Then the machinery stopped, the lights came back up, and there he was, standing in front of us, as real as could be, if such words have any meaning anymore.
My agent got up and went over to the man in the Galactic Avengers uniform who stood in the middle of the circular floor. Then he turned back to me.
“Jerry Jack Miller, I’d like you to meet Carl Sanderson.”
I didn’t know what to say or do. I just gaped.
He, it, Sanderson or the thing which looked like Sanderson, square jaw and all, flashed me his famous smile, twinkled his blue eyes, and said, “Don’t bother to get up.”
He held out his hand, and I reached for it, but he missed and his hand passed right through my forearm. Sparks flew. I felt a shock and gave out a yell and drew back.
Sanderson rippled, his whole body shifting side to side real fast, and his head seemed to jerk in a way no living human being’s head could ever move, and he said, “Pl—please—pleased to—”
“Sometimes it takes them a moment to get the calibrations exactly right,” Henry whispered. “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”
Henry flashed me his famous smile, which is closer to what a rat sees when confronted by a hungry cobra who says to him, Let’s make a deal; but he was my agent and I remembered that he was on my side.
Then Sanderson shook my hand, and his touch was warm and firm, and he said, “Always pleased to meet one of my fans.”
The C.I.A. lady came in and said, “Would you excuse us? Mister Sanderson has to meet the press before tonight’s appearance.”
The two of them went out and it was Sanderson who very solidly opened and closed the door for the lady, being a far more impeccable gentleman in “life” than he was on TV.
I stared at Henry.
“So, what was that? Is this the big secret, that Sanderson’s even more of a fake, that they’ve got holograms to take his place for his public appearances—?”
“It’s not a hologram, exactly. It’s a multiple-task, self-programming, holographic AI.”
“AI?”
“Artificial Intelligence. It’s generated as you have seen. If they put enough power into it, it can retain its integrity for weeks at a time. A single zap and a Virtual Cast Member can last through an entire film shoot.”
“But this is ridiculous. No, it’s obscene. What does the real Carl Sanderson do, just hang around in his palace, get laid, and collect his checks?”
“That was the real Carl Sanderson, Jerry. He does everything an actor is expected to do, only better. He never forgets his lines.”
“I’ll bet.”
“That would be a very safe bet, Jerry. He is totally reliable.”
“But the original, human, flesh-and-blood Sanderson—?”
“You don’t get it, Jerry, do you, unless I have to spell it out. There is no such person as Carl Sanderson, not anymore. There is only the simulacrum. The guy who started out as a TV cowboy in the ’60s, well, his career didn’t go forward. Only a few of his, you might say, talents, have continued—”
“But that’s awful—”
“So as you see, his famous square jaw is not a prosthetic. He is a prosthetic.”
“Oh, shit.… What does it mean?”
“What it means, Jerry, is that you are the author of all those books you write. You and nobody else? Even AI programs aren’t smart enough to write novels yet. So doesn’t that cheer you up? Isn’t everything all right now, kiddo?”
I was almost in tears then.
“No,” I said. “No, it isn’t.”
“Jerry,” he said sternly. “You knew what you were getting into when you became my client. Grow up, kiddo. If you can’t take the heat, get out of the damn swimming pool.”
“Metaphors were never your strong point, were they Henry?”
“I got plenty of strong points. But you, kiddo, need a good talking to.”
#
So I got a good talking to, later, at Frankenstein’s Haunted Restaurant (now a chain, under new management) where one of the trick tables nearby tipped over suddenly while the waiter was taking an order, and everybody tittered nervously. I looked up. When I looked down again a hand rose up out of our table top and put an eyeball in my drink, which lit up like a Christmas ornament and winked.
When I looked up from that, Boris Karloff as the The Bodysnatcher was sitting across from me, and explaining in that sinister, lisping voice of his, “We’re all dust in the end, Jerry, or random electrons. What does it matter? It’s what you do in the meantime that counts.”
