The Devil's Mirror (10 page)

Give me some time.

Och, mon, take a wee minute, but nae mair.

I can’t think of anything else!

What about sex? That’s a big deal back here in this zone, ain’t it? How about I fix it so all the sexiest guys in the world—

Women, women.

—Women, right, sorry, all the most beautiful, desirable women in the whole world become unable to resist your charms? Pardee, hit oghte thee to lyke.

The only trouble is, I’m not all that interested in sex. It’s fine for others, I’m no prude, but it’s just not my sort of thing. I mean, as a steady diet. Once in a while, all right, but that’s all
.

I had a feeling you might say that. Want to pack it in?

No, no!... wait... I’ve got it
...

Are you sure?

I am. This may sound pompous, but... I wish to know whether or not there is a God.

Yes, there is. Last wish.

For my last wish: I wish to see His face.

Done and done. Get up and look in the mirror.

When I climbed out of bed and peered into the mirror that hung on the wall on the opposite side of the room, I saw a face I did not know. A stranger, not young or old handsome or ugly. I blinked and rubbed that face with my hands, then I turned to Sallybill, who continued to perch at the foot of my bed. I asked: ‘Who am I?’

‘I just told you, gospodin,’ Sallybill replied.

I smiled indulgently. ‘Yes, very amusing. But now tell me the truth, please.’

‘Truth? Mamma mia, that’s a tall order! John, 18:38—jesting Pilate and all that. Even if we could agree as to what Truth is, Truth with a capital T, why should I necessarily be a repository of it? And even if I am, why should I tell you? That’s for me to know and you to find out, to coin a phrase.’

‘Stop playing games,’ I said sternly. ‘I wish to know—’

‘Your wishes are all kaput.’

‘But I can ask questions, can’t I?’

‘Fire away, Mungu.’

I sat down at the head of the bed—there was no other furniture in the room. ‘You claim to be from what you call another timezone.’ Sallybill nodded wearily. ‘What year?’

‘Year Purple, Cycle Epsilon-Ten.’

I groaned. ‘What century?’

‘Fifteenth,’ said Sallybill. ‘A. D. D. In other words, the fifteenth century after the Dark Dawn. Does that help you, filos?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think it would. Alors—’ Sallybill hopped off the bed. ‘I’ll be a-moseyin’ on back to my own spread, I reckon.’

‘Wait!’ I held out my hand. ‘Another question.’

Sallybill sighed. ‘Let’s hear it.’

‘What year is
this?
’ I asked.

‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t even know my own name!’

‘I can’t help you out on the year thing. Back here in this zone, they have a cockamamie way of naming the years.’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘then tell me: what’s the name of this planet?’

‘What planet?’

‘The planet we’re
on?

‘What makes you so sure we’re on a planet?’

‘I’ll put it another way. In your own timezone, do you live on a planet?’

Contemptuously, Sallybill snarled, ‘Art addlepated, sirrah? Fie, oh, fie! Think you like angels in the Heavens we fly?’

‘Good enough. Now what’s the name of
that
planet?’

‘We call it The World.’

‘Every planet is a world!’

Sallybill eloquently shrugged. ‘So sue me.’

I tried another tactic. ‘How many planets in your solar system? And which one is yours, in order of distance from the sun?’

Sallybill frowned, obviously puzzled. ‘We is de
onliest
planet around de sun.’

‘I see...’

Sallybill added, ‘They say there
used
to be other planets around our sun, but something happened to them.’

‘What exactly?’

‘¿Quién sabe?’

After a moment, I said, calmly and smoothly, ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

‘I think this is a mental institution,’ I said. ‘I’m here because I’ve lost my memory. And you’re another patient, who escaped from a padded cell, slipped into my room and woke me out of a sound sleep to entangle me in this deranged conversation.’

