Wandering Stars

by Jack Dann (ed)

  Carmody found this appealing. He advanced into the city itself.

  Bellwether had a warm and open look. Its streets were laid out generously, and there was a frankness about the wide bay windows of its store-fronts. As he penetrated deeper, Carmody found other delights. Just within the city he entered a piazza, like a Roman piazza, only smaller; and in the center of the piazza there was a fountain, and standing in the fountain was a marble representation of a boy with a dolphin, and from the dolphin’s mouth a stream of clear water issued.

  “I do hope you like it,” a voice said from behind Carmody’s left shoulder.

  “It’s nice,” Carmody said.

  “I constructed it and put it there myself,” the voice told him. “It seemed to me that a fountain, despite the antiquity of its concept, is aesthetically functional. And this piazza, with its benches and shady chestnut trees, is copied from a Bolognese model. Again, I did not inhibit myself with the fear of seeming old-fashioned. The true artist uses what is necessary, be it a thousand years old or one second new.”

  “I applaud your sentiment,” Carmody said. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Edward Carmody.” He turned, smiling.

  But there was no one behind his left shoulder, or behind his right shoulder, either. There was no one in the piazza, nobody at all in sight.

  “Forgive me,” the voice said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?” Carmody asked.

  “Knew about me.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Carmody said. “Who are you and where are you speaking from?”

  “I am the voice of the city,” the voice said. “Or to put it another way, I am the city itself, Bellwether, the actual and veritable city, speaking to you.”

  “Is that a fact?” Carmody said sardonically. “Yes,” he answered himself, “I suppose it is a fact. So all right, you’re a city. Big deal!”

  He turned away from the fountain and strolled across the piazza like a man who conversed with cities every day of his life, and who was slightly bored with the whole thing. He walked down various streets and up certain avenues. He glanced into store windows and noted houses. He paused in front of statuary, but only briefly.

  “Well?” the city of Bellwether asked after a while.

  “Well what?” Carmody answered at once.

  “What do you think of me?”

  “You’re okay,” Carmody said.

  “Only okay? Is that all?”

  “Look,” Carmody said, “a city is a city. When you’ve seen one, you’ve pretty much seen them all.”

  “That’s untrue!” the city said, with some show of pique. “I am distinctly different from other cities. I am unique.”

  “Are you indeed?” Carmody said scornfully. “To me you look like a conglomeration of badly assembled parts. You’ve got an Italian piazza, a couple of Greek-type buildings, a row of Tudor houses, an old-style New York tenement, a California hot-dog stand shaped like a tugboat and God knows what else. What’s so unique about that?”

  “The combination of those forms into a meaningful entity is unique,” the city said. “These older forms are not anachronisms, you understand. They are representative styles of living, and as such are appropriate in a well-wrought machine for living. Would you care for some coffee and perhaps a sandwich or some fresh fruit?”

  “Coffee sounds good,” Carmody said. He allowed Bellwether to guide him around the corner to an open-air cafe. The cafe was called “O You Kid” and was a replica of a Gay Nineties’ saloon, right down to the Tiffany lamps and the cut-glass chandelier and the player piano. Like everything else that Carmody had seen in the city, it was spotlessly clean, but without people.

  “Nice atmosphere, don’t you think?” Bellwether asked.

  “Campy,” Carmody pronounced. “Okay if you like that sort of thing.”

  A foaming mug of cappuccino was lowered to his table on a stainless steel tray. Carmody sipped.

  “Good?” Bellwether asked.

  “Yes, very good.”

  “I rather pride myself on my coffee,” the city said quietly. “And on my cooking. Wouldn’t you care for a little something? An omelette, perhaps, or a soufflé?”

  “Nothing,” Carmody said firmly. He leaned back in his chair and said, “So you’re a model city, huh?”

  “Yes, that is what I have the honor to be,” Bellwether said. “I am the most recent of all model cities; and, I believe, the most satisfactory. I was conceived by a joint study group from Yale and the University of Chicago, who were working on a Rockefeller fellowship. Most of my practical details were devised by M.I.T., although some special sections of me came from Princeton and from the RAND Corporation. My actual construction was a General Electric project, and the money was procured by grants from the Ford and Carnegie Foundations, as well as several other institutions I am not at liberty to mention.”

  “Interesting sort of history,” Carmody said, with hateful nonchalance. “That’s a Gothic cathedral across the street, isn’t it?”

  “Modified Romanesque,” the city said. “Also interdenominational and open to all faiths, with a designed seating capacity for three hundred people.”

  “That doesn’t seem like many for a building of that size.”

  “It’s not, of course. Designedly. My idea was to combine awesomeness with coziness.”

  “Where are the inhabitants of this town, by the way?” Carmody asked.

  “They have left,” Bellwether said mournfully. “They have all departed.”

  “Why?”

  The city was silent for a while, then said, “There was a breakdown in city-community relations. A misunderstanding, really. Or perhaps I should say, an unfortunate series of misunderstandings. I suspect that rabble-rousers played their part.”

  “But what happened, precisely?”

