Lovers and Other Monsters

by Marvin Kaye (ed)

  ❖

  He put his hands up and laid them gently on my wrists, holding them there until I quieted down a little. I let him go. “I am sorry, son,” he said. “I hoped you would figure it all out by yourself.”

  “I tried,” I said. I looked around me. The grayness was closing in again, and through it I could see the still figures of the people in the coffee-shop, all stopped in mid-action. It was one three-dimensional frame of some unthinkable movie-film. I felt cold sweat all but squirt from the pores of my face. “Where am I?” I shrieked.

  “Please,” he soothed. “Take it easy, and I’ll tell you. Come over here and sit down and relax. Close your eyes and don’t try to think. Just listen.”

  I did as he asked, and gradually I stopped shaking. He waited until he felt that I was calm, and then began talking.

  “There is a world of psychic things—call them living thought, call them dreams if you like. Now, you know that of all animals, only human beings can reach these psychic things. It was a biological accident. There is something about humans which is tangent to this psychic world. Humans have the power to open a gate between the two worlds. They can seldom control the power; often they’re not aware of it. But when that gate is opened, something materializes in the world of the humans. Imagination itself is enough to do it. If you are hungry, down deep inside, for a certain kind of woman, and if you picture her to yourself vividly enough, such a gate might open, and there she’ll be. You can see her and touch her; shell be little different from a real one.”

  “But—there is a difference?”

  “Yes, there is. She is not a separate thing from you. She is a part of you. She is your product. That’s what I was driving at when I mentioned parthenogenesis. It works like that.”

  “Parthenogenesis—let’s see. That’s the process of reproducing without fertilization, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. This ‘materialization’ of yours is a perfect parallel to that. As I told you before, however, it is not a process with high survival value. For one thing, it affords no chance to cross strains. Unless a living creature can bring into itself other characteristics, it must die out.”

  “Then why don’t all parthenogenetic creatures die out?”

  “There is a process used by the very simple, one-celled forms of life to take care of that. Mind you,” he broke off suddenly, “I’m just using all of this biological talk as symbolism. There are basic laws that work in both worlds, that work equally on the high forms of life and the low. Do you see?”

  “I see. These are just examples. But go on about this process that the parthenogenetic creatures use to mix their strains.”

  “It’s very simple. Two of these organisms let their nuclei flow together for a time. Then they separate and go their ways again. It isn’t a reproductive process at all. It’s merely a way in which each may gain a part of the other. It’s called—syzygy.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That. But I still don’t—let me see. You mentioned it first when that—that—”

  “When Gloria met Arthur,” the man finished smoothly. “I said that if it were syzygy, you’d be all right. Well, it wasn’t, as you saw for yourself. The outside strain, even though it didn’t suit her as well as you did, was too strong. You got hurt. Well, in the workings of really basic laws, something always gets hurt.”

  “What about you? Who are you?”

  “I am somebody who has been through it, that’s all. You must understand that my world is different from the one you remember. Time itself is different. Though I started from a time perhaps thirty years away, I was able to open a gate near you. Just a little one, of course. I did it so that I could try to make you think this thing out in time. I believed that if you could, you would have been spared all this. You might even have been able to keep Gloria.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You don’t know, do you? You really don’t know?”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him, and shook my head. “No, I don’t. I—like you, old man.”

  He chuckled. “That’s odd, you know. I don’t like me.”

  ❖

  I craned around and looked over at Gloria and her man, still frozen in that strange kiss. “Will those dream-people stay like that forever?”

  “Dream people?”

  “I suppose that’s what they are. You know, I’m a little proud of Gloria. How I managed to dream up anything so—so lovely, I’ll never know. I—hey—what’s the matter?”

  “Didn’t you understand what I was telling you? Gloria is real. Gloria goes on living. What you see over there is the thing that happened when you were no longer a part of her. Leo: she dreamed you!”

