Gold: The Final Science Fiction Collection

by Isaac Asimov

  Willard was approaching the great storm scene, the most difficult portion of this most difficult play, and he felt wrung out. Lear has been cast out by his daughters into a raging storm of wind and rain, with only his Fool for company, and he has gone almost mad at this mistreatment. To him, even the storm is not as bad as his daughters.

  Willard pointed his baton and Lear appeared. A point in another direction and the Fool was there clinging, disregarded, to Lear’s left leg. Another point and the background, came in, with its impression of a storm, of a howling wind, of driving rain, of the crackle of thunder and the flash of lightning.

  The storm took over, a phenomenon of nature, but even as it did so, the image of Lear extended and became what seemed mountain-tall. The storm of his emotions matched the storm of the elements, and his voice gave back to the wind every last howl. His body lost substance and wavered with the wind as though he himself were a storm cloud, contending on an equal basis with the atmospheric fury. Lear, having failed with his daughters, defied the storm to do its worst. He called out in a voice that was far more than human:

  Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

  You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

  Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

  You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires.

  Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

  Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

  Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world.

  Crack Nature’s moulds, all germains spill at once.

  That make ingrateful man.”

  The Fool interrupts, his voice shrilling, and making Lear’s defiance the more heroic by contrast.

  He begs Lear to make his way back to the castle and make peace with his daughters, but Lear doesn’t even hear him. He roars on:

  Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!

  Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters.

  I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.

  I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children,

  You owe me no subscription. Then let fall

  Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,

  A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man… …”

  The Duke of Kent, Lear’s loyal servant (though the King in a fit of rage has banished him) finds Lear and tries to lead him to some shelter. After an interlude in the castle of the Duke of Gloucester, the scene returns to Lear in the storm, and he is brought, or rather dragged, to a hovel.

  And then, finally, Lear learns to think of others. He insists that the Fool enter first and then he lingers outside to think (undoubtedly for the first time in his life) of the plight of those who are not kings and courtiers.

  His image shrank and the wildness of his face smoothed out. His head was lifted to the rain, and his words seemed detached and to be coming not quite from him, as though he were listening to someone else read the speech. It was, after all, not the old Lear speaking, but a new and better Lear, refined and sharpened by suffering. With an anxious Kent watching, and striving to lead him into the hovel, and with Meg Cathcart managing to work up an impression of beggars merely by producing the fluttering of rags, Lear says:

  “Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are…

  That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm.

  How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides…

  Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you

  From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en

  Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;

  Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

  That thou mayst shake the superflux to them

  And show the heavens more just.

  “Not bad,” said Wilbur, eventually. “We’re getting the idea.

  Only, Meg, rags aren’t enough. Can you manage an impression of hollow eyes? Not blind ones. The eyes are there, but sunken in.”

  “I think I can do that,” said Cathcart.

  It was difficult for Willard to believe. The money spent was greater than expected. The time it had taken was considerably greater than had been expected. And the general weariness was far greater than had been expected. Still, the project was coming to an end.

  He had the reconciliation scene to get through-so simple that it would require the most delicate touches. There would be no background, no souped-up voices, no images, for at this point Shakespeare became simple. Nothing beyond simplicity was needed.

  Lear was an old man, just an old man. Cordelia, having found him, was a loving daughter, with none of the majesty of Goneril, none of the cruelty of Regan, just softly endearing.

  Lear, his madness burned out of him, is slowly beginning to understand the situation. He scarcely recognizes Cordelia at first and thinks he is dead and she is a heavenly spirit. Nor does he recognize the faithful Kent.

  When Cordelia tries to bring him back the rest of the way to sanity, he says:

  “Pray, do not mock me.

  I am a very foolish fond old man.

  Fo u rsc o re and upward, not an hour more nor less.

  And, to deal plainly,

  I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

  Methinks I should know you, and know this man;

  Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant

  What place this is; and all the skills I have

  Remembers not these garments; nor I know not

  Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;

  For (as I am a man) I think this lady

  To be my child Cordelia.”

  Cordelia tells him she is and he says:

  “Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not.

  If you have poison for me, I will drink it.

  I know you do not love me; for your sisters

  Have, as I do remember, done me wrong.

  You have some cause, they have not.”

  All poor Cordelia can say is “No cause, no cause.”

  And eventually, Willard was able to draw a deep breath and say, “We’ve done all we can do. The rest is in the hands of the public.”

  It was a year later that Willard, now the most famous man in the entertainment world, met Gregory Laborian. It had come about almost accidentally and largely because of the activities of a mutual friend. Willard was not grateful.

  He greeted Laborian with what politeness he could manage and cast a cold eye on the time-strip on the wall.

  He said, “I don’t want to seem unpleasant or inhospitable, Mr.-uh-but I’m really a very busy man, and don’t have much time.”