  “I don’t know,” the city said. “I really don’t know. One day they simply all left. Just like that! But I’m sure they’ll be back.”

  “I wonder,” Carmody said.

  “I am convinced of it,” the city said. “But putting that aside: why don’t you stay here, Mr. Carmody?”

  “I haven’t really had time to consider it,” Carmody said.

  “How could you help but like it?” Bellwether said. “Just think—you would have the most modern up-to-date city in the world at your beck and call.”

  “That does sound interesting,” Carmody said.

  “So give it a try, how could it hurt you?” the city asked.

  “All right, I think I will,” Carmody said.

  He was intrigued by the city of Bellwether. But he was also apprehensive. He wished he knew exactly why the city’s previous occupants had left.

  At Bellwether’s insistence, Carmody slept that night in the sumptuous bridal suite of the King George V Hotel. Bellwether served him breakfast on the terrace and played a brisk Haydn quartet while Carmody ate. The morning air was delicious. If Bellwether hadn’t told him, Carmody would never have guessed it was reconstituted.

  When he was finished, Carmody leaned back and enjoyed the view of Bellwether’s western quarter—a pleasing jumble of Chinese pagodas, Venetian footbridges, Japanese canals, a green Burmese hill, a Corinthian temple, a California parking lot, a Norman tower and much else besides.

  “You have a splendid view,” he told the city.

  “I’m so glad you appreciate it,” Bellwether replied. “The problem of style was argued from the day of my inception. One group held for consistency: a harmonious group of shapes blending into a harmonious whole. But quite a few model cities are like that. They are uniformly dull, artificial entities created by one man or one committee, unlike real cities.”

  “You’re sort of artificial yourself, aren’t you?” Carmody asked.

  “Of course! But I do not pretend to be anything else. I am not a fake ‘city of the future’ or a mock-Florentine bastard. I am a true agglutinated congeries. I am supposed to be interesting and stimulating in add
ition to being functional and practical.”

  “Bellwether, you look okay to me,” Carmody said, in a sudden rush of expansiveness. “Do all model cities talk like you?”

  “Certainly not. Most cities up to now, model or otherwise, never said a word. But their inhabitants didn’t like that. It made the city seem too huge, too masterful, too soulless, too impersonal. That is why I was created with a voice and an artificial consciousness to guide it.”

  “I see,” Carmody said.

  “The point is, my artificial consciousness personalizes me, which is very important in an age of depersonalization. It enables me to be truly responsive. It permits me to be creative in meeting the demands of my occupants. We can reason with each other, my people and I. By carrying on a continual and meaningful dialogue, we can help each other to establish a dynamic, flexible and truly viable urban environment. We can modify each other without any significant loss of individuality.”

  “It sounds fine,” Carmody said. “Except, of course, that you don’t have anyone here to carry on a dialogue with.”

  “That is the only flaw in the scheme,” the city admitted. “But for the present, I have you.”

  “Yes, you have me,” Carmody said, and wondered why the words rang unpleasantly on his ear.

  “And, naturally, you have me,” the city said. “It is a reciprocal relationship, which is the only kind worth having. But now, my dear Carmody, suppose I show you around myself. Then we can get you settled in and regularized.”

  “Get me what?”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” the city said. “It simply is an unfortunate scientific expression. But you understand, I’m sure, that a reciprocal relationship necessitates obligations on the part of both involved parties. It couldn’t very well be otherwise, could it?”

  “Not unless it was a laissez-faire relationship.”

  “We’re trying to get away from all that,” Bellwether said. “Laissez-faire becomes a doctrine of the emotions, you know, and leads non-stop to anomie. If you will just come this way....”

  III

  Carmody went where he was asked and beheld the excellencies of Bellwether. He toured the power plant, the water filtration center, the industrial park and the light industries section. He saw the children’s park and the Odd Fellow’s Hall. He walked through a museum and an art gallery, a concert hall and a theater, a bowling alley, a billiards parlor, a Go-Kart track and a movie theater. He became tired and wanted to stop. But the city wanted to show itself off, and Carmody had to look at the five-story American Express building, the Portuguese synagogue, the statue of Buckminster Fuller, the Greyhound Bus Station and several other attractions.

  At last it was over. Carmody concluded that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, except for a small part of it that was in the beholder’s feet.

  “A little lunch now?” the city asked.

  “Fine,” Carmody said.

  He was guided to the fashionable Rochambeau Cafe, where he began with potage au petit pois and ended with petits fours.

  “What about a nice Brie to finish off?” the city asked.

  “No, thanks,” Carmody said. “I’m full. Too full, as a matter of fact.”

  “But cheese isn’t filling. A bit of first-rate Camembert?”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Perhaps a few assorted fruits. Very refreshing to the palate.”

  “It’s not my palate that needs refreshing,” Carmody said.

  “At least an apple, a pear and a couple of grapes?”

  “Thanks, no.”

  “A couple of cherries?”

  “No, no, no!”

  “A meal isn’t complete without a little fruit,” the city said.

  “My meal is,” Carmody said.

  “There are important vitamins only found in fresh fruit.”

  “I’ll just have to struggle along without them.”

