GOLEM 100

by Alfred Bester

  “Thanks for the coronation.”

  “It was no contest.”

  “It was for me.”

  “What now?” he repeated.

  “Now? Your lab for a Pm trip. We’ve got to visit the Phasmaworld.” She called over his shoulder to the amazed Ildefonsa. “Your count was short, Nellie. With me you have to watch out for a third intention. You can keep the diamond.”

  13

  “Maybe for a scientist, but not for me. Blaise, I’m terrified. I’m seeing the craziest things.”

  “I thought for a second—but not really. You?”

  “I doubt it, Gretchen. I don’t think we’re using words.”

  “Lost my courage. I’m in a panic.”

  14

  Subadar Ind’dni entered Interrogation Room One. It was warm and dark. Dr. Blaise Shima glowed faintly in the soft plastic womb, narcotized, naked, curled in the fetal position. There was soothing music incorporating a gentle heartbeat. The examining officers were not shouting questions at him; rather, their maternal voices came quietly out of the dark, blending with the comfort.

  “We love you, baby.”

  “The whole world loves you.”

  “You’re nice and warm and safe.”

  “So you can tell us.”

  “You can tell mommie.”

  “What have you got against the Intra National Cartel Association?”

  “And why were you looking for a virgin?”

  “What girl would admit it anyway?”

  “Tell us.”

  “Tell mommie.”

  “Where did you get the firecrackers?”

  “Did you make them yourself?”

  “Tell us, baby.”

  “That kite fight must have been fun.”

  “Did you talk to those people?”

  “Tell us what you said.”

  “Tell mommie everything.”

  “Didn’t you remember we sold the Statue of Liberty for scrap years ago?”

  “We sold Bedloe’s Island, too.”

  “What were you really doing?”

  “Tell mommie.”

  “Did you actually want a skin-join?”

  “With ink?”

  “What did you really want?”

  “Of course you know what naked girls look like.”

  “Everybody does.”

  “So what did you really want from that dead one?”

  “Tell us.”

  “Is it because you like girls?”

  “Then why try to paint them black?”

  “And do you hate your job that much?”

  “Or do you hate CCC?”

  “Maybe you hate science. Tell us, baby.”

  “Maybe he hates himself.”

  “Is that why you tried to take off into space, baby?”

  “Tell mommie. You don’t have to be afraid. You won’t be punished for anything.”

  “That was a fun musical show you put on.”

  “But you’re not only color-blind, baby, you’re tone-deaf.”

  “Mommie’s proud of you anyway.”

  “So tell us why you did it.”

  “Baby, you really shouldn’t try to bang a broad in a supermarket.”

  “Everybody loves you, but not that much.”

  “Or was it a secret message?”

  “Tell us.”

  “And how could an elephant get into your Oasis?”

  “Let alone your bed.”

  “Silly baby!”

  “You didn’t really think you could push that rain tank over all by yourself, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So what were you really trying to do? Was it a signal to the P.L.O.?”

  “Tell us, baby.”

  “Tell mommie.”

  “Tell us.”

  Shima never responded. He floated in the womb with his head between his knees and his arms wrapped around himself, never moving a muscle. Subadar Ind’dni sighed, turned, and left as quietly as he had entered. He visited Interrogation Room Two. It was identical to Room One with the exception of the paternal voices and the occupant of the plastic womb, Gretchen Nunn.

  “We love you, baby.”

  “The whole world loves you.”

  “So you’re nice and warm and safe.”

  “And you can tell us.”

  “You can tell daddy.”

  “You know we love toys, don’t you?”

  “And they love us.”

  “So what were you really trying to do in that toy store?”

  “Is there a squeam scam we don’t know about?”

  “Tell us, baby.”

  “Tell daddy.”

  “You were naughty in the art museum.”

  “Daddy’s told you a hundred times not to touch things that don’t belong to you.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Little girl, you know you’re the wrong color for a tattoo.”

  “So what were you really after? Is that man a pusher?”

  “And you ought to know that you can’t give the hots to a poster.”

