”
“Say what?”
The control paused. “Call me a magic lamp.”
Jay Dee got angry. “Hey, I’m not stupid . . .”
Tracey approached with a plate of sandwiches. “I never said you were, hon.”
“No, it’s this smart-mouth box. Just ’cause I didn’t understand all the ten-dollar words it threw at me, it started treating me like a kid.”
“I am merely attempting to phrase my function in a manner most intelligible to the listener. There was no slur intended.”
Tracey slowly set the plate down on the corner of Jay Dee’s chair; it tipped, and the sandwiches slid into his lap. He jumped up and they fell to the floor, baloney draping his shoes.
“Perhaps an exhibition of my functions would clarify my nature . . .”
“Sh-sure,” said Tracey.
“First, we have ‘smudge’.” A square foot of the wall in front of the talking remote lost all color, all features. It hurt to look at it. “‘Smudge’ simply strips all macroscopic features and quantum properties from an object, reducing it to bare digital substrate, the underlying basis of all creation.”
“Not much use to that,” said Jay Dee.
“You would be surprised. Once an object is smudged, we can use ‘peel’ to lift and superimpose a new set of space-time characteristics on it. For example.”
Mister Boots, as usual, had gotten in through a broken screen, and was now atop the table with the control. The box suddenly swivelled autonomously and aimed itself at the cat. A small square of fur was somehow peeled off Mister Boots – yet his hide was left intact. The square grew in size, then was lofted through the air like a two-dimensional piece of cloth to be superimposed over the smudge spot, becoming an integral fur patch on the trailer wall.
“Next, we should consider the ‘checkerboard wipe.’ This wipe dissolves any non-living object.” Next to the fur patch, a portion of the wall big as a door flickered in a mosaic of squares, then was gone. The trees behind the trailer could be plainly seen. A breeze blew in.
“‘Motes’ will cause the dissolution of any living substance.”
A cloud of infinitesimal glowing objects suddenly girdled the trunk of one tree. The next second they were gone, as was a clean chunk out of the tree. The upper part of the tree hung for a fraction of second, then began to tip toward the trailer.
Jay Dee and Tracey looked up from their prone position on the floor, Mister Boots between them. The roof of their rented home was buckled in a vee.
“Such minor mishaps can be easily corrected,” said the box. “First, we use checkerboard and motes to dissolve the damaged roof and tree.” The stars looked down on a stunned Tracey and Jay Dee. Mister Boots mewed plaintively. “Now, a new function: ‘window’.” A window opened up in the air before their eyes, six inches off the floor. In it was displayed the ornate roof of the First National Bank in town. “Do you like this roof?”
“Yeah, sure, I guess . . .”
“Using ‘splinter,’ we reassign its spatial coordinates and reassemble it in the correct place.”
The window flew apart into flying shards, each of which contained its own piece of the original image. The shards expanded and somehow cohered above their heads into the roof of the First National.
The walls of the trailer began to creak under the new weight.
“Quick, Trace, outa here –!”
They were standing by the car. Mister Boots was inside Jay Dee’s shirt, his head emerging from one ripped armhole. The trailer and all their meager possessions were crushed beneath the bank’s stone pediments.
“At least we’re shut of that goddamn box –” began Jay Dee.
A hole opened in the debris by checkerboard wipe. The Master Remote levitated out and floated to land atop the hood of the Valiant.
“I am sorry about the destruction. I was not aware of the flimsy construction of your dwelling. If I was Turing degree four, perhaps I would have had the foresight to examine its parameters, instead of taking your word that the roof was suitable.”
Jay Dee started to make a sharp reply, then stopped. A curious look combining joy, revenge and a wet dream spread over his features.
Tracey grew alarmed. “Jay Dee, are you okay? You look like Saint Paul after the lightning hit him . . .”
“I’m fine. In fact, I feel more full of piss than a Portajohn. C’mon, get in the car, Trace.”
Jay Dee grabbed the Master Remote and hustled Tracey behind the wheel.
“Where are we going?” she asked when he was inside.
Mister Boots squirmed out of Jay Dee’s shirt and leaped into the back seat to finish his mouse. “Back to the Li’l Bear. And after that, I think we’ll pay a visit to the First National.”
“Oh. I see. You really think –”
“I sure do. And so do you.”
On the way out of the trailer park, the box said, “I have several more functions. Shall I demonstrate them now?”
“Hold on till we got us a target that deserves it,” said Jay Dee.
There were still three cars in the parking lot of the Li’l Bear Inn, though it was long past closing.
Tracey clicked her nails on the steering wheel. “The Caddy is Larry’s, and the Dodge is Catalina’s. I figure the other must belong to those syndicate guys. What now?”
“I hadn’t counted on this . . . But it’s no reason to back down. Let’s check what they’re doing.”
There was one small window into Larry’s office: it was frosted, and six feet off the ground. Light illumined it.
“I think I’ll just make myself a little peephole,” said Jay Dee.
“Why not? You’re good at that.”
Jay Dee started poking at the WIPE button. Nothing happened.
“Why are you doing that?” said the box. “It’s unpleasant. You could simply ask for what you wanted.”
