Hurriedly he followed after her.
No sign of her. He peered in all directions. Cars and people, but not Zina. She had gotten away.
She will mail it, he said to himself. The bet between her and Emmanuel; it involves me. They are wagering over me, and the universe itself is at stake. Impossible. But the beam of pink light had told him; it had conveyed all that, instantly, without the passage of any time at all.
Trembling, his head still aching, he returned to the store; he seated himself and rubbed his aching forehead.
She will involve me with the Fox, he realized. And out of that involvement, depending on which way it goes, the structure of reality will—He was not sure what it would do. But that was the issue: the structure of reality itself, the universe and every living creature in it.
It has to do with being, he thought to himself, knowing this because, and only because, of the beam of pink light, which was a living, electrical blood, the blood of some immense meta- entity. Sein, he thought. A German word; what does it mean? Das Nichts. The opposite of Sein. Sein equaled being equaled existence equaled a genuine universe. Das Nichts equally nothing equaled the simulation of the universe, the dream—which I am in now, he knew. The pink beam told me that.
I need a drink, he said to himself. Picking up the fone he dropped in the punchcard and was immediately connected with his home. "Rybys," he said huskily, "I'll be late."
"You're taking her out? That girl?" His wife's voice was brittle.
"No, goddam it," he said, and hung up the fone.
God is the Guarantor of the universe, he realized. That is the foundation of what I have been told. Without God there is nothing; it all flows away and is gone.
Locking up the store he got into his flycar and turned on the motor.
Standing on the sidewalk—a man. A familiar man, a black. Middle-aged, well dressed.
"Elias!" Herb called. "What are you doing? What is it?"
"I came back to see if you were all right." Elias Tate walked up to Herb's car. "You're totally pale."
"Get in the car," Herb said.
Elias got in.
15
AT THE BAR both men sat as they often sat; Elias, as always, had a Coke with ice. He never drank.
"Okay," he said, nodding. "There's nothing you can do to stop the letter. It's probably already mailed."
"I'm a poker chip," Herb Asher said. "Between Zina and Emmanuel."
"They're not betting as to whether Linda Fox will answer," Elias said. "They're betting on something else." He wadded up a bit of cardboard and dropped it into his Coke. "There is no way in the world that you're going to be able to figure out what their wager is. The bamboo and the children's swings. The stubble growing ... I have a residual memory of that myself; I dream about it. It's a school. For kids. A special school. I go there in my sleep again and again."
"The real world," Herb said.
"Apparently. You've reconstructed a lot. Don't go around saying God told you this is a fake universe, Herb. Don't tell anybody else what you've told me."
"Do you believe me?"
"I believe you've had a very unusual and inexplicable experience, but I don't believe this is an ersatz world. It seems perfectly substantial." He rapped on the plastic surface of the table between them. "No, I don't believe that; I don't believe in unreal worlds. There is only one cosmos and Jehovah God created it."
"I don't think anyone creates a fake universe," Herb said, "since it isn't there."
"But you're saying someone is causing us to see a universe that doesn't exist. Who is this someone?"
He said, "Satan."
Cocking his head, Elias eyed him.
"It's a way of seeing the real world," Herb said. "An occluded way. A dreamlike way. A hypnotized, asleep way. The nature of world undergoes a perceptual change; actually it is the perceptions that change, not the world. The change is in us."
"'The Ape of God,'" Elias said. "A Medieval theory about the Devil. That he apes God's legitimate creation with spurious interpolations of his own. That's really an exceedingly sophisticated idea, epistemologically speaking. Does it mean that parts of the world are spurious? Or that sometimes the whole world is spurious? Or that there are plural worlds of which one is real and the others are not? Is there essentially one matrix world from which people derive differing perceptions? So that the world you see is not the world I see?"
"I just know," Herb said, "that I was caused to remember, made to remember, the real world. My knowledge that this world here"—he tapped the table—"is based on that memory, not on my experience of this forgery. I am comparing; I have something to compare this world with. That is it."
"Couldn't the memories be false?"
"I know they are not."
"How do you know?"
"I trust the beam of pink light."
"Why?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Because it said it was God? The agency of enchantment can say that. The demonic power."
"We'll see," Herb Asher said. He wondered once more what the wager was, what they expected him to do.
Five days later at his home he received a long-distance person-to-person fone call. On the screen a slightly chubby female face appeared, and a shy, breathless voice said, "Mr. Asher? This is Linda Fox. I'm calling you from California. I got your letter."
His heart ceased to beat; it stilled within him. "Hello, Linda," he said. "Ms. Fox. I guess." He felt numbed.
"I'll tell you why I'm calling." She had a gentle voice, a rushing, excited voice; it was as if she panted, timidly. "First I want to thank you for your letter; I'm glad you like me—I mean my singing. Do you like the Dowland? Is that a good idea?"
He said, "Very good. I especially like 'Weep You No More Sad Fountains.' That's my favorite."
