“Like to try some real living?” Morgan asked.
The swagger boy yawned. “That’s what every salesman says. Really now. I don’t even own a music tape.”
“What do you do with your leisure?”
“Nothing. Nothing is worth doing.”
He decided the boy had picked him out as a handy person to pose for.
“The huxley is even better than a woman,” Morgan said. “Try it and you’ll give up women.”
“I’ve had enough women. I gave them up last year.”
“I know how you feel. Nothing is worth the effort. You’re right. Why not grab some happiness while you hang around and wait to die?”
“My dear fellow, happiness is the pursuit of the vulgar.”
The boy laughed in his face and swaggered off.
Morgan smiled. He had one or two swagger boys on his list of regulars. No matter what you offered them, they declared it inferior. But they were vain. They needed an audience and therefore had to expose themselves to seduction. This one might come back again. Even he might some day grovel at the gates of Huxley’s Heaven.
It was a bad shift. Only two or three regulars showed up and two casuals, a couple on a date. He wanted a kill. Every time he added a regular to the huxley’s books twenty percent of the future take went to him. There had been no obvious potential addicts for three days.
He spotted the girl when she was many yards away. She was a tall, thin brunette. Her clothes were obviously assertive but only emphasized her tired face and nervous eyes. She walked with a little stoop and maneuvered slowly and awkwardly through the crowd.
His hands tensed on the surface of the counter. He smiled. “A pleasant evening.”
“Pleasant evening,” she said.
“I’m Morgan Valentine. Would you like to buy some happiness?”
“I just came here out of curiosity. I’ve never been here before.”
“I see.” He explained what the huxley did and how it worked. He described colorful beauties, excitement, an awakening and transcendence of the self.
“It sounds exciting but dangerous. Has anyone ever been electrocuted?”
He laughed pleasantly. “No, it’s safer than a cycle ride. Did you ever walk through the park on a summer night?”
“Often.”
“It’s as safe and beautiful as that.”
“You talk like a poet. As if you like your job.”
“I do. I come here every night and sell happiness to people. I love my work.”
“I wish I had a job like yours.”
She wanted to talk. His body tensed. Let her run on. A kill! O, Lordy, a kill! Take your time, take your time. She’ll run away afraid if you hurry.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I run a copyer. If I had to work a five hour day I’d go insane.”
“I know. I’m very lucky. Most people don’t have jobs they like. But I go home at night feeling very good when I think of all the people with monotonous jobs I’ve helped make happy.”
All the time he talked his eyes flattered her. He knew the type. She had probably gone from love to love, always hungry for something permanent, always used and then left by her lovers. How old was she? Twenty-nine? Thirty? Young enough to hope for marriage, certainly, but also old enough to be desperate.
“How much does it cost to try it once, Mr. Valentine?”
“Call me Morgan, please. Everyone who comes here does. I’m their friend.” He told her the price, raising it a little so he would have bargaining room.
“It’s pretty expensive. I didn’t think it would cost so much.”
“It’s a complicated device. It’s probably the greatest thing ever invented. When you get done you’ll think anything would be an undercharge. In all the centuries of human life, nobody ever experienced happiness like this.”
“That’s my whole entertainment budget for the week.”
“The memory will last a month.”
He watched her face and her dark, nervous hands.
“Listen, I’ll knock ten per cent off the fee. Just for you. Because I want to make you happy.”
“I couldn’t let you do that.”
“It’s all right. We can afford it.”
She frowned. “I’ll come back later.”
And let Wilson get her? No thanks.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I want to think about it.”
He laughed. “It’s not that big a decision, is it? It’s not like—getting married, say.”
She put her hands underneath her cape. “Is it habit forming?”
“We couldn’t have the booth here if it was. Narcotics are illegal.”
“My last boy friend used to say it was.”
“He probably misunderstood it. Many people misunderstand.”
“He said it was wrong. He used to say people shouldn’t get happiness from machines. That it isn’t real happiness.”
He studied her face. His expression and his tone were very sympathetic. “It didn’t turn out well, did it? Your love, I mean?”
“No. He told me we didn’t seem to be made for each other. He was probably right. I’m so young and ignorant. I’m going to love school now. That’s one reason why I have to watch my money.”
