GOLEM 100

by Alfred Bester

  Twelve pure and demure nuns were hustled onto the set by the floor manager where they formed a pure and reverent circle for God to shoot down the dirty, rotten Guff amorals. The powerhouse picked up the stool, with GoFer teetering on it. She was forced to throw her arms around his neck, and she giggled. Then he carried it to God’s mark in the center of the circle, put it down with GoFer still on it, spread her astonished knees, and proceeded to horrify GoFer, the studio, and the entire Glacial Army into a gasping silence with an enormity while the cameramen (no fools they) dollied in and out on the glowing skin tones. The only sound was the yapping of the King Charles spaniel and the director.

  The Therpool was new, astonishing, miraculous; the latest novelty and entertainment of the lunatic Guff. It was filled with a freak bond of hydrogen and oxygen into H2On, which meant that the hybrid water could actually be breathed. It was typical of the Guff that this metabolic miracle should first be used for amusement. The pool was dazzled with a laser symphony and you swam in a consortium of son et lumière. You paid the equivalent of a hundred gold pieces for the luxury.

  She could easily afford it, and she needed the therapy of the thermal null-G relaxation very badly. She had two dozen advertising accounts, all of them demanding and exasperating, and yet paying such exorbitant fees that she could never bring herself to dump any one of them. So instead she dumped herself into the liquid light and drifted and dreamed, drifted and dreamed.

  She was alone in the Therpool (she’d paid a high premium for the privilege), but he came out of the depths to her like a languorous saffron shark and courted her as gently and quaintly and gracefully as only sea-creatures can. She was enchanted and responded, and their floating pas de deux was lovely. But then he took possession of her nude body with the savage urgency which the females of the species endure with a mixture of drifting and dreaming, pleasure and pain, fulfillment and rage.

  “I do not advantage myself with the insolence of office to visit you in your apartment unannounced, madame,” Subadar Ind’dni said, “but rather depend upon the simpatico between us. And you, too, Dr. Shima.”

  “You’re very kind, Subadar,” Gretchen smiled.

  “And very devious,” Shima smiled.

  “As are we, all three,” Ind’dni smiled. “And that is the basic of our understanding. We know where we stand and unstand with each other. And on one issue we collaborate in fear and hatred.”

  “The Golem.”

  “So you call it, madame. I think of it as the Hundred-Hander, the mad thing that stinks of cruelty and takes a hundred forms to execute.”

  “The Subadar knows something we don’t, Gretch.”

  “More outrages, Mr. Ind’dni?”

  “I will answer that question when I know why it is asked, Miz Nunn.” He was quoting her reply to the PloFather.

  Gretchen shot a look at Ind’dni who returned it quizzically. “Oh yes. I know all about your visit to the P.L.O. oasis. I did tell you that I do not lack resources.” He turned to Shima. “And the visit to Salem Burne. I am most admiring of your efforts to conceal and protect. My confidence in you both is much compounded.”

  “He wants something from us, Gretchen.”

  “Only to tell you that, yes, there have been new outrages, atrocious acts which can assuredly be attributed to the Hundred-Hander.”

  “What acts?”

  “Tortures and Lethals. And we have some strange witness-verbal descriptions of the forms the Hundred-Hander took whilst perpetrating.” Here Ind’dni paused, then continued smoothly. “Perhaps most interesting was the description of a vicious attacker in the new Therpool.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was of Dr. Shima.”

  “What!”

  “It was you, Dr. Shima.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Alas, you must. The victim’s description of the criminal assaulter was unmistakable. To make certain, she was shown lineup faxes in the round. She picked yours without the slightest doubting hesitation.”

  “This is a damnable ploy, Ind’dni.”

  “No, assuredly. She described you.”

  “But that’s impossible! Criminal assault! I’ve never been near the Therpool. I wouldn’t know how to find it. What’s the date of the attack? I can prove that I—”

  “Cool it, Blaise,” Gretchen cut in. “Easy, man, until we know exactly how it stands. Subadar, this was one hell of a mess to start with, and it seems to be getting worse. Now play fair with us. Give us a full report of these new horrors. All of them.”