  “It didn’t need it anyway.”

  “So why try?”

  “Or was it an undercover signal to some person or persons unknown?”

  “Tell daddy.”

  “What made you think you could star in that opera?”

  “Or are you sore at the Glacial Army?”

  “And you ought to know we need all the perfume we can get these days.”

  “So why crunch the source?”

  “Or are you sore at CCC? Tell us why.”

  “That was our good, sweet little girl to spray Christmas all over the launch pad.”

  “But Christmas colors aren’t red and green anymore.”

  “They’re black and white. What have you got against black, baby?”

  “You’re black yourself. Are you ashamed?”

  “Why didn’t you let that funny man catch up with you in the supermarket?”

  “You let him catch up with you before.”

  “Why not this time? Tell us.”

  “Tell daddy,”

  “Tell us what you have against star sapphires.”

  “Is it because you hate all stars?”

  “Or is it a code?”

  “Tell us.”

  “And wherever did you learn dirty Latin?”

  “Or was that code, too?”

  “Tell us, baby.”

  “Tell daddy.”

  “Tell us.”

  No response from Gretchen Nunn. Subadar Ind’dni sighed again, turned, left, and sauntered to his office in the Precinct Complex.

  It was hardly the conventional business office of a high-level executive. Ind’dni had withdrawn from the fevers of the Guff nightmare into Japanese simplicity; uncovered polished teak floor, neutral screens, unobtrusive ebony furniture. There was no conventional conference table; instead there was a tile charcoal firepit in the center of the office. Around this Ind’dni and his conferees sat on the rim with their legs dangling down in the warmth. Quite naturally, the Subadar’s staff loved even the most abrasive sessions with their chief.

  Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the Japanese mystique was the single decoration standing before the screened windows; a four-foot weathered, gnarled and twisted cedar trunk. Its ivory-smooth surface was almost hypnotic. Even Ind’dni could not resist the impulsion to stroke it, which he was doing now.

  At last he spoke. “And so, please? Response, if any?”

  His office was empty but a disembodied voice answered, “None, sir.”

  “Not even customary denials?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what, if anything?”

  “Nothing, sir. A complete blank. Both seem to be spacing out.”

  “Most strange. You have pursued standard operational procedure in questioning?”

  “We’ve not limited it to that, Subadar. We’ve tried every innovation we could invent.”

  “And still negative time-laps
e?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “No, no, not to regret. Most interesting and unusual challenge compounding excruciating perplexity of Hundred-Hander beast. Please to dress— Do I hear laughter?”

  “Sorry, sir. I was remembering their appearance here at the precinct.”

  “Yes. To be agreed. Most unexpected and amusing advent. To some. So. Please to dress them, restore to contemporary consciousness, and bring to me.”

  Blaise and Gretchen weren’t tottering when they entered Ind’dni’s office but they weren’t exactly jaunty-jolly. They displayed the confusion of someone who has awakened in an alien room without the vaguest recall of who, what, when, where, why.

  “Most welcome.” Ind’dni said. “You have led the wicked sheriff a merry chase through the forest of Mr. Sherwood. So kind of you to drop in on me at eventual last.”

  They stared at him.

  Ind’dni indicated the tiled firepit. “Shall we seat and warm ourselves and confer?”

  “Listen—” Shima began.

  “Or would refreshment be preferred first? You have both had a busy night.”

  “Listen—” Shima tried again, but this time Gretchen cut him off.

  “Busy night, Subadar?” she asked. “It isn’t even night yet. It can’t be later than five or six in the afternoon.”

  “You think so, madame?”

  “I know so.”

  “And this is your construct of situation?”

  “Of course.”

  “Listen,” Shima began for the third time. “I want to know how in hell we got from my lab to the Guff precinct and why. Is this another Ind’dni ploy?”

  “Or brutality of police?” Ind’dni smiled. “Most interesting state of confusion. Come, sit down in warmth and tell me why it can’t be later than five or six o’clock post meridian.”

