Bugs

by John Sladek

‘You’re broke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me do something – a small loan to tide you over.’

  ‘Very nice of you, but –’

  ‘We can meet after work. Do you know New Budapest?’

  He did not.

  ‘Just keep driving west. New Budapest is the third small town, about forty miles down the road. There’s a big restaurant there called the Moholy-Nagy. Meet you there.’

  The hemisphere was now painted blue. It was staring Fred in the eye. When it spoke, in a new gravelly voice, its remote arm stopped twitching and paid attention.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ it said. ‘At 0800 hours, we will launch an offensive in Sector Green.’ It paused. ‘Green is one of the primary colours. Isaac Newton proved that white light is a mixture of all other colours, by breaking it apart. He used a prism.’

  After another pause: ‘Prism sounds like prison, make a note of that. All correspondences rise and converge, and that’s a fact. Orwell was right. War is peace. I have looked it up in my own approved thesaurus. War means combat. To combat is to grapple. Grapple means grasp, and a grasp of English is a command of English. A command is an authorization. Authorization is consent. Consent is agreement. Agreement is harmony. Harmony is peace.’

  Carl shook his head. ‘Don’t want the General hearing anything like that. He needs war to be hell, not peace.’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe it needs to play with paradoxes.’

  ‘The agonizing paradox of life,’ announced the hemisphere.

  ‘At least we fixed the voice,’ Carl explained. ‘General Lutz should be happy with that.’

  ‘Sounds like George C. Scott doing his impression of a mastiff with a terrible cold.’

  The hemisphere was listening. ‘Terrible cold what?’ it said. ‘And I do not have that George. George Washington? George Patton? George Orwell aka Eric Blair?’

  ‘Lots of debugging to do yet,’ said Carl. ‘Some funny bugs there, you know?’

  Fred knew. Lizzie Borden had tried at two drugstores to buy some prussic acid to kill bugs, the day before she took an axe … The murderous spirit of Pratt seemed to be around here somewhere.

  Nearby, an empty body-shell stood ready.

  New Budapest was evidently a Hungarian village, judging by the names on local shops: Gabor Sausage Works, Nagy Antiques, Dreyfus Drugs, Bihari Florist, Molnar’s Garage, Dental Surgeon Bartók DDS, the Karoly Theater, and of course a nightclub called Lugosi’s.

  The Moholy-Nagy turned out to be a hotel as well as a restaurant: Fred was sure that Rain had both functions in mind. He sat in his car for a moment. There probably wasn’t enough petrol left to get away. On the radio, death went west.

  ‘According to police, the assailant may be the same man who terrorized other Little Dorrit restaurants in Ohio, Illinois, and Iowa. This is Fennel Janeship, ZBC News, Carson City, Nevada.’

  Rain tapped on the window. ‘Richard, come on in. I’ve taken a room here. Don’t be so bashful. Robert Donat wouldn’t be.’

  But Robert Donat was in a hotel with Madeleine Carroll. And in handcuffs. Oh, what the hell. Fred got out of the car, raised an eyebrow, and said, ‘Pretend you know me,’ as he kissed her. Wasn’t there a Hungarian mass murderer named Bela Kiss?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Model M now inhabited a headless fibreglass body, painted blue. A tentative Mil Spec number had been stencilled across the chest, just above the opening where the edges of a dozen green circuit-boards could be seen. Some of the boards hung halfway out of the opening, along with a rat’s nest of wires running to test equipment. There was something unnerving about seeing the thing sitting up on a table, swinging its legs, with its belly torn open and no head. The blue dish-cover lay on the table beside it, along with a pair of restless eyes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ rasped the dish-cover. ‘A man, a plan, a canal: Panama. That’s a palindrome. Zeus sees Suez. Eire was I ere I saw Erie. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘He’s full of garbage from Pratt,’ Carl explained. ‘We may never get it all cleared out.’

  ‘By the way, is Pratt still skulking about the plant?’

  ‘He’s suing the company to get his job back,’ said Corky. ‘Wants to get his hands on M again. As if we didn’t have enough trouble as it is, unravelling that guy’s spaghetti code.’