  “They are not yet of public record.”

  “Can that matter? If Dr. Shima is in some way connected with the Hundred-Hander, as I’m sure you suspect, then you’ll be telling him nothing that he doesn’t already know.”

  Ind’dni gave her the fencer’s salute, acknowledging a hit. “And Dr. Shima called me devious. I bow, madame. Here is what has happened.”

  When the Subadar had finished his detailed report there was a long silence while they digested the data. Then Shima whispered, “Dear God,” and at last found his voice. “Gretchen, I think it’s time for us to—”

  “Clam it!” she snapped. Ind’dni’s painful account had first shocked her, then electrified her, and now she was assured and driving. “Subadar, I’m almost positive that you have the key to the Golem100. You don’t know it. Blaise might fit it together when he comes out of shock. I know now, not because I’m smarter than you two; simply because I have access to personality and persona profiles which you don’t. The psytech instinct. I believe I see the construct.”

  Ind’dni gave her another quizzical look. “Do you, madame? And?”

  “It’s based on Freud’s primary psychic process.” Her words came like blows. “Instinct eruption! Energy thrust! Erotic libido and death libido. Eros! Thanatos!”

  “Yes, our professions require a familiarity with psychiatry. And?”

  “First I must know Dr. Shima’s status. Is he to be charged and arrested on that victim’s I.D.?”

  “He claims innocence.”

  “I do, God help me!” Shima burst out.

  “Then what did Miz Nunn stop you from telling me? Too late now. Do you believe him, madame?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you object to his arrest?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “On what grounds? Personal?”

  “No, professional. I’ll need his help.”

  “You are most difficult collab-person colleague, Miz Nunn.” Ind’dni smiled ruefully while he considered. Then, “Dr. Shima is charged in your category, with Felony-Five. He is placed under Guff-arrest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And now I will thank you to return the courtesy. How is he to help you?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Shima muttered. “I’m wiped out. A cipher. Criminal assault! Rape! Dear Christ help me…”

  “How do you intend to act, Miz Nunn? What is this key which you alone know?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “As subtle and sophisticated as you are, Subadar, you would never understand the psychodynamics of intuition.”

  “Please to try me, nevertheless.”

  “You would never believe.”

  “The Hindu culture is capable of fantastic beliefs.”

  “And ‘The Murder Mavin of the Guff’ could never approve.”

  Ind’dni winced. “Most unkind of you to use that label, Miz Nunn,” he said reproachfully. “Do you intend to act illegal?”

  “That would depend on your definition of illegality, Subadar. Let me put it this way: we’re forbidden to leave the Guff precinct without your knowledge and consent. Yes?”

  “My hukm. Yes. That is the constraint of the invented Felony-Five category.”

  “But what if we were to leave without leaving?”

  “That is paradox.”

  “No. It can be done.”

  “Leave? Without leaving? Surely you do not mean departure through suicidal self-ending?”

  “N
o.”

  “Then a departure how and to where?”

  “To a reality that no culture has ever recognized or even acknowledged. To a world that is the invisible eight-ninths of human history’s iceberg; a Subworld, a Sous-monde, eine Unterwelt, an Infraworld, a Phasmaworld…”

  “Ah yes. From the Greek, phainein, to make appear. You mystify me in several languages, madame.”

  “And I’ll mystify you even more.” Gretchen was trembling with excitement. “I think this submerged, hidden Phasmaworld has finally broken through to the top of the iceberg and made an appearance.”

  “And now you want to return the visit? That is your departure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How depart?”

  “With a Promethium passport.”

  “Ah yes, the radioactive salt discovered in those bones resulting from… your ‘contract’ weapon?” Ind’dni turned to Shima before Gretchen could respond to the irony. “My forensic staff was most impressed by your expertise, doctor.” He had never seemed more softly dangerous.

