FSF, August 2008

by Spilogale, Inc

  For his part, Larry King seemed content to sit back and let her hang herself with words, but Erica was a lot more put together than she looked, and a great deal more dangerous. When asked why she had agreed to work for Howard after she found out what he was buying and selling, she made no bones about it. “I didn't believe then that there was such a thing as a soul...."

  "And now?"

  "Now, I don't know. But many people do. I'd say even most of them."

  "Including the ones who are selling theirs?"

  "Yes."

  "So, you think people should not be allowed to sell their souls?"

  Erica laughed, and it was not a pretty laugh. “Of course they should. They do it every day. For things, power, what they call love. Our government sells habeas corpus for security, the churches make a mockery of devotion and charity.... No, Larry. I don't give a rat's nuts for souls. My objection is to Howard Beale."

  This, apparently, was just what Larry wanted to hear. “But he seems to be a personable and open fellow. His finances are aboveboard. And no one twisted your arm to work for him."

  No one but poverty, thought Cullin.

  "No one but poverty,” Erica snapped. “How much do you make a year?"

  Larry raised his eyebrows, then smiled. “I'm sure that's of no relevance...."

  But Erica cut him off. “At any given moment there are fifty thousand actors out of work in Hollywood, ten thousand writers, twenty-five thousand technicians. Suppose you haven't worked in five months and someone who knows and praises your work offers you two thousand dollars a week and benefits. What do you do? You read the contract, and then you sign."

  "I see your point."

  "And the boss is intelligent, kind, careful, compassionate, and as magnetic as Daniel Craig with a hard-on."

  "Now, just a minute...."

  "He just happens to be buying souls. You asked why I quit. Because Howard Beale is too good to be true, and if a thing is too good to be true, it probably isn't. I quit because I believe that Howard Beale is the Devil."

  "Really?"

  "Do you know what apsychia is, Larry?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Apsychia is the condition of being soulless. The simple sellouts and sins that we engage in every day destroy our honor, our karmic balance, our humanity, but I believe they only tarnish the soul. That makes it a job for the God-shouters and Holy Joes to worry about, and they make their money polishing the tarnish off those souls. But they can't save them. Only Howard Beale and God can do that. If you sell your soul to Howard it'll be his, and you'll spend the rest of life with no eternity to look forward to."

  CNN decided to cut to a commercial break at that moment, and by some intervention of the gods of misrule, it was a spot for The Soul Bank. Cullin watched it go on, then three other more prosaic ones, but when the show came back Erica Donat was gone. Larry explained that she decided that she'd said her piece so she left.

  Cullin took a deep breath and looked at the phone, half expecting it to ring. It didn't. Where was she with this? Finally Cullin dialed The Soul Bank.

  "Welcome to The Soul Bank. I'm Brad, and we're so happy...."

  "Brad, this is Cullin McSherry. Is Dale Denny there?"

  "Uh ... sure."

  After a moment Dale's voice came on—in tones that were always smoky, and tight with coiled sexuality. “Cullin, babe, you really shouldn't call on this line."

  "I need information. Is Erica Donat a member of The Soul Bank?"

  "Our Erica?"

  "Yes."

  Dale put him on hold for a minute, two, then came back on the line. “Cullin? She signed up last week."

  "Thanks. Keep this call between us, Dale.” What the hell was she doing? He decided not to tell Howard, to get hold of Erica on his own and straighten things out. He crawled off to bed, where he found he could not sleep.

  * * * *

  But as the trial spiraled down to its inevitable conclusion, Cullin could find no trace of Erica, though he used every available resource short of directly asking Howard Beale for help. He did consider it. Like everyone else at Beale LLC, he ascribed a certain nebulous level of supernatural ability to Howard, an aspect of the job that some found discomforting. So it didn't surprise him when Howard pulled him aside one afternoon and said, “You know that Erica sold her soul to us?"

  "I heard,” Cullin said tightly. “Do you know why?"