Then something crashed somewhere and when I looked again, it was a completely wasted F. Scott Fitzgerald, with dark bags under his eyes, saying, “They ruined me, but they don’t have to ruin you, if only you’ll just play the game—”
Then it was Orson Welles leaning over, whispering into my face, telling me what it was all about.
I also had a talk with Hemingway who said, “When they made For Whom the Cash Register Tolls, I thought it was crap, but the cash register kept on tolling no matter what.”
Humphrey Bogart and Fred Astaire both explained that the TV commercials they’re doing these days are just warm-up exercises, and both planned full comebacks.
“I might want to write a book with you one day, kid,” Bogart said.
Every time the cast changed, the eyeball blinked. It was a projector of some kind.
I even met Donald Duck, whose flippers still had cement on them. He assured me he had no middle name. He was looking for somebody to collaborate with him on his autobiography. The money involved would have been enough to jumpstart the economy of a Third World nation.
“I couldn’t do it without you,” said the duck.
Henry leaned over the table, into the light of the glowing eyeball in my drink.
“That’s the beauty of it, Jerry. Maybe some actors have something to worry about these days, but you’re sitting pretty.”
I faked a smile. “Because there are no holo-whosit-AI writers, is that it?”
“Yes. Precisely. That’s it. Actors, directors, producers, yes, but you’re better off than all them. So start counting your blessings, kiddo.”
“I feel like slitting my throat. Do you think there’s be any virtual blood?”
That was when he hauled me out of there by the collar and threw me back into the car.
“Not on my fifteen percent, you don’t!”
* * * *
So we drove back to Hollywood Boulevard, and on the way it was Henry Jessel who worked his magic on me, not any AI of William Shakespeare or Edward D. Wood or whoever, just my old pal, whom I’d known since he was still in high school and we were both trying to break into paperback science fiction, as if that were the way to make oneself part of the stellar firmament. Just Henry, who did what he does best, and so the ending of my story is a trifle mysterious, a trifle vague, because even I don’t know precisely how he did it, but he is my agent, and agents have mysterious powers, and I guess he just put the whammy on me.
What he did was come up with a really good metaphor for once. It could have been a Zen riddle.
He said, “If everyone is wearing masks all the time, how do you know it’s really them?”
Precisely. There might even be Virtual Publishers in New York, but they weren’t on the same wavelength as the folks in Hollywood, and in fact only agents like Henry could connect the two. Only he knew the secrets of both. Only he could have shown me what he had shown me.
“Your editor is a big Carl Sanderson fan,” he said. “She’s dying to meet him. Maybe someday soon we can all get together.”
That is, if my editor thinks that Carl Sanderson is a 1960s cowboy star made good, for whom books are being ghosted, and Carl Sanderson is a guy with clout, who can call up the aforesaid editor and demand that the whole direction of a storyline be scrapped because he has a better idea, and all the editor can do is meekly pass the instructions on to me—well, then, who precisely is in charge here?
“All yo
u have to do,” Henry explained, “is put on the mask and your editor will never know the difference. Nor will the reading public. What Carl Sanderson wants, Carl Sanderson gets. If you are Carl Sanderson, aren’t you on top of the world?”
Ah Mephistopheles, indeed. He took me to the mountaintop. He showed me all the kingdoms of the world, which he would give me, if only I played along.
“Trust me, I’m your agent,” he said.
I think I sold my soul all over again that night. If Carl Sanderson wanted to be James Joyce, he could be James Joyce, Henry told me. If he wanted to be Edgar Rice Burroughs, he could be Edgar Rice Burroughs. Or anything in between. Just use the magic name. It has that much clout.
“I won’t let the publishers interfere, kiddo. I got connections, remember?”
“Yes, I remember.”
And for just one horrifying second he seemed to flicker and jerk from side to side impossibly, but I convinced myself that was just a trick of the light.
