“I don’t believe you,” said Vakeis, picking a clump of grass and tossing it toward Anabben’s head. He ducked, and it missed him. He did not laugh.
“No, really,” he said. “I don’t even know why I bother. When you’re competing with someone like Phioth, it’s hard to take yourself seriously.”
“Phioth is one thing, you’re another.” Vakeis could see that Anabben was depressed, more than merely tired from his performance. She tugged at his arm and he stopped walking and looked at her. “Listen,” she said, “you know there are just as many people who love your readings.”
“Not quite,” he said bitterly.
“Well, almost. Shakespeare is a myth. Almost a god. Naturally, people are going to listen to Phioth with different ears. But they enjoy your readings more. The two of you aren’t even rivals. You appeal to different needs, and you both satisfy those needs equally. You were really wonderful tonight.”
“Come on. I suppose they’ll be here soon.”
Reacting to his boredom and his jealousy, Anabben had TECT kill the lights in the house, leaving only a soft glow on the hill as they walked. He requested faint music, but in his growing impatience he stopped that immediately, too. When they got to the top of the hill, Anabben’s meeting area, they saw two men appear from the small tect. The first to arrive was tall and gaunt, with hair braided down to his waist. He wore a pale-blue cloth twined about his body. The second man was shorter and heavier, with closely cut hair and a small beard. He wore no clothing. The new arrivals waved to Anabben and Vakeis, and sat down on the lawn to wait.
“Hello, Charait,” said Vakeis, walking up to the man in the blue robe. He touched her leg and kissed her knee, and Vakeis laughed.
“This is Torephes,” said Charait, holding up the hand of the other man. “If you can believe it, he wants to perform, too.”
Anabben frowned. Charait was no problem; his bits of retrieved literature were from the works of a Mrs. Lidsake. The scholars, with all the subtle forces of TECT, were unable to place her among the other rediscovered, either qualitatively or chronologically. Charait’s performances were interesting from a historical viewpoint, as all performances were, but they were somehow not absorbing. But this new Torephes presented a threat to Anabben, as the potential vessel of another genius that would overshadow Anabben’s meager contributions.
“My friend Charait isn’t joking,” said Anabben. “Only we writers have seen what happens to the unsuccessful aspirants. Perhaps if the public knew how awful it is, soon there would be no new writers at all. How much thought have you given to this?”
Torephes looked very uneasy. Anabben made a mental request to TECT, and the temperature in the meeting area was lowered ten degrees.
“It’s something that I’ve always wanted,” said Torephes. “I understand about the chances. Charait has been warning me for about two years now, but I’m willing.” His expression was so determined that Anabben laughed.
“Then let us wait for the others to arrive, and we’ll talk about it,” said Anabben. “Maybe the inspiration of Phioth has persuaded you unwisely.”
Anabben and Vakeis seated themselves next to the two men. Anabben kept silent, and out of embarrassment, Vakeis assumed the role of hostess, asking the guests if they were comfortable, and if they desired refreshment.
“It is a bit cool,” said Torephes, still ill-at-ease and fearing to offend such a celebrity as Anabben.
Anabben grunted and had TECT increase the temperature by ten degrees. “The dispenser is in that plane,” he said, indicating the single wall in the meeting area. From his comment it was apparent that he was not going to serve his guests, as simple courtesy demanded. Torephes whispered to Charait, and Anabben could hear him suggest that they leave, but Charait just shook his head. After all, Anabben was a writer, the sort of person more inclined to moods than common citizens. And, further, he had just given a performance. Charait took Torephes’ arm and led him to the dispenser.
“Vakeis,” said Charait, “would you like something?”
“No,” she said, “I’ll wait.”
“Anabben?”
Anabben just frowned and waved. Charait requested a small bowl of meat and flowers, and Torephes had a cup of relaxant and some protein bread.
In a short while three people stepped out of Anabben’s tect: a young woman and two old men. They greeted Anabben and his guests, went straight to the dispenser, and joined the others on the grass. The young woman was named Rochei; she was a writer attuned to the poetry of a long-dead person named Elizabeth Dawson Douglas. One of the old men was a famous writer, one whom Anabben envied almost as much as he envied Phioth. His name was Tradenne, and he was also Tertius Publius Ieta. The other man was Briol, who had given his first performance just a few days previously, and had held the audience entranced with a fragment written by Daniel Defoe. Anabben was still sitting sullenly next to Vakeis, and she made the introductions. The easy conversation of the friends stopped when they learned that Torephes wanted to become a writer.
“Did you watch Phioth this evening?” asked Rochei, as she braided Vakeis’ long, dark hair.
“Yes,” said Torephes. “One of my fathers understands how much I want to perform, and he let me use his place at the stadium.”
“Did you enjoy it?” asked Tradenne.
Torephes hesitated. “Phioth is another sort of greatness. You don’t enjoy him. You experience him, if you know what I mean. Not only the genius of Shakespeare, but the genius of Phioth.”
“Exactly,” said Briol quietly.
