Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester (43 page)

“
Canopus cerberus
. Three dog heads. Look like oversized Chihuahuas. Mastiff bod. Rattlesnake tail. Ring of rattlers around the waist. Authentic but clumsy. That Tejas woman ought to know you can’t graft snake scales onto hound hide. They look like crud; but at least all three heads are barking… .

“Well, well, well, here’s the maladroit who claims he’s my rival; the Berlin butcher with his zoo castoffs. His latest spectacular, the
Rigel griffin
. Ta-daaa! Do him justice, it’s classic. Eagle head and wings, but it’s molting. Lion bod implanted with feathers. And he’s used ostrich claws for the feet.
I
would have generated authentic dragon’s feet… .

“Now
Martian monoceros;
horse bod, elephant legs, stag’s tail. Yes, convincing, but why isn’t it howling as it should, according to legend?
Mizar manticora
. Kosher. Kosher. Three rows of teeth. Look like implanted shark’s. Lion bod. Scorpion tail. Wonder how they produced that red-eyed effect. The
Ares assida
. Dull. Dull. Dullsville. Just an ostrich with camel feet, and stumbling all over them, too. No creative imagination!

“Ah, but I call that poster over the
Sirius sphinx
brilliant theater. My compliments to the management. It’s got to be recorded for posterity:
THE PUBLIC IS RESPECTFULLY REQUESTED NOT TO GIVE THE CORRECT ANSWER TO THE ENIGMA POSED BY THE SPHINX
.

“Because if you do give the correct answer, as Oedipus found out, she’ll destroy herself out of chagrin. A sore loser. I ought to answer the riddle, just to see how they stage it, but no. Theater isn’t my shtick; my business is strictly creative genesis… .

“The Berlin butcher again,
Castor chimera
. Lion head. Goat’s bod. Looks like an anaconda tail. How the hell did he surgify to get it to vomit those flames? Some sort of catalytic gimmick in the throat, I suppose. It’s only a cold corposant fire, quite harmless but very dramatic—and those fire extinguishers around the showcase are a lovely touch. Damn good theater. Again, my compliments to the management… .

“Aha! Beefcake on the hoof.
Zosma centaur
. Good-looking Greek joined to that Shetland pony. Blood must have been a problem. They probably drained both and substituted a neutral surrogate. The Greek looks happy enough; in fact, damn smug. Anyone wondering why has only to see how the pony’s hung… .

“What have we here?
Antares unicorn
, complete with grafted narwhal tusk but not with the virgin who captured it, virgin girls being the only types that can subdue unicorns, legend saith. I thought narwhals were extinct. They may have bought the tusk from a walking-stick maker. I know virgins are not extinct.
I
make ’em every month; purity guaranteed or your money back… .

“And a
Spica siren
. Lovely girl. Beautiful. She— But damn my eyes, she’s no manufactured freak! That’s Sandra,
my
Siren! I can recognize my genesis anywhere. What the hell is Sandy doing in this damn disgusting circus? Naked in a showcase! This is an outrage!”

He charged the showcase in his rage. He was given to flashes of fury that punctuated his habitual exasperated calm. (His deep conviction was that it was a damned intransigent world because it wasn’t run
his
way, which was the
right
way.)

He beat and clawed at the supple walls, which gave but did not break. He cast around wildly for anything destructive, then darted to the
chimera
exhibit, grabbed a fire extinguisher, and dashed back to the Siren. Three demoniac blows cracked the plastic, and three more shattered an escape hatch. His fury outdrew the freaks, and a fascinated crowd gathered.

He reached in and seized the smiling Siren. “Sandy, get the hell out. What were you doing there in the first place?”

“Where’s your husband?”

“For God’s sake!” He pulled off his cap, revealing pale, streaky hair. “Here, cover yourself with this. No, no, girl, downstairs. Use an arm for upstairs, and hide your rear elevation against my back.”

“No, I am
not
prudish. I simply will not have my beautiful creation on public display. D’you think I—” He turned fiercely on three security guards closing in on him and brandished the heavy brass cylinder. “One more step, and I let you have it with this. In the eyes. Ever had frozen eyeballs?”