  “Perhaps half an orange, which I will peel for you? Citrus fruits have no bulk at all.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Not even one quarter of an orange? If I take out all the pits?”

  “Most decidedly not.”

  “It would make me feel better,” the city said. “I have a completion compulsion, you know, and no meal is complete without a piece of fruit.”

  “No! No! No!”

  “All right, don’t get so excited,” the city said. “If you don’t like the sort of food I serve, that’s up to you.”

  “But I do like it!”

  “Then if you like it so much, why won’t you eat some fruit?”

  “Enough,” Carmody said. “Give me a couple of grapes.”

  “I wouldn’t want to force anything on you.”

  “You’re not forcing. Give me, please.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Gimme!” Carmody shouted.

  “So take,” the city said and produced a magnificent bunch of muscatel grapes. Carmody ate them all. They were very good.

  “Excuse me,” the city said. “What are you doing?” Carmody sat upright and opened his eyes. “I was taking a little nap,” he said. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “What should be wrong with a perfectly natural thing like that?” the city said.

  “Thank you,” Carmody said, and closed his eyes again.

  “But why nap in a chair?” the city asked.

  “Because I’m in a chair, and I’m already half asleep.”

  “You’ll get a crick in your back,” the city warned him.

  “Don’t care,” Carmody mumbled, his eyes still closed.

  “Why not take a proper nap? Over here, on the couch?”

  “I’m already napping comfortably right here.”

  “You’re not really comfortable,” the city pointed out. “The human anatomy is not constructed for sleeping sitting up.”

  “At the moment, mine is,” Carmody said.

  “It’s not. Why not try the couch?”

  “The chair is fine.”

  “But the couch is finer. Just try it, please, Carmody. Carmody?”

  “Eh? What’s that?” Carmody said, waking up.

  “The couch. I really think you should rest on the couch.”

  “All right!” Carmody said, struggling to his feet. “Where is this couch?”

  He was guided out of the restaurant, down the street, around the corner, and into a building marked “The Snoozerie.” There were a dozen couches. Carmody went to the nearest.

  “Not that one,” the city said. “It’s got a bad spring.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Carmody said. “I’ll sleep around it.”

  “That will result in a cramped posture.”

  “Christ!” Carmody said, getting to his feet. “Which couch would you recommend?”

  “This one right back here,” the city said. “It’s a king-size, the best in the place. The yield-point of the mattress has been scientifically determined. The pillows—”

  “Right, fine, good,” Carmody said, lying down on the indicated couch.

  “Shall I play you some soothing music?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Just as you wish. I’ll put out the lights, then.”

  “Fine.”

  “Would you like a blanket? I control the temperature here, of course, but sleepers often get a subjective impression of chilliness.”

  “It doesn’t matter! Leave me alone!”

  “All right!” the city said. “I’m not doing this for myself, you know. Personally, I never sleep.”

  “Okay, sorry,” Carmody said.

  “That’s perfectly all right.”

  There was a long silence. Then Carmody sat up.

  “What’s the matter?” the city asked.

  “Now I can’t sleep,” Carmody said.

  “Try closing your eyes and consciously relaxing every muscle in your body, starting with the big toe and working upward to—”

  “I can’t sleep!” Carm
ody shouted.

  “Maybe you weren’t very sleepy to begin with,” the city suggested. “But at least you could close your eyes and try to get a little rest. Won’t you do that for me?”

  “No!” Carmody said. “I’m not sleepy and I don’t need a rest.”

  “Stubborn!” the city said. “Do what you like. I’ve tried my best.”

  “Yeah!” Carmody said, getting to his feet and walking out of the Snoozerie.

  IV

  Carmody stood on a little curved bridge and looked over a blue lagoon.

  “This is a copy of the Rialto bridge in Venice,” the city said. “Scaled down, of course.”

  “I know,” Carmody said. “I read the sign.”

  “It’s rather enchanting, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, it’s fine,” Carmody said, lighting a cigarette.

  “You’re doing a lot of smoking,” the city pointed out.

  “I know. I feel like smoking.”

  “As your medical advisor, I must point out that the link between smoking and lung cancer is conclusive.”

  “I know.”

  “If you switched to a pipe your chances would be improved.”

  “I don’t like pipes.”

  “What about a cigar, then?”

  “I don’t like cigars.” He lit another cigarette.

  “That’s your third cigarette in five minutes,” the city said.

  “Goddamn it, I’ll smoke as much and as often as I please!” Carmody shouted.

  “Well, of course you will!” the city said. “I was merely trying to advise you for your own good. Would you want me to simply stand by and not say a word while you destroyed yourself?”

  “Yes,” Carmody said.

  “I can’t believe that you mean that. There is an ethical imperative involved here. Man can act against his best interests; but a machine is not allowed that degree of perversity.”

  “Get off my back,” Carmody said sullenly. “Quit pushing me around.”

  “Pushing you around? My dear Carmody, have I coerced you in any way? Have I done any more than advise you?”

  “Maybe not. But you talk too much.”

  “Perhaps I don’t talk enough,” the city said. “To judge from the response I get.”