“Do the others know what I know?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“This is a top secret facility.”
“These are very private lives.”
“We’re explorers, not voyeurs. We don’t control what images come to us, or how long they stay on-screen.”
“Liars.”
“We don’t—”
“Liars. You must have image-holding capacity. How else could you have been following my murdering career so closely?” They admitted it all. They admitted also that they had chosen the unencumbered against the chance that they might come across a sequence demanding personal investigation. This Shapiro heard calmly. He did not walk out. He knew that they would not let him go at this juncture. Instead he said, “I want to talk to someone who’s done this before.”
“Done what?”
“‘Interfaced.’”
They brought her to him. She was a woman of about sixty, iron-haired, sharp-nosed, and gruff. She had the look of someone who had been important once and had given it all up because it had bored her. She lived, she said, in Monaco, which impressed him. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Why you went.”
She was taken aback, and showed it in the flicker of her gray eyes. “For science, of course.”
“Not you the professional,” Shapiro said. “You alone with yourself.”
She did not do him the discourtesy of evading him. “All right. There was a young man, many, many years ago. We were lovers for a while; we planned to marry. There were career conflicts. It didn’t happen. I found a probability in which it did.” She shrugged. “I wanted to see him again.”
He stared at her. “You’re not bullshitting me?”
“I don’t bullshit.”
He examined his nails. “I had dreams,” he said. “They showed me a photo of a page from a story I wrote. They saw me writing it in the screen and shot it from image.” He looked at her. “I never wrote that story, really. But you know something? I remember planning it. Taking the notes.”
“Why didn’t you write it?”
“I was afraid it would be lousy. Because so much of my stuff was.”
“Was it?”
“No. It was really good.” He wiped his eyes. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but I want you to tell them some things from me. Tell them I’m not a kid, and I’m not a fool, and I resent like Hell how they’ve tried to intimidate me into this. I know they don’t give a shit about me, or any of my ‘me’s; I’m convenient, a handle. I’m going to do this thing they want me to do because I don’t think anybody has the right to put an end to somebody’s choices.”
“Fair enough.” She rose to go.
“That includes them,” he said. “Tell them that.”
What she told them was, “You’ve got him.”
And:
They flew him to Key West at night in a plane that did not have to change at Miami. He found himself staring at the clouds outside under the moon as though he might never see clouds or moon again. The gruff woman had sent a small package along to him, which when opened proved to contain a pocket notebook and a pen with a special ink supply. Inside the notebook, on the first page, she had written:
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
It has rained three days in succession, but the air lies so thick on Duval Street that even the mosquitoes are sluggish, even the fragrance of the frangipani dampered. The tourists are few and irritable. “Worst goddam weather I ever saw,” says a man from Ohio to a man from Michigan.
“It’s a blanket bearing down,” agrees a woman from New Jersey.
“Stay drunk; that’s what I do,” suggests a resident retiree. “Bartender? More of the same.” The bartender comes over. His furry chest is bared and gleaming with sweat, despite the laboring of the big ceiling fans. To the woman the retiree says, “You want a pineapple colada? Roj makes the best pineapple colada in the Keys.”
“Make it a gin and tonic,” says the woman. “How long have you been sweating down here, Roj?”
The bartender grins. “Would you believe ten years?”
“The man’s insane,” says the Michiganian.
Roj’s hands move deftly among the bottles. “It’s not so bad. I used to live in Connecticut. That was a place to get away from.”
“My sister lives in East Hartford,” says the man from Ohio.
There are people playing pool in the adjoining game room, and a few youths vying for a turn at Pac-Man; otherwise, the bar is empty. A stuffed flamingo stands in one corner. Above the bartender’s station, Lucille Ball looks down from an autographed publicity still, as if presiding over this Friday night. “Ten o’clock,” announces Roj. “Anyone want to hear the news?” No one does. Outside on Duval Street, the sign yells, B.J.’S DEN.
“I played Connecticut once,” the woman is saying. “The old Wembley Theater in New Haven. I got the Mexicali trots from some lousy chop suey I gulped between acts. Talk about uncomfortable! It gave me eyestrain just to walk.”
