Selected Stories of Alfred Bester

by Alfred Bester

  “How what happened?” Galatea demanded.

  “Sweetheart, you are pregnant.”

  “No, no, no!”

  “I know it can't be anyone in this house. Claudia, has she been promiscuous outside?”

  NO

  “How can you ask such questions!”

  “Has Galatea been alone with a man in a possibly intimate situation?”

  “You're hateful!”

  NO

  “Reg, we all know that. We've chaperoned Gally every moment outside, you, me, Claudia.”

  “Not every moment. Charles. It could have happened with this innocent in five minutes.”

  “But nothing ever happened with a man! Nothing! Ever!”

  “Dear love, you are pregnant.”

  “I can't be.”

  “You are, undeniably. Charles?”

  “Gally. I adore you, no matter what, but Reg is right. The pregnancy band is undeniable.”

  “But I'm a virgin.”

  “Claudia?”

  HR MNS HV STOPT “Her what have stopped”

  Corque sighed. “Her menses, Reg.”

  “Ah so.”

  “I'm a virgin, you wicked, detestable men. A virgin!”

  Manwright took her frantic face in his hands. “Sweetheart, no recriminations, no punishments, no Coventry, but I must know where I slipped up, how it happened. Who were you with, where and when?”

  “I've never been with any man, anywhere or anywhen.”

  “Never?”

  “Never . . . except in my dreams.”

  “Dreams?” Manwright smiled. “All girls have them. That's not what I mean, dear.”

  R MAB U SHD MN

  “Maybe I should mean what, Claudia?”

  LT HR TL U HR DRMS

  “Let her tell me her dreams? Why?”

  JST LSN

  “All right, I'll listen. Tell me about your dreams, love.”

  “No. They're private property.”

  “Claudia wants me to hear them.”

  “She's the only one I've ever told. I'm ashamed of them.”

  Claudia fingerwagged. “Tell him, Gally. You don't know how important they are.”

  “No!”

  “Galatea Galante, are you going to disobey your nanny? I am ordering you to tell your dreams.”

  “Please, nanny. No. They're erotic.”

  “I know, dear. That's why they're important. You must tell.”

  At length, Galatea whispered, “Put out the lights, please.” The fascinated Corque obliged.

  In the darkness, she began, “They're erotic. They're disgusting. I'm so ashamed. They're always the same . . . and I'm always ashamed . . . but I can't stop ....

  “There's a man, a pale man, a moonlight man, and I . . . I want him. I want him to . . . to handle me and ravish me into ecstasy, b–but he doesn't want me, so he runs, and I chase him. And I catch him. Th–there are some sort of friends who help me catch him and tie him up. And then they go away and leave me alone with the moonlight man, and I . . . and I do to him what I wanted to him to do to me ....”

  They could hear her trembling and rustling in her chair.

  Very carefully, Manwright asked, “Who is this moonlight man, Galatea?”

  “I don't know.”

  “But you're drawn to him?”

  “Oh yes. Yes! I always want him.”

  “Just him alone, or are there other moonlight men?”

  “Only him. He's all I ever want.”

  “But you don't know who he is. In the dreams do you know who you are?”

  “Me. Just me.”

  “As you are in real life?”

  “Yes, except that I'm dressed different.”

  “Different? How?”

  “Beads and . . . and buckskin with fringe.”

  They all heard Manwright gasp.

  “Perhaps like . . . like a Red Indian, Galatea?”

  “I never thought of that. Yes. I'm an Indian, an Indian squaw up in the mountains, and I make love to the paleface every night.”

  “Oh. My. God.” The words were squeezed out of Manwright. “They're no dreams.” Suddenly he roared, “Light! Give me light, Charles! Igor! Light!”

  The brilliant lights revealed him standing and shaking, moonlight pale in shock. “Oh my God, my God, my God!” He was almost incoherent. “Dear God, what have I created?”

  “Mahth–ter!”

  “Reg! “

  “Don't you understand? I know Claudia suspected; that's why she made Galatea tell me her dreams.”

  “B–but they're only dirty dreams,” Galatea wailed. “What could possibly be the harm?”

