by Rudy Rucker
"What can the sex spheres do to the women?"
In the distance I heard a siren. And faint screams? How many copies of Babs were loose in Heidelberg? One for each woman? Oh God, what if she was killing them? I let my mind spread out into Hilbert space, trying to set things right. A strange, twinkling interval of time passed.
"You've caught something, Alwin," exclaimed Huba. He'd set the two rods into special holders, so all we had to do was watch the tips. Mine was twitching.
Rather than sitting up, I reached out with my magic energy field. Whirl, whirl, whirl, the reel wound in. Something slithered ashore . . . something odd.
"Mein Gott!" shouted Huba. "What is going on?"
Lying there on the grassy riverbank was a sort of little . . . man. Instead of arms and legs he had only a single wheel at the bottom, a small spoked wheel like from a tricycle. Running up from the wheel was a long tubular leg . . . or was it a neck? . . . and at the other end from the wheel was the creature's head. His skin was yellow and hairless, his bald head was long and thin. He had a projecting cucumber-nose and a smiling, lipless mouth-slash.
"Hi, Rubber," said the little man, spitting out my hook and sitting up. "I'm Wheelie Willie. Remember me?" He had a high, lively voice. By way of jogging my memory, Wheelie Willie straightened out his body and putt-putted around me in a small circle, riding his wheel like a unicyclist. "Hooray for Rubber v. B. Tire!" he piped.
Remember? Of course I remembered. Wheelie Willie was a character I invented back in graduate school at Rutgers. I used to draw his adventures for the college paper, the Rutgers Daily Targum. You could look it up. Most of the strips were about drugs and radical politics, so I used a pseudonym: Rubber v. B. Tire.
"What were you doing in the river?" I asked him.
"Looking for women." His smile broadened. "It's hard because there aren't any. There's hardly any women left in Heidelberg."
"Was ist den los?" asked Huba for the second time. "What's going on?" Wheelie Willie and I were speaking English, of course, which left Huba in the cold.
"This is Wheelie Willie," I explained. "He's from a cartoon strip I used to draw."
"Then, why is he real?"
"This is Doktor Bitter's doing," said W.W. in German. "He is like a hole in the fabric of reality. All around him it starts now to unravel."
"Ah, German he speaks," exclaimed Huba. "But why doesn't he have arms?"
"I can't draw arms," I apologized. "I can never get the shoulders right. And his nose stands for a dick."
"I'm a muffdiver!" shrilled W.W. "A man about town."
"Do you know Babs?" Huba asked him. "She'd be perfect for you." Huba fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the soft bean. Before I could stop him, he'd smeeped Babs up to standard size.
"Cowabunga!" cried Wheelie Willie.
"Alwin, I've been very bad," whispered the hovering sphere. A bedroom eye peeped out at me from beneath a puddled jumbo breast. In an instant, Wheelie Willie was beneath her, pumping at her slit.
"Hot dog!" yelped the yellow little clown presently. "I'm cookin'!" He buzz-sawed back a few feet and sneezed. A gusher of sperm shot from his nose—how disgusting. Babs looked like the old Sherwin Williams Paint Company's "Cover the Earth" logo, a sphere half-covered with dripping paint.
"Blurp," she blubbed, and bounded into the broad brown brook.
Just then Huba's rod-tip started twitching.
"You reel it in, Alwin," said Huba. "I'm scared."
"No thanks. If we keep fishing, this is going to look like a Bruegel engraving. Let's split before Babs comes back."
"Could you wipe my nose?" requested Wheelie Willie.
While I found a hankie, Huba took out a knife and cut his fishing line. We took apart the rods and hustled up the riverbank, Wheelie Willie in the rear.
"There's my car," shouted Huba. "Get in and I'll take you downtown. Me, I'm going to work. This craziness is more than I can outlast."
I got in front next to Huba, and Wheelie Willie installed himself on the floor between my legs. He was only about one meter tall. He wanted to know if I had any marijuana.
"It's slivovitz or nothing," I told him. "This is Germany. I haven't scored since I got here."
"Have you tried Turks?" piped the yellow little head. "Hash from Turks?"
"Shut th' fuck up."
I had to think, think about what was real. Start with Hilbert Space, the ultimate reality. Every possibility there, no one possibility chosen. Everything equals Nothing.
