Universe 4 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  “What a picturesque place!”

  “Yes, indeed. Here’s the Black Opal Cafe, and there’s a table; let’s sit and watch for a bit.”

  For a period they sat and sipped drinks: Waldo, a clear cold Hyperion Elixir, Alice, a goblet of the popular Tanglefoot Punch. They watched the passers-by: tourists from the backlands, spacemen, the young folk of Hant. Ladies of the night sauntered past with an eye for the spacemen, their wrist-chains jingling with socket adapters. They dressed in the most modish extremes, hair piled high and sprinkled with sparkling lights. Some varnished their skins, others wore cheek-plates plumed with jaunty feathers. Their ears were uniformly clipped into elf-horns; their shoulder finials rose in grotesque spikes. Waldo suggested that Alice take their picture, and she did so. “But I’m really more interested in representative pictures of representative folk, such as yourself and that fine young couple yonder. Aren’t they picturesque? My word, what are those creatures?”

  “Those are jeeks,” said Waldo. “From Caph Three. There’s quite a colony here. Notice the organ above the dorsal horn? It ejects body-tar, which smells like nothing on Earth . . . Look yonder, those tall whitish creatures. They’re wampoons from Argo Navis. About five hundred live in an old brick warehouse. They don’t walk out too often. I don’t see any tinkos, and the spangs won’t appear until just before dawn.”

  A tall man stumbled against the railing and thrust a hairy face over their table. “Can you spare a dollar or two, your lordships? We’re poor backlanders looking for work, and hungry so that we can hardly walk.”

  “Why not try gunk,” suggested Waldo, “and take your mind off your troubles.”

  “Gunk is not free either, but if you’ll oblige with some coins, I’ll make myself merry and gay.”

  “Try that white building across the Parade. They’ll fix you up.”

  The gunker roared an obscenity. He looked at Alice. “Somewhere, my lovely darling, we’ve met. Out there somewhere, in some lovely land of glory; I’ll never forget your face. For old times’ sake, a dollar or two!”

  Alice found a five-dollar bill. The gunker, chuckling in mad glee, seized it and shambled away.

  “Money wasted,” said Waldo. “He’ll buy gunk, some cheap new episode.”

  “I suppose so ... Why isn’t wiring illegal?”

  Waldo shook his head. “The perceptories would go out of business. And never discount the power of love.”

  “Love?”

  “Lovers wire themselves with special sockets, so that they can plug into one another. You don’t do this on Rampold?”

  “Oh, no indeed.”

  “Aha. You’re shocked.”

  “Not really. I’m not even surprised. Just think, you could even make love by telephone or television, or even by a recording; all you need is the right kind of wiring.”

  “It’s been done. In fact, the gunk producers have gone far beyond: brain-wiring plus a percept equals gunk.”

  “Oh. That’s what gunk is. I thought it was a hallucinatory drug.”

  “It’s controlled hallucination. The more you turn up the voltage, the more vivid it becomes. To the gunker life is gray; the colors come back when he dials up the gunk. Real life is a dismal interlude between the sumptuous experiences of gunk . . . Oh, it’s seductive!”

  “Have you tried it?”

  Waldo shrugged. “It’s illegal—but most everybody tries it. Are you interested?”

  Alice shook her head. “In the first place, I’m not wired. In the second place—but no matter.” She became busy with her notes.

  Waldo asked, “What are you writing about now? Gunk?”

  “Just an idea or two.”

  “Such as?”

  “You probably wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Oh, but I would! I’d be interested in all your notes.”

  “You might not understand them.”

  “Try me.”

  Alice shrugged and read, “ ‘Urbanites as explorers of inner space: i.e.—subjectivity. The captains: psychologists. The pioneers: abstractionists. The creed: perceptiveness, control of ideas. The fuglemen: critics. The paragons: the “well-read man,” the “educated listener,” the “perceptive spectator.”

  “‘Precursive to gunk: theater-attendance, percepts, music, books: all urbanite cult-objects.

  “‘Abstraction: the work of urbanity. Vicarious experience: the life-flow of urbanity. Subjectivity: the urban mind-flow.’”

  She looked at Waldo. “These are only a few rough notes. Do you want to hear any more?”

  Waldo sat with a grim expression. “Do you really believe all that?”

  “‘Belief is not quite the right word.” Alice reflected a moment. “I’ve simply arranged a set of facts into a pattern. For an urbanite the implications go very far—in fact, very far indeed. But let’s talk of something else. Have you ever visited Nicobar?”

  “No,” said Waldo, looking off across the Baund.

  “I’ve heard that the Sunken Temple is very interesting. I’d like to try to decipher the glyphs.”

  “Indeed?” Waldo lifted his eyebrows. “Are you acquainted with Ancient Gondwanese?”

  “Of course not! But glyphs usually have a symbolic derivation. Don’t stare at those lights, Waldo; they’ll put you to sleep.”