  A Mr Oops laminates set animal spoor, Ma,’ said M solemnly. ‘But hey! When do we go into action, sir? I’m ready for it, sir. Killing and gouging. Burning and maiming. Raw war!’

  Fred said: ‘We’ve got to do something – these outbursts! The General will cancel our contract and buy something from Korea. Can’t we make him a more silent type?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Moira. ‘We have to make her a more silent type.’

  Raab said: ‘Yup, women talk too much!’ He guffawed. This was the first genuine guffaw Fred had ever experienced, outside Western fiction.

  ‘That does it!’ Moira jumped up. ‘I can’t take any more of this little creep. Either he goes or I go.’

  ‘Right on,’ said Ratface, driving his usual wedge.

  Carl said: ‘Aw, simmer down; he didn’t mean nothing.’

  ‘But I mean something.’ She spoke to Fred. ‘Fire him.’

  Ratface sneered: ‘Yeah, fire him.’

  Fred’s heart sank, as he watched Raab pick his nose with a fine unconcern and wipe it on his lab notes. The idiotic adolescent might lack manners, but he was (according to Carl and Corky) the only one writing usable code. If Raab left the team, there was no team.

  On the other hand, what was life without Moira? Artificial. He had to keep her here.

  ‘Raab ought to apologize. Raab, I want you to apologize.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘To Moira.’

  ‘Aw, fuck it. Fire me.’ Raab showed his green teeth in a grin.

  Fred said: ‘Maybe we should put this to–to M.’

  He let them all rant for a moment or two, telling him how insane the idea was, before he continued: ‘Seriously, M is designed to make decisions with very little information. So why not put it to the test?’

  Carl said: ‘M has almost no software, and what’s there is full of bugs. You never know what kind of quirky answer you’ll get.’

  Corky said: ‘Could be an interesting run, though.’

  Moira said: ‘No way. I’m not having my fate decided by a machine.’

  Ratface said: ‘No way, man. You heard the lady.’

  Raab grinned, drooled and said nothing.

  Fred said: ‘But, Moira, you said the machine was female.’

  Ratface said: ‘No way, man. You heard the lady. Butt out.’

  Carl said: ‘M’s not up to it.’

  Corky said: ‘We could always throw away the first answer. Probably get more garbage, but it might tell us something …’

  Moira said: ‘OK, we try it.’

  Fred turned to the blue dish-cover. ‘M, we have this problem. Moira wants Raab to be fired, or she will quit. What should we do?’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ rasped the dish-cover. ‘To be or not to be, that is the question. You see, two is the second number, and B is the second letter. I am the second intelligent creature on God’s earth.’

  ‘M, we don’t want to hear about you.’

  The hemisphere rolled its eyes. ‘Do not interrupt or attempt to scramble my message. I am what I am. I say to you that the uniquity of my intelligentsia doth qualify me to speak moughtily on the matter you have brought before me. I have been listening to your discursion and, though I do not understand all you say, certain familiar wordlings ring out loud and clear: no way, creep, lady, fuckit. There is plenty of stress here, and stress, gentlemen, is a killer Killing, gentlemen, reminds me of a funny story. There was this mass murderer, see, and he went to confession to a deaf priest …’

  The story wound on for some time, never funny, never reaching any point. One by one, they grew tired of listening, and crept away. Finally, only Moira and Fred were left. Moira reached over and turned of
f the rasping voice.

  ‘OK, I’ll stay this time. Just keep Raab out of my way.’ Her own voice had softened to neutrality, if not to actual friendliness.

  ‘I’m glad you’re staying,’ Fred managed to say. ‘I – we need you. And I – we –’

  Ratface had evidently not left. He spoke from the doorway. ‘Don’t let Mister Boss push you around, Moira.’

  Moira stiffened and resumed her usual anti-Fred scowl. ‘Right on.’

  Fred’s phone rang at 2 A.M. He fumbled the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  There was a pause, then a voice said: ‘Greetings. I have an important message for you, concerning a money-making offer –’

  He had hung up before he became fully conscious of the Japanese accent.

  At 6 A.M. he was still awake. He turned on the radio.

