Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  “Finally, Mr. Jukes returns to his ranch on a ‘commuters’ special,’ a species of steam car, on which he plays games of chance with the professional gamblers who infested all the transportation systems of the times. At home, he builds a small outdoor fire, calculates the day’s expenses on his abacus, plays sad music on his guitar, makes love to one of the thousands of strange women who made it a practice of intruding on campfires at odd hours, rolls up in a blanket and goes to sleep.

  “Such was the barbarism of that age—an age so hysteric that few men lived beyond one hundred years. And yet romantics today yearn for that monstrous era of turmoil and terror. Twentieth-century Americana is all the vogue. Only recently, a single copy of Life, a sort of mail-order catalogue, was bought at auction by the noted collector Clifton Webb for $150,000. I might mention, in passing, that in my analysis of that curio in the current Phil. Trans. I cast grave doubts on its authenticity. Certain anachronisms in the text indicate a possible forgery.

  “And now a final word about your term examinations. There has been some talk about bias on the part of the computer. It has been suggested that when this department took over the Multi-Ill from Biochemistry various circuits were overlooked and left operative, prejudicing the computer in favor of the mathematical approach. This is utter nonsense. Our computer psychiatrist assures me that the Multi-Ill was completely brainwashed and reindoctrinated. Exhaustive checks have shown that all errors were the result of student carelessness.

  “I urge you to observe the standard sterilization procedures before taking your examination. Do not scamp your wash-up. Make sure your surgical caps, gowns, masks, and gloves are properly adjusted. Be certain that your punching tools are in register and sterile. Remember that one speck of contamination on your answer card can wreck your results. The Multi-Ill is not a machine, it is a brain, and requires the same care and consideration you give your own bodies. Thank you, good luck, and I hope to see you all again next semester.”

  Coming out of the lecture hall, Professor Muni was met in the crowded corridor by his secretary, Ann Sothern. She was wearing a polka dot bikini, carried a tray of drinks and had a pair of the professor’s swim trunks draped over her arm. Muni nodded in appreciation, swallowed a quick one and frowned at the traditional musical production number with which the students moved from class to class. He began reassembling his lecture notes as they hurried from the building.

  “No time for a dip, Miss Sothern,” he said. “I’m scheduled to sneer at a revolutionary discovery in the Medical Arts Building this afternoon.”

  “It’s not on your calendar, Dr. Muni.”

  “I know. I know. But Raymond Massey is sick, and I’m standing in for him. Ray says he’ll substitute for me the next time I’m due to advise a young genius to give up poetry.”

  They left the Sociology Building, passed the teardrop swimming pool, the book-shaped library, the heart-shaped Heart Clinic, and came to the faculty-shaped Faculty Building. It was in a grove of royal palms through which a miniature golf course meandered, its air conditioners emitting a sibilant sound. Inside the Faculty Building, concealed loudspeakers were broadcasting the latest noise-hit.

  “What is it—Caruso’s ‘Niagara’?” Professor Muni asked absently.

  “No, Callas’s ‘Johnstown Flood,’” Miss Sothern answered, opening the door of Muni’s office. “Why, that’s odd. I could have sworn I left the lights on.” She felt for the light switch.

  “Stop,” Professor Muni snapped. “There’s more here than meets the eye, Miss Sothern.”

  “You mean … ?”

  “Who does one traditionally encounter on a surprise visit in a darkened room? I mean, whom.”

  “Th-the Bad Guys?”

  “Precisely.”

  A nasal voice spoke. “You are so right, my dear professor, but I assure you this is purely a private business matter.”

  “Dr. Muni,” Miss Sothern gasped. “There’s someone in your office.”

  “Do come in, professor,” the nasal voice said. “That is, if you will permit me to invite you into your own office. There is no use trying to turn on the lights, Miss Sothern. They have been—attended to.”

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Professor Muni demanded.

  “Come in. Come in. Boris, guide the professor to a chair. The goon who is taking your arm, Professor Muni, is my ruthless bodyguard, Boris Karloff. I am Peter Lorre.”

