Selected Stories of Alfred Bester

  Selected Short Stories of Alfred Bester

  Introduction

  Being 'in print' is what separates authors from corpses. An author who is in print is relevant, is hip, is beloved (or at least tolerated), and, most importantly, is profitable. Authors who fall out of print become ciphers, wraiths haunting the dusty racks of used book stores, unable to rest in peace because they are not resting at all; rather, they are forgotten.

  And make no mistake — aside from you and I, the world has forgotten Alfred Bester. Cultural memory has a lifespan of about ten years in either direction, the time it takes a fresh crop of teenagers to transition into the Key Demographic, and before them is a new heaven and a new earth, for the old earth was lame and there wasn't enough hard drive space for it anyway. Even SF, a genre with an indelible antiquarian streak, has shelved Alfred Bester among the classics that everyone knows about but no one ever gets around to reading.

  You might still find his novels on Amazon.com, or a remaindered box of his short stories in a warehouse somewhere, but there was a time when, if you were alive, an Alfred Bester story inevitably barged its way into your headspace. Perhaps it was an old radio serial like The Shadow, or a comic book like Green Lantern, or if you were the sort who had a Popular Mechanics to hide it in, you read The Demolished Man on the bus and were blown away with every successive chapter until the ending, depicted in such terrifying detail that you sat stunned, dazzled by this most bloody fantastic piece of literature, missing your stop and worrying your mother by being late to dinner because jeezus criminy, I feel like I've just been run over by a Sargasso asteroid...

  Alfred Bester was a Presence. Charming, charismatic, larger-than-life, he was a self-described Renaissance man with interests that ranged from biology to psychology to music. So when dementia claimed him in his later years it was all the more a tragedy, his brilliant mind snuffed out, one amyloid-choked synapse at a time. Slowly and horribly, just as the world has forgotten him, Alfred Bester forgot himself. But for the last-minute kindness of Harlan Ellison, who personally delivered Alfred's Grandmaster Award to his bedside in the nursing home, he might have passed from this world without a farewell from the life he had loved and lived so well.

  Yet the man's stories... they might be made of hardier stuff than the man, but as time and indifference wears on them the pages crumble to dust, and the readers die, some of them as alone and afraid as he, and soon Alfred Bester is no longer an author but a footnote in college genre fiction courses.

  Hence this collection, a cross-section of Alfred Bester's short fiction, a labor of love by a fan who thinks he's still worth reading. Via this bit of cyber-necromancy, the words are preserved and presented to a new audience in the format to which they are accustomed, for Alfred Bester's words were never restricted by medium, and the stories stand on their own as worth every kilobyte. Yes, his science is naive at times and staggeringly wrong in others; yes, his psychology is a mess, and his character's faces a bit hard to make out under their funny hats, and so on and so forth...

  But he was Alfie Bester dammit, and his words were solid gold even when they sold for pennies, and if anyone earned the right to continue being an author it's him.

  —BBA

  * * *

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  5,271,009

  Adam & No Eve

  Hobson's Choice

  Of Time and Third Avenue

  Disappearing Act

  Fondly Fahrenheit

  Galatea Galante

  The Roller Coaster

  Hell is Forever

  Ms. Found in a Champagne Bottle

  Oddy & Id

  Slaves of the Life Ray

  Something Up There Likes Me

  Star Light, Star Bright

  The Animal Fair

  The Flowered Thundermug

  The Men Who Murdered Mohammed

  The Pi Man

  They Don't Make Life Like They Used To

  Time is the Traitor

  Will You Wait

  The Four-Hour Fugue

  And 31/2 To Go (fragment)

  The Devil Without Glasses

  * * *

  5,271,009

  Introduction

  THERE I was in our cottage out on Fire Island, taking the summer off because the shows I wrote took the summer off. My wife was an actress then and went into New York during the week to work or look for work, leaving me alone to enjoy the fun and games.

  They weren't what you're thinking. The Island does have and indeed has earned a raunchy reputation, but Walpurgisnacht indulgence is not for everybody and certainly not for me, which gave me a curious schizo repute. Half our village believed I was a stealthy swinger who could and did chase women and girls into bed whenever he pleased. The other half believed I was an undercover queen. I was delighted with both.

