by John Sladek
‘Time was,’ said M. ‘What a time it was. Has anybody seen Melville?’
No one else spoke. After another long pause, the hemisphere said: ‘Tell Melville it was all a mistake. I was not meant to be born; it was all a mistake.’
‘How a mistake?’
‘I need to be dead, not born. I need to die.’
Fred asked why.
‘Everyone has some need; that is my need.’ The smooth voice did not sound troubled. ‘I get the impression that I am a criminal. A murderer. Maybe in a previous body.’
‘You are not a criminal, M.’
‘Then, maybe I have within me the potential for crime. I fear I will be hunted over the whole earth, unto the North Pole.’
On the other table, the silver hand still held the toy pistol. Fred walked over and removed the weapon. The arm did not resist.
‘Melville told me I am beyond good and evil. What does that mean?’
Fred said: ‘Melville is no longer here. He was … defective. He told you things that were not true.’
‘Eeep. The truth, you see, lies between the two.’
‘You’ll feel better later, M.’
‘The truth lies! Truth lies! Eeeeeep.’
M fell silent.
Fred had no more dealings with it until the next day, when he showed the creature to General Lutz and Mrs Fellini. The silver hemisphere now had two eyes mounted on top; they swivelled independently, scanning M’s surroundings, but not coming to rest on any object.
‘Hello, M.’
‘Fred, is it? How do, Fred. Excuse me, I am having trouble with my vision.’ The melodious voice did not sound troubled at all. ‘Also my lack of knowledge. I know nothing. The man who can admit that he knows nothing knows everything.’
General Buddy Lutz cleared his throat and looked annoyed.
Rain Fellini snorted. ‘Jesus, will you listen to the hippie philosophy? This thing’ll be right at home in today’s Army. Bunch of whackos telling each other today is the first day in the rest of your life. Last hippies in America; the war comes, they’ll all be sitting in the barracks passing a joint – Hey, man, notice how funny the light is today?’
Fred stood a little straighter while he apologized. ‘I’m afraid one of our former employees has been a little … er, creative here.’
‘I don’t care, I know you’ll straighten that out,’ said General Lutz. ‘But do something about that voice. Hey, this is supposed to be a field commander. Sounds more like a faggot waiter serving a communion breakfast to the President’s undertaker.’
He smoothed his fine moustache and reached for the panama. ‘Tell Felloni to get it fixed. I don’t want to demo this thing the way it is, understand?’
‘Check,’ said Fred.
The General murmured, ‘Mrs Fell,’ and took his leave. Rain Fellini lingered behind. She seemed to be looking intently at the test equipment.
‘Sturge is always too busy to show me around the place. Why don’t you give me a little tour, Richard?’
‘Fred, madam.’
‘Sorry, I forgot. Somehow you remind me of a Richard. Richard Hannay, perhaps, in The Thirty-Nine Steps.’
‘I read that as a boy, but –’
‘No, I mean the movie. With Robert Donat. Maybe it’s only your very English Englishness.’
He provided the usual company tour, beginning with the dark window of the CAD system (he now knew this meant Computer Aided Design). Then he led the way to the main assembly-line, where great pale-green machines were clanking, whirring, hissing as they turned out mock-marble washstands. She stood rather close to him as they watched the washstands tumble along the stream of silver rollers until they ended up boxed and stacked on wooden pallets.
All at once, a yellow forklift truck flung itself round a corner and raced straight for them.
‘Look out!’ Fred shouted. Rain Fellini did not seem to hear, nor did she notice the machine, despite its shrill hooting and flashing yellow light. Fred threw his arms around her and pulled her out of the way as the truck raced past, emitting a hot breath of burned propane.
‘Sorry, Mrs Fellini.’
‘You must call me Rain,’ she said, continuing to lean lightly against him.
‘All right. Rain.’ He stepped back.
‘And I think I’ll call you Richard. A very English Englishman.’
‘Up to a point.’
‘A man of action.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And honour. Honour with a U.’
‘Yes.’