  "No. Perhaps it was an effort to identify with those whom she sees as our victims,” Howard replied. “Legally she had every right. She was no longer an employee, so the computer didn't flag her name.” He paused thoughtfully and put a hand on Cullin's arm. “If I had known I would have forbade the sale."

  "I thought you knew everything."

  "Me too,” Beale said with a wry chuckle. “I guess I'm not the Devil after all."

  Cullin shook off a chill feeling. “I wish I knew where she was."

  "I think she's in town. One of Marvin's people said he saw her in Temple City."

  Marvin's people. Lawyers or investigators?

  A week later the trial ended. The jury ruled that there was a soul, thus abrogating the fraud charges against Howard Beale. The presiding magistrate, Judge Stegman, handed down an official opinion that the State of California, while recognizing the presumptive existence of said soul, made absolutely no judgments as to its nature or utility. The suit was voided, with costs to be borne by the plaintiffs.

  That night, while most of the crew were celebrating at Jerry's Deli, Cullin found the need for solitude and went for a long walk through the same neighborhoods that he and Erica used to frequent. He soon found himself under the interlocking elms on Cantura, before the house where it all had started.

  The phone bank had moved into a vacant office three blocks away, and everything looked peaceful at the McMansion. The ground floor was dark, and only a soft light in an upstairs window hinted at occupancy. There were no pickets, no reporters, no lawyers rushing in and out. It was as if the entire sequence of recent events had never happened. Then he saw her, silhouetted in an upstairs window.

  There was no way that he could mistake Erica for anyone else. When Beale appeared next to her Cullin's reaction was not jealousy, but a deep, undefined dread. Something had come full circle, like the blood orgy at the end of an Elizabethan revenge tragedy, and he knew he was part of it. He stepped through the gate and started toward the house, remembering a poem about fire and ice.

  As his foot touched the bottom step of the porch, flames sprang up in every window of the Beale House.

  He ran to the front door and strained against the lock. Visible behind the beveled glass window, fire was consuming the curtains. He pounded on the door and called their names until the unearthly heat drove him back.

  He stumbled out to the street, trying to see if Erica and Howard were still in the window, but the entire house was glowing cherry red, as if the fire were feeding off it yet not consuming it. The elms, he thought, the other houses, as he pulled out his cell phone and made his futile 911 call.

  * * * *

  Cullin stood, transfixed, while two fire companies fought the blaze. They poured water and foam on it, but the building burned until it was nothing but ash—literally nothing: pipes, hinges, steel fittings, and supports, all had melted or boiled away. Granite foundation blocks had split and crumbled. There were no human remains either, and the police and fire officials told Cullin that he must have been mistaken when he thought he'd seen Howard Beale and Erica Donat in an upstairs window. Cullin knew better. He had witnessed a battle between good and evil. But who won?

  The fire had seemed to focus inward. Not a tree was scorched, the fence vines had not withered, and the horned Pan had peed on through the conflagration. None of the puzzled firemen could get near the house until it had burned itself out, and as Cullin shivered in the night shadows he could hear them talking about the strangeness of the blaze.

  When it was out Cullin walked home and slept. When he awakened twelve hours la
ter to the ringing of the phone, he was still exhausted, as if he'd been force-marched until he'd dropped. The voice on the phone was Marvin Needleman.

  "McSherry, I need to see you at the office."

  "Office?"

  "The phone bank. At three."

  "What time is it now?"

  "It's one."

  Cullin almost asked a.m. or p.m. Instead, he took a scalding shower, drank two cups of coffee, and dressed in a respectable suit. When he reached the phone bank the lot was full of upscale cars.

  Gerry Gold and Dale Denny were in the lounge. “I'm sorry to hear about Erica,” Gerry began, but Cullin cut him off with such vehemence that the producer snapped shut like a frightened clam. After that, the three retreated into their own thoughts until Marvin Needleman stuck his head into the lounge and asked them to come to the conference room.