  “If you want more expertise,” Shima said wearily, “it’s 145Pm2O3 with a half-life of thirty years.”

  “Thank you.” Ind’dni smiled, nodded, and returned to Gretchen. “And I am requested to collaborate in this nebulous venture with you?”

  “No. Only to give us your hukm.”

  “Will there be danger?”

  “Possibly.”

  “To whom?”

  “Us alone. No one else.”

  “Then why try to levant to this mystic Phasmaworld of your imaginings, Miz Nunn? What do you hope to gain by the delay?”

  “So you don’t believe me, Subadar?”

  “Sadly and most firmly, no.”

  “Then you won’t believe this either. I’m convinced that’s where the Golem-Hundred-Hander lives.”

  12

  Gretchen looked at the stunned cipher with amused pity. “My place is no place for you,” she said. “I’m schlepping you back to your own saloon. You’ll regroup better there.”

  “Le pauvre petit,” Shima muttered.

  “Maybe, but you’ve got to cope now, baby. We’re involved in something tremendous. So let’s move it.”

  In Shima’s penthouse, she stripped him and shoved him into the mirrored Roman tub. She ran the water as hot as her elbow could stand.

  “Courtesy of CCC clout,” she said. “It’s jaunty-jolly to be loved by the Establishment.”

  “You getting in too, please?” he asked.

  “No time for funny business. I’m going to slug you with my coffee-cognac prescription which it could win the Nobel Peace Prize if I’d reveal the secret formula.”

  “After what Ind’dni made me swallow I don’t know if I can get anything else down.”

  “Wait until I give you my Golem scam. You’ll wish you were in a brain-damage slammer.”

  “Are you trying to scare me more?”

  “Just trying to prepare you. Soak. Enjoy. Relax. Back soon.”

  When she returned with the slugged coffee, she knew he was recovering because he was sitting up in the tub with a washcloth covering his crotch. Shima, who was completely uninhibited in bed, was curiously modest out of it.

  “French. Jap. Irish,” she thought. “They all caught the fig-leaf hang-up from Eve. Funny the old Bible doesn’t mention a bra.” Aloud she said, “Drink this.”

  “Your secret formula?”

  “Accept no substitutes.”

  “It’ll ruin me for the lab.”

  “You won’t be doing any smelling around. I won’t be doing any work either. We’ve got to tackle one hell of a hassle.”

  She sat down on the loo facing him. “Can you listen?”

  He nodded and sipped.

  “And understand? This is going to be a mind-stretcher of fact and Freud.”

  “I heard of him.”

  “And did you hear me tell the Subadar that the key to the Hundred-Hander-Golem thing lay in the primary psychic process?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t understand.”

  “From the way he gave it a smooth slough I don’t think he did either. Now pay attention, Blaise. It’s one of Freud’s fundamental concepts. He called it the Psi-system. Short form, P-system.”

  “Psi? You mean ESP?”

  “No. The twentieth-century cats took over Psi for extrasensory perception. They probably never heard of Father Freud’s nomenclature. Anyway, the Old Man laid it down that the P-system, the primary psychic process, was at the bottom of every human being and it aimed at only one thing, the free outflow of the quantities of excitation.”

  “Jeez!”

  “Yeah.”

  “You could explain a little.”

  “Look at it this way. We all have the erotic excitation, the libido. That’s the P-system and it’s the source of all creation; literature, love, the arts, you name it.”

  “Science?”

  “Of course, science too. It’s a powerhouse of driving energy and it’s always trying to collect life together into larger unities. That’s the way a shrink describes the creative process. Boy meets girl and they collect to create love and a family. Scientist like you collects chemicals to create perfumes. I collect data to create solutions. All this is libido… psychic energy in action. Tremendous! Now dig this, man: the bee-ladies pool their energies to create a larger entity, a collection of the hive libido, the Golem100.”

  “How?”