  “I demand an explanation,” Muni shouted. “Why have you invaded my office? Why are the lights out? By what right do you—”

  “The lights are out because it is best that people do not see Boris. He is a most useful man, but not, shall we say, an aesthetic delight. Why I have invaded your office will be made known to you after you have answered one or two trifling questions.”

  “I will do nothing of the sort. Miss Sothern, get the dean.”

  “You will remain where you are, Miss Sothern.”

  “Do as you’re told, Miss Sothern. I will not permit this—”

  “Boris, light something.”

  Something was lit. Miss Sothern screamed. Professor Muni was dumb-struck.

  “All right, Boris, put it out. Now, my dear professor, to business. First, let me inform you that it will be worth your while to answer my questions honestly. Be good enough to put out your hand.” Professor Muni extended his hand. A sheaf of bills was placed in it. “Here is one thousand dollars, your consultation fee. Would you care to count it? Shall I have Boris light something?”

  “I believe you,” Muni muttered.

  “Very good. Professor Muni, where and how long did you study American history?”

  “That’s an odd question, Mr. Lorre.”

  “You have been paid, Professor Muni.”

  “Very true. Well … I studied at Hollywood High, Harvard High, Yale High, and the College of the Pacific.”

  “What is ‘college’?”

  “The old name for a high. They’re traditionalists at Pacific—hidebound reactionaries.”

  “And how long did you study?”

  “Some twenty years.”

  “How long have you been teaching here at Columbia High?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Then that adds up to thirty-five years of experience. Would you say that you had an extensive knowledge of the merits and qualifications of the various living historians?”

  “Fairly extensive. Yes.”

  “Then who, in your opinion, is the leading authority on twentieth-century Americana?”

  “Ah. So. Very interesting. Harrison, of course, on advertising copy, newspaper headlines, and photo captions. Taylor on domestic science—that’s Dr. Elizabeth Taylor. Gable is probably your best bet for transportation. Clark’s at Cambridge High now, but he—”

  “Excuse me, Professor Muni. I put the question badly. I should have asked: Who is the leading authority on twentieth-century objects of virtu? Antiques, paintings, furniture, curios, objets d’art, and so forth …”

  “Ah! I have no hesitation in answering that, Mr. Lorre. Myself.”

  “Very good. Very good. Now listen carefully, Professor Muni. I have been delegated by a little group of powerful men to hire your professional services. You will be paid ten thousand dollars in advance. You will give your word that the transaction will be kept secret. And it must be understood that if your mission fails, we will do nothing to help you.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Professor Muni said slowly. “How can I be sure that this offer is from the Good Guys?”

  “You have my assurance that it is for freedom and justice, the man on the street, the underdogs, and the L.A. Way of Life. Of course, you can refuse this dangerous assignment, and it will not be held against you, but you are the one man in all Great L.A. who can carry it out.”

  “Well,” Professor Muni said, “seeing that I have nothing better to do than mistakenly sneer at a cancer cure today, I might as well accept.”

  “I knew we could depend on you.
You are the sort of little man that makes L.A. great. Boris, sing the national anthem.”

  “Thank you, but I need no praise. I’m just doing what any loyal, red-blooded, one-hundred-percent Angeleno would do.”

  “Very good. I will pick you up at midnight. You will be wearing rough tweeds, a felt hat pulled down over your face, and stout shoes. You will carry one hundred feet of mountaineering rope, prism binoculars, and an ugly snub-nosed fission gun. Your code identity will be .369.”

  “This,” Peter Lorre said, “is .369. .369, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to X, Y, and Z?”

  “Good evening, Professor Muni,” the Italian-looking gentleman said. “I am Vittorio De Sica. This is Miss Garbo. That is Edward Everett Horton. Thank you, Peter. You may go.”

  Mr. Lorre exited. Muni stared around. He was in a sumptuous penthouse apartment decorated entirely in white. Even the fire burning in the grate was, by some miracle of chemistry, composed entirely of milk-white flames. Mr. Horton was pacing nervously before the fire. Miss Garbo reclined languidly on a polar-bear skin, an ivory cigarette holder drooping from her hand.