  There, three men and a woman, all dressed in Armani armor, watched them expressionlessly. Marvin introduced each of them, though Cullin found later that, try as he might, he could not remember their names. Then Needleman announced that McSherry, Gold and Denny were being let go. No offense, no prejudice, big severance check, just clean out your desks and leave. Dale and Gerry tried to ask questions but got nowhere. Cullin knew better.

  He went home, left a call with his agent to let him know that he was free, and started drinking. A week later he walked out of an alcoholic haze to check in and found that he had been unofficially, but effectively, blacklisted—a parting gift from the religious coalition that had backed Howard Beale in court. And that wasn't the end of it.

  Dale Denny's husband caught her in flagrante delicto with another man and shot them both. The other man was Gerry Gold.

  Evan Tinker disappeared in Central America on a shoot.

  Beale LLC, now carrying on as The Soul Bank Ltd., was doing better than ever.

  And the former Terry Olin McSherry was signed to play the lead in a screenplay loosely based on their marriage. Cullin wasn't even given a script consultation, only an order to vacate “her house,” unless, of course, he wished to contest. He didn't. It was time, he decided, to try the other coast.

  So before the weather could turn cold he packed up his five-year-old Volvo with his possessions and hit the freeway. It was a soft evening in September, with plenty of afterglow in the west as Cullin headed out of town. Call me Ishmael, he thought, adrift on the sealed wooden coffin of my career.

  As he approached the 405 interchange where he would turn north toward Interstate 80 and New York, a car pulled up alongside him on the right. Cullin recognized the silver Tesla, and he thought how appropriate a parting shot this was. The driver looked over and smiled, a beatific smile, frighteningly magnetic. And in the passenger seat, a girl—thin, phthistic, with masses of light brown hair—her attention focused forward.

  Cullin's mouth was dry and his vision clouded. He could only nod at the man he had known as Howard Beale, the man who raised his hand, then turned his face forward. The Tesla accelerated into the night, a tiny point of dwindling red, leaving all others behind.

  —For Harry Turtledove

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  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

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  BOOKS-MAGAZINES

  S-F FANZINES (back to 1930), pulps, books. 96 page Catalog. $5.00. Collections purchased. Robert Madle, 4406 Bestor Dr., Rockville, MD 20853.

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  19-time Hugo nominee. The New York Review of Science Fiction. www.nyrsf.com Reviews and essays. $4.00 or $38 for 12 issues, checks only. Dragon Press, PO Box 78, Pleasantville, NY 10570.

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  Spiffy, jammy, deluxy, bouncy—subscribe to Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet. $20/4 issues. Small Beer Press, 176 Prospect Ave., Northampton, MA 01060.

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  ENEMY MINE, All books in print. Check: www.barrylongyear.net

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  DREADNOUGHT: INVASION SIX—SF comic distributed by Diamond Comics. In “Previews” catalog under talcMedia Press. Ask your retailer to stock it! www.DreadnoughtSeries.com

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  "Tonight's weather report contains some alarming material. Viewer discretion advised.” 101 Funny Things About Global Warming by Sidney Harris & colleagues. Now available www.bloomsburyusa.com

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  NEW MASSIVE 500-page LEIGH BRACKETT COLLECTION Lorelei of the Red Mist: Planetary Romances $40 (free shipping) to: HAFFNER PRESS, 5005 Crooks Road Suite 35, Royal Oak, MI 48073-1239, www.haffnerpress.com

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  Anthony Boucher

  By Jeffrey Marks

  Foreword by Gordon Van Gelder ISBN 978-0-7864-3320-9

  Anthony Boucher was founding editor of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

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  Invaders from the Dark by Greye la Spina and Dr. Odin by Douglas Newton, unusual fiction from Ramble House—www.ramblehouse.com

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  Do you have Fourth Planet from the Sun yet? Signed hardcover copies are still available. Only $17.95 ppd from F&SF, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

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  SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5, CATTLE 0. The first 58 F&SF contests are collected in Oi, Robot, edited by Edward L. Ferman and illustrated with cartoons. $11.95 postpaid from F&SF, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

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  MISCELLANEOUS

  If stress can change the brain, all experience can change the brain. www.undoingstress.com

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  Earn Big $$$ for Unused Goods. Call the Soul Bank 555-6666.