  “How? Well… think of it like… Yes, like a pastry bag for icing. You mix all the ingredients, beat and cook ‘em, transfer to the forcing bag and squeeze. The icing comes out of the spout end. Well, mix the ladies’ libidos, beat and cook, transfer to the ritual forcing bag, and squeeze. Out comes the Golem.”

  “But I— Wait. Is the Golem real or just a shadow projection?”

  “What’s real? If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a real sound? In other words, must reality be reciprocal?”

  “Damn if I know.”

  “Nobody does.”

  “But look, Gretchen, the Golem made those ghastly attacks. That makes it real. Only it was a different thing each time. That makes it unreal.”

  “Only in our terms.”

  “Then which is it?”

  “Both. It’s a quasi-reality; Adam in the second hour of creation; shapeless and without a soul. We need a brand-new vocabulary to describe it. It’s a protean that can assume any shape it wants.”

  “Then what makes it want a particular shape?”

  “Ah! I was hoping you’d get around to that. Now we get down to the nitty-gritty which has to be described in terms of personality and persona profiles. You know the difference?”

  “I think so. Personality is what you really are inside. Persona is how you show yourself to the world.”

  “Right on. Persona is the mask we wear. Like this.” She snatched up the washcloth cover and dropped it back before Shima could holler. As he adjusted it, he grumbled, “Women! Let them get intimate with you, and they lose all sense of decency.”

  “No, we just drop the persona mask, is all. If you’re strong enough to beef, you must be feeling better. Let’s get down to the facts. I’ll take the horrors in sequence.”

  “No details, I beg. Once is enough for a sissy.”

  “No details; just personality profiles; what was inside the victims. That girl in the stock exchange and the Golem computer mechanic…”

  “The girl who wanted to be infected with genius?”

  “Yes. Who was she?”

  “How should I know? Ind’dni didn’t give names. He didn’t even give descriptions.”

  “But in personality she was a look-alike for another girl. Can you think who?”

  “Well… She was dumb and didn’t want to be.”

  “Exactly. And who’d I tell you about that was dumb and didn’t want to be?”

  “Who’d you tell me that…?” Shima thought hard and at last twigged. “My God! The hive. Yes. That blond
e dancer with her hair like a helmet.”

  “Mary Mixup. Right.”

  “Was the victim actually Mary? The one you met?”

  “No, just the same type. Nobody’s really unique; we all have personality dupes and/or physical look-alikes. Now, the second outrage in the Theaterthon with the Golem actor?”

  Shima recognized the pattern she was shaping. “Of course. Sarah Heartburn, the actress manqué.”

  “The girl who took sanctuary in the Church of Saint Jude?”

  “That well-bred one who objects to five-letter words. Miss Pot, is it?”

  “No, Miss Priss, as in prisspot. The distinguée hostess in the Freeport Restaurant?”

  “Queen Regina, of course. And the girl at the rallye assaulted by the Golem lesbian. She was the Yenta Calienta type. But who was the GoFer in Studio 2222?”

  “Nellie Gwyn.”

  “Ildefonsa? Impossible? Ildy’s a looker; you said so yourself. That GoFer was a crow.”

  “But the same personality.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “Wait for it. Wait for it. Last of all, that career-type in the Therpool?”

  “The one Ind’dni thinks I assaulted?”

  “Yes, because she’s the one who identified you.”

  “I can’t understand how she made such a mistake.”

  “It wasn’t any mistake. The Golem did look like you.”

  “How could it?”

  “Because the career gal was me.”

  “You!”

  “Me, personalitywise. That’s what opened it up for me.” Gretchen nodded with assurance, then leaned forward intently. “Now try to grasp this, Blaise. It’ll be tough because we’re past facts and into the psychic process of the Phasmaworld.”

  “Your Subworld. I’ll try.”

  “Given: a plastic, protean creature making appearances in different human shapes. Given: seven of its victims, each a personality match for one of the bee-ladies.”

  “So far you’ve got the left-hand side of an equation. What comes after the equals sign?”

  “Each of the victims was attacked by a creature created by the outflow of a bee-lady’s libido and shaped by that libido.”