A Science Fiction Omnibus

by Brian Aldiss

  ‘The damned ghoul!’ said Burckhardt.

  The twisted shoulders shrugged with an odd grace. ‘Why? You were gone. And you and all the others were what Dorchin wanted – a whole town, a perfect slice of America. It’s as easy to transfer a pattern from a dead brain as a living one. Easier – the dead can’t say no. Oh, it took work and money – the town was a wreck – but it was possible to rebuild it entirely, especially because it wasn’t necessary to have all the details exact.

  ‘There were the homes where even the brains had been utterly destroyed, and those are empty inside, and the cellars that needn’t be too perfect, and the streets that hardly matter. And anyway, it only had to last for one day. The same day – June the 15th – over and over again; and if someone finds something a little wrong, somehow, the discovery won’t have time to snowball, wreck the validity of the tests, because all errors are cancelled out at midnight.’

  The face tried to smile. ‘That’s the dream, Mr Burckhardt, that day of June the 15th, because you never really lived it. It’s a present from Mr Dorchin, a dream that he gives you and then takes back at the end of the day, when he had all his figures on how many of you responded to what variation of which appeal, and the maintenance crews go down the tunnel to go through the whole city, washing out the new dream with their little electronic drains, and then the dream starts all over again. On June the 15th.

  ‘Always June the 15th, because June the 14th is the last day any of you can remember alive. Sometimes the crews miss someone – as they missed you, because you were under your boat. But it doesn’t matter. The ones who are missed give themselves away if they show it – and if they don’t, it doesn’t affect the test. But they don’t drain us, the ones of us who work for Dorchin. We sleep when the power is turned off, just as you do. When we wake up, though, we remember.’ The face contorted wildly. ‘If I could only forget!’

  Burckhardt said unbelievingly, ‘All this to sell merchandise! It must have cost millions!’

  The robot called April Horn said, ‘It did. But it has made millions for Dorchin, too. And that’s not the end of it. Once he finds the master words that make people act, do you suppose he will stop with that? Do you suppose –’

  The door opened, interrupting her. Burckhardt whirled. Belatedly remembering Dorchin’s flight, he raised the gun.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ ordered the voice calmly. It was not Dorchin; it was another robot, this one not disguised with the clever plastics and cosmetics, but shining plain. It said metallically: ‘Forget it, Burckhardt. You’re not accomplishing anything. Give me that gun before you do any more damage. Give it to me now.’

  Burckhardt bellowed angrily. The gleam on this robot torso was steel; Burckhardt was not at all sure that his bullets would pierce it, or do much harm if they did. He would have put it on the test –

  But from behind him came a whimpering, scurrying whirlwind; its name was Swanson, hysterical with fear. He catapulted into Burckhardt and sent him sprawling, the gun flying free.

  ‘Please!’ begged Swanson incoherently, prostrate before the steel robot. ‘He would have shot you – please don’t hurt me! Let me work for you, like that girl. I’ll do anything, anything you tell me –’

  The robot voice said. ‘We don’t need your help.’ It took two precise steps and stood over the gun – and spurned it, left it lying on the floor.

  The wrecked blonde robot said, without emotion, ‘I doubt that I can hold out much longer, Mr Dorchin.’

  ‘Disconnect if you have to,’ replied the steel robot.

  Burckhardt blinked. ‘But you’re not Dorchin!’

  The steel robot turned deep eyes on him. ‘I am,’ it said. ‘Not in the flesh – but this is the body I am using at the moment. I doubt that you can damage this one with the gun. The other robot body was more vulnerable. Now will you stop this nonsense? I don’t want to have to damage you; you’re too expensive for that. Will you just sit down and let the maintenance crews adjust you?’

  Swanson grovelled. ‘You – you won’t punish us?’

  The steel robot had no expression, but its voice was almost surprised. ‘Punish you?’ it repeated on a rising tone. ‘How?’

  Swanson quivered as though the word had been a whip; but Burckhardt flared: ‘Adjust him, if he’ll let you – but not me! You’re going to have to do me a lot of damage, Dorchin. I don’t care what I cost or how much trouble it’s going to be to put me back together again. But I’m going out of that door! If you want to stop me, you’ll have to kill me. You won’t stop me any other way!’

  The steel robot took a half-step towards him, and Burckhardt involuntarily checked his stride. He stood poised and shaking, ready for death, ready for attack, ready for anything that might happen.