“I would be interested to know what you thought of my performance,” said Anabben.
There was an immediate silence in Anabben’s meeting area. Suddenly the atmosphere was tense. It was an unfair question, and even Anabben’s notorious peculiarities did not excuse it.
“I thought you were very good,” said Torephes after a long pause. “I’ve enjoyed all of your performances that I’ve heard through TECT. You’re a contrast. Courane is distinctive; he gives us something that we do not have from any of the others.”
Anabben frowned. He stood, causing the others to stare up at him as he paced. “Would you ever ask one of your fathers for a place to watch one of my readings?” he said.
Torephes looked at the other guests for help. It was obvious to Anabben that the young man was humiliated. “This was a special case. Phioth does not perform often.”
Anabben said nothing. He went to the dispenser, aware of a buzz of whispered conversation behind his back. Knowing that the young man would not dare ask twice, he had TECT lower the temperature another fifteen degrees.
“Our friend Briol wanted to be a writer,” said Anabben, after he returned to his place with a cup of stimulant. “He was one of the lucky ones. I’m not sure what arguments your fathers have used, but they can’t know the truths of the matter unless they’re writers, too.”
“I wish that I’d known what it was going to be like before I tried it,” said Briol with a nervous laugh. “There’s a good chance that I wouldn’t have done it.”
“And if you hadn’t gone before Stalele . . .” said Rochei.
Anabben put down his cup and grasped Torephes’ arm. “You ought to listen. We’re going to tell you about what it’s like, and what just might happen to you, and if you still want to be a writer, we’ll know you’re insane.”
“Don’t listen to him, Torephes,” said Charait. “I feel responsible. I brought you here. Perhaps it was a bad idea. Anabben’s tired.”
“No, no,” said Anabben. “Not at all. He shouldn’t think our life is all glamour and glory.”
Torephes tried unsuccessfully to remove his arm from Anabben’s hold. “I never had any illusions that way,” he said.
“Wait a minute,” said Anabben. “I want Briol to tell you about it.”
Briol was sitting quietly, his knees drawn up and his head resting on his folded arms. He was older than anyone else in the meeting area, but the writers had their own
special style of respect; he was the least experienced writer, and had to accept their inattention without offense. “Well,” said Briol slowly, “the first time was very frightening. I put my thumb in the groove, and I felt a little pinprick. I waited for the relaxant to take effect and then I just had TECT send me. I mean, out. Instead of to a place. Even with the drug I was still afraid.”
Briol stared at the softly lighted grass as he spoke. He was an elderly man, one who had lived a useful life as a citizen, and his reasons for becoming a writer at such an advanced age were his secret. “For a brief, bright second there was a glimpse of the death stream itself,” he said, his voice growing hoarse. “But before my mind could, well, sicken, I guess, I was rescued by the dead self of a person I know as Daniel Defoe. I was very lucky. That was my audition.”
“And your first performance?” asked Torephes.
Briol looked up and smiled. “I was still afraid,” he said. “I was afraid that this time Daniel Defoe wouldn’t be there. But he was. And he always will be. For me.”
“Tell him about Stalele,” said Anabben, getting up for another cup of stimulant.
Briol said nothing. “Was he the one who auditioned after you?” asked Tradenne. Briol nodded.
“Did he fail?” asked Torephes.
“It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,” said Vakeis.
“Do you want to try?” asked Anabben, sitting down next to Rochei.
Torephes took Vakeis’ hand. “Yes,” he said.
Anabben laughed. “Good,” he said. “Wonderful. Perhaps you’ll land Homer.”
“Don’t joke with him, Anabben,” said Vakeis. “He doesn’t understand his chances.”
“Oh, he knows the risks,” said Anabben. “Come on, let’s get it over with. We’ll all meet on the stage of the stadium.” He rose first, and disappeared into his private tect. The others followed, and TECT transported them to the vast, empty arena.
“Shall we have light?” asked Anabben.
“I suppose,” said Torephes.
Anabben requested light from TECT, and the stadium was flooded with a bright noonday glow. “Don’t be afraid,” said Anabben, leading Torephes to the chair. “Briol is an old man. Death thoughts are his business. Why don’t you think of Vakeis? If you come back with a good one, she may be yours.”
“I may be his already,” said Vakeis sourly. “Why don’t you show him what to do?”
Anabben stared at her angrily. “I gave my performance today,” he said at last. “My mind is exhausted.”
“That’s all right,” said Torephes. He sat in the chair, bending down to inspect the arm that contained the relaxant pin. “I put my thumb here?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Charait. “But you don’t have to do this tonight, you know. Your fathers agreed to let me bring you to meet the others. I don’t know if they mean for you to try your skill so soon.”
“I’ll take the responsibility,” said Anabben. “He looks like a bright, intense boy.”
“I. . . I did it,” said Torephes. “How long. . .”
“You should feel it already,” said Rochei softly.
“Yes.”
“Now have TECT send you,” said Briol. “Just as if you were going to the stadium, or to school, but don’t specify a place. Just . . . away.”
