Outnumbering the Dead

by Frederik Pohl

  OUTNUMBERING

  THE DEAD

  Frederik Pohl

  Illustrated by Steve Crisp

  CENTURY

  A LEGEND NOVELLA

  LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND JOHANNESBURG

  Copyright © 1990 by Frederik Pohl

  Illustrations © 1990 by Steve Crisp

  Legend Novellas: all cover design by Steve Ridgeway, Splash Studio

  All rights reserved

  The right of Frederik Pohl to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A Legend Novella published by Century

  First published in Great Britain in 1990 by Random Century Group

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  Century Hutchinson South Africa (Pty) Ltd

  PO Box 337, Bergvlei 2012, South Africa

  Random Century Australia Pty Ltd

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061 Australia

  Random Century New Zealand Ltd

  PO Box 40-086, Glenfield, Auckland 10 New Zealand

  A CIP Catalogue Record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 0 7126 3692 7 (hardcover) 0 7126 4576 4 (paperback)

  Phototypeset by Input Typesetting Ltd, London

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Mackays of Chatham PLC, Chatham, Kent

  OUTNUMBERING

  THE DEAD

  1

  Although the place is a hospital, or as much like a hospital as makes no difference, it doesn't smell like one. It certainly doesn't look like one. With the flowering vines climbing its walls and the soothing, gentle plink-tink of the tiny waterfall at the head of the bed, it looks more like the deluxe suite in some old no-tell motel. Rafiel is now spruced up, replumbed and ready to go for another five years before he needs to come back to this place for more of the same, and so he doesn't look much like a hospital patient, either. He looks like a movie star, which he more or less is, who is maybe forty years old and has kept himself fit enough to pass for twenty-something. That part's wrong, though. After all the snipping and reaming and implanting they've done to him in the last eleven days, what he is, is a remarkably fit man of ninety-two.

  When Rafiel began to wake from his designer dream he was very hungry (that was due to the eleven days he had been on intravenous feeding) and quite horny, too (that was the last of the designer dream). 'B'jour, Rafiel,' said the soft, sweet voice of the nurser, intruding on his therapeutic dream as the last of it melted away. Rafiel felt the nurser's gentle touch removing the electrodes from his cheekbones, and, knowing very well just where he was and what he had been doing there, he opened his eyes.

  He sat up in the bed, pushing away the nurser's velvety helping hand. While he was unconscious they had filled his room with flowers. There were great blankets of roses along one wall, bright red and yellow poppies on the windowsill that looked out on the deep interior court. Momenta, please,' he said to the nurser, and experimentally stretched his naked body. They had done a good job. That annoying little pain in the shoulder was gone and, when he held one hand before him, he saw that so were the age spots on his skin. He was also pleased to find that he had awakened with a perfectly immense erection. 'Seems okay,' he said, satisfied.

  'Hai, claro,' the nurser said. That was the server's programmed all-purpose response to the sorts of sense-free or irrelevant things hospital patients said when they first woke up. 'Your amis are waiting to come in.'

  'They can wait.' Rafiel yawned, pleasantly remembering the last dream. Then, his tumescence subsiding, he slid his feet over the edge of the bed and stood up. He waved the nurser away and scowled in surprise. 'Shit. They didn't fix this little dizziness I've been having.'

  'Voulez see your chart?' the nurser offered. But Rafiel didn't at all want to know what they'd done to him. He took an experimental step or two, and then the nurser would no longer be denied. Firmly it took his arm and helped him toward the sanitary room. It stood by as he used the toilet and joined him watchfully in the spray shower, the moisture rolling harmlessly down its metal flanks. As it dried him off, one of its hands caught his finger and held on for a moment - heartbeat, blood pressure, who knew what it was measuring? - before saying, 'You may leave whenever you like, Rafiel.'