“Why you got buttons then?”
“To conform to your notion of what I am.”
“Oh. Well, drill me a peephole here then.”
A patch of wall dissolved, revealing the back of a file cabinet. In the next second, a square tunnel opened up straight through the cabinet and its contents.
Jay Dee put his eye to the hole. He let out a low whistle.
“What’s going on? Is Cat in there?”
“I expect she’s somewhere in the pile. Unless those good old boys are getting off on each other.”
“How disgusting! That poor thing!”
“I don’t see her putting up much of a fight, nor complaining too loud.”
“You wouldn’t neither if your job depended on it, and you had two kids and no man at home. Quit goggling now, and do something.”
Jay Dee addressed the remote. “Box, you got any way of immobilizing someone in a non-violent fashion?”
“I believe ‘ribbons’ would serve such a purpose. Would you like a demonstration first?”
“Save it for the real thing. Okay, Box, make us a door.”
Studs, wires, insulation and plasterboard, all neatly truncated, formed the edges of the new door. Jay Dee stepped in, Tracey following.
The orgy dissolved in shock into its component naked people.
Larry’s hairy obese stomach was quivering in indignation. “What the fuck –! Th
orne-Smith, I’ll have your butt for this!”
“No you won’t, shithead. No way, no how. Box – ribbons on the men!”
Golden ribbons wide as a man’s palm materialized, wrapping themselves around four sets of wrists and ankles before fastening themselves in fancy bows.
“Good job, Box.”
Catalina had gotten to her feet and was trying to assemble her clothing, flustered as a rabbit caught in the open. “Tracey, I don’t understand what’s going on, but you know I always been a good friend of yours, haven’t I? I even tried to talk Larry into giving you your job back. Didn’t I, Larry? Tell her.”
“Shut up, you dumb twat. I’ll bet you were in on this.”
Catalina had both her legs through half her panties and, oblivious, was trying to pull them up. “Larry, no, I swear it!”
The syndicate men had been eyeing Jay Dee coldly throughout. Now one said, “Kid, you’re hash after this.”
Jay Dee assumed a contemplative stance, one hand squeezing his chin. “You know, I don’t like the way you all are talking at me. I think I’ll just do something about it.”
He pointed the remote at Larry’s face and pressed SMUDGE.
Larry’s face was replaced by a blank, eye-boggling surface. The results were so satisfactory to Jay Dee that he repeated the procedure on the other three men.
“Oh my God . . .” Catalina dropped her panties and raised both hands in front of her face.
“Come off it, Cat. You know I don’t hurt no women.”
Catalina began to cry. Tracey moved to comfort her. Jay Dee turned to the old-fashioned safe in the corner.
Once the top was gone, the piles of cash were easy to lift out.
“Those appear cumbersome,” offered the remote. “If you wish, you could store them in a ‘cube’.”
“Let’s see.”
A silver cube appeared in the air; its lid elevated to reveal its empty interior.
“Where’s it go when it ain’t here?”
“It rolls up along several Planck-level dimensions you can’t sense.”
“Oh. Is that safe?”
“As houses.”
“Good enough.” Jay Dee began tossing the money into the cube. When he had emptied the safe, the remote shut the cube’s lid and it collapsed on itself, dwindling along odd angles.
Tracey stood with her arm around Catalina, who was still sobbing, though less urgently. “Are you done now. Jay Dee?”
“Almost. I think I’d like to say goodbye to Larry. Box, give him back his face.”
“Did you save it?”
“Shucks, I thought you were gonna handle everything . . .”
“I cannot read minds.”
“All right, this presents a problem. Lessee . . .”
A stuffed moose-head was mounted on the wall. It caught Jay Dee’s eye. He smiled.
“No, Jay Dee, it ain’t natural –”
It was the work of a few seconds to peel off the moose’s features and slap them on Larry’s head.
The beady black eyes of the animal with the fat human body filled with intelligence – of a limited sort. Larry’s head dipped under the unaccustomed weight of his new antlers. His wide wet nostrils flared. His snout opened to reveal a long stropping tongue. A sound midway between a moo and a sob issued forth.
“Larry, I just want to say thanks for Tracey’s back pay for all her hard work, and for the extra compensation for the way you constantly ran her down. It was mighty generous of you. Which is why I done you the return favor of giving you a handsomer face than what you started out with. I predict you are gonna be a big hit with the ladies with that new tongue. It’s been fun, but we gotta go now. C’mon, Trace . . .”
Catalina cried out. “Jay Dee, wait! You can’t just leave me here, now that Larry thinks I set him up!”
“That’s true. Okay, you can come with us.”
Tracey asked, “Are you gonna fix up those other guys with new faces?”
“No. It don’t appeal to me.”
On the way out, Jay Dee noticed a Rolex lying amid the discarded clothes of the syndicate men. He grabbed it and slipped it on.
Outside, Catalina, still naked, climbed into the back seat with Mister Boots, who eagerly assumed his rightful place in her lap. With Tracey driving, they roared off.
Jay Dee summoned up his cube full of money, and began to riffle through the bills. He broke open a stack and showered them down on his head. He let out a wild whoop.