  I rose to my feet and put my fists on the table between us. “That’s a lie,” I choked. “I’m—I’m me, damn you!”

  “You’re a detailed dream, Leo, and a splendid job. You’re a piece of sentient psyche from another world injection-molded into an ideal that Gloria dreamed. Don’t try to be anything else. There aren’t many real humans, Leo. Most of the world is populated by the dreams of a few of them; didn’t you know, Leo? Why do you suppose that so few of the people you met knew anything about the world as a whole? Why do you suppose that humans keep their interests confined and their environments small? Most of them aren’t humans at all, Leo!”

  “I’m me,” I said stubbornly. “Gloria couldn’t have thought of all of me! Gloria can’t run a power shovel! Gloria can’t play a guitar! Gloria doesn’t know anything about the circus foreman who sang, or the Finn dynamite boss who was killed!”

  “Of course not. Gloria only dreamed a kind of man who was the product of those things, or things like them. Have you run a shovel since you met her? You’d find that you couldn’t, if you really tried. You’ve played guitar for no one but her since you met her. You’ve spent all your time arranging music that no one will ever see or play!”

  “I’m not anybody’s dream!” I shouted. “I’m not! If I was an ideal of hers, we would have stayed together. I failed with her, old man; don’t you know that? She wanted me to be aggressive, and I wasn’t.”

  He looked at me so sadly that I thought he was going to cry. “She wanted you to take. You were a part of her, no human can take from himself.”

  “She was deathly afraid of some things that didn’t bother me at all. What about that?”

  “The squirrels, and the sound of all the little feet? No, Leo; they were baseless phobias, and she had the power to overcome any of them. She never tried, but it was not difficult to create you without them.”

  I stared at him. “Do you mean to—Old man, are there more like me, really?”

  “Many, many,” he sighed. “But few who cling to their nonexistent, ghostly egos as you are doing.”

  “Do the real people know what they are doing?”

  “Very few of them. Very few. The world is full of people who feel incomplete, people who have everything they can possibly want and yet are unhappy, people who feel alone in a crowd. The world is mostly peopled by ghosts.”

  “But—the war! Roman history! The new car models! What about them?”

  He shook his head again. “Some of it’s real, some not. It depends on what the real humans want from moment to moment.”

  I thought a minute, bitterly. Then I asked him, “What was that you said about coming back in world-time, and looking through a little gateway at things that had happened?”

  He sighed. “If you must hang on to the ego she gave you,” he said wearily, “you’ll stay the way you are now. But you’ll age. It will take you the equivalent of thirty or so years to find your way around in that strange psychic world, for you will have to move and think like a human. Why do you want to do that?”

  I said, with determination, “I am going back, then, if it takes me a century. I’m going to find me right after I met Gloria, and I’m going to warn me in such a way that I’ll figure out a way to be with Gloria for the rest of her life.”

  He put his hands on my shou
lders, and now there really were tears in his eyes. “Oh, you poor, poor kid,” he said.

  I stared at him. Then, “What’s—your name, old man?”

  “My name is Leo.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

  Out of This World

  There is a popular belief that sex and science fiction do not mix, and it is true to the extent that romantic considerations got short shrift back in SF’s golden nineteen-fifties, but I suspect it was not so much an editorial taboo as a lack of interest on the part of writers more concerned with the mechanics of space and time travel.

  But the authors of the nine ensuing science-fiction pieces are not the least bit bashful about discussing affairs of the heart (and body). This section contains plenty of nuts-and-bolts technology, too, but the emphasis remains solidly where it should: on the strange inner workings of the human spirit.

  Amy Wasp-Wimberger

  Will the Real

  Dennis Casper Please

  Stand Up?

  Here is a clever “first story” that developed from a class assignment in the genre writing course I teach at New York University. Amy Wasp-Wimberger, a resident of Farmingdale on New York’s Long Island, works in corporate video and is also involved in film production with her husband, Kurt.