  “Because we went to Blaise’s lab not more than an hour ago.”

  “Ah yes. At CCC complex. It is permitted to ask where you located Dr. Shima, madame? You will recall that you reported his disappearance to me.”

  “I did. Just a few hours ago. And you broadcast an A.P.B. on your quote secret unquote Code Nemo, over my protest.”

  “What else could I do? Yet you found him before my staff did. Where?”

  “In my apartment.”

  “Safe and of sound mind?”

  “Why ask that?” Gretchen snapped.

  “Is it not conventional condition in which missing persons are hoped to be found?” Again Ind’dni sounded smoothly dangerous. “Safe and sound. No?”

  “Safe and sound. Yes.”

  “But you did not report discovery to me despite your prior agitation. Why, madame?”

  “Because I— Because we had something far more urgent to do.”

  “Precise nature of same?”

  “A Promethium trip.”

  “Ah yes. Hoping to visit the Infraworld of your fanciful imagination.”

  “I didn’t believe her either,” Shima broke in. “I was just being polite. But it’s not imaginary, Ind’dni, it’s fact, goddam cold fact. Maybe I should call it hot news because it was out of sight! Wild!”

  “And all this when?”

  “Not more than an hour ago.” Shima was feverish in his excitement. “It’s a discovery that’ll make history when I can get it documented and publish. They’ll call it the Shima Syndrome or maybe the Nunn Effect. We mainlined a milligram of Pm each in my lab. We shot ourselves in matching veins to make sure the effect would hit us at approximately the same time, and the Pm must have taken over within minutes. The effect was fantastic, Subadar. Unbelievable! There is a goddam Phasmaworld. There might even be an entire goddam Phasmaculture buried deep under externals, for all I know. We weren’t wherever we were long enough to do much exploring.”

  “You really believe this, Dr. Shima?”

  “Believe? Damn it, Ind’dni, I know.”

  “You were in madame’s Subworld together?”

  “Together, yes; but not in the Ourworld sense.”

  “And how long did the visit last?”

  “That’s hard to say. Our space-time orientation was wiped out. All our normal everyday senses were wiped. But a milly of Pm couldn’t have lasted very long. I’d say twenty minutes. You, Gretchen?”

  “Closer to a half hour.”

  “And during all this, where were you in… what did you call it, doctor… in the Ourworld?”

  “In my lab at CCC.”

  “That is, our bods were,” Gretchen explained. “I told you that we’d leave the Guff without leaving, Subadar, and so we did.”

  “You did not,” Ind’dni said quite distinctly.

  Gretchen took a breath. Then, “You think we’re lying?”

  “No.” Ind’dni was quietly emphatic. “No. I think you’re mad, both of you… Promethium mad. Evidently the chemical is extremely dangerous.”

  “What? Why? How do you—”

  “Please to listen. Five o’clock in the afternoon was yesterday. It is past six o’clock in the morning of today. Your half hour lasted twelve hours.”

  “But— That’s impossible!”

  “And I can account for some of them. There was that A.P.B. and an alert on Code Nemo. There was a watch and the reports came in from all points on your insane careering through the Guff.”

  “But we weren’t out in the Guff,” Gretchen protested. “We never left Blaise’s lab, physically.”

  “But you did, both of you.”

  “This is a damned ploy, Ind’dni.”

  “On my honor I assure you not, doctor.”

  They both knew he was a man of honor and were flabbergasted. They could only stare silent questions.

  “Shall I tell you the story of your missing twelve hours?”

  Neither could answer.

  The story (Ind’dni continued) cannot give accurate times and sequences. It is probable that events have been omitted because staff had great difficulty tracking your madly unpredictable adventures. One, who is precinct chess champion, reported that you both leaped about like the knight’s move in torus chess.

  We start at five o’clock yesterday afternoon. Following took place: Madame invaded premises of F.A.O. Noir toy emporium and tried to incite toys to riot against children. She was heard exhorting a stuffed ostrich: “Kill, baby, kill! Kill the kids.”

