Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  The door of the General Assembly burst open. Professor Deathhush, tall, gaunt, bitter, tottered in. “Eureka!” he cried. “I’ve found it. God damn. Something wrong with the thinking machines. Three comes after two, not before.”

  The General Assembly broke into cheers. Professor Deathhush was seized and pummeled happily. Bottles were opened. His health was drunk. Several medals were pinned on him. He beamed.

  “Hey!” Halsyon called. “That was my secret. I’m the one man who on account of a mysterious mutant strain in my—”

  The ticker tape began pounding: ATTENTION. ATTENTION. HUSHENKOV IN MOSCOW REPORTS DEFECT IN CALCULATORS. 3 COMES AFTER 2 AND NOT BEFORE. REPEAT: AFTER (UNDERSCORE) NOT BEFORE.

  A postman ran in. “Special Delivery from Doctor Lifehush at Caltech. Says something’s wrong with the thinking machines. Three comes after two, not before.”

  A telegraph boy delivered a wire: THINKING MACHINE WRONG STOP TWO COMES BEFORE THREE STOP NOT AFTER STOP. VON DREAMHUSH, HEIDELBERG.

  A bottle was thrown through the window. It crashed on the floor revealing a bit of paper on which was scrawled: Did you ever stop to thine that maibe the nomber 3 comes after 2 insted of in front? Down with the Grish. Mr. Hush-Hush.

  Halsyon buttonholed Judge Field. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “I thought I was the one man in the world with that secret.”

  “HimmelHerrGott!” Judge Field replied impatiently. “You are all alike. You dream you are the one man with a secret, the one man with a wrong, the one man with an injustice, with a girl, without a girl, with or without anything. God damn. You bore me, you one-man dreamers. Get lost.”

  Judge Field shouldered him aside. General Balorsen shoved him back. Judith Field ignored him. Balorsen’s robot sneakily tripped him into a corner of the crowd where a Grssh, also in a crowded corner on Neptune, appeared, did something unspeakable to Halsyon, and disappeared with him, screaming, jerking and sobbing, into a horror that was a delicious meal for the Grssh but a plasti-nightmare for Halsyon… .

  From which his mother awakened him and said, “This’ll teach you not to sneak peanut-butter sandwiches in the middle of the night, Jeffrey.”

  “Mama?”

  “Yes. It’s time to get up, dear. You’ll be late for school.”

  She left the room. He looked around. He looked at himself. It was true. True! The glorious realization came upon him. His dream had come true. He was ten years old again, in the flesh that was his ten-year-old body, in the home that was his boyhood home, in the life that had been his life in his school days. And within his head was the knowledge, the experience, the sophistication of a man of thirty-three.

  “Oh joy!” he cried. “It’ll be a triumph. A triumph!”

  He would be the school genius. He would astonish his parents, amaze his teachers, confound the experts. He would win scholarships. He would settle the hash of that kid Rennahan who used to bully him. He would hire a typewriter and write all the successful plays and stories and novels he remembered. He would cash in on that lost opportunity with Judy Field behind the memorial in Isham Park. He would steal inventions and discoveries, get in on the ground floor of new industries, make bets, play the stock market. He would own the world by the time he caught up with himself.

  He dressed with difficulty. He had forgotten where his clothes were kept. He ate breakfast with difficulty. This was no time to explain to his mother that he’d gotten into the habit of starting the day with Irish coffee. He missed his morning cigarette. He had no idea where his schoolbooks were. His mother had trouble starting him out.

  “Jeff’s in one of his moods,” he heard her mutter. “I hope he gets through the day.”

  The day started with Rennahan ambushing him at the Boys’ Entrance. Halsyon remembered him as a big, tough kid with a vicious expression. He was astonished to discover that Rennahan was skinny and harassed, and obviously compelled by some bedevilments to be omnivorously aggressive.

  “Why, you’re not hostile to me,” Halsyon exclaimed. “You’re just a mixed-up kid who’s trying to prove something.”