  “Let me relieve you of that rope, professor,” De Sica said. “And the customary binoculars and snub-nosed pistol, I presume? I’ll take them too. Do make yourself comfortable. You must forgive our being in faultless evening dress; our cover identities, you understand. We operate the gambling hell downstairs. Actually we are—”

  “No!” Mr. Horton cried in alarm.

  “Unless we have full faith in Professor Muni and are perfectly candid, we will get nowhere, my dear Horton. You agree, Greta?”

  Miss Garbo nodded.

  “Actually,” De Sica continued, “we are a little group of powerful art dealers.”

  Muni stammered. “Th-then … Then you’re the De Sica, and the Garbo, and the Horton?”

  “We are.”

  “B-but … But everyone says you don’t exist. Everyone believes that the organization known as the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers is really owned by ‘The Thirty-nine Steps,’ with the controlling interest vested in Cosa Vostro. It is said that—”

  “Yes, yes,” De Sica interrupted. “That is what we desire to have believed; hence our cover identity as the sinister trio operating this gambling syndicate. But it is we three who control the art of the world, and that is why you are here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Show him the list,” Miss Garbo growled.

  De Sica produced a sheet of paper and handed it to Muni. “Be good enough to read this list of articles, Professor. Study it carefully. A great deal will depend on the conclusions you draw.”

  Automatic grill-waffler

  Steam-spray iron

  12-speed electric mixer

  Automatic 6-cup percolator

  Electric aluminum fry pan

  4-burner gas heater-range w. griddle

  11-cubic-foot refrigerator plus 170-lb. freezer

  Power sweeper, canister-type, w. vinyl bumper

  Sewing machine w. bobbins and needles

  Maple-finished-pine wagon-wheel chandelier

  Opal-glass ceiling-fixture lamp

  Hobnail-glass Provincial-style lamp

  Pull-down brass lamp w. beaded glass diffuser

  Double-bell black-faced alarm clock

  50-piece service for 8, mirror-lite flatware

  16-piece service for 4, Du Barry-pattern dinnerware

  All-nylon pile rug, 9×12, spice beige

  Colonial rug, oval, 9×12, fern green

  Hemp outdoor “Welcome” mat, 18×30

  Sofa-bed and chair, sage green

  Round foam-rubber hassock

  Serofoam recliner chair w. 3-way mechanism

  Drop-leaf extension table, seats 8

  4 captain’s chairs w. scoop seats

  Colonial oak bachelor’s chest, 3 drawers

  Colonial oak double dresser, 6 drawers

  French Provincial canopy bed, 54 in. wide

  After studying the list for ten minutes, Professor Muni put the paper down and heaved a deep sigh. “It reads like the most fabulous buried treasure in history,” he said.

  “Oh, it is not buried, Professor.”

  Muni sat bolt upright. “You mean these objects actually exist?” he exclaimed.

  “Most certainly they do. More of that later. First, have you absorbed the items?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have them in your mind’s eye?”

  “I do.”

  “Then can you answer this question: Are these treasures all of a kind, of a style, of a taste?”

  “You are obscure, Vittorio,” Miss Garbo growled.

  “What we want to know,” Edward Everett Horton burst out, “is whether one man could—”

  “Gently, my dear Horton. Each question in its proper sequence. Professor, perhaps I have been obscure. What I am asking is this: Do these treasures represent one man’s taste? That is to say, could the man who—let us say—collected the twelve-speed electric mixer also be the man who collected the hemp outdoor ‘Welcome’ mat?”

  “If he could afford both,” Muni chuckled.

  “We will, for the sake of argument, say that he can afford all the items on that list.”

  “A national government couldn’t afford all of them,” Muni replied. “However, let me think… .” He leaned back in his chair and squinted at the ceiling, hardly aware that the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers was watching him intently. After much face-contorting concentration, Muni opened his eyes and looked around.