  Meanwhile, the doctor was in the complex of Intra National Cartel Association searching for a virgin. After much perplexity, I realized that the initials of the company form noun, INCA. Apparently Dr. Shima wished to sacrifice to Aztec gods by cutting out the heart of a virgin. His sacrificial knife was a ruler. Metric.

  Item: Dr. Shima was discovered in bowels of the Hudson Hell Gate dam with avowed intent of blowing up entire structure which—his quoted words—was a rapacious rape of coastal ecology. His explosive was a ten-foot string of Chinese firecrackers which he ignited and escaped in consequent confusion.

  Miz Nunn next manifested in the Guff Art Museum, where she astonished many serious students and scholars by running from statue to statue, grasping the male genitals, and complaining that they were cold. She escaped apprehension by flinging a fig leaf in a guard’s face.

  In Central Park Dr. Shima tried to destroy the kites of children and adults by flying a killer kite. Fortunately its tail was not armed with cutting blades, as is the custom, but merely a cordless shaver. He next appeared on Bedloe’s Island resolved to climb to the top of nonexistent Statue of Liberty and relight the lady’s torch. The island, you know, was sold to the Anti-Vivisection League and is maintained as an animal refuge. The league did not take kindly to the flaming combustibles that Dr. Shima was carrying. Neither did the animals.

  Together you invaded premises of a respectable tattoo practitioner and demanded that he marry you by tattooing you two into one. When he tried to explain that he was not licensed to marry anyone by any means whatever, you threw him down and tried to tattoo the letters F.I.N.K. on his already completely ornamented body, mea
nwhile singing, “Walter, Walter, lead me to the altar, and I’ll show you where I’m tattooed.”

  Dr. Shima then appeared in the Guff morgue where he engaged in a bitter altercation with a celebrated necrophiliac over the body of a dead girl. It seems that Dr. Shima wished to inspect her internal organs by means of dissection, a discipline which he regretted never having studied at Princeton, M.I.T., or Dhow Chemical. The gentleman had other designs on the body, for which he had already paid. A most unfortunate confrontation.

  Staff next reported you, madame, pressing your pelvis in most lascivious manner against a three-sheet 3-D poster. It was an advertisement for “UpMan,” a cantharis, featuring “before” and “after” depictions of a nude man. Your attentions were devoted to the “after” gentleman, who was highly colored and considerably larger-than-lifesize.

  Dr. Shima was also rather erotic at this time. He was dashing about, ripping garments off passing ladies and spraying them black, chanting the words, “Black is bangable! Bang is black-able!” Most odd because the ladies were already naturally black.

  It has not been reported where you obtained cosmetics, Miz Nunn, but you appeared in studios of Glacial Army’s Station WGA in full clown makeup and attempted to brazen your way into their broadcast of Pagliacci as revised by Scriabin Finkel to demonstrate that jealousy is contrary to God’s will. You kept sounding your high C as proof of your artistry, which same inspired many stray dogs to howling.

  Staff located you both together, after another knight’s leap, at CCC complex. You had wrecked Dr. Shima’s laboratory in process of mixing all chemicals and reagents in a gigantic top hat stolen from a peanut advertisement. Resultant odor was most unpleasant. On one wall you had finger-painted in potassium permanganate (KMnO4) the slogan: KILSTENCH—THE STINKING MAN’S SCENTARETTE!

  At Staten Island Dr. Shima tied himself to the nose of a Saturn launch vehicle and urged Miz Nunn to light a match, fire the rocket and launch him into outer space, but she was too busy spraying the concrete pad with Christmas red and green decorations, affirming that the alien inhabitants of distant stars would comprehend Luke, ii, 14 far more readily than E = Mc2 or even 1 + 1 = 2.

  Our A.P.B. watch next sighted the co-conspirators—staff’s words—intruding on a fully authorized gathering of the Black Ku Klux Klan, where you extinguished their sacred flaming mandala in a most scatological manner and improvised a performance of the classic Porgy and Bess opera which unbiased witnesses describe as merely pathetic.