Turing & Burroughs: A Beatnik SF Novel (17 page)

“
Norvell
killed the poor fellow,” said Alan. “Not you and I. If we go gently, we can win our campaign in peace.” The pleasant ocean air beat against his face, riffling his bobbed hair. He felt safe and powerful. And he was jazzed at the thought of seeing Bill Burroughs again. Vassar was sexy, Ned was nice, but only Bill was his intellectual equal.

“Win how?” said Ned, dogged in his pessimism. “Win what?”

“Oh, bother. My tweaks have made the skugly biocomputation exceedingly contagious, in case you hadn’t taken that in. Tangier is ours, I’ll hazard. And Palm Beach falls soon too. Before long I’ll find a way to convert the whole world at one go.”

“I’m getting these world conquest vibes from my inner skug,” said Ned. “I think maybe the skugs are a little too gung-ho.”

“I’m for them,” said Alan. “Let’s be double sure that our teep blocks are on before we discuss my plan.” He surveyed his inner walls and found everything in order. It wasn’t so hard keeping up the block once you’d learned how. “Right. You mustn’t share my plan with anyone, Ned.”

“I’ll pile on the lead bricks,” said Ned. “Tell me.”

“My skug and I have reached the conclusion that we should proceed to the National Laboratories in Los Alamos, New Mexico,” whispered Alan. “Stanislaw Ulam works there, a very fine mathematician. Ulam and I have followed each other’s papers for years, not that we’ve never met face to face. He studies lovely mathematical arcana—nonlinear waves, cellular automata, higher infinities, and phase space. Along the way, he and that
fathead
Teller invented the hydrogen bomb. The bomb is the tool that the skugs really need.” Alan pursed his lips, thinking. “I won’t immediately tell Stan Ulam who I am.”

“I know Los Alamos,” murmured Ned. “I was there for my Navy sub nuke-training. Secrets of about uranium 238 and plutonium 239. The heavy-metal brothers, you might say.”

“Excellent,” said Alan. “You can help me worm my way in.” He snaked a cheerful arm across the seat and chucked Ned under the chin.

“Back up a second,” said Ned. “You’re saying you want the skugs to get hold of an H-bomb? Doesn’t sound like a real good idea.”

“Think of a thermonuclear explosion as a short-lived sun,” said Alan. “A source of health and
enlightenment
. A global revolution is imperative. Humanity has truckled to cretins for long enough. More on this later. Store our discussion in your deepest, darkest memory-crypt, dear boy.”

“Okay, fine. But I may still want to argue with you.”

“Agreed. Slow down now. We’re almost at Cobblestone Gardens.” Alan glanced at a gold ladies’ wristwatch he’d nicked from the police evidence room. “Noon. Time for my—
tryst
. I do hope you’re not insanely jealous.”

“Definitely not a problem,” said Ned evenly. “I’m glad to be your pal, Alan. You’re the wildest guy I ever met. And we’ll share wetware now and then with a morphodite slug-slime conjugation. But, no, I’m not hankering to carry you as any kind of steady girlfriend.”

“Very well,” said Alan, perhaps a little relieved. What with Vassar Lafia and Bill Burroughs he had enough romantic prospects.

Ned pulled into a parking spot beside Cobblestone Gardens, a medium-sized shop filled with fripperies. Laura Burroughs herself was visible within, arranging dried flowers. Noticing them, she smiled, as if eager for customers. For the moment she gave no sign of recognizing Ned and Alan in their current states.

An old black pickup truck rattled in next to Alan, with a high flat windshield and odd music wafting from within. Vassar was in the passenger seat, with a dark-haired woman driving. She peered at Alan, sizing him up, naturally taking him for a woman as well. The dark-haired woman smiled, with dimples forming in her pale skin. The smile wasn’t entirely friendly.

“You’re Abby? Hi there. I’m Susan Green. The wife. Your rival.”

“Abby, baby!” called Vassar, hopping out of the old truck and hurrying around to the Pontiac. “We made it. Had to change a tire on the way up. Who’s the guy?”

“Says Ned Smith on my license,” said Ned, getting out of the car. Even though he was using the same first name, he looked nothing like the Ned who’d been on the ship. “And you’re Vassar Lafia.” He smirked knowingly and waggled his hand in a floppy kind of way. “What do you say we bring them into the fold, Abby?”