Morgan hated love school. It was for the people with the minor problems, the ills that could be cured without deep psyching. They went there with their mental backaches and when they left they were whole and vital and free to feed and be fed. He hated them because they were lucky.
“I know how you feel. My wife and I just had a big fight.”
“You should go to love school.”
“I tried it once. It didn’t seem to do any good. The only thing that makes my life worthwhile is being able to sell happiness.”
“Do you ever use the huxley yourself?”
“Now and then,” he lied. “You can’t spend all your time giving.”
“I’ve tried being nothing but a giver. It doesn’t work. At love school they’re trying to teach me how to take.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. That’s what the puritans haven’t learned yet. They’re afraid to take what little happiness there is in the world. They always think you have to earn it. As if we don’t all earn it every minute just by being here.”
The girl looked at the sign and then at the door that led to the huxley.
“Perhaps that’s why I’m hesitating. I’m afraid to take. I feel guilty.”
“A lot of people feel that way. Of course, I’m not your psycher so I can’t tell you that’s what’s stopping you.”
He felt what he often felt as a kill neared its climax. If this girl, with her anxieties, tried the huxley, she would never be the person she wanted to be. And he understood that pathetic hunger to be whole and pitied her.
It’s her or me, he thought. It’s her or me. If I didn’t do this to her, someone else would. The weak perish and the strong survive.
“Let’s try it out,” he said. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you use the huxley free.”
She stepped back. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t sound right.”
He shook his head. “It’s all right. I can use it free all I want. I’ll let you use it in my place.”
“It’s not that. I mean I was worried about you, I don’t want to take your money, but—” Her voice drained off. She stared at the door. The light flashed happiness, happiness.
“Show them you can be a taker,” he said. “Overcome your fears and inhibitions. They’ll be proud of you at love school.”
“All right. That’s what it is. I’ll show them.”
“Good girl. Come with me. Right through the door here.”
He led her to an empty room and showed her how to use the huxley. She hesitated when he handed her the tranquilizer and then threw it down her throat. He adjusted the headset.
“Sit back,” he said. “Relax.”
He
turned to the control panel and twisted the dials. Her eyes closed. Her body went limp. She smiled and then chuckled like a sleeping baby. Morgan laughed, too, a bitter, triumphant laugh.
He stopped laughing and held his head in his hands. Forgive me. Please forgive me. He didn’t know to whom the words were mumbled.
When he got to the booth Wilson was there. It was nearly quitting time.
“I just made a kill,” Morgan said.
Wilson was a tall, long chested man with sad eyes. “Congratulations. You were due for one.”
“Thanks.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes left. I may as well leave.”
“Morgan, I’d like to talk to you.”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“I’d like to talk to you alone.”
“Will it take long?”
“It shouldn’t.”
“I guess we can leave the booth alone.”
They stepped into their private office. Wilson slowly lit a pipe.
“What’s on your mind?” Morgan said.
“This is a hard thing to say. I’ve thought it over for weeks.”
Morgan began to feel impatient. “What is it?”
“You’re violating the Fair Employment Law. I can prove you have two jobs. If you don’t give me twenty-five percent of your take, I’ll tell the inspector.”
“You snake. How dare you make that accusation!”
“You know it’s true, Morgan. Please don’t fight me. You work as an electrician in the morning. If I turn you in they’ll confiscate your earnings and I’ll get a big chunk as a reward.”
The tiger snarled in his belly.
“I’ll kill you.”
“Morgan, please don’t fight. I hate doing this. I’ve put it off for weeks. But I need the money. I know you need it too and so I’d rather not make you lose this job. Don’t make me turn you in.”
“You mean you’ll make more money sucking out twenty-five percent. You bloodsucker! You informer!”
Wilson’s brow twisted. “Please try to understand me, Morgan.”
“I need every cent I make. I’ve got to get a psycher.”
“You’re torturing me. Will you stop? Don’t you understand? You’re only twenty-five. You’ve got time. I’m thirty-two and I’ve never had a woman. If I don’t get a psycher soon, I never will. Please understand me.”
“I understand you.”
Wilson was a brooding mass of pity. But he had made as many kills as Morgan. To get money for a psycher, even his own pain would not keep Wilson from being ruthless. Morgan understood him all too well.
“You’ve got me under your thumb,” Morgan said.