We parked a couple blocks away from the Boulevard, and hoofed it along the Walk of Fame, counting the stars (You’ll be glad to know they’ve repaired the crack in Elvis’s), and we got to Grauman’s Chinese Theater (which may be under new management but is still Grauman’s Chinese in the hearts of millions) in time for the midnight ceremony in which Carl Sanderson’s footprints and hand prints and the impression of his graviton-blaster were recorded in cement, right next to those of Shatner and Nimoy and all the crowd—and, for that matter, Donald Duck—and afterward I asked him to autograph a copy of Galactic Avengers in the Nebula of Death for me; and he shook my hand firmly and said, “I’m always pleased to meet one of my fans.”
And after that Carl Sanderson entered a whole new, entirely remarkable phase of literary creativity.
DEATH WISH, by Robert Sheckley
The space freighter Queen Dierdre was a great, squat, pockmarked vessel of the Earth-Mars run and she never gave anyone a bit of trouble. That should have been sufficient warning to Mr. Watkins, her engineer. Watkins was fond of saying that there are two kinds of equipment—the kind that fails bit by bit, and the kind that fails all at once.
Watkins was short and red-faced, magnificently mustached, and always a little out of breath. With a cigar in his hand, over a glass of beer, he talked most cynically about his ship, in the immemorial fashion of engineers. But in reality, Watkins was foolishly infatuated with Dierdre, idealized her, humanized her, and couldn’t conceive of anything serious ever happening.
On this particular run, Dierdre soared away from Terra at the proper speed; Mr. Watkins signaled that fuel was being consumed at the proper rate; and Captain Somers cut the engines at the proper moment indicated by Mr. Rajcik, the navigator.
As soon as Point Able had been reached and the engines stopped, Somers frowned and studied his complex control board. He was a thin and meticulous man, and he operated his ship with mechanical perfection. He was well liked in the front offices of Mikkelsen Space Lines, where Old Man Mikkelsen pointed to Captain Somers’ reports as models of neatness and efficiency. On Mars, he stayed at the Officers’ Club, eschewing the stews and dives of Marsport. On Earth, he lived in a little Vermont cottage and enjoyed the quiet companionship of two cats, a Japanese houseboy, and a wife.
His instructions read true. And yet he sensed something wrong. Somers knew every creak, rattle and groan that Dierdre was capable of making. During blastoff, he had heard something different. In space, something different had to be wrong.
“Mr. Rajcik,” he said, turning to his navigator, “would you check the cargo? I believe something may have shifted.”
“You bet,” Rajcik said cheerfully. He was an almost offensively handsome young man with black wavy hair, blasé blue eyes and a cleft chin. Despite his appearance, Rajcik was thoroughly qualified for his position. But he was only one of fifty thousand thoroughly qualified men who lusted for a berth on one of the fourteen spaceships in existence. Only Stephen Rajcik had had the foresight, appearance and fortitude to court and wed Helga, Old Man Mikkelsen’s eldest daughter.
Rajcik went aft to the cargo hold. Dierdre was carrying transistors this time, and microfilm books, platinum filaments, salamis, and other items that could not as yet be produced on Mars. But the bulk of her space was taken by the immense Fahrensen Computer.
Rajcik checked the positioning lines on the monster, examined the stays and turnbuckles that held it in place, and returned to the cabin.
“All in order, Boss,” he reported to Captain Somers, with the smile that only an employer’s son-in-law can both manage and afford.
“Mr. Watkins, do you read anything?”
Watkins was at his own instrument panel. “Not a thing, sir. I’ll vouch for every bit of equipment in Dierdre.”
“Very well. How long before we reach Point Baker?”
“Three minutes, Chief,” Rajcik said.
“Good.”
The spaceship hung in the void, all sensation of speed lost for lack of a reference point. Beyond the portholes was darkness, the true color of the Universe, perforated by the brilliant lost points of the stars.
Captain Somers turned away from the disturbing reminder of his extreme finitude and wondered if he could land Dierdre without shifting the computer. It was by far the largest, heaviest and most delicate piece of equipment ever transported in space.