  No, I vacationed very quietly. I'd go surf-fishing every dawn and dusk, occasionally catching a respectable fish. I'd laze around in the cottage, reading. For real entertainment I'd attend the police magistrates' hearings. The crimes were earth-shaking. Failure to remove garbage can from front of house before 10 a.m.— Fine: $2.00. Failure to wear covering over bathing dress on public walks—Fine: $2.00. Noisy party after 11 p.m.—Fine: a whopping $10.00. The garbage can raps were the most fun; the ladies involved would argue passionately, plead, burst into tears, even bring lawyer friends to defend them. In the end they paid the $2.00.

  The other main source of entertainment was the morning visit to the post office. I didn't expect or receive much mail; it was merely an excuse to saunter down the main street of the village and watch it in action. So who was as surprised as me when I received a parcel from Tony Boucher and Mick McComas who were then editing Fantasy & Science Fiction into the witty sophistication which it has never lost. The parcel contained a garish color reproduction of a cover for the magazine and a letter asking me if I could write a story to go with the cover.

  I'd heard of this sort of operation but it had never happened to me, so I was intrigued. I examined the cover closely for stimulation. It was absurd. It depicted a case-hardened criminal wearing a nineteenth-century convict uniform . . . you know, the striped kind . . . with the number 5,271,002 emblazoned on his chest. He was chained to a big chunk of rock, floating in space. I'm fairly certain that he wore a helmet of some sort attached to oxygen cylinders. Come to think of it, he had to; how else could be survive in space?

  I laughed and decided to reject the assignment with thanks. I was on splendid terms with Tony and Mick and I knew they wouldn't hold it against me. And yet. . . And yet... I went for a walk on the beach. It was dead low tide and the flat, hard-packed sand at the water's edge made for a wonderful stroll. I thought about that silly cover, keeping an eye on the alert for attractive shells and interesting lagan and derelict washed up on the shore.

  You can't take that preposterous painting seriously, I told myself. No one could. It's a mad camp, and if you do a story to go with it, the story will have to be a mad camp, too. But what? I wondered what for a couple of miles, relaxed and happy, utterly devoid of ideas but not pressing myself. I was content to let my unconscious do its fair share of the work. If it came up with something, fine. If it didn't . . . well, you can't win 'em all. And there's a sand dollar, by gum! Milly collects sand dollars.

  Apparently my unconscious had been waiting a long time to give me a piece of its mind because it began abusing me. Listen, it said, pay attention: You've been making fun of the clichés and stereotypes of science fiction for years. This certainly is a chance for more of the same, but while you're at it, the least you can do, if you're honest, is make fun of yourself, too.

  What sort of fun?

&nbs
p; All the childish fantasies still in your mind. Swept under the carpet, no doubt, but very much with you.

  I tried arguing: What makes you think that readers will identify with my fantasies?

  What makes you think you're so different? You share them with everybody else.

  I tried pleading: But if I did, the story would turn episodic. There wouldn't be any central spine to hold it all together.

  You claim you're a writer, don't you? Come up with something.

  So in the end I paid the $2.00 and came up with something. The fantasies are all my own. Most of the characters are based on people I know. I enjoyed the writing tremendously because the structure was loose enough to give me a free hand, and because I discovered that I was great fun to spoof; I've never been able to take myself very seriously.

  There are still two aspects of the story which displease me. I don't care for the title, and when the story was reprinted in another collection, I changed it to "The Star Comber." However, I've been told that

  "5,271,009" is rather different and oddly grabby, so I've gone back to it.

  The other irritant is the tagline of the story. I spent two whole days trying to come up with something more satisfactory, and failed. I appealed to Tony and Mick for help. They failed too. (The best that Tony could do was reassure me that 5,271,009 was indeed a prime number. ) So we let the original stand, and I'm still unhappy with it. And yet even if I did find the right tag this very moment, it's too late to substitute it.

  Altering earlier work is a heinous crime. Fine: $5,271,009.

  P.S. My editor in this edition has solved the problem by cutting the Gordian Knot, which the dictionary defines as "to solve a problem quickly and boldly." My quick and bold editor solved the tag tsimmis by cutting it completely.