  DENNIS GRASPED the two packages tightly, his chubby fingers denting the white paper wrappings. It’s so small, he thought. What if something’s wrong? I’ve waited so long. Frantically, he ripped the first package open, shaking it violently. A whisper of black silk floated to the floor followed by the clunk of metal hitting tile.

  “That’s it?” he asked, looking into the box. His voice was deep and mature, a marked contrast to his overweight, overgrown adolescent exterior. Struggling down on one knee, he picked up the cloth, feeling the wires implanted in the silk. “That’s it!” With a grunt, he heaved his bulk off the floor. Pushing the stringy black hair from his eyes, he let the silk slide through his hands, feeling the gentle hardness of the wires and lovingly caressing the length of cord.

  With a decisive flip of the wrists, Dennis shook out the material to its full length. It continued seamlessly from the hood that covered the entire face, leaving only holes for the eyes and mouth, to the slippers with divisions for each toe. The silk gleamed dully in the dim fluorescent light of Dennis’s windowless apartment.

  Quickly, Dennis stripped off the graying underpants he habitually wore at home and kicked them onto the pile by the foot of his bed. He felt gingerly along the back for a zipper—Velcro strips—anything to allow him access to his dream. Nothing. Don’t be an idiot, Dennis. If they put it on the back, how would you fasten it once you got it on? It’s not as if there’s anyone here to help you. Check the front.

  He felt a faint ridge along the stomach of the suit. It opened as he ran his finger lightly down its length. Holding it open, he walked the two steps to his small loveseat. He slid the magazines, antique floppy disks, and miscellaneous papers to the floor and lowered himself to the cushions. What if it’s too small? It looks so delicate. “Might as well try to put it on.” Immediately, several lights glaringly illuminated the room and the thirty-five-inch HDTV monitor blared to life. “God damn it!” Dennis jumped in his seat, one foot almost in the opening. “OFF! Damn.” Quiet and darkness returned. Remaining uncomfortably bent over, he cautiously inspected the suit for any tears his feet might have made.

  There were no rips or tears, but Dennis noticed his toenails looked very long and sharp. Maybe he should clip them. Come to think of it, now that his face was so close to his feet, maybe he should shower. No, I just showered four days ago. The blood rushed to his head, pounding in his temples. His ragged breathing sounded harsh and loud in the room. I’m going to put this thing on if it kills me. After all, it is my birthday present.

  Five minutes later he was dressed. “Computer on. TV on.” Dennis walked the cleared path through the center of his small room. The silk clung tightly to his body, warmer than he thought something so light should be. The second box contained a videodisc, a list of what hardware was needed, and an instruction book on how to hook up the suit to a computer. It seemed easy enough. It worked on the same principle as the glove interface that allowed Dennis to earn a living without leaving his house. By using a glove to let him touch things in the nebulous reality of computer memory, he was able to create rooms for his interior decorating clients. He could rearrange furniture with the flick of a finger. Designing office complexes for his architectural customers was a breeze. He could knock down old walls or add entire buildings. But this was bigger. Much bigger. With trembling hands, he loaded the software and plugged himself into the computer.

  He flicked his fingers through the menu choices, marveling at the responsiveness of the suit. He chose the “Young Business Executive” body option and the “Executive Boardroom” location. The program then guided him through a choice of hair and eye color, height, weight and facial features.

  The new Dennis Casper stared at the old from the crystal-edged picture on the screen. It was larger than life. It was beautiful. It was Dennis. He nodded, satisfied. The image mimicked the movement. “Happy Birthday to me,” Dennis whispered to the tall, slim, sandy-blond-haired man on screen. The tall man returned the sentiment.

  “This is going to be fabulous.” Dennis laughed gleefully and began decorating his executive boardroom. He selected a catalog from the unreal bookshelf. Flipping through the pages, he pointed to the items he liked. They popped into the picture. He moved his hands, miming placing the objects around the room. His virtual counterpart did the dirty work. Dennis marveled that he could feel the texture and weight of each piece. His glove didn’t have a feedback mode. This was amazing. He went for an Art Deco look with just a touch of Oriental influence. Chuckling wildly to himself, Dennis started on his wardrobe.

