The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 17

by Gardner Dozois

  “So George Bernard Shaw sent you,” Hearst stated.

  “Not exactly,” I said, folding my hands. “He mentioned you might be interested in what my people have to offer.”

  Hearst just looked at me. I coughed slightly and went on: “He spoke well of you, as much as Mr. Shaw ever speaks well of anybody. And, from what I’ve seen, you have a lot in common with the founders of our Company. You appreciate the magnificent art humanity is capable of creating. You hate to see it destroyed or wasted by blind chance. You’ve spent a lot of your life preserving rare and beautiful things from destruction.

  “And – just as necessary – you’re a man with vision. Modern science, and its potential, doesn’t frighten you. You’re not superstitious. You’re a moral man, but you won’t let narrow-minded moralists dictate to you! So you’re no coward, either.”

  He didn’t seem pleased or flattered, he was just listening to me. What was he thinking? I pushed on, doing my best to play the scene like Claude Rains.

  “You see, we’ve been watching you carefully for quite a while now. Mr. Hearst,” I told him. “We don’t make this offer lightly, or to ordinary mortals. But there are certain questions we feel obliged to ask first.”

  Hearst just nodded. When was he going to say something?

  “It’s not for everybody,” I continued, “what we’re offering. You may think you want it very much, but you need to look honestly into your heart and ask yourself: are you ever tired of life? Are there ever times when you’d welcome a chance to sleep forever?”

  “No,” Hearst replied. “If I were tired of life, I’d give up and die. I’m not after peace and tranquility, Mr. Denham. I want more time to live. I have things to do! The minute I slow down and decide to watch the clouds roll by, I’ll be bored to death.”

  “Maybe.” I nodded. “But here’s another thing to consider: how much the world has changed since you were a young man. Look at that portrait. When it was painted, you were in the prime of your life – and so was your generation. It was your world. You knew the rules of the game, and everything made sense.

  “But you were born before Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address. Mr. Hearst. You’re not living in that world any more. All the rules have changed. The music is so brassy and strident, the dances so crude. The kings are all dying out, and petty dictators with dirty hands are seizing power. Aren’t you, even a little, bewildered by the sheer speed with which everything moves nowadays? You’re only seventy, but don’t you feel just a bit like a dinosaur sometimes, a survivor of a forgotten age?”

  “No,” said Hearst firmly. “I like the present. I like the speed and the newness of things. I have a feeling I’d enjoy the future even more. Besides, if you study history, you have to conclude that humanity has steadily improved over the centuries, whatever the cynics say. The future generations are bound to be better than we are, no matter how outlandish their fashions may seem now. And what’s fashion, anyway? What do I care what music the young people listen to? They’ll be healthier, and smarter, and they’ll have the benefit of learning from our mistakes. I’d love to hear what they’ll have to say for themselves!”

  I nodded again, let a beat pass in silence for effect before I answered. At last:

  “There are also,” I warned him, “matters of the heart to be considered. When a man has loved ones, certain things are going to cause him grief – if he lives long enough to see them happen. Think about that, Mr. Hearst.”

  He nodded slowly, and at last he dropped his eyes from mine.

  “It would be worse for a man who felt family connections deeply,” he said. “And every man ought to. But things aren’t always the way they ought to be, Mr. Denham. I don’t know why that is. I wish I did.”

  Did he mean he wished he knew why he’d never felt much paternal connection to his sons? I just looked understanding.

  “And as for love,” he went on, and paused. “Well, there are certain things to which you have to be resigned. It’s inevitable. Nobody loves without pain.”

  Was he wondering again why Marion wouldn’t stop drinking for him?

  “And love doesn’t always last, and that hurts,” I condoled. Hearst lifted his eyes to me again.

  “When it does last, that hurts too,” he informed me. “I assure you I can bear pain.”

  Well, those were all the right answers. I found myself reaching up in an attempt to stroke the beard I used to wear.