  “Well? Well?” Horton demanded anxiously.

  “I’ve been visualizing those treasures in one room,” Muni said. “They go remarkably well together. In fact, they would make one of the most impressive and beautiful rooms in the world. If one were to walk into such a room, one would immediately want to know who the genius was who decorated it?”

  “Then … ?”

  “Yes. I would say this was the taste of one man.”

  “Aha! Then your guess was right, Greta. We are dealing with a lone shark.”

  “No, no, no. It’s impossible.” Horton hurled his B&B glass into the fire, and then flinched at the crash. “It can’t be a lone shark. It must be many men, all kinds, operating independently. I tell you—”

  “My dear Horton, pour yourself another drink and calm yourself. You are only confusing the good doctor. Professor Muni, I told you that the items on that list exist. They do. But I did not tell you that we don’t know where they are at present. We do not for a very good reason; they have all been stolen.”

  “No! I can’t believe it.”

  “But yes, plus perhaps a dozen more rarities, which we have not bothered to itemize because they are rather minor.”

  “Surely this was not a single, comprehensive collection of Americana. I would have been aware of its existence.”

  “No. Such a single collection never was and never will be.”

  “Ve vould not permit it,” Miss Garbo said.

  “Then how were they stolen? Where?”

  “By crooks,” Horton exclaimed, waving the Brandy & Banana decanter. “By dozens of different thieves. It can’t be one man’s work.”

  “The professor has said it is one man’s taste.”

  “It’s impossible. Forty daring robberies in fifteen months? I won’t believe it.”

  “The rare objects on that list,” De Sica continued to Muni, “were stolen over a period of fifteen months from collectors, museums, dealers, and importers, all in the Hollywood East area. If, as you say, the objects represent one man’s taste—”

  “I do.”

  “Then it is obvious we have on our hands a rara avis, a clever criminal who is also a connoisseur, or, what is perhaps even more dangerous, a connoisseur who has turned criminal.”

  “But why particularize?” Muni asked. “Why must he be a connoisseur? Any average art dealer could tell a crook the value of antique objets d’art. The information could even be obta
ined from a library.”

  “I say connoisseur,” De Sica answered, “because none of the stolen objects has ever been seen again. None has been offered for sale anywhere in the four orbits of the world, despite the fact that any one of them would be worth a king’s ransom. Ergo, we are dealing with a man who steals to add to his own collection.”

  “Enough, Vittorio,” Miss Garbo growled. “Ask him the next qvestion.”

  “Professor, we now assume we are dealing with a man of taste. You have seen the list of what he has stolen thus far. I ask you, as a historian: can you suggest any object of virtu that obviously belongs in his collection? If a rare item were to come to his attention, something that would fit in beautifully with that hypothetical room you visualized—what might it be? What would tempt the connoisseur in the criminal?”

  “Or the criminal in the connoisseur,” Muni added. Again he squinted at the ceiling while the others watched breathlessly. At last he muttered, “Yes … Yes … That’s it. It must be. It would be the focal point of the entire collection.”

  “What?” Horton cried. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Flowered Thundermug,” Muni answered solemnly.

  The three art dealers looked so perplexed that Muni was forced to elaborate. “It is a blue porcelain jardiniere of uncertain function, decorated with a border of white and gold marguerites. It was discovered over a century ago by a French interpreter in Nigeria. He brought it to Greece, where he offered it for sale, but he was murdered, and the mug disappeared. It next turned up in possession of an Uzbek prostitute traveling under a Formosan passport who surrendered it to a quack in Civitavecchia in return for an alleged aphrodisiac.

  “The quack hired a Swiss, a deserter from the Vatican Guards, to safeguard him to Quebec, where he hoped to sell the mug to a Canadian uranium tycoon, but he disappeared en route. Ten years later a French acrobat with a Korean passport and a Swiss accent sold the mug in Paris. It was bought by the ninth Duke of Stratford for one million gold francs, and has remained in the Olivier family ever since.”