  'You're very kind,' Rafiel said, because it was his nature to be polite even to machines. To human beings too, of course. Especially to humans, as far as possible anyway, because humans were what became audiences and no sensible performer wanted to antagonize audiences. But with humans it was harder for Rafiel to be always polite, since his inner feelings, where all the resentments lay, were so frequently urging him to be the opposite - to be rude, insulting, even violent; to spit in some of these handsome young faces sometimes out of the anger that was always burning out of sight inside him. He had every right to that smouldering rage, since he was so terribly cheated in his life, but - he was a fair man - his special problem wasn't really their fault, was it? And besides, the human race in general had one trait that forgave them most others: they adored Rafiel. At least the surveys showed that 36.9 per cent of them provably did, a rating which only a handful of utter superstars could ever hope to beat.

  That sort of audience devotion imposed certain obligations on a performer. Appearance was one, and so Rafiel considered carefully before deciding what to wear for his release from the hospital. From the limited selection his hospital closet offered he chose red pantaloons, a luminous blue blouse and a silk cap to cover his unmade hair. On his feet he wore only moleskin slippers, but that was all right. He wouldn't be performing, and needed no more on the warm, soft, mossy flooring of his hospital room.

  He time-stepped to the window, glancing out at the distant figures on the galleries of the hundred-metre atrium of the arcology he lived and worked in, and at the bright costumes of those strolling across the airy bridges, before he opaqued the window to study his reflection. That was satisfactory, though it would have been better if he'd had the closets in his condo to choose from. He was ready for the public who would be waiting for him - and for all the other things that would be waiting for him, too. He wondered how much time he had lost. He wondered if the redecoration of his condo had been completed, as it was supposed to have been while he was in the medical facility; he wondered if his agent had succeeded in re-booking the personal appearances he had had to miss, and whether the new show - what was it based on? Yes. Oedipus Rex. Whatever that was - had come together.

  He was suddenly impatient to get on with his life, so he said, 'All right, they can come in now' - and a moment later, when the nurser had signalled the receptionists outside that it was all right, in they all came, his friends and colleagues from the new show: pale, tiny Docilia flying over to him with a quick kiss, Mosay, his dramaturge, bearing still more flowers, a corsage to go on Rafiel's blouse, Victorium with his music box hung around his neck, all grinning and welcoming him back to life. 'And comment va our Oedipus this morning?' Mosay asked, with pretend solicitude. Mosay didn't mean the solicitude to be taken seriously, of course, because there was really nothing for anyone to be solicitous about. The nursers wouldn't have awakened Rafiel if all the work hadn't been successfully done.

  'Tutto bene,' Rafiel answered as expected, letting Mosay press the bunch of little pink violets to his blouse and smelling their sweet scent appreciatively. 'Ready for work. Oh, and having faim, too.'

  'But of course you are, after all that,' said Docilia, hugging him, 'and we have a lunch all set up for you. Can you go now?' she asked him, but looking at the nurser - which answered only by opening the door for them. Warmly clutching his arm and fondly chattering in his ear, Docilia led him out of th
e room where, for eleven days, he had lain unconscious while the doctors and the servers poked and cut and jabbed and mended him.

  Rafiel didn't even look back as he entered this next serial instalment of his life. There wasn't any nostalgia in the place for him. He had seen it all too often before.

  2

  The restaurant - well, call it that; it is like a restaurant - is located in the midzone of the analogy. There are a hundred or so floors rising above it and a couple of hundred more below. It is a place where famous vid stars go to be seen, and so at the entrance to the restaurant there is a sort of tearoomy, saloony, cocktail- loungy place, inhabited by ordinary people who hope to catch a glimpse of the celebrities who have come there to be glimpsed. As Rafiel and his friends pass through this warm, dim chamber heads gratifyingly turn. Mosay whispers something humorous to Docilia and Docilia, smiling in return, then murmurs something affectionate to Rafiel, but actually all of them are listening more to the people around them than to each other.