  “I’m sure of it, but that’s why I want to see you. Surely, you want to do another compu-drama.”

  “Surely I intend to, but,” and Willard smiled dryly, “ King Lear is a hard act to follow and I don’t intend to turn out something that will seem like trash in comparison.”

  “But what if you never find anything that can match King Lear?”

  “I’m sure I never will, but I’ll find something. “ “I have something. “

  “Oh?”

  “I have a story, a novel, that could be made into a compudrama.”

  “Oh, well. I can’t really deal with items that come in over the transom.”

  “I’m not offering you something from a slush pile. The novel has been published and it has been rather highly thought of.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be insulting. But I didn’t recognize your name when you introduced yourself.”

  “Laborian. Gregory Laborian.”

  “But I still don’t recognize it. I’ve never read anything by you. I’ve never heard of you.”

  Laborian sighed. “I wish you were the only one, but you’re not. Still, I could give you a copy of my novel to read.”

  Willard shook his head. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Laborian, but I don’t want to mislead you. I have no time to read it. And even if I had the time-I just want you to understand-I don’t have the incli
nation.”

  “I could make it worth your while, Mr. Willard. “ “In what way?”

  “I could pay you. I wouldn’t consider it a bribe, merely an offer of money that you would well deserve if you worked with my novel.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Laborian, how much money it takes to make a first-class compu-drama. I take it you’re not a multimillionaire.”

  “No, I’m not, but I can pay you a hundred thousand globodollars.”

  “If that’s a bribe, at least it’s a totally ineffective one. For a hundred thousand globo-dollars, I couldn’t do a single scene.”

  Laborian sighed again. His large brown eyes looked soulful. “I understand, Mr. Willard, but if you’ll just give me a few more minutes-” (for Willard’s eyes were wandering to the time-strip again.)

  “Well, five more minutes. That’s all I can manage really. “

  “It’s all I need. I’m not offering the money for making the compu-drama. You know, and I know, Mr. Willard, that you can go to any of a dozen people in the country and say you are doing a compu-drama and you’ll get all the money you need. After King Lear, no one will refuse you anything, or even ask you what you plan to do. I’m offering you one hundred thousand globo-dollars for your own use.”

  “Then it is a bribe, and that won’t work with me. Good-bye, Mr. Laborian.”

  “Wait. I’m not offering you an electronic switch. I don’t suggest that I place my financial card into a slot and that you do so, too, and that a hundred thousand globo-dollars be transferred from my account to yours. I’m talking gold, Mr. Willard.”

  Willard had risen from his chair, ready to open the door and usher Laborian out, but now he hesitated. “What do you mean, gold?”

  “I mean that I can lay my hands on a hundred thousand globo-dollars of gold, about fifteen pounds’ worth, I think. I may not be a multimillionaire, but I’m quite well off and I wouldn’t be stealing it.

  It would be my own money and I am entitled to draw it in gold. There is nothing illegal about it. What I am offering you is a hundred thousand globo-dollars in five-hundred globo-dollar pieces-two hundred of them. Gold, Mr. Willard.”

  Gold! Willard was hesitating. Money, when it was a matter of electronic exchange, meant nothing. There was no feeling of either wealth or of poverty above a certain level. The world was a matter of plastic cards (each keyed to a nucleic acid pattern) and of slots, and all the world transferred, transferred, transferred.

  Gold was different. It had a feel. Each piece had a weight. Piled together it had a gleaming beauty.

  It was wealth one could appreciate and experience. Willard had never even seen a gold coin, let alone felt or hefted one. Two hundred of them!

  He didn’t need the money. He was not so sure he didn’t need the gold.

  He said, with a kind of shamefaced weakness. “What kind of a novel is it that you are talking about?”

  “Science fiction.“

  Willard made a face. “I’ve never read science fiction. “

  “Then it’s time you expanded your horizons, Mr. Willard. Read mine. If you imagine a gold coin between every two pages of the book, you will have your two hundred.”

  And Willard, rather despising his own weakness, said, “What’s the name of your book?”

  “Three in One. “

  “And you have a copy?” “I brought one with me.“

  And Willard held out his hand and took it.

  That Willard was a busy man was by no means a lie. It took him better than a week to find the time to read the book, even with two hundred pieces of gold glittering, and luring him on.

  Then he sat a while and pondered. Then he phoned Laborian. The next morning, Laborian was in Williard’s office again.

  Willard said, bluntly, “Mr. Laborian, I have read your book.”

  Laborian nodded and could not hide the anxiety in his eyes. “I hope you like it, Mr. Willard.” Willard lifted his hand and rocked it right and left. “So-so. I told you I have not read science fiction, and I don’t know how good or bad it is of its kind-” “Does it matter, if you liked it?”