  “A sound, positive attitude, Mr. Hearst,” I told him. “Good for you. I think we’ve come to the bargaining table now.”

  “How much can you let me have?” he said instantly.

  Well, this wasn’t going to take long. “Twenty years,” I replied. “Give or take a year or two.”

  Yikes! What an expression of rapacity in his eyes. Had I forgotten I was dealing with William Randolph Hearst?

  “Twenty years?” he scoffed. “When I’m only seventy? I had a grandfather who lived to be ninety-seven. I might get that far on my own.”

  “Not with that heart, and you know it,” I countered.

  His mouth tightened in acknowledgment. “All right. If your people can’t do any better – twenty years might be acceptable. And in return, Mr. Denham?”

  “Two things, Mr. Hearst,” I held up my hand with two fingers extended. “The Company would like the freedom to store certain things here at La Cuesta Encantada from time to time. Nothing dangerous or contraband, of course! Nothing but certain books, certain paintings, some other little rarities that wouldn’t survive the coming centuries if they were kept in a less fortified place. In a way, we’d just be adding items to your collection.”

  “You must have an idea that this house will ‘survive the coming centuries,’ then,” said Hearst, looking grimly pleased.

  “Oh, yes, sir.” I told him. “It will. This is one thing you’ve loved that won’t fade away.”

  He rose from his chair at that, setting the dog down carefully, and paced away from me down the long room. Then he turned and walked back, tucking a grin out of sight. “Okay, Mr. Denham,” he said. “Your second request must be pretty hard to swallow. What’s the other thing your people want?”

  “Certain conditions set up in your will, Mr. Hearst,” I said. “A secret trust giving my Company control of certain of your assets. Only a couple, but very specific ones.”

  He bared his smile at me. It roused all kinds of atavistic terrors; I felt sweat break out on my forehead, get clammy in my armpits.

  “My, my. What kind of dumb cluck do your people think I am?” he inquired jovially.

  “Well, you’d certainly be one if you jumped at their offer without wanting to know more,” I smiled back, resisting the urge to run like hell. “They don’t want your money, Mr. Hearst. Leave all you want to your wife and your boys. Leave Marion more than enough to protect her. What my Company wants won’t create any hardship for your heirs, in any way. But – you’re smart enough to understand this – there are plans being made now that won’t bear fruit for another couple of centuries. Something you might not value much, tonight in 1933, might be a winning card in a game being played in the future. You see what I’m saying here?”

  “I might,” said Hearst, hitching up the knees of his trousers and sitting down again. The little dog jumped back into his lap. Relieved that he was no longer looming over me, I pushed on:

  “Obviously we’d submit a draft of the conditions for your approval, though your lawyers couldn’t be allowed to examine it – ”

  “And I can see why.” Hearst held up his big hand. “And that’s all right. I think I’m still competent to look over a contract. But, Mr. Denham! You’ve just told me I’ve got something you’re going to need very badly one day. Now, wouldn’t you expect me to raise the price? And I’d have to have more information about your people. I’d have to see proof that any of your story, or Mr. Shaw’s for that matter, is true.”

  What had I said to myself, that this wasn’t going to take long?

  “
Sure,” I said brightly. “I brought all the proof I’ll need.”

  “That’s good,” Hearst told me, and picked up the receiver of the phone on the table at his elbow. “Anne? Send us up some coffee, please. Yes, thank you.” He leaned away from the receiver a moment to ask: “Do you take cream or sugar, Mr. Denham?”

  “Both,” I said.

  “Cream and sugar, please,” he said into the phone. “And please put Jerome on the line.” He waited briefly. “Jerome? I want the black suitcase that’s under Mr. Denham’s bed. Yes. Thank you.” He hung up and met my stare of astonishment. “That is where you’ve got it, isn’t it? Whatever proof you’ve brought me?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” I replied.

  “Good,” he said, and leaned back in his chair. The little dog insinuated her head under his hand, begging for attention. He looked down at her in mild amusement and began to scratch between her ears. I leaned back too, noting that my shirt was plastered to my back with sweat and only grateful it wasn’t running down my face.

