New Writings in SF 26 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  ‘That man’s trouble,’ Thaw said to me. ‘There’s no way of telling them that, without looking as if I’m trying to cheat Holoshows of their last chance. But I for one shall be watching him very carefully.’

  * * * *

  Two

  Watching the early, weekly, editions of Truthlight I began to feel that Thaw had allowed himself to be piqued by Mounth’s reading of him. That was the period in which Mounth was challenging cartel bosses. He eased in his chat, probing gently and levering open his victim all the way back to a tiny original motivation, perhaps buried deep in a disowned childhood episode, which Mounth would pull forth writhing, shameful and banal. Only then would he slam in the errors which he’d known his victim hoped he wouldn’t mention. ‘See you in six months,’ Mounth would say. ‘I know then you’ll be able to talk to me and the people as friends.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can’t reduce to an origin which is trivial or disgraceful, if you try hard enough,’ Thaw said to him after one Truthlight show. ‘It seems to me the point is what’s achieved, not where it came from.’

  ‘I know appearances are your job,’ Mounth said, ‘but they’re not the same thing as truth.’

  I was inclined to agree with him. In the six months he gave them, most of the bosses improved things for their subsidiaries, their employees, often for the public too. Most of them now always masked themselves with secretaries, but that was surely a small price for them to pay. A few improved nothing and blustered publicly about attempted brainwashing; but they were the first to discover that those who refused Mounth’s invitations were announced on each Truthlight until they gave in. No use anyone saying he had nothing publicly significant to disclose, as Mounth listed the investors, and the investments began to be hastily if apologetically pulled away by vaguely threatened consciences. ‘If it’s me you object to,’ Mounth said into the holocamera as the names he was addressing snapped into a frame behind his head, ‘I imagine the government would arrange for you to be examined by a social telepath.’ There were smiles of appreciation in the studio at that, and one of them was mine.

  I was particularly pleased when he took on the social telepaths themselves. Yes, I knew that the reason he could line up four of them to interview in the studio was that the government didn’t dare forbid them to appear; Mounth was already as powerful as that.

  ‘Don’t look so uneasy, Thaw,’ I said. ‘The government never did much for us.’ But he was frowning at Mounth addressing the telepaths from within his almost invisible protective cube, on which a few of his interviewees had thumped wildly.

  ‘Of course we all know that the only thing we mustn’t do within our own walls is harm,’ Mounth was saying. ‘And we know that one of your jobs is defining and preventing harm. It’s a difficult job and I know we all admire those who do it well. But outside our own walls it’s up to us all to be vigilant. Now I gather a few of the poorer people not a hundred miles north of here have been soliciting. It’s quite illegal, of course, and I’m sure we’d agree with the government that nobody’s so poor that it’s necessary. It’s the sort of thing that might make a sentimental person disobey government rules,’ his gaze settling on the trapped expression of a tele-path which the holocamera didn’t catch, ‘but I shouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t even have to mention it again.’

  ‘I’ve seen the people on the north side,’ Thaw said to me, ‘and even when Holoshows were at their worst those people made me feel like a millionaire.’

  Me too, but I didn’t say that; I said ‘I’ll admit he could have carried his economic redistribution a bit further before starting this.’

  ‘One of these days you’ll die of moderation. He’d have to push it a long way further before it took.’

  ‘If Mounth were as dishonest as you want me to believe,’ I said, ‘the last people he’d challenge would be telepaths.’

  Soon Mounth’s contract came up for renewal. He didn’t want more money; he wanted five shows a fortnight, and he got them. He also wanted me to direct. Most of my work was finding itself in the violence box. I’d felt Mounth’s slight pained disapproval and had been distressed, because I respected him enough to identify achievement with his esteem. I agreed to direct Truthlight.

  Then he began to extend his range from popular targets and the socially crucial to the accepted and applauded: gardeners, architects, tribalist percussionists. Not that his approach had ever been inflexibly hostile, of course; some of them came out smiling, perhaps even inspired. But more came out gripping their expressions as if they were the only part of them left unshaken, and probably they were.

  The worst case was Clement, the lightpainter. ‘And this is a copy of your most famous work,’ Mounth said to him. ‘It’s been manufactured frequently. I’d like you to take another look at it with us. This long thin beam going in between these two round pink areas: now what are these? They have a kind of soft rather motherly quality, wouldn’t you say? And why does this little jagged ray keep trying to escape? I’m sure you can tell us, but let me help.’

  After that it became unbearable, and at last Clement walked out of the studio with nobody behind his eyes. Mounth saw my disquiet or perhaps he felt it, for he was looking at me when he said ‘We mustn’t be too ready to call things beautiful. Real beauty’s beautiful all the way through.’ I stopped my head nodding and determined to wait until I knew how Clement had been affected.