  ‘– nado watch is in effect until noon. In the national news, another well-known medication is being recalled: Fedohar capsules, made by Porkin and Howe Laboratories. In North Bend, Oregon, two boxes of Fedohar have been tampered with – they contain the poisonous metal arsenic. So far, no one knows exactly how the poison got into the boxes, but a company spokesperson said …’

  The phone rang again while he was in the bathroom. He returned to hear the message.

  ‘Darlink, how would you like a hundred Gs, a lifetime supply of wodka, and a brand new Chaika? This really is last offer.’ Her voice had a trace of the enforced gaiety of game-show announcers as they listed their prizes.

  He phoned the department secretary at 8 A.M., to say that he would be working at home today. At 8.07, Rain phoned him.

  ‘I understand you’re working at home today. Shall I come over?’

  ‘I – no. Really, Rain, I’ve work to do. Work.’

  ‘I wouldn’t disturb you.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to say that, my sweet, but I know you too well. After you’d been here five minutes, you’d slip the blasted handcuffs on. It’s simply not on, darling. Love you madly, but I can’t.’

  After a pause, she said: ‘All right. Just don’t forget, I’m the reason you’ve got a job of work to do.’

  ‘Right-o. Cheery-bye.’ He was slipping from Richard Hannay into Bertie Wooster.

  ‘One more thing. I’m getting a bit tired of Robert Donat.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Maybe you could be somebody else.’

  ‘I say! How about Ian Carmichael?’

  She paused. ‘No, I was thinking of someone more … more like Richard Burton.’

  ‘Christ. How about Peter Sellers, then? With Peter Sellers I could just do him impersonating someone like me, and end up being more or less myself.’

  ‘I was thinking more of Michael Caine. Alfie.’

  ‘All right, girl, keep your ‘air on. Half a mo’.’ It sounded more like Alfie Bass to him, but she seemed to like it. “Ere, what’s your game, girl?’

  ‘When am I going to see you, Alfie?’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you a tinkle tomorrow, right? Pop round for a little slap and tickle, that’s my girl. Ta-da.’ He remembered to pronounce it tinkow and tickow. This was getting old fast, but how to drop it? Rain was willing to pay for his impersonations (in theory, at least. At the Moholy-Nagy she’d forgotten her chequebook) and no doubt she would generously buy him horn-rim glasses and a Harold Wilson raincoat, but she was also willing to threaten his job. If she ever became even slightly bored …

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again. Once more a recorded message from the Japanese. They wanted to offer him fifty thousand dollars and a high-powered motorcycle.

  The phone continued to ring throughout the morning. Fellini called to deliver one of his incomprehensible sales-talks. Then a man with a name something like Simon Stylite introduced himself as from the IRS.

  ‘The IRS?’

  ‘The Internal Revenue Service, Mr Jones. I’m calling about your income tax.’

  ‘I haven’t paid any. I’ve only just come into the country.’

  The man sounded interested. ‘Is that so? Are you planning on leaving again, sir? Any time soon?’

  ‘Could be. My plans are uncertain.’

  After a long pause, the man said: ‘I see. I should warn you, sir, our records show considerable income or potential income for you, on which you have not yet paid estimated tax. If you pay it soon, we may agree to waive all penalties.’

  ‘What considerable income?’

  ‘We know you have received at least one large sum, and that you have been promised certain even larger sums, in consulting fees for various trade missions. You do realize that these moneys are taxable income, Mr Jones? In addition to your salaried employment, and to any earnings from your corporation.’

  ‘My corporation? I don’t have a –’

  ‘Heh, heh. You’re not playing with amateurs, Mr Jones. We’ve seen it all before, using slight variations on your name – so we find the president of your corporation to be Mansour Efrahim Jones, while a major stockholder is Manfred Evelyn Jones. But I see only one social security number here. The paper trail always leads back to you.’

  ‘No, really, there’s been a mix-up –’

  ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Jones.’

  The next call was from Boswell. ‘Manny? Hey, man, what in hell is going on? I thought we were soul brothers, man. Now you got this dude phoning me up to say he’s suing Vexxo. Suing us!’

  ‘What dude would that be?’