He worried about that machine. Its value ran into the billions of dollars, for Mars Colony had ordered the best possible, a machine whose utility would offset the immense transportation charge across space. As a result, the Fahrensen Computer was perhaps the most complex and advanced machine ever built by Man.
“Ten seconds to Point Baker,” Rajcik announced.
“Very well.” Somers readied himself at the control board.
“Four—three—two—one—fire!”
Somers activated the engines. Acceleration pressed the three men back into their couches, and more acceleration, and—shockingly—still more acceleration.
“The fuel!” Watkins yelped, watching his indicators spinning.
“The course!” Rajcik gasped, fighting for breath.
Captain Somers cut the engine switch. The engines continued firing, pressing the men deeper into their couches. The cabin lights flickered, went out, came on again.
And still the acceleration mounted and Dierdre’s engines howled in agony, thrusting the ship forward. Somers raised one leaden hand and inched it toward the emergency cut-off switch. With a fantastic expenditure of energy, he reached the switch, depressed it.
The engines stopped with dramatic suddenness, while tortured metal creaked and groaned. The lights flickered rapidly, as though Dierdre were blinking in pain. They steadied and then there was silence.
Watkins hurried to the engine room. He returned morosely.
“Of all the damn things,” he muttered.
“What was it?” Captain Somers asked.
“Main firing circuit. It fused on us.” He shook his head. “Metal fatigue, I’d say. It must have been flawed for years.”
“When was it last checked out?”
“Well, it’s a sealed unit. Supposed to outlast the ship. Absolutely foolproof, unless—”
“Unless it’s flawed.”
“Don’t blame it on me! Those circuits are supposed to be X-rayed, heat-treated, fluoroscoped—you just can’t trust machinery!”
At last Watkins believed that engineering axiom.
“How are we on fuel?” Captain Somers asked.
“Not enough left to push a kiddy car down Main Street,” Watkins said gloomily. “If I could get my hands on that factory inspector…”
Captain Somers turned to Rajcik, who was seated at the navigator’s desk, hunched over his charts. “How does this affect our course?”
Rajcik finished the computation he was working on and gnawed thoughtfully at his pencil.
“It kills us. We’re going to cross the orbit of Mars before Mars gets there.”
“How long before?�
�
“Too long. Captain, we’re flying out of the Solar System like the proverbial bat out of hell.”
Rajcik smiled, a courageous, devil-may-care smile which Watkins found singularly inappropriate.
“Damn it, man,” he roared, “don’t just leave it there. We’ve got a little fuel left. We can turn her, can’t we? You are a navigator, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Rajcik said icily. “And if I computed my courses the way you maintain your engines, we’d be plowing through Australia now.”
“Why, you little company toady! At least I got my job legitimately, not by marrying—”
“That’s enough!” Captain Somers cut in.
Watkins, his face a mottled red, his mustache bristling, looked like a walrus about to charge. And Rajcik, eyes glittering, was waiting hopefully.
“No more of this,” Somers said. “I give the orders here.”
“Then give some!” Watkins snapped. “Tell him to plot a return curve. This is life or death!”
“All the more reason for remaining cool. Mr. Rajcik, can you plot such a course?”
“First thing I tried,” Rajcik said. “Not a chance, on the fuel we have left. We can turn a degree or two, but it won’t help.”
Watkins said, “Of course it will! We’ll curve back into the Solar System!”
“Sure, but the best curve we can make will take a few thousand years for us to complete.”
“Perhaps a landfall on some other planet—Neptune, Uranus—”
Rajcik shook his head. “Even if an outer planet were in the right place at the right time, we’d need fuel—a lot of fuel—to get into a braking orbit. And if we could, who’d come get us? No ship has gone past Mars yet.”
“At least we’d have a chance,” Watkins said.
“Maybe,” Rajcik agreed indifferently. “But we can’t swing it. I’m afraid you’ll have to kiss the Solar System good-by.”
The Second Science Fiction Megapack Page 6