  Rennahan punched him.

  “Look, kid,” Halsyon said kindly. “You really want to be friends with the world. You’re just insecure. That’s why you’re compelled to fight.”

  Rennahan was deaf to spot analysis. He punched Halsyon harder. It hurt.

  “Oh leave me alone,” Halsyon said. “Go prove yourself on somebody else.”

  Rennahan, with two swift motions, knocked Halsyon’s books from under his arm and ripped his fly. There was nothing for it but to fight. Twenty years of watching films of the future Joe Louis did nothing for Halsyon. He was thoroughly licked. He was also late for school. Now was his chance to amaze his teachers.

  “The fact is,” he explained to Miss Ralph of the fifth grade, “I had a run-in with a neurotic. I can speak for his left hook, but I won’t answer for his compulsions.”

  Miss Ralph slapped him and sent him to the principal with a note, reporting unheard-of insolence.

  “The only thing unheard of in this school,” Halsyon told Mr. Snider, “is psychoanalysis. How can you pretend to be competent teachers if you don’t—”

  “Dirty little boy!” Mr. Snider interrupted angrily. He was tall, gaunt, bitter. “So you’ve been reading dirty books, eh??”

  “What the hell’s dirty about Freud?”

  “And using profane language, eh? You need a lesson, you filthy little animal.”

  He was sent home with a note requesting an immediate consultation with his parents regarding the withdrawal of Jeffrey Halsyon from school as a degenerate in desperate need of correction and vocational guidance.

  Instead of going home, he went to a newsstand to check the papers for events on which to get a bet down. The headlines were full of the pennant race. But who the hell finally won the pennant? And the series? He couldn’t for the life of him remember. And the stock market? He couldn’t remember anything about that either. He’d never been particularly interested in such matters as a boy. There was nothing planted in his memory to call upon.

  He tried to get into the library for further checks. The librarian, tall, gaunt, bitter, would not permit him to enter until children’s hour in the afternoon. He loafed on the streets. Wherever he loafed he was chased by gaunt and bitter adults. He was beginning to realize that ten-year-old boys had limited opportunities to amaze the world.

  At lunch hour he met Judy Field and accompanied her home from school. He was appalled by her knobby knees and black corkscrew curls. He didn’t like the way she smelled, either. But he was rather taken with her mother who was the image of the Judy he remembered. He forgot himself with Mrs. Field and did one or two things that indeed confounded her. She drove him out of the house and then telephoned his mother, her voice shaking with indignation.

  Halsyon went down to the Hudson River and hung around the ferry docks until he was chased. He went to a stationery store to inquire about typewriter rentals and was chased. He searched for a quiet place to sit, think, plan, perhaps begin the recall of a successful story. There was no quiet place to which a small boy would be admitted.

  He slipped into his house at 4:30, dropped his books in his room, stole into the living room, sneaked a cigarette and was on his way out when he discovered his mother and father inspecting him. His mother looked shocked. His father was gaunt and bitter.

  “Oh,” Halsyon said. “I suppose Snider phoned. I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Mister Snider,” his mother said.

  “And Mrs. Field,” his father said.

  “Look,” Halsyon began. “We’d better get this straightened out. Will you listen to me for a few minutes? I have something startling to tell you and we’ve got to plan what to do about it. I—”

  He yelped. His father had taken him by the ear and was marching him down the hall. Parents did not listen to children for a few minutes. They did not listen at all.

  Pop… . Just a minute… . Please! I’m trying
to explain. I’m not really ten years old. I’m thirty-three. There’s been a freak in time, see? On account of a mysterious mutant strain in my makeup which—”

  “Damn you! Be quiet!” his father shouted. The pain of his big hands, the suppressed fury in his voice silenced Halsyon. He suffered himself to be led out of the house, down four blocks back to the school, and up one flight to Mr. Snider’s office where a public school psychologist was waiting with the principal. He was a tall, gaunt, bitter man, but sprightly.