  Ready for anything except what did happen. For Dorchin’s steel body merely stepped aside, between Burckhardt and the gun, but leaving the door free.

  ‘Go ahead,’ invited the steel robot. ‘Nobody’s stopping you.’

  *

  Outside the door, Burckhardt brought up sharp. It was insane of Dorchin to let him go! Robot or flesh, victim or beneficiary, there was nothing to stop him from going to the FBI or whatever law he could find away from Dorchin’s synthetic empire, and telling his story. Surely the corporation who paid Dorchin for test results had no notion of the ghoul’s technique he used; Dorchin would have to keep it from them, for the breath of publicity would put a stop to it. Walking out meant death, perhaps – but at that moment in his pseudo-life, death was no terror for Burckhardt.

  There was no one in the corridor. He found a window and stared out of it. There was Tylerton – an ersatz city, but looking so real and familiar that Burckhardt almost imagined the whole episode a dream. It was no dream, though. He was certain of that in his heart and equally certain that nothing in Tylerton could help him now.

  It had to be the other direction.

  It took him a quarter of an hour to find a way, but he found it – skulking through the corridors, dodging the suspicion of footsteps, knowing for certain that his hiding was in vain, for Dorchin was undoubtedly aware of every move he made. But no one stopped him, and he found another door.

  It was a simple enough door from the inside. But when he opened it and stepped out, it was like nothing he had ever seen.

  First there was light – brilliant, incredible, blinding light. Burckhardt blinked upward, unbelieving and afraid.

  He was standing on a ledge of smooth, finished metal. Not a dozen yards from his feet, the ledge dropped sharply away; he hardly dared approach the brink, but even from where he stood he could see no bottom to the chasm before him. And the gulf extended out of sight into the glare on either side of him.

  No wonder Dorchin could so easily give him his freedom! From the factory, there was nowhere to go – but how incredible this fantastic gulf, how impossible the hundred white and blinding suns that hung above!

  A voice by his side said inquiringly, ‘Burckhardt?’ And thunder rolled the name, mutteringly soft, back and forth in the abyss before him.

  Burckhardt wet his lips. ‘Y-yes?’ he croaked.

  ‘This is Dorchin. Not a robot this time, but Dorchin in the flesh, talking to you on a hand mike. Now you have seen, Burckhardt. Now will you be reasonable and let the maintenance crews take over?’

  Burckhardt stood paralysed. One of the moving mountains in the blinding glare came toward him.

  It towered hundreds of feet over his head; he stared up at its top, squinting helplessly into the light.

  It looked like –

  Impossible!

  The voice in the loudspeaker at the door said, ‘Burckhardt?’ But he was unable to answer.

  A heavy rumbling sigh. ‘I see,’ said the voice. ‘You finally understand. There’s no place to go. You know it now. I could have told you, but you might not have believed me, so it was better for you to see it yourself. And after all, Burckhardt, why would I reconstruct a city just the way it was before? I’m a businessman; I
count costs. If a thing has to be full-scale, I build it that way. But there wasn’t any need to in this case.’

  From the mountain before him, Burckhardt helplessly saw a lesser cliff descend carefully toward him. It was long and dark, and at the end of it was whiteness, five-fingered whiteness…

  ‘Poor little Burckhardt,’ crooned the loudspeaker, while the echoes rumbled through the enormous chasm that was only a workshop. ‘It must have been quite a shock for you to find out you were living in a town built on a table top.’

  VI

  It was the morning of June the 15th, and Guy Burckhardt woke up screaming out of a dream.

  It had been a monstrous and incomprehensible dream, of explosions and shadowy figures that were not men and terror beyond words.

  He shuddered and opened his eyes.

  Outside his bedroom window, a hugely amplified voice was howling.

  Burckhardt stumbled over to the window and stared outside. There was an out-of-season chill to the air, more like October than June; but the scene was normal enough – except for the sound-truck that squatted at the kerbside halfway down the block. Its speaker horns blared:

  ‘Are you a coward? Are you a fool? Are you going to let crooked politicians steal the country from you? NO! Are you going to put up with four more years of graft and crime? NO! Are you going to vote straight Federal Party all up and down the ballot? YES! You just bet you are!’