  “Damn you and damn me! They were not dreams. They were reality in disguise. That's the harm. That's how your dreams lock in with my nightmares, which were reality, too. Christ! I've generated a monster!”

  “Now calm yourself, Reg, and do try to make sense.”

  “I can't. There's no sense in it. There's nothing but that lunatic drop of acid I promised Valera.”

  “The mystery surprise in her?”

  “You kept wondering what it was, Charles. Well, now you know, if you can interpret the evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  Manwright forced himself into a sort of thunderous control. “I dreamed I was pursued and caught by Red Indians, tied up, and ravished by a sexy squaw. I told you. Yes?”

  “Yes. Interminably.”

  “Galatea dreams she's a Red Indian squaw, pursuing, capturing, and ravishing a paleface she desires. You heard her?”

  “I heard her.”

  “Did she know about my dreams?”

  “No.”

  “Did I know about hers?”

  “No.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Would you care to bet on that possibility?”

  “No.”

  “And there you have it. Those ‘dreams’ were sleep versions or distortions of what was really happening; something which neither of us could face awake. Galatea's been coming into my bed every night, and we've been making love.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Is she pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I'm Valera's lover–boy, the stud responsible. My God! My God!” `

  “Reg, this is outlandish. Claudia, has Gally ever left her bed nights?”

  NO

  “There!”

  “Damn it, I'm not talking about a conventional, human woman. I didn't generate one. I'm talking about an otherworld creature whose psyche is as physically real as her body, can materialize out of it, accomplish its desires, and amalgamate again. An emotional double as real as the flesh. You've pestered me about the deliberate unexpected in my programming. Well, here's the R = L X N. Galatea's a succubus.”

  “A what?”

  “A succubus. A sexy female demon. Perfectly human by day. Completely conformist. But with the spectral power to come, like a carnal cloud, to men in their sleep, nights, and seduce them.”

  “No!” Galatea cried in despair. “I'm not that. I can't be.”

  “And she doesn't even know it. She's an unconscious demon. The laugh's on me, Charles,” Manwright said ruefully. “By God, when I do glitch it's a beauty. I knock myself out programming the Perfect Popsy with an engram for Valera, and she ruins everything by switching her passion to me.”

  “No surprise. You're very much alike.”

  “I'm in no mood for jokes. And then Galatea turns out to be a succubus who doesn't know it and has her will of me in our sleep every night.”

  “No, no! They were dreams. Dreams!”

  “Were they? Were they?” Manwright was having difficulty controlling his impatience with her damned obtuseness.

  “How else did you get yourself pregnant, eh; enceinte, gravida, knocked up? Don't you dare argue with me, you impudent red saucebox! You know,” he reflected, “there should have been a smidgen of Margaret Sanger in the programming. Never occurred to me.”
>
  He was back to his familiar impossible self, and everybody relaxed.

  “What now, Reg?”

  “Oh, I'll marry the snip, of course. Can't let a dangerous creature like Galatea out of the house.”

  “Out of your life, you mean?”

  “Never!” Galatea shouted. “Never! Marry you, you dreadful, impossible, conceited, bullying, know-it-all, wicked man? Never! If I'm a demon, what are you? Come, Claudia.”

  The two women went very quickly upstairs.

  “Are you serious about marrying Gally, Reg?”

  “Certainly, Charles. I'm no Valera. I don't want a relationship with a popsy, no matter how perfect.”

  “But do you love her?”

  “I love all my creations.”

  “Answer the question. Do you love Gally, as a man loves a woman?”

  “That sexy succubus? That naive demon? Love her? Absurd! No, all I want is the legal right to tie her to a stake every night, when I'm awake. Ha!”

  Corque laughed. “I see you do, and I'm very happy for you both. But, you know, you'll have to court her.”

  “What! Court? That impertinent brat?”

  “My dear Reg, can't you grasp that she isn't a child anymore? She's a grown young woman with character and pride.”

  “Yes, she's had you in thrall since the moment she was poured,” Manwright growled. Then he sighed and accepted defeat. “But I suppose you're right. My dear Igor!”

  “Here, mahth-ter.”