Yet there was something, call it U, something that I had in the past called the real world. The world as we knew it. The facts of the situation. U for universe.
There was something else, perhaps just as big: B. B for Babs. I was in some way coupled to Babs now. B wanted to absorb U. B wanted U to be a possibility instead of a reality.
There was a third thing, call it I. I was like a window from B to U, a hyperspace tunnel, a wave-function amplifier, a hole in the dimensions. Things were gushing into U through I, things like Wheelie Willie.
High on our left, the Heidelberg Castle slid by. There was still some mist in the trees beneath it, and the huge ruin seemed to float on the hillside, weightless and unreal. Then we were in the city itself.
"How about here?" suggested Huba, pulling over by Heidelberg's quaint and scenic Alte Brucke: the Old Bridge. In point of fact the Old Bridge is about thirty years old. Some nameless asshole blew up the original on the last day of World War II. But, hey, the replica is beautiful anyway. If you look down at it from the castle, the Old Bridge looks sort of like a dragon crossing the water: regular arches for centipede legs, two towers like horns at the Heidelberg end, and a yawning portcullis mouth. It's a pleasant spot, sunny and mellow. But today something was wrong.
There were no women in sight. Just men and children. Men and children and sex spheres. I should have been upset, but—God forgive me—I wasn't. I was happy. Babs had really and truly gotten to me.
The spheres floated among the men, arousing no more comment than if they'd been real women. They wore clothes . . . skirts or tight jeans on the bottom, and T-shirts or blouses on top. You could see their mouths set down in the necks of the shirts, and below the breasts, the blouses had lacy holes for the eyes to peep out.
"Look what you've done!" cried Huba. "The sex spheres have eaten all the women! Ute! I have to go see about my Ute!"
I should really have ridden right back with him to check on Sybil. But, hell, I could fly back to her any second. Right now I just had to check out this action. Big guns boomed in the distance. That would be the Army, reacting.
Wheelie Willie and I jumped out of the car, and Huba sped away.
"I saw some super-funky Turks back there," coaxed Wheelie Willie. "For sure we could score off them."
I looked down at him, the personification of my 1972 psyche. Thin and yellow, he looked like a tightly rolled wheatstraw-paper joint. With a wheel at one end, and a cock for his nose. "It's great to see you in real life, Wheelie Willie. Would you settle for a beer?"
"You think they'll serve me?"
Two brightly dressed sex spheres brushed past. Shopgirls on an outing. Nice tits. Across the street a gangly young man was necking with his sex-sphere girlfriend. She wore a cute lavender dress. Right down the sidewalk were two mother sex spheres. One bounced along next to her two young children, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. The other hovered over a baby carriage, big fat tit hanging out of her sweater. Happy baby sucked his milk.
I led Wheelie Willie around the corner and into a place called the Schnookeloch. They have a good Munich beer on tap there: Hacker-Pschorr. A sex sphere in a white apron and a tight black top floated over. I ordered two big Exports.
"What does Export mean?" asked W.W.
"They have two types of beer," I explained. "Export and Pils. Pils takes longer to draw from the tap. It's bitterer and foamier. Don't worry though, Export is still German. You'll know you're in Heidelberg."
Three sex spheres
were drinking together at a table near us. Looked like students from the University. Jeans, skimpy T-shirts and big knockers. They drank by tilting forward and sticking their rolled-up tongues into the beer. Ssssuuuuuck. Big mouths and strong tongues. One of them peeked over at me from under her breast. I waved.
"Like to get my nose in there," commented W.W. "Look how tight those pants are on her. Mother-far-fucking-out!"
The waitress brought us our beers balanced between her breasts. Wheelie Willie sniffed hungrily at her bottom as I took the beers. "Zum wohl des Herren," she said, floating off with a slight waggle. "To the health of the gentlemen."
I took a long pull of the thick, heady brew, and then fed Wheelie Willie's glass to him. Some boys came in, students, and sat down with the sex spheres we'd been eyeing. One of the girls, the one who'd looked at me, excused herself and went downstairs.
The beer went down well on my empty stomach. I decided to order another round. But first I had to piss.
"Hey, Willie. Order a new round if the waitress comes by. I'll be back in a minute."