  “What?” Waldo sat up in his chair. “Nothing of the sort. They’re just the lights of a carousel.”

  “I know, but passing behind those pillars they fluctuate at about ten cycles a second, or so I’d estimate.”

  “And what of that?”

  “The lights send impulses to your brain which create electrical waves. At that particular frequency, if the waves are strong enough or continue long enough, you’ll very likely become dazed. Most people do.”

  Waldo gave a skeptical grunt. “Where did you learn that?”

  “It’s common knowledge—at least among neurologists.”

  “I’m no neurologist. Are you?”

  “No. But our odd-jobs man on Rampold is, or at least claims to be. He’s also a magician, bear wrestler, cryptologist, boat-builder, herbalist, and half a dozen other wonderful things. Mother considers him bizarre, but I admire him tremendously, because he is competent. He’s taught me all kinds of useful skills.” Alice picked a pink flower from a potted plant beside the table. She placed it on the table, and put her hands down flat, covering the flower. “Which hand is it under?”

  Waldo somewhat condescendingly pointed to her left hand. Alice lifted her right hand to reveal a red flower.

  “Aha,” said Waldo. “You picked two flowers! Lift your other hand.”

  Alice lifted her left hand. On the table glittered the gold ornament which had hung at Waldo’s ear. Waldo blinked, felt his ear, then stared at Alice. “How did you get hold of that?”

  “I took it while you were watching the lights. But where is the pink flower?” She looked up, grinning like an imp. “Do you see it?”

  “No.”

  “Touch your nose.”

  Waldo blinked once more and touched his nose. “There’s no flower there.”

  Alice laughed in great merriment. “Of course not. What did you expect?” She sipped from her goblet of punch, and Waldo, somewhat annoyed, leaned back with his own glass of punch, to find within the pink flower. “Very clever.” He rose stiffly to his feet. “Shall we continue?”

  “As soon as I photograph the picturesque couple at the table yonder. They seem to know you. At least they’ve been watching us.”

  “I’ve never seen them before in my life,” said Waldo. “Are you ready? Let’s go on.”

  They continued along the Parade.

  “There’s a really big jeek,” said Alice. “What’s that it’s carrying?”

  “Probably garbage for its soup. Don’t stand too close behind it . . . Well, we’re behind it anyway. Just don’t jostle it, or—”

  An arm reached in from the side and dealt the jeek’s tail horn a vigorous blow. Alice ducked aside; the spurt o
f body tar missed her and struck Waldo on the neck and chest.

  3

  After his day’s work Bo Histledine rode a slideway to the transit tube, and was whisked northwest to Fulchock, where he inhabited a small apartment in an ancient concrete warren. Waiting for him was Hernanda Degasto Confurias, whom he had only recently wooed and won. Bo stood in the doorway looking at her. She was perfectly turned out, he thought; no one was more sensitive to the latest subtleties of fashion; no one surpassed her at adapting them to herself, so that she and the style were indistinguishable; with every change of clothes she assumed a corresponding temperament. A toque or cylinder of transparent film clasped the top of her head and contained a froth of black curls, artfully mingled with bubbles of pale-green glass. Her ears were concave shells three inches high, rounded on top, with emerald plugs. Her skin was marmoreal; her lips were enameled black; her eyes and eyebrows, both black, could not be improved upon and remained in their natural condition. Hernanda was a tall girl. Her breasts had been artificially reduced to little rounded hummocks; her torso was a rather gaunt cylinder over which she had drawn a tube of coarse white cloth, which compressed her haunches. On her shoulders stood small bronze ornaments, like urns or finials, into each of which she had placed a dram of her personal scent. On her hands she wore greaves of black metal clustered with green jewels. Under her right armpit was a socket and the bottom terminal was decorated with a pink heart on which were inscribed the initials B.H.

  Hernanda stood proud and silent before Bo’s inspection, knowing herself perfect. Bo gave her no word of greeting; she said nothing to him. He strode into his inner room, bathed, and changed into a black and white diapered blouse, loose lime-green pantaloons, the legs long over his heels and tucked into sandals to expose his long white toes. He tied a purple and blue kerchief at a rakish angle to his head, and hung a string of black pearls from his right ear. When he returned to the living room Hernanda apparently had not moved. Silent as an obelisk she waited beside the far wall. Bo stood brooding. Hernanda was just right in every aspect. He was a lucky man to own the private plug to her socket. And yet... And yet what? Bo angrily thrust aside the thought.

  “I want to go to the Old Lair,” said Hernanda.

  “Do you have money?”

  “Not enough.”

  “I’m short as well. We’ll go down to Fotzy’s.”

  They left the apartment and carefully adjusted the alarms; only last week gunkers had broken in and stolen Bo’s expensive term.

  At Fotzy’s they pressed buttons to order the dishes of their choice: hot gobbets of paste in spice-sauce, a salad of nutrient crisps on a bed of natural lettuce from the hydroponic gardens of Old City. After a moment or two Bo said: “The spaceyards are no good. I’m going to get out.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “A man stands watching me. Unless I work like a kaffir he harangues me. It’s simply not comfortable.”

