Turing & Burroughs: A Beatnik SF Novel (9 page)

“I’d like to get kind of personal with you,” said Ned, slinking after him. “I think you’ll understand.”

Was this a sexual proposition? If so, it was unwelcome. Giving no answer, Alan headed down the gray passageways to his room, his feet ringing on the metal floor. He double-locked the door, and set Katje’s dress to dry on his chair.

Why deny your fellow?
It was the voice of the skug within him, forming words in his head.

I want nothing to do with Strunk
, thought Alan.
For all I know he’s from the CIA. Like an American Pratt.

He’s like Pratt, but he’s not an agent,
said the skug.
Strunk’s one of us. He needs your help.

Possibly these were hallucinations. Cutting off the stream of thought, Alan splashed cold water on his face and went to sleep. He was much too tired to pursue Vassar tonight.

When he awoke the next morning he felt very strange. Where were his arms and his legs? His visual field was a mismatched pair of fisheye views.

Bending one of his eyes downward, Alan realized that, in his exhaustion, he’d relaxed into the form of a seventy kilogram slug. He was a glistening shade of ochre, with a darker zone along his slick, body-length foot. Two feelers bracketed his mouth, and his eyes were mounted upon short, muscular stalks.

Oh hell. Once again, Alan focused inward, coaxing his bodily structures into the desired Burroughs form.

“Stiff upper lip,” he said aloud, as soon as he had something like a human mouth again. “One keeps up appearances.”

He noticed that Katje’s dress was dry. Carefully he folded it in two and hid it beneath his mattress.

Looking for a place to pass some time without being further importuned by Strunk, Alan made his way to the ship’s bridge. The radio operator was a congenial Australian using the default nickname Sparks. Alan had a pleasant talk with Sparks about his equipment, and even offered a suggestion for healing a buzz in the system. The fix worked, and Sparks willingly lent Alan his circuit diagrams and his repairs manual. Alan loved reading about the latest kinds of radio tubes. Studying the possibilities back in his room, he began sketching out a design for a circuit that could send a signal to make his skuggy body still more malleable and easy to control.

At lunchtime, Alan dropped his researches to stake out the mess-room, watching from a perch on the deck. He managed to enter the mess just as Katje and her mother were leaving. Dexterously he seated himself at their now-empty table, and stuffed Katje’s used napkin into his pants. Neither Vassar nor Strunk were around just now. After a quick bite to eat, Alan locked himself in his room with his treasure and began examining the napkin’s stains. And there, yes, was just the bit he’d been hoping for.

With a sense of high ceremony, Alan undressed and lay naked on his bed, draping the napkin over his face. He dropped his perceptions down to a deep biological level and urged on the autonomic functions of his inner skug.
Make me into her
.

Katje had left a tiny fragment of skin from her lip on the napkin, and Alan was pressing it to his own mouth. His lower lip twitched and tingled, gathering in the scrap of Katje’s flesh.

Alan’s heart pounded, his ears buzzed with the happy chanting of the skug. His flesh and bones began to flow, subtly on the whole, but with occasional lurches, as when his pelvis broadened to being half again as wide. Cell by cell, Alan’s tissues were learning Katje’s genetic code.

After an indefinite period of time, he sat up and regarded himself in the mirror. He’d morphed into a very close semblance of Katje indeed, complete with breasts and a vagina. He wondered if the genitalia were shaped right. Although he’d been engaged at one time, and had even spent a couple of awkward nights with his fianceé, Alan had no clear image of the details. But surely Katje’s genes knew.

It was very odd to be shorter and wider than before. And a little disturbing to have no penis—just that triangular little wisp of hair with a line at the bottom. Alan began thinking of the swarthy Vassar pushing his way into him, with his strong arms holding Alan tight. The image made him almost unbearably aroused.

There was a lot of noise from the deck, and it had been going on for some time. Alan realized that they’d maneuvered into the port of Funchal in Madeira, and were hoisting cargo on board. In due time, people would be going ashore for dinner. Excellent.

Slowly, almost in a trance, Alan donned Katje’s dress, and sat on his bunk, studying himself in the mirror. It wouldn’t do to appear as an exact copy of the Belgian woman. He rubbed and kneaded his face, guiding the features into a more foxy and feral form—effectively making the new face more like his own.

He had no make-up, nor any notion of how to apply it. But it was easy to amplify the redness of his lips from within. He wouldn’t worry about underwear—the lack might well titillate Vassar. And as for shoes—oh, botheration. Certainly Alan’s cracked old oxfords wouldn’t do. There was nothing for it but to go barefoot. They were, after all, in the tropics.

When the voices and footfalls of the crew and passengers had finally damped down, Alan issued forth. The air was pleasantly damp and warm. And the decks were nearly deserted, save for the blasted Ned Strunk, who was sitting near the gangplank, doing nothing whatsoever, his expression as vacant as a dog’s.

“Howdy, it’s me again,” called Strunk as soon as he glimpsed Alan in his womanly form. “You look all different.”

Alan felt a pulse of interest from within. Something about Strunk appealed to his inner skug.

“I’m just a visitor,” said Alan quickly. Although he was still using his native British accent, his voice was higher, with a bit of a purr.

“You’re coming from Bill Burroughs’s room, right?” said Strunk in a low voice. “Number 17.”

“Don’t ask a lady her secrets,” said Alan, playing the belle. He had no time for this fool. He bent his lips in a simper, archly wagged his finger, and made his way down the ramp to the Madeira wharf, swaying his hips, comfortable in his bare feet.