‘Takes one to know one,’ Sallybill said with a giggle. ‘Or,’ I continued, for another thought had occurred to me, ‘you may not be a patient, but a doctor. All that three-wishes business was a hoax, some kind of experimental treatment, a well-meaning attempt to cure my amnesia, unlock my mind...’

‘Blimey,’ said Sallybill, ‘if it’s just a Weedin’ ’oax, then ’ow do you explain that bloomin’ bladder trick, mate?’

Sallybill had a point, but I pressed on. ‘I don’t know. Post-hypnotic suggestion, perhaps. And there’s another possibility. I could be a prisoner. Of some totalitarian state. You’re tampering with my mind, trying to make me divulge secrets, or trying to destroy me, confusing me, telling me wild stories, telling me I’m...’

Sallybill said, ‘May I make a suggestion?’

I nodded, cautiously.

‘Just on the odd chance that I may have been levelling with you, why don’t you run a test?’

‘How?’

‘Simple—say Let there be light, or something. Create a man out of dust. Take your pick. See what happens.’

I couldn’t resist chuckling. ‘You don’t catch me that easily,’ I said. ‘It’s an old ploy. By getting me to go along with the charade, your battle is half won because you’ll be making me admit there’s at least a possibility that what you claim is true.’

Sallybill seemed defeated—but I knew that was just another act. ‘I guess I know when I’m beat, but I did my job and gave you your three wishes. That’s all I’m licensed for. So I better split. But look at it this way—there are plenty of meshugganah people who think they’re God. Messianic complex, it’s called in this zone. But what if God Himself flipped out and went bonkers? Mightn’t He think He was a mere mortal? The shrinks would probably call it a humanic complex or something.’

‘Clever,’ I said. ‘Very clever. Good bye, Sallybill.’

‘Sayonara. Adjō. Farvel. Istenhozzád. Hyvăsti. Ila al-laqas. Adiaŭ. Shalom...’

I climbed under the covers and went back to sleep.

Disappearing invoices, misfiled bills of lading, angry customers, a cranky supervisor, even the coffee machine had broken down: well, Mondays were usually like that. It took everyone a whole work-day, five full hours, to get back into the swing of things after the four-day weekend. Fred Staley, loping on to the company parking lot fatigued and frustrated, just hoped he’d be able to last out the week, all the way through to Wednesday. Things seemed to get on his nerves more and more as he grew older.

As he flashed his palm at the windshield, the door swung open. He climbed wearily into his
CAR
, tossed his briefcase on the seat next to him, and touched the starter button. Nothing happened, except for a nerve-rasping
bzzzzzzzz.
Fred glanced at the
DAD
. It was flashing
seat belt, seat belt, seat belt
...

Fred smiled sourly. Of course. How could he forget that? He really must need a rest. Still, he and Edna had returned from the semi-annual three-month all-expense-paid vacation in the Bahamas just last month. Or was it the month before last? Fred fastened the seat belt, the buzzer went silent, and the
D
river
-
A
dmonition
D
ial
stopped flashing. He touched the starter button again.

Another
bzzzzzzzz
, and this time the
DAD
flashed
shoulder harness
,
shoulder harness, shoulder harness
... ‘Right,’ Fred muttered, fastening the harness and squelching the buzzer. He touched the starter button once more, but still the engine refused to turn over and again the buzzer
bzzzzzzzz
ed and the
DAD
flashed, reminding him to put on his
sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses
. True, it was a bright day, and the
CAR
’s video-sensors had picked up on that, same way they’d known he wasn’t wearing his shades, and the sun was blinding if you drove west at this hour, so it certainly was a good thing that these
C
ity
-
A
djusted
R
unabouts
were equipped with all these terrific safety devices.

Fred slipped on his sunglasses and touched the starter. This time, the engine turned over with a gratifying purr, and he began to pull out of his parking space. But:

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The
CAR
stopped dead.

‘What the hell
now
?’ he shouted. The
DAD
flashed:
signal, signal, signal
... ‘All
right
already!’ he shouted, and viciously flicked on his left blinker, and gouged the starter button, and finally, on the fifth try, succeeded in getting out of the parking lot and on to the road.

