Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester (33 page)

“If there’s a lunatic around here, it’s you,” he shouted. “You’re so crazy to get this house decorated that nothing’s real for you anymore.”

She ran across the room, snatched up his old shotgun, and pointed it at him. “You get out of here. Right this minute. Get out or I’ll kill you. I never want to see you again.”

The shotgun kicked off in her hands, knocking her backward, and spraying shot over Mayo’s head into a corner bracket. China shattered and clattered down. Linda’s face went white.

“Jim! My God, are you all right? I didn’t mean to … it just went off …”

He stepped forward, too furious to speak. Then, as he raised his hand to cuff her, the sound of distant reports came, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. Mayo froze.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

Linda nodded.

“That wasn’t any accident. It was a signal.”

Mayo grabbed the shotgun, ran outside, and fired the second barrel into the air. There was a pause. Then again came the distant explosions in a stately triplet, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. They had an odd, sucking sound, as though they were implosions rather than explosions. Far up the park, a canopy of frightened birds mounted into the sky.

“There’s somebody,” Mayo exulted. “By God, I told you I’d find somebody. Come on.”

They ran north, Mayo digging into his pockets for more shells to reload and signal again.

“I got to thank you for taking that shot at me, Linda.”

“I didn’t shoot at you,” she protested. “It was an accident.”

“The luckiest accident in the world. They could be passing through and never know about us. But what the hell kind of guns are they using? I never heard no shots like that before, and I heard ’em all. Wait a minute.”

On the little piazza before the Wonderland monument, Mayo halted and raised the shotgun to fire. Then he slowly lowered it. He took a deep breath. In a harsh voice he said, “Turn around. We’re going back to the house.” He pulled her around and faced her south.

Linda stared at him. In an instant he had become transformed from a gentle teddy bear into a panther.

“Jim, what’s wrong?”

“I’m scared,” he growled. “I’m goddam scared, and I don’t want you to be, too.” The triple salvo sounded again. “Don’t pay any attention,” he ordered. “We’re going back to the house. Come on!”

She refused to move. “But why? Why?”

“We don’t want any part of them. Take my word for it.”

“How do you know? You’ve got to tell me.”

“Christ! You won’t let it alone until you find out, huh? All right. You want the explanation for that bee smell, and them buildings falling down, and all the rest?” He turned Linda around with a hand on her neck, and directed her gaze at the Wonderland monument. “Go ahead. Look.”

A consummate craftsman had removed the heads of Alice, the Mad Hatter, and the March Hare, and replaced them with towering mantis heads, all saber mandibles, antennae, and faceted eyes. They were of a burnished steel and gleamed with unspeakable ferocity. Linda let out a sick whimper and sagged against Mayo. The triple report signaled once more.

Mayo caught Linda, heaved her over his shoulder, and loped back toward the pond. She recovered consciousness in a moment and began to moan. “Shut up,” he growled. “Whining won’t help.” He set her on her feet before the boathouse. She was shaking but trying to control herself. “Did this place have shutters when you moved in? Where are they?”

“Stacked.” She had to squeeze the words out. “Behind the trellis.”

“I’ll put ’em up. You fill buckets with water and stash ’em in the kitchen. Go!”

“Is it going to be a siege?”

“We’ll talk later. Go!”

She filled buckets and then helped Mayo jam the last of the shutters into the window embrasures. “All right, inside,” he ordered. They went into the house and shut and barred the door. Faint shafts of the late afternoon sun filtered through the louvers of the shutters. Mayo began unpacking the cartridges for the Cosmi rifle. “You got any kind of gun?”

“A .22 revolver somewhere.”

“Ammo?”

“I think so.”

“Get it ready.”

“Is it going to be a siege?” she repeated.

“I don’t know. I don’t know who they are, or what they are, or where they come from. All I know is, we got to be prepared for the worst.”

The distant implosions sounded. Mayo looked up alertly, listening. Linda could make him out in the dimness now. His face looked carved. His chest gleamed with sweat. He exuded the musky odor of caged lions. Linda had an overpowering impulse to touch him. Mayo loaded the rifle, stood it alongside the shotgun, and began padding from shutter to shutter, peering out vigilantly, waiting with massive patience.

“Will they find us?” Linda asked.