"What I want to ask you—your letterhead; you're in the retail home audio system business. I'm moving to an apartment in Manhattan in a month and I must get an audio system set up right away; we have tapes we made out here on the West Coast that my producer will be sending me—I have to be able to listen to them as they really sound, on a really good system." Her long lashes fluttered apprehensively. "Could you fly to New York next week and give me an idea of what sort of sound system you could install? I don't care how much it costs; I won't be paying for it—I signed with Superba Records and they're going to pay for everything."
"Sure," he said.
"Or would it be better if I flew to Washington, D.C.?" she continued. "Whichever is better. It has to be done quickly; they told me to stress that. This is so exciting for me; I just signed, and I have a new manager. I'm going to be making video discs later on, but we're starting with audio tapes now—can you do it? I really don't know who to ask. There're a lot of retail electronics places out here on the West Coast but I don't know anyone on the East Coast. I suppose I should be going to somebody in New York, but Washington, D.C., isn't very far, is it? I mean, you could get up there, couldn't you? Superba and my producer—he's with them—will cover all your expenses."
"No problem," he said.
"Okay. Well, here's my number in Sherman Oaks and I'll give you my Manhattan number; both fone numbers. How did you know my Sherman Oaks address? The letter came directly to me. I'm not supposed to be listed."
"A friend. Somebody in the industry. Connections; you know. I'm in the business."
"You caught me at the Hind? The acoustics are peculiar there. Could you hear me all right? You look familiar; I think I saw you in the audience. You were standing in the corner."
"I had a little boy with me."
Linda Fox said, "I did see you; you were looking at me—you had the most unusual expression. Is he your son?"
"No," he said.
"Are you ready to write down these numbers?"
She gave him her two fone numbers; he wrote them down shakily. "I'll put in a hell of an audio system for you," he managed to say. "It's been a terrific treat talking to you. I'm convinced you're going all
the way, all the way to the top, to the top of the charts. You're going to be listened to and looked at all over the galaxy. I know it. Believe me."
"You are so sweet," Linda Fox said. "I have to go, now. Thank you. OK? Goodbye. I'll be expecting to hear from you. Don't forget. This is urgent; it has to be done. So many problems but—it's exciting. Goodbye." She hung up.
As he hung up the fone Herb Asher said aloud, "I'll be god damned. I don't believe it."
From behind him Rybys said, "She called you. She actually foned you. That's quite something. Are you going to put in a system for her? It means—"
"I don't mind flying to New York. I'll acquire the components up there; no need to transport them from down here."
"Do you think you should take Elias with you?"
"We'll see," he said, his mind clouded, buzzing with awe.
"Congratulations," Rybys said. "I have a hunch I should go with you, but if you promise not to—"
"It's OK," he said, barely listening to her. "The Fox," he said. "I talked to her. She called me. Me."
"Didn't you tell me something about Zina and her little brother having some kind of bet? They bet—one of them bet—she wouldn't answer your letter, and the other bet she would?"
"Yeah," he said. "There's a bet." He did not care about the bet. I will see her, he said to himself. I will visit her new Manhattan apartment, spend an evening with her. Clothes; I need new clothes. Christ, I have to look good.
"How much gear do you think you can unload on her?" Rybys said.
Savagely, he said, "It isn't a question of that."
Shrinking back, Rybys said, "I'm sorry. I just meant—you know. How extensive a system; that's all I meant."
"She will be getting the best system money can buy," he said. "Only the finest. What I would want for myself. Better than what I'd get for myself."
"Maybe this will be good publicity for the store."
He glared at her.
"What is it?" Rybys said.
"The Fox," he said, simply. "It was the Fox calling me on the fone. I can't believe it."
"Better call Zina and Emmanuel and tell them. I have their number."
He thought, No. This is my business. Not theirs.
To Zina, Emmanuel said, "The time is here. Now we will see which way it goes. He'll be flying to New York shortly. It won't be long."
"Do you already know what will happen?" Zina asked.
"What I want to know," Emmanuel said, "is this. Will you withdraw your world of empty dreams if he finds her—"
"He will find her worthless," Zina said. "She is an empty fool, without wit, without wisdom; she has no sense, and he will walk away from her because you cannot make something like that into reality."
Emmanuel said, "We will see."
"Yes, we shall," Zina said. "A nonentity awaits Herb Asher. She looks up to him."
There, precisely, Emmanuel declared in the recesses of his secret mind, you have made your mistake. Herb Asher does not thrive on his adoration of her; it is mutuality that is needed, and you have handed me that. When you debased her here in your domain you accidentally imparted substance into her.
And this, he thought, because you do not know what substance is; it lies beyond you. But not, he thought, beyond me. It is my domain.
"I think," he said, "you have already lost."
With delight, Zina said, "You do not know what I play for! You know neither me nor my goals!"
That may be so, he reflected.
But I know myself; and—I know my goals.
Wearing a fashionable suit, purchased at some considerable expense, Herb Asher boarded a luxury-class commercial rocket for New York City. Briefcase in hand—it contained specs on all the latest home audio systems finding their way onto the market—he sat gazing out the window as the three-minute trip unrolled. The rocket began to descend almost at once.
This is the most wonderful moment in my life, he declared inwardly as the retrojets fired. Look at me; I am right out of the pages of Style magazine.