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  Support the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship Fund. Visit www.carlbrandon.org for more information on how to contribute.

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  Space Studies Masters degree. Accredited University program. Campus and distance classes. For details visit www.space.edu.

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  AMAZING SPACE VENTURE—clever tile and card-playing game of intergalactic space exploration. www.amazingspaceventure .com

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  Witches, trolls, demons, ogres ... sometimes only evil can destroy evil! Greetmyre, a deliciously wicked gothic fantasy ... “A haunting read” (Midwest Book Review). Trade Paperback at Amazon.com or call troll free 1-877-Buy Book.

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  Giant Squid seeks humans to advise. Apply within. Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), www.squid.poormojo.org

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  The Jamie Bishop Scholarship in Graphic Arts was established to honor the memory of this artist. Help support it. Send donations to: Advancement Services, LaGrange College, 601 Broad Street, LaGrange, GA 30240

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  F&SF classifieds work because the cost is low: only $2.00 per word (minimum of 10 words). 10% discount for 6 consecutive insertions, 15% for 12. You'll reach 100,000 high-income, highly educated readers each of whom spends hundreds of dollars a year on books, magazines, games, collectibles, audio and video tapes. Send copy and remittance to: F&SF Market Place, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

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  Department: CURIOSITIES: Adrift in the Stratosphere, by Professor A. M. Low (1937) by David Langford

  Though not an academic professor, Archibald Montgomery Low was a genuine physicist who wrote much popular nonfiction. You'd expect his sf novel to be rigorously scientific. That wasn't necessary, he felt, when writing for youngsters like his three heroes, “boys” aged eighteen to twenty-three.

  These lads accidentally launch a “rocket-balloon” spacecraft left unattended by the professor who built it. Soon they're “passing through a belt of X-rays,” causing the ship and their own bodies to become transparent. Next they dodge a living, mile-long air monster that flies at 800 mph....

  Luckily the professor left notes on expected perils of space, such as: “Death Rays ... How to deal with them.” Our heroes are tormented by yellow radium beams from Mars. Will they discover the ship's anti-radium ray? You guess.

  Mars strikes again with the Gabble, a radio broadcast of weirdly demoralizing noises: “With terrible cunning and subtlety the Martians we
re trying to drive them mad.” Hysteria worsens until defeated by the brilliant counterploy of smashing the radio.

  The King of Mars gloats over the hapless Earthlings via backup radio, unwittingly giving them useful information until—damaged by the enemy's Death Ship—they plunge to an emergency landing on a Fortean skyborne island.

  Touring two island utopias, the trio learns that Earth should abandon automobiles, aircraft, and central heating in favor of a hygienic cavebound existence that could prolong life to 3,000 years. Then, in a sudden anticlimax, our lads go home.

  In 1944 Low became the first-ever author named as a British sf convention's official guest. It must have been for his pop science....

  —David Langford

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  Coming Attractions

  Next month we'll be under the sea, but don't look for any octopus's gardens in Carolyn Ives Gilman's “Arkfall.” This novella takes us to the planet Ben, where humans are living underwater as they make the planet habitable, and an offworlder finds that he doesn't fit in as well as he'd hoped.

  We also expect to bring you a dark vision of the future in “Pump Six,” Paolo Bacigalupi's depiction of what might come to be If This Goes On.

  The lineup for our annual anniversary issue isn't finalized yet, but we're looking at new stories by Terry Bisson, Stephen King, M. Rickert, Geoff Ryman, Michael Swanwick, Steve Utley, and Kate Wilhelm. Our cup runneth over. We're also working on making our sixtieth anniversary year a special one, so go to www.fandsf.com and subscribe now to ensure that you'll receive every great issue.

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  Visit www.fsfmag.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.