He took a step forward. Then he charged. Wilson stepped out of the way. Morgan swung and his pudgy fist rammed into stomach muscle. Wilson grunted and hit him in the face. Morgan had rage but Wilson had reach and seemed to have training.
He never got near Wilson. All he saw was a shower of big fists and a face contorted with grief.
When he came to Wilson was gone.
You can’t kill him, his nauseated brain said. Kill him and they’ll send you to prison. Think of Teresa’s soft flesh and Laura’s humiliation. Take it out on them.
He rose to his knees and dragged himself erect. When he opened the door Wilson was alone in the booth.
“I’ll get back at you,” he whispered. “I’ll fix you so you’ll never know the smell of a woman.”
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said. “You can give me my first cut tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
He staggered through the crowds to the Pinwheel. How many years would this set him back? The murder lust only needed time. Give it enough time and it would conquer him.
He looked at the clean stars and saw his vision. The bright dream. The Holy Grail. Himself renewed. From sickness and corruption would arise a whole and splendid man. Morgan Valentine, aglow with the diamond brilliance of the cured.
<
* * * *
More than a decade ago, in the smallest of all science-fiction magazines, appeared a story called “Scanners Live in Vain.” It was a gruesome little glimpse of what space-travel might be like, from the point of view of the unhappy space-traveler, and it was the first public appearance of the byline “Cordwainer Smith.” In the intervening years Smith has lost none of his originality and none of his gruesomeness; we know this, for if he had, he could not possibly have written-
ANGERHELM
by Cordwainer Smith
Funny funny funny. It’s sort of funny funny funny to think without a brain—it is really something like a trick but not a trick to think without a brain. Talking is even harder but it can be done.
I still remember the way that phrase came ringing through when we finally got hold of old Nelson Angerhelm and sat him down with the buzzing tape.
The story began a long time before that. I never knew the beginnings.
My job is an assistant to Mr. Spatz, and Spatz has been shooting holes in budgets now for eighteen years. He is the man who approves, on behalf of the Director of the Budget, all requests for special liaison between the Department of the Army and the intelligence community.
He is very good at his job. More people have shown up asking for money and have ended up with about one-tenth of what they asked than you could line up in any one corridor of the Pentagon. That is saying a lot.
The case began to break some months ago after the Russians started to get back those odd little recording capsules. The capsules came out of their Sputniks. We didn’t know what was in the capsules as they returned from upper space. All we knew was that there was something in them.
The capsules descended in such a way that we could track them by radar. Unfortunately they all fell into Russian territory except for a single capsule which landed in the Atlantic. At the seven-million-dollar point we gave up trying to find it.
The Commander of the Atlantic fleet had been told by his intelligence officer that they might have a chance of finding it if they kept on looking. The Commander referred the matter to Washington, and the budget people saw the request. That stopped it, for a while.
The case began to break from about four separate directions at once. Khrushchev himself said something very funny to the Secretary of State. They had met in London after all.
Khrushchev said at the end of a meeting, “You play jokes sometimes, Mr. Secretary?”
The Secretary looked very surprised when he heard the translation.
“Jokes, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of jokes?”
“Jokes about apparatus.”
“Jokes about machinery don’t sit very well,” said the American.
They went on talking back and forth as to whether it was a good idea to play practical jokes when each one had a serious job of espionage to do.
The Russian leader insisted that he had no espionage, never heard of espionage and that his espionage worked well enough so that he knew damn well that he didn’t have any espionage.
To this display of heat, the Secretary replied that he didn’t have any espionage either and that we knew nothing whatever that occurred in Russia. Furthermore not only did we not know anything about Russia but we knew we didn’t know it and we made sure of that. After this exchange both leaders parted, each one wondering what the other had been talking about.
The whole matter was referred back to Washington. I was somewhere down on the list to see it.
At that time I had “Galactic” clearance. Galactic clearance came a little bit after universal clearance. It wasn’t very strong but it amounted to something. I was supposed to see those special papers in connection with my job of assisting Mr. Spatz in liaison. Actually it didn’t do any good except fill in the time when I wasn’t working out budgets for him.
The second lead came from some of the boys over in the Valley. We never called the place by any other name and we don’t even like to see it in the federal budget. We know as much as we need
to about it and then we stop thinking.
Star Science Fiction 6 - [Anthology] Page 9