  “I’m not sure if I liked it. I’m not used to this sort of thing. We are dealing in this novel with three sexes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which you call a Rational, an Emotional, and a Parental. “

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t describe them?”

  Laborian looked embarrassed. “I didn’t describe them, Mr. Willard, because I couldn’t. They’re alien creatures, really alien. I didn’t want to pretend they were alien by simply giving them blue skins or a pair of antennae or a third eye. I wanted them indescribable, so I didn’t describe them, you see.”

  “What you’re saying is that your imagination failed.”

  “N-no. I wouldn’t say that. It’s more like not having that kind of imagination. I don’t describe anyone. If I were to write a story about you and me, I probably wouldn’t bother describing either one of us.”

  Willard stared at Laborian without trying to disguise his contempt. He thought of himself. Middle- sized, soft about the middle, needed to reduce a bit, the beginnings of a double chin, and a mole on his right wrist. Light brown hair, dark blue eyes, bulbous nose. What was so hard to describe? Anyone could do it. If you had an imaginary character, think of someone real-and describe.

  There was Laborian, dark in complexion, crisp curly black hair, looked as though he needed a shave, probably looked that way all the time, prominent Adam’s apple, small scar on the right cheek, dark brown eyes rather large, and his only good feature.

  Willard said, “I don’t understand you. What kind of writer are you if you have trouble describing things? What do you write?”

  Laborian said, gently, somewhat as though this was not the first time he had had to defend himself along those lines, “You’ve read T hree in One. I’ve written other novels and they’re all in the same style. Mostly conversation. I don’t see things when I write; I hear, and for most part, what my characters talk about are ideas-competing ideas. I’m strong on that and my readers like it.”

  “Yes, but where does that leave me? I can’t devise a compudrama based on conversation alone. I have to create sight and sound and subliminal messages, and you leave me nothing to work on.” “Are you thinking of doing Three in One, then?”

  “Not if you give me nothing to work on. Think, Mr. Laborian, think! This Parental. He’s the dumb one.”

  “Not dumb,” said Laborian, frowning. “Single-minded. He only has room in his mind for children, real and potential.”

  “Blockish! If you didn’t use that actual word for the Parental in the novel, and I don’t remember offhand whether you did or not, it’s certainly the impression I got. Cubical. Is that what he is?”

  “Well, simple. Straight lines. Straight planes. Not cubical. Longer than he is wide.”

  “How does he move? Does he have legs?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly never gave it any thought.”

  “Hmp. And the Rational. He’s the smart one and he’s smooth and quick. What is he? Egg- shaped?”

  “I’d accept that. I’ve never given that any thought, either, but I’d accept that.”

  “And no legs?”

  “I haven’t described any.”

  “And how about the middle one. Your ‘she’ character-the other two being ‘he’s.”‘

  “The Emotional.”

  “That’s right. The Emotional. You did better on her.”

  “Of course. I did most of my thinking about her. She was trying to save the alien intelligences-us-of an alien world, Earth. The reader’s sympathy must be with her, even though she fails.”

  “I gather she was more like a cloud, didn’t have any firm shape at all, could attenuate and tighten.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s exactly right.”

  “Does she flow along the ground or drift through the air?”

  Laborian thought, then shook his head. “I don’t know
. I would say you would have to suit yourself when it came to that. “

  “I see. And what about the sex?”

  Laborian said, with sudden enthusiasm. “That’s a crucial point. I never have any sex in my novels beyond that which is absolutely necessary and then I manage to refrain from describing it-”

  “You don’t like sex?”

  “I like sex fine, thank you. I just don’t like it in my novels. Everyone else puts it in and, frankly, I think that readers find its absence in my novels refreshing; at least, my readers do. And I must explain to you that my books do very well. I wouldn’t have a hundred thousand dollars to spend if they didn’t.”

  “All right. I’m not trying to put you down.”

  “However, there are always people who say I don’t include sex because I don’t know how, so-out of vainglory, I suppose-I wrote this novel just to show that I c ould do it. The entire novel deals with sex.

  Of course, it’s alien sex, not at all like ours.”

  “That’s right. That’s why I have to ask you about the mechanics of it. How does it work?” Laborian looked uncertain for a moment. “They melt.”

  “I know that that’s the word you use. Do you mean they come together? Superimpose?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Willard sighed. “How can you write a book without knowing anything about so fundamental a part of it?”

  “I don’t have to describe it in detail. The reader gets the impression. With subliminal suggestion so much a part of the compu-drama, how can you ask the question?”

  Willard’s lips pressed together. Laborian had him there. “Very well. They superimpose. What do they look like after they have superimposed? “