  “Please set up that table again. Fresh service, candles, flowers, and see if you can salvage the monsters you created for the dinner. White gloves.”

  “No brainth, mahth-ter?”

  “Not this evening. I see the Mouton Rothschild's been smashed. Another bottle, please. And then my compliments to Ms. Galatea Galante, and will she have the forgiveness to dine, à deux, with a most contrite suitor. Present her with a corsage from me . . . something orchidy. This will be a fun necromance, Charles,” he mused. “Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, alevai. Man and Demon. Our boys will be devils, sorcery says, and the girls witches. But aren't they all?”

  * * *

  The Roller Coaster

  I knifed her a little. When you cut across the ribs it hurts like sin but it isn’t dangerous. The knife slash showed white, then red. She backed away from me in astonishment, more startled at the knife than the cut. You don’t feel those cuts at first for quite a few minutes. That’s the trouble with a knife. It numbs and the pain comes slow.

  “Listen, lover,” I said. I’d forgotten her name. “This is what I’ve got for you. Look at it.” I waggled the knife. “Feel it.” I slapped her across the face with the blade. She stumbled back against the couch, sat down and began to shake. This was what I was waiting for.

  “Go ahead, you bitch. Answer me.”

  “Please, David,” she muttered.

  Dull. Not so good.

  “I’m on my way out,” I said. “You lousy hooker. You’re like all the rest of these cheap dames.”

  “Please, David,” she repeated in a low voice.

  No action here. Give her one more try.

  “Figuring you for two dollars a night, I’m into you for twenty.” I took money from my pocket, stripped off the twenty in singles and handed it to her. She wouldn’t touch it. She sat on the edge of the couch, blue-naked, streaming blood, not looking at me. Just dull. And mind you, a girl that made love with her teeth. She used to scratch me with her nails like a cat. And now...

  “Please, David,” she said.

  I tore up the money and threw it in her lap.

  “Please, David,” she said.

  No tears. No screams. No action. She was impossible. I walked out.

  The whole trouble with these neurotics is that you can’t depend on them. You case them. You work them. You build to the climax. You trigger them off, but as often as not they dummy up like that girl. You just can’t figure them.

  I looked at my watch. The hand was on twelve. I decided to go up to Gandry’s apartment. Freyda was working Gandry and would most likely be there setting him up for the climax. I needed advice from Freyda and I didn’t have much time left.

  I walked north on Sixth Avenue – no. The Avenue of the Americas; turned west on 55th and went to the house across the street from Mecca Temple – no, The New York City Center. I took the elevator up to the PH floor and was just going to ring Gandry’s bell when I smelled gas. I knelt down and sniffed at the edge of Gandry’s door. It was coming from his apartment.

  I knew better than to ring the bell. I got out my keys, touched them to the elevator call-button to dissipate any electrostatic charge on them, and got to work on Gandry’s door. I barbered the lock in two or three minutes, opened the door and went in with my handkerchief over my nose. The place was pitch dark. I went straight to the kitchen and stumbled over a body lying on the floor with its head in the oven. I turned off the gas and opened the window. I ran into the living room and opened windows. I stuck my head out for a breath, then came back and finished airing the apartment.

  I checked the body. It was Gandry all right. He was still alive. His big face was swollen and purple and his breathing sounded a little Cheynes-Stokesish to me. I went to the phone and dialed Freyda.

  “Hello?”

  “Freyda?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you? Why aren’t you up here with Gandry?”

  “Is that you, David?”

  “Yes. I just broke in and found Gandry half dead. He’s trying suicide.”

  “Oh, David!”

  “Gas. He’s reached the climax all by his lonely lone self. You been building him?”

  “Of course, but I never thought he’d –”

  “He’d try to sneak out on the pay-off like this? I’ve told you a hundred times, Freyda. You can’t depend on potential suicides like Gandry. I showed you those trial-cut scars on his wrist. His kind never give you any action. They –”

  “Don’t lecture me, David.”

  “Never mind. My girl was a bust, too. I thought she was the hot acid type. She turned out to be warm milk. I want to try that Bacon woman you mentioned. Would you recommend her?”

  “Definitely.”