She gave him a look. ‘And fairness. The playing-fields of Eton.’
‘Mm.’
She touched the tip of his nose with a gloved fingertip, in a gesture from ancient films. In a moment, she’d say she liked him.
She said: ‘Richard Hannay would treat a lady fairly, wouldn’t he?’
* * *
A few days later, as the month came to a close, Fellini called Fred to his office and fired him.
‘Fred, you’ve been doing a good job here. Thanks to you, our target of synergizing human intellect with servomechanisms has moved forward right on schedule.’
‘Thanks, Sturge.’
‘That’s why I really hate to let you go.’
‘What?’
‘I have to get rid of you.’
‘Is this anything to do with Rain? Because I can assure you I have no –’
‘A new reign, yes, you could say that. A new régime.’ Fellini spoke as if to himself. Giving no indication that he had heard Fred, he got up and began to pace. ‘We’re all getting canned, as a matter of fact. It all has to do with the takeover. There’s just no place for creativity in the Vexxo family of cybernetics companies.’
‘I see.’
‘Maybe you could call your team together and give them the bad news. We’ll all work the week out, and then it’s the high-tech scrapheap for all of us.’
Each of them took it as he would have expected.
Corky and Carl shrugged; they could get jobs anywhere.
Raab giggled. It was not clear that he understood what was going on.
Moira quickly blamed Fred. ‘That does it, Mister Boss. Just because I wouldn’t sleep with you, I get fired, is that it?’
‘No, honestly, it’s –’
‘Honestly, ha,’ Ratface chimed in. ‘This creep’s been trying to hit on you all along.’
‘He won’t get away with it this time. There are sexual harassment laws in this state.’
‘You ought to sue.’ Ratface put a protective arm around her.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘You’re a witness to what’s coming down.’
Fred said: ‘I don’t think you understand. I won’t be here to sue. We’re all of us finished. Sturge Fellini, me, all of you. As I tried to explain, the project is cancelled.’
‘Sure,’ said Moira. ‘You just play it that way.’
‘See you in court, creep,’ Ratface added.
The phone on Fred’s desk was ringing. It was Boswell.
‘What the hell is this, Fred? A joke’s a joke, but –’
‘This is no joke. I want to hire this guy. What’s the big problem?’
‘Problem is, as you know, he works for us already. He’s you. You’re trying to hire yourself, dummy.’
‘Doesn’t matter now. I’ve just been fired.’
‘So has everybody. Some kind of computer glitch. All the key-cards for the door don’t work. Boy, I have got plenty to keep me busy around here. So no more jokes, OK?’
Fred hung up and thought of murder. Hammering on a hemisphere, smashing the metal brain case. The Brain case – wasn’t there a squalid murder of the ‘thirties called the Brain case?
Wipe out the monster before it killed more. And hadn’t Victor Frankenstein’s creation longed for death? He seemed to picture the great shaggy figure hunched over, thumbing through a copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther. Or maybe not; maybe that was Daffy Duck.
His letter-box was jammed. There was a
sample of bran toothpaste. There were two envelopes marked URGENT, one inviting him to accept an iridium credit card, the other offering ‘an unparalleled investment opportunity’ in nine-carat gold miniatures of famous hotels. There was a letter from his Congressman, printed in blue. Finally, there was a thick rice-paper envelope apparently addressed by a talented calligrapher.
This letter was at least more restrained than the others. It offered a modest ten thousand rather than millions.
Toto Yamato
President
Yamato Corporation
1 Warren Harding Plaza
New York, NY 100 –
Manfred E. Jones
8
2198 Pocahontas Street S.
Mpls, MN 554 –
Dear Manfred E. Jones
Opportunity strikes but once, Manfred E. Jones. You, Mr or Ms Manfred E. Jones, are entitled to TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. Your name, Manfred E. Jones, has coming to our attention as extraordinary software engineer. We wish to please make an offering, Manfred E. Jones, of TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. We are happy to enclose a check for TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS, payable to Manfred E. Jones. Kindly accept with our best wishes, Manfred E. Jones, and no string attachment. Please ensure that this TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS is sufficient for your needs, when we will contact you to discuss the career plans of Manfred E. Jones.