“Not yet,” said Alan. “You behave yourself, Ned. And say hello to Susan Green.”

“A natural born woman,” said Ned, taking Susan’s hand. She’d unlimbered herself from the pickup. “A thrill,” continued Ned. “I’ve been penned up with men in a sub for months. Are you guys New Yorkers?”

“How would you know?” said Susan, cocking her head. “I thought I’d managed to go native down here. I’m wearing the jeans, the man’s shirt, the tennie-pumps? A good old gal. Where are you from, anyway?”

“Kentucky,” said Ned. “You have a New York face. That wised-up look. I knew some New Yorkers in the Navy. Before I deserted.”

“All I ever meet are the problem boys,” said Susan mildly. She glanced at Alan. “Go ahead and give Vassar a hug if you want to, Abby.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll bide my time.”

Not quite sure how things stood, Alan gave Vassar a quick squeeze. As always, the man smelled wonderful. And then they edged apart, both of them alert to Susan’s mood.

“I hope you play an instrument?” Susan asked Alan. “You should to know that music is my big thing.” An unsteady sequence of clacks and chirps was issuing from the pickup’s window.

“I don’t play,
per se
,” temporized Alan. But Susan Green seemed so intelligent that he wanted to offer a real answer. “During the war I invented a voice encryption system based on a system of radio tubes. We called it Delilah. It made rather interesting noises. Not unlike—” He gestured at the truck. “Is that
musique concrète
? On your radio?”

“Susan’s stuff, yeah,” said Vassar. “On her tape recorder. She’s a composer. Highly vibrational. Part-time teacher at the University of Miami. I’m proud of her. But back up for a minute, Abby. On Madeira you said you were an orchid breeder. Not an electronics whiz.”

“Everything Abby’s told you is bullshit,” put in Ned, as if wanting to stir up trouble.

“I dabble in electronics,” allowed Alan, not all that upset to see his old cover story start to fray. The best would be if Vassar loved him for who he really was. “You were saying, Susan?”

“I call my work acousmatics,” said Susan, seemingly enjoying the conversation’s twists and turns. “That shiny box with curved corners sitting on the truck seat? That’s my Ampex two-track, playing my sounds. I work on tape, I use it to compose. First I sample things like water, birds, traffic, cafes, dishes, sex—anything interesting that I hear. I’m always paying attention. Once I have the tapes, I tweak the speeds, paste up snippets, and re-record.” She smiled, happy to be talking about her work. “This part you hear now is Vassar snoring, only it’s slowed down a hundred to one. It makes me think of, I don’t know, hunting elephants in Africa.” Susan glanced at her husband. “And now my big tusker is home.”

“Yeah, Susan, yeah,” said Vassar a little impatiently. “But why does that weird woman in the store keep staring at us?”

“Oh never mind her,” said Alan. “That’s just Burroughs’s mother. This is her shop, remember. Cobblestone Gardens. She hasn’t really met Ned or me.”

“Well, actually she
has
,” said the antic Ned.

“So where
is
Bill Burroughs?” Vassar asked Alan, ignoring Ned. “I figured he’d be the one to drive you here today, Abby.”

“I wanted to get a look at Burroughs too,” put in Susan. “He’s kind of a legend.”

“Bill’s still in Tangier,” said Ned, dead set on making trouble.

“You’re wrong there,” corrected Alan, wishing Ned would keep silent. “I think Bill’s in London by now. Or already on the plane to New York. He wants to see me.”

“The point I’m making is that Bill was
not
on the ship with Vassar,” said Ned in a spiteful tone. “It’s like I’m telling you, Vassar. Everything you know is wrong.”

“What’s
with
this guy?” Vassar asked Alan. “How did he glom onto you?”

“I’m guessing that you people are friends of my son’s,” said Laura Burroughs, suddenly stepping out from her shop. “I think I heard his name? I’m afraid we had a bit of a family drama yesterday morning.”

“Oh, we’re about to leave,” said Ned hastily. “Sorry to be—”

“
You
,” said Mrs. Burroughs, staring at him. “I’m sure I saw you yesterday in—you know—the guest bedroom. What
were
you doing? It was such a jumble. And the smell! I’m afraid I quite lost my temper.” She stopped and pursed her lips. Getting no answer from Ned, she sighed. “My son is an irredeemable bohemian, and I have to accept him and his ways. I’m Laura, by the way.”