There was a short silence. Then Torephes’ eyes grew wide; his mouth opened, but he made no sound other than a quiet gurgling. His lips drew back in a terrified snarl. His fists clenched, and he half stood up in the chair, his neck muscles straining and his back arched tensely.
Vakeis gasped, and hid her eyes on Charait’s shoulder. Before anyone could say a word three tectmen had arrived and had made Torephes away through the small tect at the edge of the stage.
“No one home,” said Anabben.
“That poor young boy,” said Tradenne.
“He was a fool,” said Anabben. “He got what he deserved. He wanted glory, but he didn’t want to work. Just to parrot the rotting words of some ancient ghost.”
“Don’t you pity him?” asked Rochei.
“No, I don’t. He knew what might happen.”
“But we all started like him,” said Charait. “We all take that chance. You can’t blame him; you did it yourself once.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Anabben quietly.
The others looked puzzled. Anabben frowned; if he explained now he would be doing a service, he thought. There need never be another Stalele, another Torephes.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “All of you, fishing in the wild streams of death for a shred here and a tatter there. But everything you find belongs with the dead, with the dead worlds of thousands of years ago. But not me. Don’t you see? For the first time in scores of centuries, someone is creating. I don’t merely report, I write. There never was a Sandor Courane. His words are from my mind.”
Vakeis began to cry. Charait grabbed Anabben’s wrists. “You are saying that you do not have TECT send you?” he asked.
“No,” said Anabben defiantly. “I have never tried.”
“Then you’ve lied?” asked Tradenne.
“I cannot comprehend,” said Briol. “You are not performing those bits of fiction? You are speaking them yourself? I cannot comprehend.”
Anabben looked from one person to the other. In the strange light in the stadium each face seemed incredulous and afraid. “Don’t you understand?” shouted Anabben. “I do it myself!”
They moved away from Anabben, leaving him by the empty chair. He looked wildly for some sign of approval, of awed surprise, but found only loathing. He started to scream, but stopped when Tradenne raised a hand.
“You are very different” said the old man. Before he finished speaking three tectmen had appeared to make Anabben away.
<
* * * *
MANY MANSIONS
by Robert Silverberg
Robert Silverberg has appeared in each number of Universe, with a series of stories that combine the sense of wonder with a sense of humor. He won a Nebula Award for his first story in this series, “Good News from the Vatican.” In this new novelette he explores the infinite possibilities for human absurdity that are offered by time travel and alternate time tracks. You think you’ve seen all the variations on the go-back-in-time-and-kill-your-grandfather plot? But they’re literally endless . . .
* * * *
IT’S BEEN A rough day. Everything gone wrong. A tremendous tie-up on the freeway going to work, two accounts canceled before lunch, now some inconceivable botch by the weather programmers. It’s snowing outside. Actually snowing. He’ll have to go out and clear the driveway in the morning. He can’t remember when it last snowed. And of course a fight with Alice again. She never lets him alone. She’s at her most deadly when she sees him come home exhausted from the office. Ted why don’t you this, Ted get me that. Now, waiting for dinner, working on his third drink in forty minutes, he feels one of his headaches coming on. Those miserable killer headaches that can destroy a whole evening. What a life! He toys with murderous fantasies. Take her out by the reservoir for a friendly little stroll, give her a quick hard shove with his shoulder. She can’t swim. Down, down, down. Glub. Goodbye, Alice. Free at last.
In the kitchen she furiously taps the keys of the console, programming dinner just the way he likes it. Cold vichyssoise, baked potato with sour cream and chives, sirloin steak blood-rare inside and charcoal-charred outside. Don’t think it isn’t work to get the meal just right, even with the autochef. All for him. The bastard. Tell me, why do I sweat so hard to please him? Has he made me happy? What’s he ever done for me except waste the best years of my life? And he thinks I don’t know about his other women. Those lunchtime quickies. Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all if he dropped dead tomorrow. I’d be a great widow -- so dignified at the funeral, so strong, hardly crying at all. And everybody thinks we’re such a close couple. Married eleven years and they’re still in love. I heard someone say that only last week. If t
hey only knew the truth about us. If they only knew.
Martin peers out the window of his third-floor apartment in Sunset Village. Snow. I’ll be damned. He can’t remember the last time he saw snow. Thirty, forty years back, maybe, when Ted was a baby. He absolutely can’t remember. White stuff on the ground -- when? The mind gets wobbly when you’re past eighty. He still can’t believe he’s an old man. It rocks him to realize that his grandson Ted, Martha’s boy, is almost forty. I bounced that kid on my knee and he threw up all over my suit. Four years old then. Nixon was President. Nobody talks much about Tricky Dick these days. Ancient history. McKinley, Coolidge, Nixon. Time flies. Martin thinks of Ted’s wife, Alice. What a nice tight little ass she has. What a cute pair of jugs. I’d like to get my hands on them. I really would. You know something, Martin? You’re not such an old ruin yet. Not if you can get it up for your grandson’s wife.
Universe 03 - [Anthology] Page 9