  'It's the short-time vid star,' one overheard voice says, and Rafiel can't help glowing a little at the recognition, though he would have preferred, of course, to have been a celebrity only for his work and not for his problem. 'I didn't know she was so tiny,' says another voice - speaking of Docilia, of course; they often say that. And, though Mosay affects not to hear, when someone says, 'He's got a grandissimo coming up, ils disent,' his eyes twinkle a bit, knowing who that "he" is. But then the maitre d' is coming over to guide them to their private table on an outside balcony.

  Rafiel was the last out the door. He paused to give a general smile and wink to the people inside, then stepped out into the warm, diffused light of the balcony, quite pleased with the way things were going. His friends had chosen the right place for his coming-out meal. If it was important to be seen going to their lunch, it was also important to have their own private balcony set aside to eat it on. They wanted to be seen while eating, of course, because every opportunity to be seen was important to theatre people - but from a proper distance. Such as on the balcony, where they were in view of all the people who chanced to be crossing the arcology atrium or looking out from the windows on the other side. The value of that was that then those people would say to the next persons they met, 'Senti, guess who I saw at lunch today! Rafiel! And Docilia! And, comme dit, the music person.' And their names would be refreshed in the public mind one more time.

  So, though this was to be an agendaed lunch, the balcony was the right place to have it. It wasn't a business-looking place; it could have been more appropriate for lovers, with the soft, warm breezes playing on them and hummingbirds hovering by their juice glasses in the hope of a hand-out. Really, it would have been more comfortable for a couple; for the four of them, with their servers moving between them with their buffet trays, it was a pretty tight squeeze.

  Rafiel ravened over the food, taking great heaps of everything as fast as the servers could bring it. His friends conspired to help. 'Give him pommes,' Mosay ordered, and Docilia whispered, 'Try the sushi ceveche, it's fine.' Mouth full and chewing, Rafiel let his friends fuss over him. From time to time he raised his eyes from his food to smile at jest or light line, but there was no need for him to take part in the talk. He was just out of hospital, after all. (As well as being a star, even among these stars; but that was a given.) He knew that they would get down to business quickly enough. Docilia was always in a hurry to get on with the next production and Mosay, the dramaturge - was, well, a dramaturge. It was his business to get things moving. Meanwhile, it was Rafiel's right to satisfy one appetite and to begin to plan ahead for the pleasing prospect of relieving the other. When Docilia put a morsel of pickled fish between his lips he licked her fingertips affectionately and looked into her eyes.

  He was beginning to feel at ease.

  The eleven days in the medical facility had passed like a single night for Rafiel, since he had been peacefully unconscious for almost all of it. He saw, though, that time had passed for the others, because they had changed a little. Mosay was wearing a little waxed moustache now and Victorium was unexpectedly deeply tanned, right up to his cache-sexe and on the expanse of belly revealed by his short embroidered vest. Docilia had become pale blonde again. For that reason she was dressed all in white, or almost all: white bell-bottomed pants and a white halter top that showed her pale skin. The only touch of contrast was a patch of fuzzy peach-coloured embroidery at the crotch of the slacks that, Rafiel was nearly sure he remembered, accurately matched the outlines of her pubic hair. It was a very Docilia kind of touch, Rafiel thought.

  Of course, they were all very smartly dressed. They always were; like Rafiel they owed it to their public. The difference between Rafiel and the others was that every one of them looked to be about twenty years old - well, ageless, really, but certainly, at the most, no more than a beautifully fit thirtyish. They always had looked that way. All of them did. All ten trillion of them did, all over the world and the other worlds, or anyway nearly all.... Except, of course, for the handful of oddities like himself.

  When Docilia saw Rafiel's gaze lingering on her - observing it at once, because Docilia was never unaware when someone was looking at her - she reached over and fondly patted his arm. He leaned to her ear to pop the question: 'Bitte, are you free this afternoon?'

  She gave him a tender smile. 'For you,' she said, almost sounding as though she meant it, 'siempre.' She picked up his hand and kissed the tip of his middle finger to show she was sincere. 'Mats can we talk a little business first? Victorium's finished the score, and it's belle. We've got-'

  'Can we play it over casa tu?’