  “How can I find her?”

  “Through her husband, Eddie Bacon.”

  “How can I find him?”

  “Try Shawn’s or Dugal’s or Breen’s or The Greek’s. But he’s a quonker, David. A time-waster, and you haven’t much time left.”

  “Doesn’t matter if his wife’s worth it.”

  “She’s worth it, David. I told you about the gun.”

  “Right. Now what about Gandry?”

  “Oh, to hell with Gandry,” she snapped, and hung up.

  That was all right with me. It was about time Freyda got sense enough to lay off the psychotics. I hung up, closed all the windows, went back to the kitchen and turned on the gas. Gandry hadn’t moved. I put out all the lights, went down the hall and let myself out.

  I went looking for Eddie Bacon. I tried for him at Breen’s, at Shawn’s, at Dugal’s. I got the break at The Greek’s on East 52nd Street.

  I asked the bartender: “Is Eddie Bacon here?”

  “In the back.”

  I looked past the juke box. The back was crowded. “Which one is Eddie Bacon?”

  He pointed to a small man alone at a table in the corner. I went back and sat down. “Hi, Eddie.”

  Bacon glanced up at me. He had a seamed pouchy face, fair silky hair, bleak blue eyes. He wore a brown suit and a blue and white polka-dot tie. He caught me looking at the tie and said: “That’s the tie I wear between wars. What are you drinking?”

  “Scotch. Water. No ice.”

  “How English can you get?” He yelled: “Chris!”

  I got my drink. “Where’s Liz?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your wife.”

  “I married eighteen feet of wives,” he mumbled. “End to end. Six feet each.”

&nb
sp; “Three fathoms of show girls,” I said.

  “Which were you referring to?”

  “The third. The most recent. I hear she left you.”

  “They all left me.”

  “Where’s Liz?”

  “It happened like this,” Bacon said in a bewildered voice. “I can’t figure it. Nobody can figure it. I took the kids to Coney Island...”

  “Never mind the kids. Where’s Liz?”

  “I’m getting there,” Bacon said irritably. “Coney Island’s the damnedest place. Everybody ought to try that trap once. It’s primitive stuff. Basic entertainment. They scare the hell out of you and you love it. Appeals to the ancient history in us. The Cro-Magnons and all that.”

  “The Cro-Magnons died out,” I said. “You mean the Neanderthals.”

  “I mean prehistoric memories,” Bacon went on. “They strap you into that roller coaster, they shove you off and you drop into a race with a dinosaur. He’s chasing you and you’re trying to keep it from ending in a dead heat. Basic. It appeals to the stone-age flesh in us. That’s why kids dig it. Every kid’s a vestigial remnant from the stone age.”

  “Grown-ups too. What about Liz?”

  “Chris!” Bacon yelled. Another round of drinks came. “Yeah... Liz,” he said. “The girl made me forget there ever was a Liz. I met her staggering off the roller coaster. She was waiting. Waiting to pounce. A Black Widow Spider.”

  “Liz?”

  “No. The little whore that wasn’t there.”

  “Who?”

  “Haven’t you heard about Bacon’s Missing Mistress? The Invisible Vice Girl? Bacon’s Thinking Affair?”

  “No.”

  “Hell, where’ve you been? How Bacon rented an apartment for a dame that didn’t exist. They’re still laughing it up. All except Liz. It’s all over the business.”

  “I’m not in your business.”

  “No?” He took a long drink, put his glass down and glowered at the table like a kid trying to crack an algebra problem. “Her name was Freyda. F-R-E-Y-D-A. Like Freya, Goddess of Spring. Eternal youth. She was like a Botticelli virgin outside. She was a tiger inside.”

  “Freyda what?”

  “I don’t know. I never found out. Maybe she didn’t have any last name because she was imaginary like they keep telling me.” He took a deep breath. “I do a crime show. I know every crook routine there is. That’s my business – the thief business. But she pulled a new one. She picked me up by pretending she’d met the kids somewhere. Who can tell if a kid really knows someone or not? They’re only half human anyway. I swallowed her routine. By the time I realized she was lying, I’d met her and I was dead. She had me on the hook.”