Less than ten minutes later, he sneaked a peek at the gauge, and discovered he was almost out of
GAS
. Luckily, there was a station up ahead, so he pulled up to the pumps and told the attendant, ‘Fill ’er up.’ It was an extravagant gesture, what with
G
overnment
A
pproved
S
ea-water
going for $5 a gallon, but Fred felt like splurging. Even so, five bucks! It burned him up. The energy combine was getting away with robbery.
Highway
robbery—literally.

Fred remembered the early days, way back when petroleum-fuelled vehicles went out and the new controlled-thermonuclearfusion engines came in, fuelled by a heavy form of hydrogen, deuterium, a rare element but plentifully available in ordinary sea water. He was only a kid then, but he remembered how his father used to just go down to Santa Monica beach, scoop up a bucketful of Pacific, and fill the tank. Didn’t cost a cent. ‘It’s a fine new world you’ll be growing up in, Freddie,’ his father would say. ‘Smogless skies, free fuel, not like when I was a boy.’

Fred chuckled bitterly to himself as he waited for his tank to fill. It hadn’t taken long for the energy combine to corner the world market in ‘denatured’ (their word for desalinated) seawater, and then lobby for an international law that made illegal the manufacture of engines that could run on the natural ocean stuff. One grain of salt in today’s engines and they stopped cold and wouldn’t start again until they got a complete overhaul that cost you two weeks’ pay. Sometimes, Fred felt like selling his
CAR
and taking a
CAB
to work. It was a lot cheaper, but he hated being jostled by crowds, and he was never able to get a seat on those
C
ompletely
A
utomated
B
uses.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. By the time he paid the exorbitant
GAS
charge and got back on the road, he was red-faced, tight-lipped, slit-eyed, and muttering sullenly to himself. Sure enough, a siren began to wail, and a glance in the mirror told him that a cycle
COP
was waving him over to the side of the road. Fred obediently pulled over and cut the engine.

The
COP
climbed off his bike and sauntered over, taking his time. He was young, very friendly and polite, handsome in his blue uniform and polished boots. ‘Hi, there,’ he said with a smile.

‘Hi,’ said Fred, returning the smile. ‘Not speeding, was I?’

‘No, no,’ replied the
COP
. ‘But you sure are mad at somebody, aren’t you?’

‘Not really.’

‘Oh, come on, sir. The
CAR
doesn’t make mistakes. Its chemo-sensors sniffed it. Increased adrenalin production, among other things. It flashed its danger lights at me as you went by. Standard equipment on these new models. You
do
realise, don’t you, that you’re experiencing a high degree of hostility? Could lead to reckless driving, make you a hazard to yourself and a lot of other innocent people.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ Fred admitted.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Right here?’

‘Why not?’ said the
COP
gently. ‘I’m certified, you know.’ That he was. His shoulder patch bore the proudly embroidered letters
COP
, stitched in gold thread. He was a
C
ertified
O
utdoor
P
sychiatrist
, all right.

Fred said, ‘Oh, it’s just the usual, Doc. A lot of Monday morning hassle at the job, then the
CAR
gave me a hard time, and the damn prices at the
GAS
pumps. You know.’

The
COP
nodded sympathetically. ‘Sure, I know. Those prices are murder. So are Mondays! I hate them myself. But things’ll look better tomorrow. Tell you what. I’m not going to write out a ticket. You just sit here a few minutes, calm down, get your adrenalin back to normal, and maybe have a drink to help you relax. Do you have some
GIN
in your
GLOVE
compartment?’

‘Are you kidding?’ It was a punishable offence
not
to have any, and Fred was no fool. He didn’t want to end up in the
SLAMS
. From what he’d heard, those rehabilitation facilities run by the
S
tate
-
L
egislated
A
narchist
-
M
anagement
S
ervice
were no picnic.