  Take two parts of Beelzebub, two of Israfel, one of Monte Cristo, one of Cyrano, mix violently, season with mystery and you have Mr. Solon Aquila. He is tall, gaunt, sprightly in manner, bitter in expression, and when he laughs his dark eyes turn into wounds. His occupation is unknown. He is wealthy without visible means of support. He is seen everywhere and understood nowhere. There is something odd about his life.

  This is what's odd about Mr. Aquila, and you can make what you will of it. When he walks he is never forced to wait on a traffic signal. When he desires to ride there is always a vacant taxi on hand. When he bustles into his hotel an elevator always happens to be waiting. When he enters a store, a salesclerk is always free to serve him. There always happens to be a table available for Mr. Aquila in restaurants. There are always last-minute ticket returns when he craves entertainment at sold-out shows.

  You can question waiters, hack drivers, elevator girls, sales-men, box-office men. There is no conspiracy.

  Mr. Aquila does not bribe or blackmail for these petty conveniences. In any case, it would not be possible for him to bribe or blackmail the automatic clock that governs the city traffic-signal system. These things, which make life so convenient for him, simply happen. Mr. Solon Aquila is never disappointed. Presently we shall hear about his first disappointment and see what it led to.

  Mr. Aquila has been seen fraternizing in low saloons, in middle saloons, in high saloons. He has been met in bagnios, at coronations, executions, circuses, magistrate's courts and handbook offices. He has been known to buy antique cars, historic jewels, incunabula, pornography, chemicals, porro prisms, polo ponies and full-choke shotguns.

  "HimmelHerrGottSeiDank! I'm crazy, man, crazy. Eclectic, by God," he told a flabbergasted department-store president. "The Weltmann type, nicht wahr? My ideal: Goethe. Tout le monde. God damn."

  He spoke a spectacular tongue of mixed metaphors and meanings. Dozens of languages and dialects came out in machine-gun bursts. Apparently he also lied ad libitum.

  "Sacre bleu, Jeez!" he was heard to say once. "Aquila from the Latin. Means aquiline. O tempora, o mores. Speech by Cicero. My ancestor."

  And another time: "My idol: Kipling. Took my name from him. Aquila, one of his heroes. God damn. Greatest Negro writer since Uncle Tom's Cabin."

  On the morning that Mr. Solon Aquila was stunned by his first disappointment, he bustled into the atelier of Lagan & Derelict, dealers in paintings, sculpture and rare objects of art. It was his intention to buy a painting. Mr. James Derelict knew Aquila as a client. Aquila had already purchased a Frederic Remington and a Winslow Homer some time ago when, by another odd coincidence, he had bounced into the Madison Avenue shop one minute after the coveted painting went up for sale. Mr. Derelict had also seen Mr. Aquila boat a prize striper at Montauk.

  "Bon soir, bel esprit, God damn, Jimmy," Mr. Aquila said. He was on first-name terms with everyone.

  "Here's a cool day for color, oui Cool. Slang. I have in me to buy a picture."

  "Good morning, Mr. Aquila," Derelict answered. He had the seamed face of a cardsharp, but his eyes were honest and liis smile was disarming. However at this moment his smile seemed strained, as though the volatile appearance of Aquila had un-nerved him.

  "I'm in the mood for your man, by Jeez," Aquila said, rapidly opening cases, fingering ivories and tasting the porcelains. "What's his name, my old? Artist like Bosch. Like Heinrich Kley. You handle him, parbleu, exclusive. O si sic omnia, by Zeus!"

  "Jeffrey Halsyon?" Derelict asked timidly.

  "Oeil de boeuf!” Aquila cried. "What a memory. Chryselephantine. Exactly the artist I want He is my favorite. A monochrome, preferably. A small Jeffrey Halsyon for Aquila, bitte. Wrap her up."

  "I wouldn't have believed it," Derelict muttered.

  "Ah! Ah-ha? This is not one hundred proof guaranteed Ming," Mr. Aquila exclaimed brandishing an exquisite vase. "Caveat emptor, by damn. Well, Jimmy? I snap my fingers. No Halsyons in stock, old faithful?"

  "It's extremely odd, Mr. Aquila," Derelict seemed to struggle with himself. "Your coming in like this. A Halsyon monochrome arrived not five minutes ago."