“Were you anybody important?” asks the Michiganian. She shrugs, then smiles.
“Nah,” she replies. “But I could of been.”
Roger Carl Shapiro walks out of the men’s lavatory. He is wearing jeans and a loose cotton shirt, standard Key West costume. He halts near the cigarette machine and surveys the bar. At first he thinks, It didn’t work. The same three tourists are sitting at the bar: the loud woman and the old man in the hibiscus shirt. The same flamingo stands in the corner. But the sign says B.J.’S DEN, not BEEJAY’S; and the floor has been painted ship-deck green; and the man behind the counter is himself.
ROGER-PRIME, says the wink-blink in his head. HAVE YOU ESTABLISHED VISUAL CONTACT?
He is like him, but unlike. His skin is darker; he looks almost Latino. There is a cigarette pack in the pocket of his shirt; Roger does not smoke. The greatest difference is the hardest for Roger to define: the man moves with a confidence that Roger cannot imagine possessing. He’s accepted things, he thinks. He’s stopped running.
All of a sudden he wants to go home. ROGER-PRIME. WE ARE HAVING DIFFICULTY WITH THE VISUALS.
He realizes that he has forgotten to engage the scanner circuit, which had to be turned off during transfer; he presses his left palm and receives, ENGAGED, in reply. He looks around, he needs a seat near the bar but not too near. In Beejay’s there are booths; in B.J.’s Den there are none. He gathers his resolve and saunters up to the counter.
“Ever been to Montreal?” the man from Michigan is asking the woman from New Jersey. Roger selects a stool opposite the little group. At his back, the game-room door spills soft cures. The bartender comes over.
“What do ya need, friend?” Roj asks him. His eyes are very brown. RETINAL SCAN CONFIRMED, says the wink-blink. THIS IS YOUR PERSONA FOR THIS SEQUENCE, ROGER-PRIME.
“I know,” says Roger.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry. I’ll have a Perrier with lime, if you don’t mind.”
“Right.” The man moves off. He didn’t notice, wonders Roger. He didn’t see a thing. He is conscious of the tourists looking him over, but his skin is light, his beard full, and the man behind the bar is clean-shaven. Still, he thinks I would have known. Roj brings him the drink and asks for seventy-five cents, which Roger pays in coin. He does not have much money with him. He does not expect to remain for very long in each sequence. The watchers have noticed that in each probability in which the rogue interfacer appears, not only does he appear in this Key West bar, but he appears about the same time, always between 10 and 10:20 P.M. on this sultry Friday evening in June. The murder is always committed at 10:33 P.M., where
upon the rogue drops out of interface. Roger has asked them why; they have admitted ignorance. “Perhaps it’s some conservation law,” they have suggested. “Perhaps some limitation in his equipment.” Or maybe, Roger has thought, it’s God saying there are limits.
He has thought a good deal about God in recent days. ALL TRANSMISSIONS FUNCTIONING NORMALLY, reports the light in his head. It does not sound very excited, but Roger realizes that his hand is shaking where it grips the Perrier. Another universe, he thinks. He watches himself fiddle with the cash register. Me. That’s me. The days spent by the viewers have not prepared him for the tangibility of an interface. There are no sounds receivable through the viewers; no textures sensible. He smooths the wood of the bartop. It is scored beneath the polish. It has a history; it was once a tree growing somewhere. Was there a Hitler here? he wonders. A Vietnam? Was FDR a polio victim? Are there Key Wests where Hemingway never wrote, where gay People never learned to flock, where women still don’t have the right to vote? Is there a best of all possible worlds?
His mind feels three times too big for his skull, and the exhilaration that grips him is savagely intense.
The place begins to fill up. Roj calls out greetings (“Hey, Rita!” “Howzit, Mr. Foley?”); Roger stares, trying to feel a kinship with these acquaintances of his self. Beer foams; glasses tinkle. It is a neighborhood crowd: everyone seems to know everyone else, the tourists included. They must be regulars, he thinks. Back every year. He finds himself assessing these people in an unaccustomed way. It is as if his realization that there exists a multiplicity of each one of them has enhanced his appreciation of each one’s individuality. He wants to let them know how important they are.