"And after that we score dope, hey, Alwin?"
Downstairs was a unisex john, not terribly unusual for Germany. I pushed in, half-hoping to surprise a sphere in action. My luck held. The cute young orb from upstairs was perched nude on the toilet.
I unzipped my fly and leaned over the sphere's upturned mouth. She wriggled with mock embarrassment . . . and got to work.
Man! This was really living!
Chapter Sixteen: The Garden of Earthly Delights
Sybil made it out of Heidelberg before the sex spheres attacked. She'd spent the night packing, and when the sun rose she and the kids were on the autobahn to Frankfurt. Smooth move.
Nearing the Frankfurt International Airport, Sybil began to wonder at the amount of traffic. She flicked on the car radio, which was set to the US Army station.
" . . . no panic at this time, with day-to-day life proceeding normally. Some authorities have challenged the story as a hoax, but telescopic observations have now confirmed it. A substantial proportion of the Heidelberg population has been transformed into what may be an alien life form. Evacuation of the surrounding areas is proceeding. All units are on Red Alert. Repeat, all units are on Red Alert. Report immediately to your superior officer."
The bulletin ended and was replaced by aimless easy-listening.
Sybil dialed another station and heard a more detailed report in German. Something had turned most of the women in Heidelberg into alien creatures, spherical in form. Yet the Heidelberg men were doing nothing. Emergency troops had been sent in, but instead of fighting they'd started a street-party.
It figured. That's all men really wanted anyway: sex spheres. Eyes slitted with fury, Sybil skidded onto the exit ramp for the airport. Thank God she and the kids had gotten out in time.
She abandoned the car in the airport's three-minute loading zone and led the children into the excited crowd. First to get money. Looking at a directory, she located a branch of the Deutsche Bank. Upstairs. Each of the children had a heavy suitcase to lug, and people kept jostling them. Briefly, Sybil took time to imagine cutting Alwin's throat. No . . . that would be too fast, too easy on him. Better to break his legs and let him be eaten by hungry rats. Or stick knitting-needles in him, carefully avoiding vital spots as long as possible . . . long, sharp, red-hot needles.
"There's the bank, Mommy. It's closed."
Of course. The men had it closed so no women could escape. Keeping their shit-cunt-money safe in their toilet-marriage-bank. Sybil slammed her suitcase into the thick glass doors. The doors didn't budge, but the suitcase burst open. If only she had a gun!
The PA system was making an announcement. First in German, then French, then English: "All outgoing flights are fully booked. If you have no ticket, please leave the airport. Repeat, all outgoing flights are fully booked for the next seventy-two hours."
The crowd around them surged this way and that. There were many more women than men here; tough, pushy German women. What to do?
"If we can't get a plane today, then let's go visit Gran'ma," suggested Sorrel. "Daddy can meet us there."
"Your Daddy is perfectly happy in Heidelberg. And if I ever see him again, I'll . . . " A sudden inspiration struck Sybil. There was a way. There was still a way. She gathered up her possessions and reclosed her suitcase. Her father would have weapons.
"I think you're right, Sorrel. We'll go stay with Grandma and Grandpa."
It took hours to get downtown, but finally they made it. Lotte and Cortland Burton lived on a walled estate, fully equipped with the latest antiterrorism devices. In America, Cortland had just been a good engineer; in Germany he was a military industrialist. His company produced a sort of particle-beam ray-gun which was supposed to provide Germany with a defense against missiles.
Cortland and Lotte were ecstatic to see their daughter and grandchildren safe. The maid fixed them a big dinner of Wienerschnitzel, the children's favorite food. Cortland and Lotte sat at either end of the long table, with Sybil and Sorrel at Cortland's end, Ida and Tom at Lotte's. Lotte was cutting up Ida's meat.
"But how do you know Alwin is safe?" she asked, fixing Sybil with a worried look. "Won't he starve in that jail?"
"Alwin is safe because he is a man," answered Cortland. "This whole invasion is in some sense a female problem. Perhaps it's related to sexual hysteria."
"Aliens are turning women into grotesque spheres, and that's our fault?" snapped Sybil. "Really, Father, you go too far. Alwin is safe because this invasion is his doing. It's the final acting-out of heartless male chauvinism. You should go to Heidelberg. You'd love it there with the sex spheres."