  Sometimes he screams, sometimes he wheedles, threatens, begs, cajoles… but his voice goes on and on through one June the 15th after another.

  Friends in Need

  ELIZA BLAIR

  Sally desleeps and jumps, jounces, jiggles into her clothes. Today is a special day. Today is a prettyful day. She trambles through the porto and outdowns the steps without even zapping her hair.

  Dig Sally: fifteen whole cents old, plus two cycles – that’s four years and a twitch in standard termies for you parents out there. Gold-yellow hair and greeny eyes, tres charmer when she smilies, the smarterest chick in her class. Her birthday was Fourday, and now it’s Sixday, a special day with declass and Daddy telecomming. Sally trambles fastlike. She’s juiced.

  Downchute in the kitchen Mommy is dancing, Mommy is prancing, she’s whirling around to the Barking Cars as she putters Sally’s breakfast on the table. Daddy peek-a-views over his lectrospecs at Sally and smilies, like he does every special morning.

  ‘Whoa, Sally, don’t choke,’ warns Daddy. ‘We’ll be there soon enough.’ His eyes ducky back of the darklenses and he’s back in his meeting.

  Sally scumbles her Nu-Bacon, scarfs her Eggalicious, slurps her Toast-E-Lite. Mommy chucks the utensils in the deegrate and it buzzes as they vanish. She plunks a saucer of Norange on the gray smartsurf in front of Sally and foldies her arms.

  ‘Aw, Mommy, that goop’s quite slithy,’ Sally whingles. She’s proud, puffed, pinkled at the way she snuckled the palaver ‘quite’ into that fraze. It’s her schoolfriend Gina’s cyclesay favorite. Whenever Gina’s classprez she makes it the priority and all that period the kiddles have to go round stickering ‘quite’ into every dilog, even if they’re making kidspiek. If you can’t hang it and Teach catches you, then for each perp you’re docked five minis on the line during Net-time. Sally once essayed magic much tribble with ‘somewhat’ that she blew a full half-per and missed her fav convo with Bai, her best bud in the Philippines.

  Gina’s classprez again tomorrow, nextcycle, and Sally’s prancing, piping, primed. She won’t drop a single opt this time. She truloves kindergarten. She has magic much kidspiek to teach to Bai, who ready minds English, but only parents spiek that. If he needwants to convo with braveworld webheads he cessitates Sally’s tutelage.

  ‘Vitamins,’ Mommy digs.

  Sally likes magic much playing Teach for Bai, but inhome she’s still the babely who drinkies Norange for the nutrients. Sally delikes Norange. Mommy’s desimpatic, tho, so Sally squidges her nozzle and pours it indown. The Norange axes through her tubes and flips her scumbler. She waggles, she wiggles, she sighs.

  ‘Let’s motor,’ sings Sally. She bounces, she trounces, she minds primepath a way to scarf ‘vitamins’ that decontains slithy Norange.

  ‘Let your father finish his meeting, honey,’ Mommy ornerates.

  ‘In the car, quite,’ Sally posits, and Daddy warbles, Daddy burbles, Daddy laughs.

  ‘Done anyway,’ he nounces. The lectrospecs go glass and his eyes can see her. He huglifts her and wings her around the kitchen. Sally squealies and laughs too.

  ‘Are you ready, Sally?’ quares Mommy. ‘Are you ready to pick out a friend?’

  ‘Magic,’ clares Sally. ‘I’m sparked.’

  The car trot’s singly half a per, but Sally fidgets, fickles, flails. She can’t comp how such a twitchy trip could stend so long. Daddy works with the lectrospecs while Mommy keeps an eye on the wheel. She still half dedigs Autodrive.

  But soon, soon! Sally’s peek-a-viewing out the porto and there’s a smartglass building all decked in white, quickclean and sunshining bright like chrome. The car slides, sidles, slows and they’re out, out, trambling cross the lot into wing-wide portos that wilkomm them like best buds. Gracie’s Adopt-A-Friend, prides the sign.

  Before they can peek in the rooms they must putter on the squidgy facility lectrospecs and dig an ‘educational film’ re ‘Our Fragile Friends’. Sally grumples but Mommy frownies and she sits tight. The lectrospecs palaver on re ‘Friends are not toys’ and ‘Friends are living beings and must be treated with respect’ but Sally’s way forward. She minds primepath her new friend just back of that porto, some smartbeast who will trulove her and her it. She will tramble long trips with her friend, let it scumble from her dish, and at darknight it will sleep in her crib. Sally smilies. Her friend will be even primer than Bai in the Philippines, cause Sally half delikes a friend she can’t huglift.