  “Poor old Bo.”

  “But for that flashing probation I’d tie him in a knot and kite off. I was built for beauty, not toil.”

  “You know Suanna? Her brother has gone off into space.”

  “It’s like jumping into nothing. He can have all he wants.”

  “If I got money I’d like to take an excursion. Give me a thousand dollars, Bo.”

  “You give me a thousand dollars. I’ll go on the excursion.”

  “But you said you wouldn’t go!”

  “I don’t know what I want to do.”

  Hernanda accepted the rejoinder in silence. They left the restaurant and walked out upon Shermond Boulevard. South beyond Old City, Cloudhaven rode among the sunset clouds; in the halcyon light it seemed as if it might have been, or should have been, the culminating glory of human endeavor; but everyone knew differently.

  “I’d rather have an aerie,” muttered Bo.

  One of Hernanda’s few faults was a tendency to enunciate the obvious with the air of one transmitting a startling new truth. “You’re not licensed for an aerie. They only give them to O.T.E.’s.”

  “That’s all tripe. They should go to whoever can pay for them.”

  “You still wouldn’t have one.”

  “I’d get the money, never fear.”

  “Remember your probation.”

  “They’ll never fix on me again.”

  Hernanda thought her private thoughts. She wanted Bo to take a cottage in Galberg, and work in the artificial flavor factory. Tonight the prospect seemed as flimsy as smoke. “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we’d look into Kongo’s for the news.”

  “I don’t like Kongo’s all that much.”

  Bo said nothing. If Hernanda did not like Kongo’s she could go somewhere else. And only as recently as yesterday she had seemed such a prize!

  They rode the slideway to the Prospect Escalator and up to Dip-shaw Knob. Kongo’s Blue Lamp Tavern commanded a fine view of the River Louthe, the spaceyards and most of West Hant, and was old beyond record or calculation. The woodwork was stained black, the brick floors were worn with the uneven passage of footsteps; the ceiling was lost in the dark blur of time. Tall windows looked across the far vistas of Hant, and on a rainy day Kongo’s was a tranquil haven from which to contemplate the city.

  Kongo’s reputation was not altogether savory; curious events had occurred on the premises or shortly after patrons had departed. The Blue Lamp was known as a place where one must keep his wits about him, but the reputation incurred no loss of patronage; indeed the suffusion of vice and danger attracted folk from all Hant, as well as backland tourists and spacemen.

  Bo led Hernanda to his usual booth, and found there a pair of his cronies: Raulf Dido and Paul Amhurst. Bo and Hernanda seated themselves without words of greeting, according to the tenets of current custom.

  Bo presently said, “The spaceyard keeps me off punition, but this aside, it’s just too bad.”

  “You’re earning an honest wage,” said Raulf Dido.

  “Hah! Bah! Bo Histledine, a sixteen-dollar-a-day apprentice? You give me fits!”

  “Talk to Paul. He’s on to something good.”

  “It’s a beautiful new line of gunk,” said Paul Amhurst. “It’s produced in Aquitaine and it’s as good as the best.”

  He displayed a selection of stills; the views were vivid and provocative.

  “Ow-wow,” said Bo. “That’s good stuff. I’ll take some of that myself.”

  Hernanda made a restless movement and pouted; it was bad manners to talk of gunk in front of one’s lady friend, inasmuch as gunk inevitably included erotic and hypererotic episodes.

  “Somebody will get the Hant distributorship,” said Paul, “and I’m hoping it’s me. If so, I’ll need help: you and Raulf, maybe a few more if we have to bust into Julio’s territory.”

  “Hmm,” said Bo. “What about the Old Man?”

  “I put through an application a week ago. He hasn’t bounced it back. I saw Jantry yesterday and he gave me an up-sign. So it looks good.”

  “Genine won’t fix it with Julio.”

  “No. We’d have to gut it through by ourselves. It might get warm.”

  “And wet,” said Paul, referring to the bodies sometimes found floating in the Louthe.

  “That flashing probation,” spat Bo. “I’ve got to worry about that. In fact, look over there! My personal vermin, Clachey and Delmar. Hide that gunk! They’re coming by.”

  The two detectives halted beside the table; they looked down with mercury-colored eyes, back and forth between Bo, Raulf and Paul. “A fine lot of thugs,” said Clachey. “What deviltry are you working up now?”

  “We’re planning a birthday party for our mothers,” said Raulf. “Would you care to come?”

  Delmar scrutinized Bo. “Your probation, as I recall, depends on avoiding bad company. Yet here you sit with a pair of gunk merchants.”

  Bo returned a stony gaze. “They’ve never mentioned such things to me. In fact we’re all planning to enter the Police Acade
my.”

  Clachey reached to the seat between Bo and Paul and came up with the stills. “Now, what have we here? Could it be gunk?”