Cortland refrained from answering, but Lotte sprang to his defense. "How can you speak to your father that way, Sybil? And in front of the children."
"What if the sex spheres come here?" asked Tom. "Will they eat Mommy?"
"Don't worry," said Cortland. "They're just in Heidelberg. And the army has them surrounded."
"Ha!" spat Sybil. "What good is an army against the sex spheres? Men lay down their arms and women get eaten. What weapons could stop the spheres anyway?" This wasn't a rhetorical question. She had a feeling Cortland would know the answer, if anyone did.
Cortland raised his eyebrows. "Sorrel, my sweetest grandchild, would you please close the kitchen door?"
Sorrel obliged, and Cortland continued, his voice lowered. "As you know, Sybil, my engineering firm develops new weapons. Today I was telephoned by Colonel Noschwet in Mannheim. Apparently the antimissile particle-beam laser which we have developed is capable of causing these . . . sex spheres to dematerialize. Several field tests have been successfully conducted. So I would not be unduly concerned. Whatever its cause, the invasion can indeed be contained."
"You only say contained. Why can't they take the lasers into Heidelberg and exterminate the sex spheres?"
"This will be attempted," Cortland sighed. "But, as you yourself have pointed out, the men who go to Heidelberg are won over and the women are eaten. In no case is a soldier likely to return, no matter how well-armed he or she may be. And we have only one portable PB laser."
"Ice crweam, please!" shouted Ida gaily. Ellie, the maid, came bustling back in.
"Wait," said Lotte. "Ida, you haven't eaten the nice spaghetti that Ellie made for you."
"I hate buscadey!"
Tom, not liking to see his little sister act spoiled and get attention, slid down in his chair and kicked her under the table. Ida's face did squeezed grapefruit. Sorrel punished Tom with a sharp poke under the ribs. Doubling up from pain and excitement, Tom knocked his water glass over. It hit and broke Sorrel's Meissen china plate, then rolled onto the floor and smashed. Ida, thinking a food fight had broken out, grabbed a leftover schnitzel and threw it at Sorrel for being bossy. It missed her and hit Cortland on the shoulder of his Lanvin suit. "Pig!" screamed Sorrel as loud as she could. Seeing the expensive plate broken, Tom crawled under the table a
nd began roaring in terror.
Cortland looked accusingly at Lotte. Lotte passed the look to Sybil. "Really, Sybil, Do all American children behave this way?"
"It's Alwin's fault. He acts like a child himself."
Ellie was already clearing up the mess. Sybil pulled Tom out from under the table. "There'll be no dessert for you children. Go upstairs and put your pyjamas on."
"Can't we watch TV?" wailed Sorrel.
"Of course you can," put in Cortland. "And be sure to give me a good-night kiss me when you're all clean."
"OK, Gran'pa."
The three little pigs surged upstairs. Sybil and her parents moved into the enormous living room, and Cortland served out a round of cognac.
"What do you know about these alien spheres?" asked Cortland. "And what exactly is their connection with Alwin?"
"I didn't tell you before, because it sounded so crazy. The original sphere was involved in the bombing in Rome. She calls herself Babs. I think all these spheres in Heidelberg are copies of Babs."
"What a vulgar name," put in Lotte. "Where does Babs come from? Underground? The planet Venus?"
"Not even from our space. From another dimension."
"Just like in your husband's book," said Cortland. "Geometry and Reality." He was referring to a little text on higher dimensions which Alwin had written. Thanks to this one publication, he'd been able to get his grant in Heidelberg.
"Yes," said Sybil. "But the main thing about Babs is her sexuality. She's all breasts and buttocks and lips and . . . you know."
"That sounds like Cortland's secretary," commented Lotte.
"This is no laughing matter," said Cortland sternly. "Apparently these sex spheres have destroyed and replaced all the women in Heidelberg. But why?"
Sybil shuddered, realizing how narrow her escape had been. "Alwin said something about destroying reality. The spheres connect to some higher realm that Alwin thinks is better. He wants the spheres to take us all up there. It's fine for the men. They just . . . you know. But Babs has nothing to offer most women. I saw her myself—I threw her out of the apartment! She must have decided then that it was all or nothing. I think she's killing anyone who won't go along . . . which is almost all the women."