Thank God Rybys didn't come along.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the overhead speakers announced, "we have now landed at Kennedy Spaceport. Please remain in your seats until the tone sounds; then you may exit at the front end of the ship. Thank you for taking Delta Spacelines."
"Enjoy your day," the robot steward said to Herb Asher as he jauntily exited from the ship.
"You, too," Herb said. "And plenty more besides."
By Yellow cab he flew directly to the Essex House where he had his reservation—the hell with the cost—for the next two days. Very soon he unpacked, surveyed the grand appointments of his room, and then, after taking a Valzine (the best of the latest generations of cortical stimulants) picked up the fone and dialed Linda Fox's Manhattan number.
"How exciting to know you're in town," she said when he identified himself. "Can you come over now? I have some people here but they're just leaving. This decision about my equipment, this is something I want to do slowly and carefully. What time is it now? I just got here from California."
"It's 7 P.M. New York time," he said.
"Have you had dinner?"
"No," he said. It was like a fantasy; he felt as if he was in a dream world, a kingdom of the divine. He felt—like a child, he thought. Reading my Silver Pennies book of poems. Apparently I found a silver penny, and made my way there. Where I have always yearned to be. Home is the sailor home from the sea, he thought. And the hunter ... He could not remember how the verse went. Well, in any case it was appropriate; he was home at last.
And there is no one here to tell me she looks like a pizza waitress, he informed himself. So I can forget that.
"I've got some food here in my apartment; I'm into health foods. If you want some ... I have actual orange juice, soybean curd, organic foods. I don't believe in slaughtering animals."
"Fine," he said. "Sure; anything. You name it."
When he reached her apartment—in an outstandingly lovely building—he found her wearing a cap, a turtleneck sweater and white duck shorts; barefoot, she welcomed him into the living room. No furniture at all; she hadn't moved in yet. In the bedroom a sleeping bag and an open suitcase. The rooms were large and the picture window gave her a view of Central Park.
"Hello," she said. "I'm Linda." She extended her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Asher."
"Call me Herb," he said.
"On the Coast, the West Coast, everyone introduces people by their first names only; I'm trying to train myself away from that, but I can't. I was raised in Southern California, in Riverside." She shut the door after him. "It's ghastly without any furniture, isn't it? My manager is picking it out; it'll be here the day after tomorrow. Well, he's not picking it out alone; I'm helping him. Let's see your brochures." She had noticed his briefcase and her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
She does look a little like a pizza waitress, he thought. But that's okay. Her complexion, up close, in the glare of the overhead lighting, was not as clear as he had thought; in fact, he noticed, she had a little acne.
"We can sit on the floor," she said; she threw herself down, bare knees raised, her back against the wall. "Let's see. I'm relying on you entirely."
He began, "I assume you want studio quality items. What we call professional components. Not what the ordinary person has in his home."
"What's that?" She pointed to a picture of huge speakers. "They look like refrigerators."
"That's an old design," he said, turning to the next page. "Those work by means of a plasma. Derived from helium. You have to keep buying tanks of helium. They look good, though, because the helium plasma glows. It's produced by extremely high voltage. Here, let me show you something more recent; helium plasma transduction is obsolete or soon will be."
Why do I have the feeling I'm imagining all this? he asked himself. Maybe because it's so wonderful. But still ...
For a couple of hours the two of them sat together leaning against the wall going through his
literature. Her enthusiasm was enormous, but, eventually, she began to tire.
"I am hungry," she said. "I don't really have the right clothes with me to go to a restaurant; you have to dress up back here —it's not like Southern California where you can wear anything. Where are you staying?"
"The Essex House."
Standing, stretching, Linda Fox said, "Let's go back to your suite and order room service. Okay?"
"Outstanding," he said, getting up.
After they had eaten dinner together in his room at the hotel Linda Fox paced about, her arms folded. "You know something?" she said. "I keep having this recurring dream that I'm the most famous singer in the galaxy. It's exactly like what you said on the fone. My fantasy life in my subconscious, I guess. But I keep dreaming these production scenes where I'm recording tape after tape and giving concerts, and I have all this money. Do you believe in astrology?"
"I guess I do," he said.
"And places I've never been to; I dream about that. And people I've never seen before, important people. People big in the entertainment field. And we're always rushing around from place to place. Order some wine, would you? I don't know anything about French wine; you decide. But don't make it too dry."
He knew nothing about French wine either, but he got the wine list from the hotel's main restaurant and, with the help of the wine steward, ordered a bottle of expensive burgundy.
"This tastes great," Linda Fox said, curled up on the couch, her bare legs tucked under her. "Tell me about yourself. How long have you been in retail audio components?"
"A number of years," he said.
"How did you beat the draft?"
That puzzled him. He had the idea that the draft had been abolished years ago.
"It has?" Linda said when he told her. Puzzled, the trace of a frown on her face, she said, "That's funny. I was sure there was a draft, and a lot of men have migrated out to colony worlds to escape it. Have you ever been off Earth?"
"No," he said. "But I'd like to try interplanetary travel just for the experience of it." Seating himself on the couch beside her he casually put his arm behind her; she did not pull away. "And to touch down on another planet. That must be some sensation."
The VALIS Trilogy Page 42