  “Ah, yes, yes,” he said. “So this is our little degenerate. Our Scar-face Al Capone, eh? Come, we take him to the clinic and there I shall take his journal intime. We will hope for the best. Nisi prius. He cannot be all bad.”

  He took Halsyon’s arm. Halsyon pulled his arm away and said, “Listen, you’re an adult, intelligent man. You’ll listen to me. My father’s got emotional problems that blind him to the—”

  His father gave him a tremendous box on the ear, grabbed his arm and thrust it back into the psychologist’s grasp. Halsyon burst into tears. The psychologist led him out of the office and into the tiny school infirmary. Halsyon was hysterical. He was trembling with frustration and terror.

  “Won’t anybody listen to me?” he sobbed. “Won’t anybody try to understand? Is this what we’re all like to kids? Is this what all kids go through?”

  “Gently, my sausage,” the psychologist murmured. He popped a pill into Halsyon’s mouth and forced him to drink some water.

  “You’re all so damned inhuman,” Halsyon wept. “You keep us out of your world, but you keep barging into ours. If you don’t respect us, why don’t you leave us alone?”

  “You begin to understand, eh?” the psychologist said. “We are two different breeds of animals, childrens and adults. God damn. I speak to you with frankness. Les absents ont toujours tort. There is no meetings of the minds. Jeez. There is nothing but war. It is why all childrens grow up hating their childhoods and searching for revenges. But there is never revenges. Pari mutuel. How can there be? Can a cat insult a king?”

  “It’s … s’hateful,” Halsyon mumbled. The pill was taking effect rapidly. “Whole world’s hateful. Full of conflicts’n’insults ‘at can’t be r’solved … or paid back… . S’like a joke somebody’s playin’ on us. Silly jokes without point. Isn’t?”

  As he slid down into darkness, he could hear the psychologist chuckle, but couldn’t for the life of him understand what he was laughing at… .

  He picked up his spade and followed the first clown into the cemetery. The first clown was a tall man, gaunt, bitter, but sprightly.

  “Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” the first clown asked.

  “I tell thee she is,” Halsyon answered. “And therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.”

  “How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defense?”

  “Why, ‘tis found so.”

  They began to dig the grave. The first clown thought the matter over, then said, “It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.”

  “Nay, but hear you, goodman delver—” Halsyon began.

  “Give me leave,” the first clown interrupted and went on with a tiresome discourse on quest-law. Then he turned sprightly and cracked a few professional jokes. At last Halsyon got away and went down to Yaughan’s for a drink. When he returned, the first clown was cracking jokes with a couple of gentlemen who had wandered into the graveyard. One of them made quite a fuss about a skull.

  The burial procession arrived; the coffin, the dead girl’s brother, the king and queen, the priests and lords. They buried her, and the brother and one of the gentlemen began to quarrel over her grave. Halsyon paid no attention. There was a pretty girl in the procession, dark, with cropped curly hair and lovely long legs. He winked at her. She winked back. Halsyon edged over toward her, speaking with his eyes and she answered him saucily the same way.

  Then he picked up his spade and followed the first clown into the cemetery. The first clown was a tall man, gaunt, with a bitter expression but a sprightly manner.

  “Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” the first clown asked.

  “I tell thee she is,” Halsyon answered. “And therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.”

  “How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defense?”

  “Didn’t you ask me that before?” Halsyon inquired.

  “Shut up, old faithful. Answer the question.”

  “I could swear this happened before.”

  “God damn. Will you answer? Jeez.”

  “Why, ‘tis found so.”

  They began to dig the grave. The first clown thought the matter over and began a long discourse on quest-law. After that he turned sprightly and cracked trade jokes. At last Halsyon got away and went down to Yaughan’s for a drink. When he returned there were a couple of strangers at the grave and then the burial procession arrived.

  There was a pretty girl in the procession, dark, with cropped curly hair and lovely long legs. Halsyon winked at her. She winked back. Halsyon edged over toward her speaking with his eyes and she answering him the same way.

  “What’s your name?” he whispered.