They halted. “Now look, mister, you got no—”

“I am
not
called ‘mister.’ My degree is Dominie, which means master professor. I am addressed as Dominie, Dominie Manwright, and I want to see the owner at once. Immediately. Here and now.
Sofort! Immediatamente!
Mr. Saturn or Mr. Phreak or whatever!

“Tell him that Dominie Regis Manwright wants him here now. He’ll know my name, or he’d better, by God! Now be off with you. Split. Cut.” Manwright glared around at the enthralled spectators. “You turkeys get lost, too. All of you. Go eyeball the other sights. The Siren show is
kaput
.”

As the crowd shuffled back from Manwright’s fury, an amused gentleman in highly unlikely twentieth-century evening dress stepped forward. “I see you understand Siren, sir. Most impressive.” He slung the opera cape off his shoulders and offered it to Sandra. “You must be cold, madame. May I?”

“Thank you,” Manwright growled. “Put it on, Sandy. Cover yourself. And thank the man.”

“I don’t give a damn whether you’re cold or not. Cover yourself. I won’t have you parading that beautiful body I created. And give me back my cap.”

“Women!” Manwright grumbled. “This is the last time I ever generate one. You slave over them. You use all your expertise to create beauty and implant sense and sensibility, and they all turn out the same. Irrational! Women! A race apart! And where the hell’s 50 Phantastik Phreaks 50?”

“At your service, Dominie,” the gentleman smiled.

“What? You? The management?”

“Indeed yes.”

“In that ridiculous white tie and tails?”

“So sorry, Dominie. The costume is traditional for the role. And by day I’m required to wear hunting dress. It
is
grotesque, but the public expects it of the ringmaster.”

“Hmph! What’s your name? I’d like to know the name of the man I skin alive.”

“Corque.”

“Cork? As in Ireland?”

“But with a
Q U E
.”

“Corque? Cor-kew-ee?” Manwright’s eyes kindled. “Would you by any chance be related to Charles Russell Corque, Syrtus professor of ETM biology? I’ll hold that in your favor.”

“Thank you, Dominie. I
am
Charles Russell Corque, professor of extraterrestrial and mutation biology at Syrtus University.”

“What!”

“Yes.”

“In that preposterous costume?”

“Alas, yes.”

“Here? On Terra?”

“In person.”

“What a crazy coincidence. D’you know I was going to make that damned tedious trip to Mars just to rap with you.”

“And I brought my circus to Terra hoping to meet and consult with you.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two days.”

“Then why haven’t you called?”

“Setting up a circus show takes time, Dominie. I haven’t had a moment to spare.”

“This monstrous fakery is really yours?”

“It is.”

“You? The celebrated Corque? The greatest researcher into alien life forms that science has ever known? Revered by all your colleagues, including myself, and swindling the turkeys with a phony freak show? Incredible, Corque! Unbelievable!”

“But understandable, Manwright. Have you any idea of the cost of ETM research? And the reluctance of the grants committees to allocate an adequate amount of funds? No, I suppose not. You’re in private practice and can charge gigantic fees to support your research, but I’m forced to moonlight and operate this circus to raise the money I need.”

“Nonsense, Corque. You could have patented one of your brilliant discoveries—that fantastic Jupiter III methophyte, for instance. Gourmets call it ‘The Ganymede Truffle.’ D’you know what an ounce sells for?”

“I know, and there
are
discovery rights and royalties. Enormous. But you don’t know university contracts, my dear Dominie. By contract, the royalties go to Syrtus, where”—Professor Corque’s smile soured—“where they are spent on such studies as Remedial Table Tennis, Demonia Orientation, and The Light Verse of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.”

Manwright shook his head in exasperation. “Those damned faculty clowns! I’ve turned down a dozen university offers, and no wonder. It’s an outrage that you should be forced to humiliate yourself and—Listen, Corque, I’ve been dying to get the details on how you discovered that Ganymede methophyte. When will you have some time? I thought— Where are you staying on Terra?”

“The Borealis.”