  Others were quicker to condemn Mounth. Although, or perhaps because, Truthlight had the highest ratings in the career of holocasts or of tridi for that matter, every show was pelted with calls and letters of censure, anger, hatred. Mounth ignored the anonymous but often read out and answered the most pointed of the rest, complete with names and addresses, after his interviews. Then one accusation began to recur: that he was extending the range of his interviews so as not to run out of targets rather than from honest feeling. This time he was hurt and he asked me to help him answer.

  We took the holocameras into the north side. Exteriors were still appallingly expensive, but Holoshows agreed this once.

  Mounth stood among the rubblegardens which the gardeners had constructed to unify the environment. I had the holocameras watch some children collecting plastic bottles and cans to build a rubbush outside their five-miler, then turned them back to Mounth.

  ‘When I lived here it wasn’t a garden,’ he said. ‘We didn’t build with rubble, we hurt each other with it. Over there is where I broke someone’s hand with a stone because he wouldn’t share his beer with me. And just there under the five-miler is where I thought I’d discovered what sex was about, all sweat and blood and haste and sharp bits of stone. I’m better than I was but I’ve a long way to go, and I want you all go there with me. Someday I’ll get married, but not until I’m worthy to. Tell me my feelings don’t make sense, then tell me what else does. We all want improvement, it doesn’t matter what our politics are. That’s why I do what I do.’ As the holocameras returned to the children waiting for the adhesive on the bush to set I realized that Mounth hadn’t been using his body or his image at all. He had answered with pure honest faith.

  For the rest of his answer we took the next Truthlight to see his parents. We began at their front door. Everyone has a personal front door and a lift behind it, of course, but few have their own maintenance man living on the next level down. I posed Mounth’s parents against the window and a clear twenty-five miles, and I was about to instruct the holocameras to track when I saw Mounth looking at me, and I realized that if anyone was falsifying to make a point it was I.

  ‘I’m disappointed and a little hurt,’ he said. ‘You still don’t quite believe my answers.’ Maird, I said, silently, and effaced myself and let the holocameras gaze at his parents: chafing a little against each other but largely calm and self-contained, somewhat bemused by all the technicians, a little bewildered still after two years by their new demandingly clean and tidy home. ‘This was the first thing I wanted to achieve, and the easiest,’ was all Mounth
said.

  But it wasn’t long after that I first looked up and frowned. While the attacks on him became more vicious, the letters and calls of support multiplied. More than one pleaded with him to interview the only group he’d consistently avoided, the government.

  ‘I’ve pledged myself not to interfere in politics,’ he said. ‘To do so would be to interfere with democracy. So I can’t lead you in that area, at least not directly. But I hope I don’t have to. I hope’ (and Thaw mirrored my frown and nodded) ‘you’ve learned from me.’

  Then, almost as if responding to Mounth’s implicit challenge, the government produced thrones.

  * * * *

  Perhaps their inventor was a government man. If he wasn’t he must have been shrewd, for he forestalled any battle with the government’s arbitary puritanism by selling the throne direct to them. Which meant monopoly; but since the throne wasn’t a medium in the strict sense the government couldn’t be accused of using it for dictatorial purposes.

  What the throne was, nobody outside the manufacturing process knew. The workers were gagged by the secrets act; the thrones were on hire to subscribers and mustn’t be tampered with on pain of prosecution; the power source was concealed and government-controlled, switched on for a quarter of an hour each evening and otherwise apparently dormant except as an alarm system to betray those who tried to dismantle their thrones. We were reassured that the thrones were physically and mentally harmless. After initial widespread distrust we confirmed the statement for ourselves; and discovered what the thrones did.

  Imagine: anything. The thrones made that both an offer and an equation. Sit in your throne, pull the crown forward on its arm and cap your skull with it and there it is, surrounding you and solid: your imagination. It’s as though all your senses have become eidetic, and that’s as close as you’ll come to understanding what you’re doing. Don’t drift, because if you lose control you’ll only be disappointed; construct your quarter of an hour toward a climax and you’ll feel enriched, not disillusioned, when you take off the crown. Don’t look for advertising; listen to your friends who’ve tried it.

  So we did, and the government thrived, and Mounth disapproved. ‘If you want to ignore what’s wrong with the world now’s your chance,’ he said. ‘Don’t change it, just make a world for yourself. But that world’s a selfish world and you shut other people out. I don’t even want to think how many people must look at their wife or their husband wearing a crown, and wonder. You won’t let yourselves be seduced by advertising, haven’t you the will not to be seduced by yourselves?’

  I’d been one of the first to hire a throne; I knew Mounth believed what he was saying but that didn’t mean he was right all the time. This was too large an issue even for him, I thought, he would have to content himself with comment and with the support of those who agreed with him.

  I didn’t delude myself long. First we fought the thrones for ratings. Holoshows would have asked him if he hadn’t suggested it to them, and so Truthlight was moved to overlap both sides of thronetime. Somehow Mounth arranged for the first set of ratings to reach him before anyone else saw them; but we all knew what they showed when Mounth strode out of Holoshows, looking at nobody. Not all the audience he lost when the thrones were about to be switched on even bothered to return to Truthlight when thronetime was over.