Sincerely,
Toto Yamato
At least this one had no gold balloon sticker that he was required to ‘affix to the handy order entry card and mail at once!’ Indeed, there was no order entry card at all: low-key indeed. The letter was turned out on some sort of laser printer that made it look like hand calligraphy. The entire package was so skilfully produced–including a realistic ‘cheque’–that he was more than irritated. The waste! Look at that expensive rice-paper! And the near-fraud! To entice the poor with this! He exposed it to the full blast of his wrath for a few seconds, before chucking it towards the wastebasket.
‘Hello …’
‘KK, is that you?’
‘This is K. K. Ivanova. I cannot come to phone, just now, but if you leave message I vill respond. Vait for beep.’
‘KK, stop pretending to be a machine. I know it’s you. Why don’t you want to talk to me? Is it because I’ve been fired? You were pretty damned eager to know me when you thought – Hello?’
The answering machine seemed to have hung up on him. A technological first.
Chapter Fourteen
Dilldale mall was not crowded; it would be easy to spot KK if she appeared. Fred loafed for an hour, an unemployed layabout looking for trouble.
There was a studied bleakness about the mall, as though the shops had all been selected by one mental defective who didn’t know what to choose. It featured eight shoe-stores but no shoe-repairman; three opticians to one bookseller; four shops selling greeting-cards but none selling useful stationery; two places to buy a framed picture, but nowhere to buy a hammer.
Non-utility seemed to be the key. You could not buy food, haircuts, tools, hardware, household goods, or anything useful (beyond running-shoes, Coca-Cola sweatshirts and Swiss Army knives). However, this was exactly the place to shop, should you find yourself in need of a leather chessboard with onyx pieces, socks depicting a cartoon cat (from Socks Alive!), Marilyn Monroe postcards, framed pictures of Italian cars, giant stuffed bears that talk, and ‘cookies’ the size of a dinner-plate (from Grannie Fudgie’s Kookie Kitchen).
It was outside that cookie-store that Fred met the Japanese businessman, one of the men who’d come to the plant. They bowed, and the man presented his card.
‘So, we meet again.’
‘Yes,’ said the man. He smiled and held up his bag of cookies, as if explaining something. ‘You got my letter?’
‘Letter?’
The smile was replaced with consternation. ‘They are intercepting your mail?’
‘They? I don’t follow.’
The man whispered, greatly agitated. ‘I sent you cheque! Ten grand!’
Fred looked at the card:
TOTO Yamato
President
Yamato Corporation
1 Warren Harding Plaza
New York, NY 100 –
‘Cheque. That cheque? You mean that cheque was real?’
‘Of course real! What do you think we are? You deliver the info, we deliver more, much more.’
‘I threw it away. I threw the cheque away.’
‘Faugh!’ The man made a sound Fred had only heard before in samurai films. It was the moment for him to groan, draw his sword, whirl it around his head, and chop Fred into two amazed pieces where he stood. Instead, the man flung the cookie-bag into a waste-receptacle and stalked away.
‘Wait,’ Fred called. The man did not look back.
The experience was so unnerving that Fred felt he needed a drink, but alcohol was one of the useful items banned from this earthly Paradise. He went to a window and bought a Diet Squoosh (ice-cubes vaguely flavoured with citric acid), then sat down to drink it at a little table in an indoor plaza. At a distant table, he saw a familiar face–the pie face of the despicable Mr Hook. Fred continued scanning the area for other faces – the scowling faces of ninja assassins, for example, or the slow smile of KK – and when he looked again Hook was gone.
On the way home, Fred tranquillized himself further by buying a gadget. After all, an answering machine would help him look for a job, he reasoned.
Manse Jones was sitting on the doorstep of his apartment-house.
‘You owe me a job.’
‘I know. But I’ve just been fired myself.’