  “Are you a mortal creature, Mr. Denham?” Hearst inquired softly.

  Now the sweat was running down my face.

  “Uh, no, sir,” I said. “Though I started out as one.”

  “You did, eh?” he remarked. “How old are you?”

  “About twenty thousand years,” I answered. Wham, he hit me with that deadweight stare again.

  “Really?” he said. “A little fellow like you?”

  I ask you, is 5´5˝ really so short? “We were smaller back then,” I explained. “People were, I mean. Diet, probably.”

  He just nodded. After a moment he asked: “You’ve lived through the ages as an eyewitness to history?”

  “Yeah. Yes, sir.”

  “You saw the Pyramids built?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask me how they did it, because he’d never believe the truth, but he pushed on:

  “You saw the Trojan War?”

  “Well, yes, I did, but it wasn’t exactly like Homer said.”

  “The stories in the Bible, are they true? Did they really happen? Did you meet Jesus Christ?” His eyes were blazing at me.

  “Well – ” I waved my hands in a helpless kind of way. “I didn’t meet Jesus, no, because I was working in Rome back then. I never worked in Judea until the Crusades, and that was way later. And as for the stuff in the Bible being true . . . some of it is, and some of it isn’t, and anyway it depends on what you mean by true.” I gave in and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping my face.

  “But the theological questions!” Hearst leaned forward. “Have we got souls that survive us after physical death? What about Heaven and Hell?”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “How should I know? I’ve never been to either place. I’ve never died, remember?”

  “Don’t your masters know?”

  “If they do, they haven’t told me,” I apologized. “But then there’s a lot they haven’t told me.”

  Hearst’s mouth tightened again, and yet I got the impression he was satisfied in some way. I sagged backward, feeling like a wrung-out sponge. So much for my suave subtle Mephistopheles act.

  On the other hand, Hearst liked being in control of the game. He might be more receptive this way.

  Our coffee arrived. Hearst took half a cup and filled it the rest of the way up with cream. I put cream and four lumps of sugar in mine.

  “You like sugar.” Hearst observed, sipping his coffee. “But then, I don’t suppose you had much opportunity to get sweets for the first few thousand years of your life?”

  “Nope,” I admitted. I tasted my cup and set it aside to cool. “No Neolithic candy stores.”

  There was a discreet double knock. Jerome entered after a word from Mr. Hearst. He brought in my suitcase and set it down between us.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, without a trace of sarcasm, and exited as quietly as he’d entered. It was just me, Hearst and the dog again. They looked at me expectantly.

  “All right,” I said, drawing a deep breath. I leaned down, punched in the code on the lock, and opened the suitcase. I felt like a traveling salesman. I guess I sort of was one.

  “Here we are,” I told Hearst, drawing out a silver bottle. “This is your free sample. Drink it, and you’ll taste what it feels like to be forty again. The effects will only last a day or so, but that ought to be enough to show you that we can give you those twenty years with no difficulties.”

  “So your secret’s a potion?” Hearst drank more of his coffee.

  “Not entirely,” I said truthfully. I was going to have to do some cryptosurgery to make temporary repairs on his heart, but we never tell them about that part of it. “Now. Here’s something I think you’ll find a lot more impressive.”

  I took out the viewscreen and set it up on the table between us. “If this were, oh, a thousand years ago and you were some emperor I was trying to impress, I’d tell you this was a magic mirror. As it is . . . you know that television idea they’re working on in England, right now?”

  “Yes,” Hearst replied.

  “This is where that invention’s going to have led in about two hundred years,” I said. “Now, I can’t pick up any broadcasts because there aren’t any yet, but this one also plays recorded programs.” I slipped a small gold disc from a black envelope and pushed it into a slot in the front of the device, and hit the PLAY button.

  Instantly the screen lit up pale blue. A moment later a montage of images appeared there, with music booming from the tiny speakers: a staccato fanfare announcing the evening news for April 18, 2106.