“Maybe.”

“Could they be friendly?”

“Maybe.”

“Those heads looked so horrible.”

“Yeah.”

“Jim, I’m scared. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“How long before we know?”

“An hour, if they’re friendly; two or three, if they’re not.”

“W-Why longer?”

“If they’re looking for trouble, they’ll be more cautious.”

“Jim, what do you really think?”

“About what?”

“Our chances.”

“You really want to know?”

“Please.”

“We’re dead.”

She began to sob. He shook her savagely. “Stop that. Go get your gun ready.”

She lurched across the living room, noticed the pearls Mayo had dropped, and picked them up. She was so dazed that she put them on automatically. Then she went into her darkened bedroom and pulled Mayo’s model yacht away from the closet door. She located the .22 in a hatbox on the closet floor and removed it along with a small carton of cartridges.

She realized that a dress was unsuited to this emergency. She got a turtleneck sweater, jodhpurs, and boots from the closet. Then she stripped naked to change. Just as she raised her arms to unclasp the pearls, Mayo entered, paced to the shuttered south window, and peered out. When he turned back from the window, he saw her.

He stopped short. She couldn’t move. Their eyes locked, and she began to tremble, trying to conceal herself with her arms. He stepped forward, stumbled on the model yacht, and kicked it out of the way. The next instant he had taken possession of her body, and the pearls went flying, too. As she pulled him down on the bed, fiercely tearing the shirt from his back, her pet dolls also went into the discard heap along with the yacht, the pearls, and the rest of the world.

T
hey keep writing those antiquated stories about bargains with the Devil. You know—sulfur, spells and pentagrams; tricks, A snares and delusions. They don’t know what they’re talking about. Twentieth-century diabolism is slick and streamlined, like jukeboxes and automatic elevators and television and all the other modern efficiencies that leave you helpless and infuriated.

A year ago I got fired from an agency job for the third time in ten months. I had to face the fact that I was a failure. I was also dead broke. I decided to sell my soul to the Devil, but the problem was how to find him. I went down to the main reference room of the library and read everything on demonology and devillore. Like I said, it was all just talk. Anyway, if I could have afforded the expensive ingredients which they claimed could raise the Devil, I wouldn’t have had to deal with him in the first place.

I was stumped, so I did the obvious thing; I called Celebrity Service. A delicate young man answered.

I asked, “Can you tell me where the Devil is?”

“Are you a subscriber to Celebrity Service?”

“No.”

“Then I can give you no information.”

“I can afford to pay a small fee for one item.”

“You wish limited service?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the celebrity, please?”

“The Devil.”

“Who?”

“The Devil—Satan, Lucifer, Scratch, Old Nick—the Devil.”

“One moment, please.” In five minutes he was back, extremely annoyed. “Veddy soddy. The Devil is no longer a celebrity.”

He hung up. I did the sensible thing and looked through the telephone directory. On a page decorated with ads for Sardi’s Restaurant I found Satan, Shaitan, Carnage & Bael, 477 Madison Avenue, Judson 3-1900. I called them. A bright young woman answered.

“SSC&B. Good morning.”

“May I speak to Mr. Satan, please?”

“The lines are busy. Will you wait?”

I waited and lost my dime. I wrangled with the operator and lost another dime but got the promise of a refund in postage stamps. I called Satan, Shaitan, Carnage & Bael again.

“SSC&B. Good morning.”

“May I speak to Mr. Satan? And please don’t leave me hanging on the phone. I’m calling from a—”

The switchboard cut me off and buzzed. I waited. The coin box gave a warning click. At last a line opened.

“Miss Hogan’s office.”

“May I speak to Mr. Satan?”

“Who’s calling?”

“He doesn’t know me. It’s a personal matter.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Satan is no longer with our organization.”

“Can you tell me where I can find him?”

There was muffled discussion in broad Brooklyn and then Miss Hogan spoke in crisp Secretary: “Mr. Satan is now with Beelzebub, Belial, Devil & Orgy.”

I looked them up in the phone directory. 383 Madison Avenue, Murray Hill 2-1900. I dialed. The phone rang once and then choked. A metallic voice spoke in sing-song: “The number you are dialing is not a working number. Kindly consult your directory for the correct number. This is a recorded message.” I consulted my directory. It said Murray Hill 2-1900. I dialed again and got the same recorded message.