ROGER-PRIME, says the wink-blink. ROGER-PRIME, WE HAVE A NEW INTERFACE. REPEAT; A NEW INTERFACE. He starts, looks toward the street entrance, then the men’s room door. It is opening hesitantly. GOING TO TELESCOPIC, mutters the base. Roger’s vision does not change, but he knows that back home, the viewers are zooming in. The rogue is wearing a light nylon jacket, too hot for this island; a conservative sports shirt; and rumpled dark trousers. He is baby-faced, overweight. He stands as if on eggs, unsure of himself, although Roger cannot think why he should be, having already killed as many as he has. He does not look like a murderer. RETINALS CONFIRMED, says the light in Roger’s head. THAT’S YOUR MAN, ROGER-PRIME. KEEP A LOW PROFILE.
He’s here, thinks Roger. He’s actually here. They have told him not to interfere; they do not want the rogue knowing that he is under observation. The man moves slowly toward the drinks counter. He is looking at the bartender. Roger hunches over his Perrier and watches covertly. The resemblance between killer and victim is obscenely fraternal. Roger closes his eyes. MAINTAIN VISUALS, snaps the monitor primly. He opens his eyes and panics. The rogue is gone. Then he sees him a few yards away, making for the game room. Is he that cold-blooded? he thinks. The watch they have given him adjusts to the local time in each sequence; it says 10:22. Eleven minutes, he thinks, and is afraid.
He is not sure what he is afraid of. It is not of being hurt; it is not of seeing the violence: he has seen it so often in the screens, often dim, it is true, but unchoreographed, uncleanly. He looks at the rogue. You’re afraid of finding out there’s really no difference between him and you.
The rogue goes into the game room and hovers near the pool tables. Shortly thereafter he returns to the bar. He sits on a stool four customers down from Roger. Roj goes over. “Help you?” Roger hears him say. It is 10:27.
“Perrier with lime, please,” says the rogue. His voice is the voice of a shy adolescent: Roj’s voice, completely drained of confidence. Roj moves to fetch the drink. Roger wants to shout, You idiot, can’t you see? Can’t you feel what’s coming? He watches money exchange hands. He is struck by a sudden fancy: Fingerprinting by and large is useless in cases of intersequential homicides. —Multiversal Policeperson’s Manual. The woman named Rita catches Roj’s sleeve as he whisks by her. He bends forward, so that she can whisper in his ear. Whatever she says makes him laugh softly, showing strong throat and white teeth. Suddenly Roger remembers her. He had met her shortly before he had left Key West; she had been one of his boss Bill’s significant others. She had given him a very long kiss at his going-away party. And here she is, he thinks. She is wearing a white peasant blouse, which will show the blood.
The rogue’s face bears no expression; but he is watching her, too. Roger’s nerves shriek.
More people come into the bar. At 10:30, the rogue slips his right hand into his right-hand jacket pocket. The woman from New Jersey is announcing to all and sundry that she really, really could have been somebody in Hollywood if she hadn’t given it all up for love. At 10:31, Roj is lighting a cigarette under the appreciative eye of Rita. At 10:32, the telephone next to the cash register rings; the bartender puts the receiver to his ear. The rogue gets to his feet. So does Roger. PRIME, says the wink-blink. NO INTERFERENCE. WE’VE LOCKED ONTO THE SUBJECT: REMEMBER OUR OBJECTIVE.
“But,” says Roger. The woman to his right gives him a curious look. Roj is grinning into the phone. The end of his cigarette flips up and down as he talks. The rogue takes his hand out of his pocket. Roger recognizes the weapon he is holding; he has seen it in the screen so many times before. It ejects a quiet red zip of needle light. Roj is facing Rita; the beam passes through him from back to front, taking most of his heart with it and spreading it over Rita’s chemise. He does not even have time to look surprised.
And the rogue simply is not there.
INTERFACE, says the base in his head. WE ARE TRACKING. PREPARE FOR TRANSFER, ROGER-PRIME.
My God. Rita opens her mouth.
ROGER-PRIME, PREPARE FOR TRANSFER.