  After outfitting his new body and designing a home to match the office, Dennis felt ready to take himself for a test run. He dialed the number that would connect him with Mrs. Finch, the rich old woman for whom he did some interior decorating. The monitor screen split to show both his image and the incoming picture as Mrs. Finch answered his call with full audio and video.

  The old woman’s voluminous kimono didn’t hide the scrawniness of her arms and the tendons on her neck and hands. White makeup settled into the wrinkles on her face. It was past time for her annual face lift, Dennis thought unkindly. But for all her age, Dennis knew the jet black hair piled high above her head was all hers. It was the one hint of her past loveliness.

  “Dennis? Is that you?” she warbled. “The phone said it was you, but you never call.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Finch. It is I. In person. Or as much in person as modern technology can bring me without having to leave the comforts of my own home.”

  “But Denny, you sly boy. You told me you didn’t believe in video meetings. You said you didn’t even have a connection!”

  Dennis smiled broadly, trying out the new face. His phantom smiled, a little less smoothly than Dennis liked. He’d work on that. “Well, Mrs. Finch, it’s my thirtieth birthday and I thought I’d buy myself something special. After I hooked it up, I could think of no one I wanted to call more than you. So what do you think?”

  She tapped the camera playfully with her folded-up fan.

  Careful with that fan, Dennis thought, it cost more than the camera.

  “Of course I love it, you silly boy. Turn around, let me get a good look at you. We’ve been working together for years and I’ve never seen you, you know. Florida isn’t that far from California. If you’d ever get over that ridiculous fear of flying, we’d have met ages ago! I let you in my bedroom—you built my bedroom—and I never even knew what you looked like. Not that I could resist your brilliant portfolio and those glowing recommendations. My, you are a handsome devil. I knew you had to be, to match that voice.” She peered closer into the screen, examining him and his home. “I love what you’ve done with your room! What do you call that look? Do you think we cou
ld do something like that for my humble home?”

  Her humble home, Dennis mused, cost four million dollars ten years ago. Mrs. Finch could redecorate the White House Art Deco if she wished. “I think we could work something out, Mrs. Finch, but right now I’ve got a few more calls to make. What do you say I phone you first thing tomorrow morning and we’ll work on it?”

  “That sounds wonderful! I so look forward to seeing you then! I’m so happy to finally know the real you. Ta-ta!” Half the screen went black.

  Dennis called up the menu and started building a Dennis for each of his other clients.

  ❖

  Dennis made his living through an electronic window. He earned a degree in architecture through two years of condensed, teleconferenced classes beamed into his living room from a university halfway around the world. He acquired an interest in interior decorating almost accidentally. He liked seeing his buildings furnished and complete.

  He built a client base through advertising on computer bulletin boards and taking out ads in home decorating magazines. He sent real-estate agents hard copies of his ideas. He got a decent response and a few clients willing to put up with the idea of never meeting the architect face to face. After a while, his extraordinary portfolio spoke for itself, and as his reputation grew, so did his bank account.

  ❖

  Through his silken interface, Dennis toured the world. He smelled its scents and felt the touch of the winds and waves and earth. His library of travel disks grew. He walked many miles around the world, wearing a bare spot on the carpet in front of his dingy loveseat.

  Pop in a laserdisc of Switzerland, don the suit, and through the miracle of modern technology, Dennis skis the Matterhorn. Change the disk, and Dennis walks the beaches of Hawaii or hang-glides over the Grand Canyon. He felt it all through the feedback circuits of the suit. With a touch of the button, his computer would extrude a full-color photo of the pseudo-Dennis in any of the exotic locales in its memory. Pictures of Dennis on vacation lined the walls.