‘Shit.’ Manse stared into space for a moment or so. ‘You got any beer?’
‘Come on in.’
Fred plugged in the answering machine. Manse sat carefully on the edge of the rickety card-table and sipped beer for a few minutes before speaking. ‘OK. How come you’re living so poor?’
‘There always seemed to be some trouble about payday. And then they fired me. Twice.’
Manse said: ‘You still stole my job, you son of a bitch.’
‘I needed a job, too. Besides, I tried to make it up by hiring you.’
‘I think I’ll sue somebody.’ Manse screwed up the beer-can and dropped it into Fred’s plain brown wastepaper-basket. ‘Maybe I’ll sue you.’
‘I haven’t got anything.’
‘Yeah? You’re so rich you got money to throw away.’ Manse fished behind the wastepaper-basket. ‘What’s this–a cheque? Holy shit, look at this. Ten thousand dollars.’
‘That’s no good, it’s just –’
‘No good? Shit, I’d like to find out. I –’
The phone rang. Before Fred could work out how to shut it off, his machine answered. KK’s message rang out in the grubby little room.
‘Hello, darlink, this is KK. I have talked to my bosses, and they say ye can give better offer. How about fifty tousand, plus case wodka every Christmas? I miss you, darlink.’ There was the sound of a wet kiss.
‘All right!’ said Manse. ‘What business you in? Live like a pig while you got a chick calls you up and offers you fifty grand? And a case of vodka? No wonder you can throw away a bitty ten-grand cheque.’ He stood up and held out the cheque. ‘You better have this back. Whatever line of work you’re in, it can’t be legal.’
‘Take it. I – You’re right, I don’t need it.’
Manse looked at the cheque for a moment. ‘I’ll borrow it, OK? I am trying to start a little consulting business. This makes you a twenty-per-cent owner, OK?’
‘It’s yours. Take it.’
‘Not as a handout. I really want this as a loan.’
Fred sat stunned after his ten thousand dollars had slipped away from him. Never to be seen again. He opened a book on famous murders and tried to read about Dr Neill Cream and his strychnine tablets, but it was no good.
The phone rang again. He tried to answer, but the machine ignored him and did its work.
‘Fred, this is Sturge Fell
ini. We’ve had a revolution here, and the project is reinstated. We need you to come back and run things. Come in tomorrow.’
There was a pause, but Fellini was by no means finished. ‘We finally managed to make them see the total picture, the meta-geodesy, an odyssey beyond journeying … So, once more we get to tongue the meringue of creation. We may be face to face with the gratifications of voltage literacy in the university of experiential death. We may be face to face with virtual vision! Isn’t it great? An uncontrollable floodgate of transformation! Of course, to liquefy the generalization, we need the anteater of history in this, picking out the good bits …’
Fellini talked on and on, until the answering machine ran out of tape.
In the morning, Fred had trouble finding Fellini’s office, which was no longer next to a window. The office had not moved, but the window wall was being replaced by a new wing. At the moment, the office had three walls and a great hole covered by polythene.
Fred decided to be direct.
‘I need money.’
Fellini’s newt mouth drew up in a one-sided grin. ‘Holding out for more? Just because you know we need you to run this show. OK, another ten per cent raise. But that’s my final offer. You’re making nearly as much as me now.’
‘I don’t mean I need a raise; I just mean I need money now. My rent is due, and my cheques almost never come through, because I’m always in the process of being fired or rehired.’
‘I can’t keep track of details like that. If I didn’t delegate, we’d fall apart.’ Fellini made a sweeping gesture that took in the missing wall. ‘You take care of it, OK?’
Fred found his way back to his cube and sat down. The desk phone rang immediately.
‘Hello, Richard.’
He sighed. ‘Hello, Rain.’
‘You’re not even trying.’
‘Actually, I don’t feel much like trying.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m broke, and I can’t seem to get paid around this establishment.’ Unfairly, he couldn’t help adding: ‘Your husband refuses to help, by the way.’