  Then he seemed to resign himself to the attitude I’d predicted, though from the first I was disturbed by the way he did so. On the next Truthlight he didn’t have a victim; he read out attacks and answered them, and seemed to be dawdling until thronetime. But there was a tension, a sense that he was delaying for some reason. A minute before thronetime he began to stare silently at the chronometer. We and the holocameras gazed at him. Thronetime clicked into place and he turned to the holocameras.

  ‘Now I can talk to all of you who believe we have free will and that it’s worth having,’ he said. ‘Now the others aren’t listening. I think they must be the ones who tell us no murder is premeditated.’

  ‘And he’s talking maird if he contradicts them,’ Thaw said in my ear.

  ‘Well, perhaps they’re right and we’ve taken care of that problem,’ Mounth said. ‘Let’s leave aside those of you who are old or alone and wouldn’t care if they were premeditated, shall we? And let’s look at something everyone seems to have forgotten. If premeditated murders became common, if murder became an everyday activity, then the tension that produced them wouldn’t be high enough for the social telepaths to track down. There’d be only one way to stop them, as there used to be, and that’s the death penalty. Don’t say anything yet,’ he said. Think about it. And if you think this is just a fantasy of mine, I may surprise you.’

  ‘All the evidence shows there are fewer murders now the thrones are channelling tension,’ Thaw told him when he’d finished. And the social telepaths prevented most of the rest, reading emotional tensions unauthorized, by one of those inconsistencies without which no society functions. It was a job in which they could use their talents, and one in which they could feel disliked for what they did rather than what they were: preventing violence by talkouts based on telepathic readings, and if necessary by hypnotic sessions involving a panel of four, popularly regarded as the evil tamperer and the others not seeing, hearing, admitting what he was about. I suddenly realized that Mounth’s faith in himself had borne him above and past that sort of work without a glance.

  ‘Fewer murders, are there?’ he said to Thaw. ‘In that case you needn’t worry how my hypothetical murders are punished.’

  In the next few days his method began to pay off, perhaps even more spectacularly than he’d anticipated. Letters and calls of support mounted and toppled off his desk, and all from people who’d been crowned during Truthlight but now were angrily demonstrating their free will. Mounth smiled slightly each time he returned to his desk from reading our files on the government. I had no idea what he was planning, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be involved.

  * * * *

  Three

  When Mounth acted nobody had a chance to anticipate. I was just one of the audience, gazing and gaping as he listed the ministers, all the most personally unattractive members of the government, who’d been murdered by their secretaries and aides during the past fortnight’s thronetimes.’

  ‘I hardly need to be more honest, but I shall be,’ he said. ‘I watched most of these murders happen, and I had no authority to do so. But our government has never punished unauthorized telepathy when it’s been used in the service of the law. If I misjudged and must be punished, then I accept. But,’ he said with wide-eyed innocence to the holocameras, ‘in that case our government must accept that these murders are the purest harmless fantasy and do nothing about them.’

  When some of those he’d named were demoted he ignored them; he was sure of himself. Once our reporters had established that three of the aides had been dismissed, Mounth pounced.

  ‘I was going to suggest that these people could be examined by social telepaths, but now it seems I needn’t,’ he said. ‘The government lawyers say they want to talk to me about my behaviour. I’ve said of course they can, here on Truth-light in front of us all. I believe there’s a question we all want to ask them. Something on these lines: if these murders aren’t a serious matter why have these people been dismissed? If even the government’s as worried as that, what are we supposed to do? Not knowing if we’ve been murdered, is that supposed to reassure us? Do they want us to say never mind, it isn’t real? Haven’t they been telling us it’s absolutely real, isn’t that the whole appeal of it? Then where’s the law in all this. Is it pretending not to notice? We can’t dismiss our murderers, haven’t we ordinary people the right to demand protection?’

  At the side of my eye Thaw’s face turned and loomed at me. I met his expression, for we both knew that Mounth was taking an extraordinary chance in describing himself that way. I saw in Thaw’s eyes, and felt moving uneasily in my mind, a sudden conviction that he would succeed. />
  ‘Aren’t we entitled to ask that these murders are stopped in the only way that works?’ Mounth said. ‘Are you thinking you don’t need protection? How do you know? I can’t be sure, can you? Wouldn’t you rather know you’re safe? If you agree don’t call, don’t write. Think it to me. Think it now.’ And in millions of rooms his smile slowly grew and warmed and embraced his audience.

  I didn’t direct the first of the Truthlights on the law. A trainee director took over on my free nights, and was overwhelmed by the chance to handle such material. Before the show began I wandered into the studio to make sure no technical disasters were threatening. Thaw, whom Holoshows had self-protectively asked to mediate, was making his way to the stage. I was wishing him good luck when a reporter looked in to give us the news. Mounth had foregone his protective cube as a gesture to the lawyers, and was waiting at the back of the studio to walk on and face the panel.