“I’m Abby,” interposed Alan with a bow. “And these are Ned, Vassar, and Susan.”

“Do you know if my Bill’s still in town, Abby?”

“He’ll be with you tomorrow, I think,” Alan assured her. “And he’ll be more like his old self.”

“Little Billy and my husband Mote will be so glad,” said Laura. “Of course they’re both making me out to be the heartless mother for ordering him out of the house. To make things worse, two policemen arrived after Bill left. They said dire things about plagues and mutants—they seemed quite unhinged. You’re sure Bill’s coming back?”

“Indeed,” said Alan. “I had a conversation with Bill last night. Long distance. His main concern—perhaps I shouldn’t mention this—he’s worried about you cutting off his stipend.”

“How typical,” said Laura, shaking her head. “I won’t ask you if Bill’s at the drug hospital in Lexington. I don’t like to be a desperate old hen.” She paused, studying them. “Won’t you four come in for a minute? I’ve got a pot of coffee in the back of the store. And endless left-over Christmas cookies. And many, many, many chairs.”

Vassar and Ned were impatient by now. For her part, Susan was holding a microphone, apparently sampling bits of the dignified old lady’s conversation onto her tape mix.

“I’m sorry, we’re rather preoccupied,” Alan told Laura Burroughs. “Ned and I are about to start a road trip. We’d only meant to use your shop as a meeting point with Vassar and Susan. A local landmark. I do appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Burroughs, and I’m sorry about that scene at your house. If I see Bill before you do, I’ll let him know you’re ready to forgive him.”

“No use being angry with your crowd,” said Laura with a sigh. “You live like seagulls. Swoop and gobble.” Shaking her head a little sadly, she went back into her shop.

“There’s something about this set-up that I’m not getting,” said Vassar, glancing back and forth between Ned and Alan. “Like why was that woman talking about mutants? And what went down at her house? And why does this Ned know so much about me?”

“I’ll explain it later,” said Alan.

“After we all get to be real good friends,” said Ned, still enjoying Vassar’s discomfiture.

“Questions all around,” said Susan. “Like why do I keep thinking Abby is a man? No takers? How about this one. Why is the bed of my truck full of boxes and bags?”

“So why?” said Ned, wanting to charm her. He mimed puzzlement with his hands out to either side.

“Why don’t you go on and tell them, Vassar,” said Susan, her voice a little cold.

“I, uh, screwed up,” mumbled Vassar. “Ran my mouth. And we gotta bail.” He leaned closer to Alan and hooked his thumb towards Ned. “Can I talk in front of this guy?”

“I’m wanted by the law myself,” said Ned. “So come off the mystery man routine, Vassar. I suppose you’re fretting about the hash you smuggled?”

“He’s a secret agent!” exclaimed Vassar.

“Don’t be daft,” said Alan. “You told me about your hashish the moment I got aboard the ship. You told everyone who’d listen. I suppose I mentioned it to Ned while filling him in on your background. You’ve had some problem on this front? The customs inspectors seemed quite lax.”

“My husband got in double trouble,” said Susan. “The cops want to arrest him and the dealers want to stomp him. And this is all about a tiny little chunk of hash—maybe a few ounces. But Vassar had to go and start bragging to the boys at the neighborhood bar like he had a boatload, and the cops and dealers found out. So we’re leaving town. Life gives you dancing lessons—do you know that expression?”

“I told you I’m sorry, Susan,” said Vassar. “I don’t know why you won’t—”

“Oh, don’t
worry
, even if my teaching gig might have been the only good job I’ll ever get in my life. It’s not like people are lining up to hire electronic composers. You clumsy idiot. I just hope we make it all the way to the west coast.”

“We’ll be lucky to make Louisiana in this bomb,” said Vassar, patting the wobbly black fender of the pickup. “It’s a 1936,” he told Ned. “We haven’t really been keeping it up.”

“We?” cried Susan. “
You
. The car stuff is your job. But you’ve been off on your quest to the ancient world. Seeking the beyond. Plowing the fertile crescents!”