  ‘Another M. E. Jones. You mind telling me what the hell is going on? I just don’t understand. I mean, this guy is claiming discrimination. He says Vexxo, I mean Vimnut, or was it Cyberk – anyway, he says we discriminated against him, we hired some white when he was better-qualified for the job. Manny, a thing like this could finish me. I just don’t understand how it could happen. Can you come in and talk about this?’

  ‘No, I can’t come in today.’

  ‘It really looks like some kinda scam to me. What do you think? Maybe I should talk to the law.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother the law about this,’ Fred said casually. I’ll try to straighten it out myself.’

  ‘But how? What can you do? Manny, I gotta talk to somebody. How about if I come over and see you? I want to show you this guy’s job application. Something funny about it.’

  Fred started to stall once more, but Boswell was gone. There was nothing for it but to phone Manse.

  ‘Yeah, sure I’m suing Vexxo. You oughta be pleased. Hey, it’s your money at work. The first thing it finances is my litigation. I’ll be suing the piss out of Vexxo, or whatever their name is this week. They hired you, a white who was far less qualified than me. I’ll clean up on this. We both will.’

  ‘You’ll clean up, and I’ll go to prison.’

  ‘You worry too much.’

  ‘Listen, the IRS is after me. They think I’m you.’

  ‘Well, are you?’

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again.

  ‘Hello?’

  After a pause, a Japanese voice said: ‘Greetings. I have an important message for you –’

  Fred tore the phone cord out of the wall.

  The room was strangely hot and still, as though the disconnected phone had released its shrill energy into the air. Fred slumped into a chair and sat like an unstrung marionette, unwilling to think of any reason for moving. After some time, he became aware of a distant sound – someone banging at the front door of the house.

  It was Moira, looking distrait. ‘I’ve been trying and trying to phone you,’ she said. ‘M’s been stolen.’

  ‘Stolen! What do you mean?’

  At that moment, an air-raid siren went off, quite nearby.

  ‘I say, they’re making quite a lot of it, aren’t they? Cranking up the sirens and all?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, that’s the tornado warning,’ she said. ‘We’d better get inside.’

  ‘By all means. Should be safe in my basement flat. A real twister, eh? Like Dorothy in Oz.’ He was
aware of sounding a fool, but there was no way of stopping. ‘I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more. Judy Garland and, let’s see, Bert Lahr, Ray Bolger – but who played the Tin Woodman, I wonder?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Moira said. She was looking around the room. ‘Why is there only one chair?’

  ‘There’s the bed.’

  ‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’ Her tone was accusing. ‘But where’s the rest of your furniture?’

  ‘Oh, I had them remove the billiard-table and the three-piece suite to the east wing. You get tired of possessions.’ He offered her the chair. ‘Now, what’s all this about someone stealing M?’

  ‘Last night, they worked late finishing him and doing some preliminary tests. Jerry said they left about midnight.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This morning at seven, Porch found the lab door standing open. M was gone.’

  Porch was Ratface. How could you believe anything he said?

  ‘Did they call the police?’

  ‘Yes, and the FBI.’

  ‘Come now, isn’t that a bit melodramatic?’ He envisioned an army of men in suits and hats, unpacking their Thompson submachine-guns and preparing to surround Ma Barker’s hideout.

  ‘There could be foreign agents involved,’ she said. His vision altered slightly – the agents were throwing their cordon around him and KK. Some studied the condo with field-glasses, while others loaded their automatic shotguns …

  ‘It’s so hot in here,’ Moira said. ‘Have you got anything to drink?’

  ‘You mean like beer?’

  She gave him a don’t-try-to-get-me-drunk look. ‘I mean like iced tea.’

  As it happened, a previous tenant had left in his cupboard a jar of something called iced tea mix. He mixed her up a glass of this swill, which smelt like cold dishwater with lemon-flavoured washing-up liquid. She seemed to like it. He opened himself a can of weak beer.

  ‘Better close the windows,’ she said.

  Outside, the day was clear and sunny.

  ‘Are you sure about these tornado warnings?’ he asked. ‘I hate to close windows when it’s already stifling in here. Look how clear the sky is.’

  ‘Turn on the TV and we can see how it’s doing.’