  Another melting smile. 'Hai, we can. Hai, we will, as much as you like. But, listen, we've got a wonderful secondact duet, you and I. I love it, Rafiel! It's when you've just found out that the woman you've been shtupping, that's me, is your mother, that's me, too. Then I'm telling you that what you've done is a sin... and then at the end of the duet I run off to hang myself. Then you've got a solo dance. Play it for him, Victorium?'

  Victorium didn't need to be begged; a touch of his fingers on his amulet recorder and the music began to pour out. Rafiel paused with his spoon in his juicy white sapote fruit to listen, not having much choice. It was a quick, tricky jazz tune coming out of Victorium's box, but with blues notes in it too, and a funny little hoppety-skippy syncopation to the rhythm that sounded Scottish to Rafiel.

  'Che? Che?' Victorium asked anxiously as he saw the look on Rafiel's face. 'Don't you like it?'

  Rafiel said, 'It's just that it sounds - gammy. Pas smooth. Sort of like a little limp in there.'

  'Hai! Precisamente!’ cried Mosay. 'You caught it at once!'

  Rafiel blinked at him. 'What did I catch?'

  'What Victorium's music conveyed, of course! You're playing Oedipus Rex and he's supposed to be lame.'

  'Oh, claro,' said Rafiel; but it wasn't really all that clear to him. He wiped the juice of the sapote off his lips while he thought it over. Then he asked the dramaturge, 'Do you think it's a good idea for me to be dancing the part of somebody who's lame?' He got the answer when he heard Docilia's tiny giggle, and saw Victorium trying to smother one of his own. 'Ah, merde,' Rafiel grumbled as, once again, he confronted the unwelcome fact that it was not his talent but his oddity that delighted his audiences. Ageing had been slowed down for him, but it hadn't stopped. His reflexes were not those of a twenty-year-old; and it was precisely those amusing little occasional stumbles and slips that made him Rafiel. 'I don't like it,' he complained, knowing that didn't matter.

  'But you must do it that way,' cried the dramaturge, persuasive, forceful - being a dramaturge, in short, with a star to cajole into shape. 'C'est toi, really! The part could have been made for you. Oedipus has a bit of a physical problem, but we see how he rises above his limitations and dances beautifully. As, always, do you yourself, Rafiel!'

  'D'accord,' Rafiel said, surrendering as he knew he must. He ate the fruit for a moment, thinking. When i
t was finished he pushed the shell aside and asked sourly, 'How lame is this Oedipus supposed to be, exactly?'

  'He's a blessé, a little bit. He has something wrong with his ankles. They were mutilated when he was a baby.'

  'Hum,' said Rafiel, and gave Victorium a nod. The musician replayed the five bars of music.

  'Can you dance to it?' Victorium asked anxiously.

  'Of course I can. If I had my tap shoes-'

  'Give him his tap shoes, Mosay,' Docilia ordered, and then bent to help Rafiel slip them on, while the dramaturge clapped his hands for a server to bring a tap mat.

  'Play from the end of the duet,' Rafiel ordered, abandoning his meal to stand up in the narrow space of the balcony. He moved slightly, rocking back and forth, then began to tap, not on the beat of the music, but just off it - step left, shuffle right - while his friends nodded approvingly - spank it back, scuff it forward. But there wasn't really enough room. One foot caught another; he stumbled and almost fell, Victorium's strong hand catching him. 'I'm clumsier than ever,' he sighed resentfully.

  'They'll love it,' Mosay said, reassuring him, and not lying, either, Rafiel knew unhappily; for what was it but his occasional misstep, the odd quaver in his voice - to be frank about it, the peculiarly fascinating traits of his advancing age - that made him a superstar?

  He finished his meal. 'Come on, Docilia. I'm ready to go,' he said, and although the others clearly wanted to stay and talk they all agreed that what Rafiel suggested was a good idea. They always did. It was one of the things that made Rafiel's life special - one of the good things. It came with being a superstar. He was used to being indulged by these people, because they needed him more than he needed them, although, as they all knew, they were going to live forever and he was not.