I finally broke through to a live operator, who was persuaded to give me the new number of Beelzebub, Belial, Devil & Orgy. I called them. A bright young woman answered.

“BBDO. Good morning.”

“May I speak to Mr. Satan, please?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Satan.”

“I’m sorry. There is no such person with our organization.”

“Then give me Beelzebub or the Devil.”

“One moment, please.”

I waited. Every half minute she opened my wire long enough to gasp, “Still ringing the Dev—” and then cut off before I had a chance to answer. At last a bright young woman spoke. “Mr. Devil’s office.”

“May I speak to him?”

“Who’s calling?”

I gave her my name.

“He’s on another line. Will you wait?”

I waited. I was fortified with a dwindling reserve of nickels and dimes. After twenty minutes, the bright young woman spoke again: “He’s just gone into an emergency meeting. Can he call you back?”

“No. I’ll try again.”

Nine days later I finally got him.

“Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

I took a breath. “I want to sell you my soul.”

“Have you got anything on paper?”

“What do you mean, anything on paper?”

“The Property, my boy. The Sell. You can’t expect BBDO to buy a pig in a poke. We may drink out of Dixie cups up here, but the sauce has got to be a hundred proof. Bring in your Presentation. My girl’ll set up an appointment.”

I prepared a Presentation of my soul with plenty of Sell. Then I called his girl.

“I’m sorry, he’s on the Coast. Call back in two weeks.”

Five weeks later she gave me an appointment. I went up and sat in the photomontage reception room of BBDO for two hours, balancing my Sell on my knees. Finally I was ushered into a corner office decorated with Texas brands in glowing neon. The Devil was lounging on his contour chair, dictating to an Iron Maiden. He was a tall man with the phony voice of a sales manager; the kind that talks loud in elevators. He gave me a Sincere handshake and immediately looked through my Presentation.

“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. I think we can do business. Now, what did you have in mind? The usual?”

“Money, success, happiness.”

He nodded. “The usual. Now, we’re square-shooters in this shop. BBDO doesn’t dry-gulch. We’ll guarantee money, success, and happiness.”

“For how long?”

“Normal life span. No tricks, my boy. We take our estimates from the actuary tables. Offhand I’d say you’re good for another forty, forty-five years. We can pinpoint that in the contract later.”

“No tricks?”

He gestured impatiently. “That’s all bad public relations, what you’re thinking. I promise you, no tricks.”

“Guaranteed?”

“Not only do we guarantee service; we
insist
on giving service. BBDO doesn’t want any beefs going up to the Fair Practice Committee. You’ll have to call on us for service at least twice a year or the contract will be terminated.”

“What kind of service?”

He shrugged. “Any kind. Shine your shoes; empty ashtrays; bring you dancing girls. That can be pinpointed later. We just insist that you use us at least twice a year. We’ve got to give you a
quid
for your
quo. Quid pro quo
. Check?”

“But no tricks?”

“No tricks. I’ll have our legal department draw up the contract. Who’s representing you?”

“You mean an agent? I haven’t got one.”

He was startled. “Haven’t got an agent? My boy, you’re living dangerously. Why, we could skin you alive. Get yourself an agent and tell him to call me.”

“Yes, sir. M-may I … Could I ask a question?”

“Shoot. Everything is open and aboveboard at BBDO.”

“What will it be like for me—wh-when the contract terminates?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t advise it.”

“I want to know.”

He showed me. It was like a hideous session with a psychoanalyst, in perpetuity—an eternal, agonizing self-indictment. It was hell. I was shaken.

“I’d rather have inhuman fiends torturing me,” I said.

He laughed. “They can’t compare to man’s inhumanity to himself. Well … changed your mind, or is it a deal?”

“It’s a deal.”

We shook hands and he ushered me out. “Don’t forget,” he warned. “Protect yourself. Get an agent. Get the best.”

I signed with Sibyl & Sphinx. That was on March third. I called S&S on March fifteenth. Mrs. Sphinx said, “Oh, yes, there’s been a hitch. Miss Sibyl was negotiating with BBDO for you, but she had to fly to Sheol. I’ve taken over for her.”