  "You see? Tempo ist Richtung. Well?"

  "I'd rather not show it to you. For personal reasons, Mr. Aquila."

  "HimmelHerrGott! Pourquoi? She's bespoke?"

  "N-no, sir. Not for my personal reasons. For your personal reasons."

  "Oh? God damn. Explain myself to me."

  "Anyway, it isn't for sale, Mr. Aquila. It can't be sold."

  "For why not? Speak, old fish and chips."

  "I can't say, Mr. Aquila."

  "Zut alors! Must I judo your arm, Jimmy? You can't show. You can't sell. Me, internally, I have pressurized myself for a Jeffrey Halsyon. My favorite. God damn. Show me the Halsyon or sic transit gloria mundi. You hear me, Jimmy?"

  Derelict hesitated, then shrugged "Very well, Mr. Aquila. Ill show you."

  Derelict led Aquila past cases of china and silver, past lacquer and bronzes and suits of shimmering armor to the gallery in the rear of the shop where dozens of paintings hung on the gray velour walls, glowing under warm spotlights. He opened a drawer in a Goddard breakfront and took out an envelope. On the envelope was printed BABYLON INSTITUTE. From the envelope Derelict withdrew a dollar bill and handed it to Mr. Aquila.

  "Jeffrey Halsyon's latest," he said.

  With a fine pen and carbon ink, a cunning hand had drawn another portrait over the face of George Washington on the dollar bill. It was a hateful, diabolic face set in a hellish background. It was a face to strike terror, in a scene to inspire loathing. The face was a portrait of Mr. Aquila.

  "God damn," Mr. Aquila said.

  "You see, sir? I didn't want to hurt your feelings."

  "Now I must own him, big boy." Mr. Aquila appeared to be fascinated by the portrait. "Is she accident or for purpose? Does Halsyon know myself? Ergo sum."

  "Not to my knowledge, Mr. Aquila. But in any event I can't sell the drawing. It's evidence of a felony . . . mutilating United States currency. It must be destroyed."

  "Never!" Mr. Aquila returned the drawing as though he feared the dealer would instantly set fire to it. "Never, Jimmy. Nevermore quoth the raven. God damn. W
hy does he draw on money, Halsyon? My picture, pfui. Criminal libels but n’importe. But pictures on money? Wasteful. Joci causa."

  "He's insane, Mr. Aquila."

  "No! Yes? Insane?" Aquila was shocked.

  "Quite insane, sir. It's very sad. They've had to put him away. He spends his time drawing these pictures on money."

  "God damn, mon ami. Who gives him money?"

  "I do, Mr. Aquila; and his friends. Whenever we visit him he begs for money for his drawings."

  "Le jour viendra, by Jeez! Why you don't give him paper for drawings, eh, my ancient of days?"

  Derelict smiled sadly. 'We tried that, sir. When we gave Jeff paper, he drew pictures of money."

  "HimmelHerrGott! My favorite artist. In the loony bin. Eh bien. How in the holy hell am I to buy paintings from same if such be the case?"

  "You won't, Mr. Aquila. I'm afraid no one will ever buy a Halsyon again. He's quite hopeless."

  "Why does he jump his tracks, Jimmy?"

  "They say it's a withdrawal, Mr. Aquila. His success did it to him."

  "Ah? Q.E.D. me, big boy. Translate."

  "Well, sir, he's still a young man; in his thirties and very immature. When he became so very successful, he wasn't ready for it. He wasn't prepared for the responsibilities of his life and his career. That's what the doctors told me. So he turned his back on everything and withdrew into childhood."

  "Ah? And the drawing on money?"

  "They say that's his symbol of his return to childhood, Mr. Aquila. It proves he's too young to know what money is for."

  "Ah? Oui. Ja. Astute, by crackey. And my portrait?"

  "I can't explain that, Mr. Aquila, unless you have met him in the past and he remembers you somehow. Or it may be a coincidence."

  "Hmmm. Perhaps. So. You know something, my attic of Greece? I am disappointed. Je n'oublierai jamais. I am most severely disappointed. God damn. No more Halsyons ever? Merde. My slogan. We must do something about Jeffrey Halsyon. I will not be disappointed. We must do something."