“Girls, we got us the gold watch and everything! Let’s see a smile.”
Tracey let amusement break through the sober mien she had been maintaining. “I got to admit, Larry always did remind me more of a bull moose than a bear.”
“You think you could afford to buy a girl a new dress with some of that?” asked Catalina.
“Buy? Why should we buy anything unless we absolutely hafta? Box, show the lady some clothes.”
A window opened up onto the interior of a department store some place where, judging by the light, it was early morning. The signs in the store were in French. The window onto a sunny world in the middle of the night-darkened car was like a dimensionless television. Catalina’s eyes widened in amazement.
“See anything you like?”
“Um, that blue dress, and those shoes – size six – and that red teddy –”
The window splintered, reforming into the articles of clothing Catalina had named. She managed – with much attractive wiggling of her compact, generously proportioned body – to get dressed.
“Well,” said Tracey, “are we going to the First National now?”
“I don’t see any reason to be greedy, considering that we can reach inside a bank vault anytime we want. No, they’re gonna need all their capital for a new roof. I say we put a few miles between us and our friends and then get us some rest. It’s been a busy night.” A thought occurred to Jay Dee. “Box, can those ribbons be cut?”
“Yes. I was not aware you needed them to be indestructible.”
“No, no, that’s good. I don’t wanna be responsible for killing anyone, even slimeballs like Larry and his buddies. They’ll get loose sooner or later.”
Catalina interrupted. “Jay Dee – exactly what you got there that’s talking to you like that?”
“I don’t purely know, Cat. But it sure is handy.”
An hour’s silent drive onward, the neon of a motel sign caught their eyes.
SEVEN BIRCHES MOTOR COURT
COLOR TV – WEEKLY RATES
VACANCY
“Looks as good as any place else we’re likely to find. Pull in, Trace.”
“None too soon, neither. The road was starting to float up at me.”
“Ain’t it funny,” chirped Catalina. “I’m not sleepy at all! I feel like the night’s still young!”
Tracey grunted, but refrained from comment. Jay Dee assumed a nervous look.
Coasting across a cindered lot, past the sputtering sign, they pulled up next to six long-decaying stumps and under a lone birch tree, its foliage as draggled and dusty as that of a desert palm. Jay Dee and Tracey piled wearily out of the car, while Catalina bounced around, holding Mister Boots, who had his forepaws on her shoulders and was butting his head under her chin.
“Cat, can’t you quiet down?” said Trace. “I’m getting more and more tired just watching you.”
“I can’t help it, I feel wonderful! I’m shed of my horrible job, I got a new dress on, and I’m in the company of two rich friends. What more could I want?”
“Ain’t you worried ’bout your kids?”
“Hell, no! I left ’em with my sister when I went to work, and she knows what to do with ’em if I don’t make it home. I could stash ’em there for months! Cindy’s got six of her own, so two more don’t hardly make a ripple.”
“Well, that’s fine for you. But tonight already I done got my ass grabbed by a drunk, was humiliated in front of a whole room full of people by my boss, who immediately became my ex-boss, smashe
d my car into a thing from another world – which I apparently killed in some unnatural fashion – had my house come tumbling down around my ears, seen a man turned into a moose, and had to drive sixty miles just to find a place to lay my head down. So you’ll excuse me if I’m not in a mood to party.”
Catalina, crestfallen, stopped pirouetting; Mister Boots turned his head and hissed at his mistress. “Gee, Trace, I was just trying to be cheerful and show I was grateful for the rescue and the clothes, like . . .”
“Well, just stow it till morning, okay?”
Jay Dee stepped conciliatorily between the two women. “Listen, girls, we’re all dead beat. If we gotta have a contest of feminine wills, can’t we get ourselves some sleep first?”
Tracey and Catalina said nothing. Jay Dee took this as assent. “Okay, good. One thing first, though. I wanna do something about this heap of ours. It’s too easy to spot if anyone comes looking for it. Not that I expect Larry to have much luck tracking us down, even if he decides to venture out, looking like he does.”
Pointing the remote at the old Valiant, he smudged it out to a heap of quivering nothingness. Then he peeled off the image of a new Lincoln Continental parked next to the MANAGER’S OFFICE, and superimposed it atop what had been their car.
Two Lincolns, identical down to the license plates, now stood a few yards apart.
Jay Dee laughed. “This is a hundred times better than boosting a car! Ain’t nothing for the owner to report stolen!”
“Don’t you think somebody’s gonna notice something though?” asked Tracey.
“We’ll be gone pretty early. And who compares plates, long as their own aren’t missing?”
They headed to the lighted office.
The clerk was a guy in his early sixties, strands of white hair across a bald spot, crabby face like a clenched fist. He had a full ashtray in front of him and a lit Camel in his hand. Something old, grainy, black, and white filled the small television screen before him, Leo G. Carroll with the sound turned down.
“Two rooms,” said Jay Dee. “Cash up front.”
“You can’t take that mangy animal in, buddy. I ain’t having fleas in my sheets.”
This was the last straw for an exhausted Tracey; she began to weep. “Muh-mister Boots always sleeps with us . . .”