  Mommy despecs Sally and Sally starts, Sally smarts, Sally dedreams. The film is termo, and she didn’t even mind the ending! Mommy laughs and Sally redhots. She trambles to the porto and grabes it wide.

  Barks, growls, hoots, meows and screeches crash her ears. A rep in a lime-green zooter bendies down to pot her on the hair. Sally grabes her off and smilies, totalment polite.

  ‘Hello, I’ll be your escort today,’ intros the green rep. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Pickeling we a special friend,’ Sally prides. Daddy shakes the rep’s hand.

  ‘English, honey, the nice lady doesn’t know kidspiek,’ Daddy warns. ‘Children these days, it’s like they’re using a different language,’ he clares to the rep, his eyes crinkeling.

  ‘Oh, I understand.’ The rep smilies. ‘What is kidspiek?’

  ‘Whatever I want,’ Sally splains. ‘Webhead I, netspiek with kiddles all around the globe.’ The rep decomps, but she smilies again.

  ‘She’s so cute,’ she clares to Daddy. ‘What kind of special friend do you want, little girl?’

  The animalish noises devolume, and Sally minds the sound of listening. ‘Want I…’ she starts, but Mommy is shakering her head.

  ‘I would like a puppy, please,’ Sally fixes.

  ‘We’d like Sally to look around,’ Mommy firms. ‘Her school’s doing an experimental program. Interspecies bonding and all that.’ Her eyes flicker round the hallpath and she squidgies Sally’s hand tighterer. ‘It’s up to her.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve been seeing a few of those recently. Well, you can browse and I’ll answer questions as they come,’ the green rep clares.

  Mommy hounches, Mommy slounches, Mommy bendies down and pushpulls her forward. ‘Go ahead, honey – just don’t stick your fingers in, all right?’

  Sally peek-a-views the hallpath. Magic many portos with interesterating shapes in back! The portos are surfed in smartglass, which letters the sound through but not the stink. She trambles to the closest porto and peek-a-views inside. A big hairy face pressers against the window and eyeballs her back.

  ‘
Hi,’ gruffs the dog. Sally trippers backwards and tumblies on her prot.

  ‘Too big!’ Sally gacks, and the dog grabes the porto with its claws.

  ‘Sorry,’ it whingles as they tramble by. ‘Sorry. Come back.’

  The next porto has oodles of cats. A big orange guy with stripeys and a spotdot of white on his chin stickers his paws upon the smartglass and winkles at Sally. Trigued, Sally sneakpeeks to Mommy and Daddy and the green rep, who are making convo with a little collie dog down the hallpath, delooking at her.

  ‘Are you housetrained?’ quares Mommy.

  ‘No,’ mits the little collie dog. ‘I just got here, but Gracie says I’m a quick learner,’ she prides.

  Nobody viewing. Sally grabes the porto open and slips, slides, scoots inside.

  Cats decornerate and pour round her. ‘Me, pick me!’ some greet, grabing her legs. Others try to clamble into her arms. Sally droppers on her prot and huglifts the big orange guy.

  ‘You’re soft,’ he purrums, and blinkies his yellow eyes in surprisement. ‘I like this.’

  A twitchy calico girl leapups tween Sally and the big orange guy, grabing him out of her huglift.

  ‘Mine,’ she hissfits to the big orange guy.

  Sally delikes the calico, but she minds courtesy. ‘What name yours?’ she quares. The calico deanswers.

  The big orange guy stritches and drops oneside Sally. ‘Watch out for her,’ he warns. ‘She’s nasty.’

  The calico grumples and slices at a fat gray female who rubbles Sally’s shoulder. ‘If you take me home, I’ll wash your face for you every night,’ the gray one promies, and startups right there. Sally laughs and grabes the calico downaway.

  Instant like Sally is swimming, brimming, drowngasping in cats. They crawly all over her, whisping promies, toptrying to grabe her tention. She wants to squealie but she fraids Mommy will punishate her, may-haps even zoomer right home and depromise her a puppy. So she straggles deflow and gacks fur.

  ‘Give her some air, you fools! Do you want to suffocate her?’