“My God.” A tiny voice squawks from the dangling phone, just like in the movies. Roger gets off his stool. There are too many people around the screaming woman, and Roj’s body has slipped down behind the counter. He stumbles toward the lavatory. He wonders how such a narrow beam can make a mess this size. His own raygun is much less dramatic. The lavatory swims toward him in the weak bar light. The door flies open and the retiree in the hibiscus shirt rushes out and past him. The bathroom is empty. He finds the rightmost stall, goes inside, and bolts the door. He sits down on the toilet seat, then remembers, and stands up. He presses his left palm. “Transfer,” he says. “For God’s sake.”
TRANSFERRING, says the unemotional voice of the base.
His watch says 10:33.
Everything changes. There is no men’s room, no bar, no uproar. He is standing hip-deep among weeds in a vacant field. Under a cloudless, moon-heavy sky, jasmine runs rampant where coral vine has not choked it out. He can smell the sea. Hidden frogs, with exquisite unconcern for probabilities, sound their territories in concert. He is shaking again. Base, he thinks. Base, is this right?
WE’RE SORRY, ROGER-PRIME, comes the reply. WE’RE EXPERIENCING SOME DRIFT OF YOUR SIGNAL. WE’RE CORRECTING NOW. YOU’RE DOING WELL. DO NOT CHANGE POSITION; REPEAT, DO NOT CHANGE POSITION.
He does not. The moonlight gleams off blades of palmetto scrub. He hears the stir of the huge dark roaches, the “palmetto bugs” of the keys, restless beneath the mangroves. He wonders why there are no big trees and no signs of buildings. Maybe people have never come to this island, he thinks. No syphilis, no Cuban refugee “problem” no queer-bashing. He wonders why he is not weeping. He killed him, he thinks. He killed me. I killed me. The chorus of the frogs touches his heart. All at once, he longs to remain here. I’ll welcome the Seminoles when they arrive, he decides.
TRANSFERRING, says the base.
He is back in the toilet stall. The wall, which was green, is white where it is not scarred with graffiti. He is about to push open the stall door when it is opened for him. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” says a man in a hibiscus shirt.
“No problem,” says Roger-Prime. He walks past the man and washes his hands at a sink. In the mirror he observes Mr. Hibiscus go into the stall and close the door. It is the old
er man he has seen in the earlier sequence, but a more sober, more fit version of the older man. He looks at his watch. It says 10:04. He has half an hour before the next murder. He dries his hands and walks out into the bar.
The stuffed flamingo has become a stuffed pelican. The photograph of Lucille Ball now hangs over the cigarette machine. The floor is not painted green; it is wood left natural with sawdust sprinkled all over it. The television mutters a talk show; the picture quality is superb. No loud woman holds forth at the bar, no man from Michigan. The tourist from Ohio is there, however, and well on his way to intoxication. Of Roger’s alter-egos there is no sign. The bartender is blond and very young. “What’ll it be, bud?” he asks.
“Perrier with lime,” Roger replies. The game-room door is shut; a sign on it declares it is closed for repairs. “When’s your partner come on duty?”
“Carl? He’s late now.”
“Pardon me, sir,” say the Ohioan, “but you’re sitting in my friend’s seat.”
“Where do you know Carl from?” she asks the young man.
“Around,” says Roger-Prime. Carl, he thinks. His parents had struggled for three months over whether to name him Carl Roger or Roger Carl. “He might not even remember me; it’s been so long.”
“Sir,” says the Ohioan. Roger squelches an urge to turn around and shoot the man through the throat. He gets up and moves around to the other side of the bar, taking his Perrier with him. Mr. Hibiscus comes out of the lavatory and sits down next to the Ohioan. Roger-Prime squeezes the lime into the mineral water and wonders how he can possibly sit through the experience again. He sips; bubbles feather his palate. He wants a real drink, but he does not know what it will do to the things they have put in his head. He does not like the base’s silent voice; it makes him feel exposed, as if he were walking around with his fly open. He looks up, and the young man is leaning against the cash register.
Year's Best Science Fiction 01 # 1984 Page 51