  Hearst peered into the viewscreen in astonishment. He leaned close as the little stories sped by, the attractive people chattering brightly. New mining colonies on Luna, Ulster Revenge League terrorists bombing London again, new international agreement signed to tighten prohibitions on Recombinant DNA research, protesters in Mexico picketing Japanese-owned auto plants –

  “Wait,” Hearst said, lifting his big hand. “How do you stop this thing? Can you slow it down?”

  I made it pause. The image of Mexican union workers torching a sushi bar froze. Hearst remained staring at the screen.

  “Is that,” he said, “what journalism is like, in the future?”

  “Well, yes, sir. No newspapers any more, you see; it’ll all be online by then. Sort of a print-and-movie broadcast,” I explained, though I was aware the revelation would probably give the poor old guy future shock. This had been his field of expertise, after all.

  “But, I mean – ” Hearst tore his gaze away and looked at me probingly. “This is only snippets of stuff. There’s no real coverage; maybe three sentences to a story and one picture. It hasn’t got half the substance of a newsreel!”

  Not a word of surprise about colonies on the Moon.

  “No, it’ll be pretty lightweight,” I admitted. “But, you see, Mr. Hearst, that’ll be what the average person wants out of News by the twenty-second century. Something brief and easy to grasp. Most people will be too busy – and too uninterested – to follow stories in depth.”

  “Play it over again, please,” Hearst ordered, and I restarted it for him. He watched intently. I felt a twinge of pity. What could he possibly make of the sound bites, the chaotic juxtaposition of images, the rapid, bouncing and relentless pace? He watched, with the same frown, to about the same spot; then gestured for me to stop it again. I obeyed.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Exactly. News for the fellow in the street! Even an illiterate stevedore could get this stuff. It’s like a kindergarten primer.” He looked at me sidelong. “And it occurs to me, Mr. Denham, that it must be fairly easy to sway public opinion with this kind of pap. A picture’s worth a thousand words, isn’t it? I always thought so. This is mostly pictures. If you fed the public the right little fragments of story, you could manipulate their impressions of what’s going on. Couldn’t you?”

  I gaped at him.
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  “Uh – you could, but of course that wouldn’t be a very ethical thing to do,” I found myself saying.

  “No, if you were doing it for unethical reasons,” Hearst agreed. “If you were on the side of the angels, though, I can’t see how it would be wrong to pull out every trick of rhetoric available to fight for your cause! Let’s see the rest of this. You’re looking at these control buttons, aren’t you? What are these things, these hieroglyphics?”

  “Universal icons,” I explained. “They’re activated by eye movement. To start it again, you look at this one – ” Even as I was pointing, he’d started it again himself.

  There wasn’t much left on the disc. A tiny clutch of factoids about a new fusion power plant, a weather report, a sports piece, and then two bitty scoops of local news. The first was a snap and ten seconds of sound, from a reporter at the scene of a party in San Francisco commemorating the two-hundredth anniversary of the 1906 earthquake. The second one – the story that had influenced the Company’s choice of this particular news broadcast for Mr. Hearst’s persuasion – was a piece on protesters blocking the subdivision of Hearst Ranch, which was in danger of being turned into a planned community with tract housing, golf courses and shopping malls.

  Hearst caught his breath at that, and if I thought his face had been scary before I saw now I had had no idea what scary could be. His glare hit the activation buttons with almost physical force: replay, replay, replay. After he’d watched that segment half a dozen times, he shut it off and looked at me.

  “They can’t do it,” he said. “Did you see those plans? They’d ruin this coastline. They’d cut down all the trees! Traffic and noise and soot and – and where would all the animals go? Animals have rights too.”

  “I’m afraid most of the wildlife would be extinct in this range by then, Mr. Hearst,” I apologized, placing the viewer back into its case. “But maybe now you’ve got an idea about why my Company needs to control certain of your assets.”