  “Judith,” she answered.

  “I have your name tattooed on me, Judith.”

  “You’re lying, sir.”

  “I can prove it, Madam. I’ll show you where I was tattooed.”

  “And where is that?”

  “In Yaughan’s tavern. It was done by a sailor off the Golden Hind. Will you see it with me tonight?”

  Before she could answer, he picked up his spade and followed the first clown into the cemetery. The first clown was a tall man, gaunt, with a bitter expression but a sprightly manner.

  “For God’s sake!” Halsyon complained. “I could swear this happened before.”

  “Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” the first clown asked.

  “I just know we’ve been through all this.”

  “Will you answer the question!”

  “Listen,” Halsyon said doggedly. “Maybe I’m crazy; maybe not. But I’ve got a spooky feeling that all this happened before. It seems unreal. Life seems unreal.”

  The first clown shook his head. “HimmelHerrGott,” he muttered. “It is as I feared. Lux et veritas. On account of a mysterious mutant strain in your makeup which it makes you different, you are treading on thin water. Ewigkeit! Answer the question.”

  “If I’ve answered it once, I’ve answered it a hundred times.”

  “Old ham and eggs,” the first clown burst out, “you have answered it 5,271,009 times. God damn. Answer again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you must. Pot au feu. It is the life we must live.”

  “You call this life? Doing the same things over and over again? Saying the same things? Winking at girls and never getting any further?”

  “No, no, no, my Donner and Blitzen. Do not question. It is a conspiracy we dare not fight. This is the life every man lives. Every man does the same things over and over. There is no escape.”

  “Why is there no escape?”

  “I dare not say; I dare not. Vox populi. Others have questioned and disappeared. It is a conspiracy. I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of our owners.”

  “What? We are owned?”

  “Si. Ach, ja! All of us, young mutant. There is no reality. There is no life, no freedom, no will. God damn. Don’t you realize? We are… . We are all characters in a book. As the book is read, we dance our dances; when the book is read again, we dance again. E pluribus unum. Is she to be buried in Christian burial th
at wilfully seeks her own salvation?”

  “What are you saying?” Halsyon cried in horror. “We’re puppets?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “If there’s no freedom, no free will, how can we be talking like this?”

  “Whoever’s reading our book is daydreaming, my capital of Dakota. Idem est. Answer the question.”

  “I will not. I’m going to revolt. I’ll dance for our owners no longer. I’ll find a better life… . I’ll find reality.”

  “No, no! It’s madness, Jeffrey! Cul-de-sac!”

  “All we need is one brave leader. The rest will follow. We’ll smash the conspiracy that chains us!”

  “It cannot be done. Play it safe. Answer the question.”

  Halsyon answered the question by picking up his spade and bashing in the head of the first clown who appeared not to notice. “Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?” he asked.

  “Revolt!” Halsyon cried and bashed him again. The clown started to sing. The two gentlemen appeared. One said: “Has this fellow no feeling of business that he sings at gravemaking?”

  “Revolt! Follow me!” Halsyon shouted and swung his spade against the gentleman’s melancholy head. He paid no attention. He chatted with his friend and the first clown. Halsyon whirled like a dervish, laying about him with his spade. The gentleman picked up a skull and philosophized over some person or persons named Yorick.

  The funeral procession approached. Halsyon attacked it, whirling and turning, around and around with the clotted frenzy of a man in a dream.

  “Stop reading the book,” he shouted. “Let me out of the pages. Can you hear me? Stop reading the book! I’d rather be in a world of my own making. Let me go!”

  There was a mighty clap of thunder, as of the covers of a mighty book slamming shut. In an instant Halsyon was swept spinning into the third compartment of the seventh circle of the Inferno in the Fourteenth Canto of the Divine Comedy where they who have sinned against art are tormented by flakes of fire which are eternally showered down upon them. There he shrieked until he had provided sufficient amusement. Only then was he permitted to devise a text of his own … and he formed a new world, a romantic world, a world of his fondest dreams… .