Wait
, went the voice in Alan’s head.
Strunk needs you.
With a special effort of will, Alan muted the skug’s signals.

Right down the block he found the lit-up
O Portao
—which looked to offer a rather pricey feed. Alan approached and peered in through the open cafe-bar. The maitre d’ was eager to seat him in the dining room, but Alan saw no sign of Vassar. That layabout wouldn’t eat here without a pigeon to pay his check.

And, oh Lord, there were Katje and her mother on the other side of the dining-room, tucking into a platter of—was that scabbard-fish? If Alan entered, the women might recognize the stolen dress. Alan himself had very little intuition about clothes—back in Manchester he’d sometimes gone to work in his pyjama shirt. But he knew he was atypical in this respect.

Leaving the
O Portao
, he dawdled along the quay, wondering where he might find Vassar. Perhaps it was best to leave it to chance. He’d wait and be found—just like a woman might do. Here was a pleasant, well-lit café. Alan took a seat outdoors by the sea wall, ordered fish and chips, and sat there peacefully listening to the wireless.

They were playing the Voice of America channel—a revue of swoony, romantic pop songs. A lament called “Till Then” flowed into a crooning dance tune named “Earth Angel.” Alan felt very sensitive to the music. The plangent notes went right through him. As he sipped a glass of guava nectar, he began swaying his breasts, intrigued by their complex oscillations beneath the silky fabric of his dress.

“Hey there, Katje!” came a voice from behind him. “Want to dance?”

Alan turned and his heart leapt up. It was Vassar Lafia, drawn like a bee to the blossom, his golden-brown eyes alight. “Hello,” said Alan, managing some sangfroid. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“I’m Vassar. From the
Phos
ship. How wild, you look almost like a friend of mine. Her cosmic double, you might say. What’s your name?”

“Abby. I—I live on Madeira.”

“Are you a working girl?”

“Are you always so rude?”

“Do you want a date?” pressed Vassar.

“Let’s dance. As you suggested.” Alan reached up and took Lafia’s hand. It was warm and strong. Gently they moved across the floor to the melding voices of a female trio singing “Mr. Sandman.”

Alan’s dance steps were a bit uncertain, but Vassar didn’t mind.

“You’re a tasty armful,” he said, smiling down. “I’d like to get to know you better. I wish we had some time to maneuver in.”

“I wonder if you could find us a warm spot to be
private
,” said Alan, his pulse beating in his throat. “A place where we could lie down.”

Vassar held him out at arm’s length and grinned. “You’re my kind of woman, Abby! Follow me. I’ll sniff out a nook. I’m the thief of Baghdad, baby.”

Vassar found a Mercedes parked in a dark alleyway, and somehow he got it unlocked. He was clever with his hands. They made love on the leather back seat, Vassar on top. It was spectacular. At the climax, Alan’s skug wanted him to melt and to envelop Vassar’s body entirely, but Alan held back from that. He didn’t want to spoil this precious moment.

“You think you’ll ever come to the States?” said Vassar, smiling down at him. “I’m gonna hate to say goodbye to a firecracker like you.”

“Are you inviting me onto the ship?” said Alan, running the tip of his finger down the bridge of Vassar’s fine nose.

“Well, I know you’ve got your own life here,” said Vassar, backing off a bit. “Family, friends, the whole bag.”

After a bit, they slipped apart and sat side by side on the car’s leather seat, caressing each other. “What do you do here all day long?” asked Vassar.

“I raise orchids for export, and cultivate new hybrids,” said Alan, saying whatever popped into his head. “It’s quite a science, really, learning how things grow and how they take form.” Gently he played with Vassar’s penis, making it stiff again. “You’ve a lovely orchid yourself.” He sighed and bent his head to the dear man’s lap.

Neither of them wanted the night to be over. For hours they alternated love-making with conversation.

Vassar told Alan stories about his adventures in North Africa and the Mideast. He’d hitchhiked in hurricanes, broken out of jails, parachuted from planes. Or so he said. Spinning his tales in the dark, Vassar came across as touchingly insecure. He took at face value Abby’s claims to be something of a scientist, and he offered praise. He bragged that he had a highly educated friend named William Burroughs aboard the
Phos
.

“He talks a lot like you, Abby. You two would hit it off.”

Finally they said goodbye. Once Alan was sure that Vassar was back on the
Phos
, he crept aboard too.

At dawn the fully laden ship steamed into the Atlantic proper. Alan was too excited to sleep very much. He took on the shape of Burroughs again, and made his way to the mess-room for a late breakfast.

Who should he find there but Vassar Lafia, tired and triumphant.

“Did you have a jolly time in Funchal?” asked Alan.

“Wild sex, Bill. I met this girl in a café, name of Abby.” Vassar turned his head, gazing out at the receding mound of of the island. “I need to see her again. Need it bad.”

“Maybe you will,” said Alan coyly. “I’m sure she wants more of you as well.”

“I wish,” said Vassar, not picking up on Alan’s tone. “What a woman. I didn’t have to chase her across hill and dale—none of that bashful doe routine. She knew what she wanted. And she’s smart—she breeds new kinds of plants. I think she said orchids…”

“Mister Sandman, bring me a dream,” murmured Alan.

“What’s that?” Vassar shot him a sharp look. “Were you spying on us last night?”

“How would I?” said Alan. “But allow me a query. Did you find Abby’s genitalia realistic?”

“What a question!” exclaimed Vassar with a burst of laughter. “You’re a rare bird, Bill.”

The passage across the sea lasted a week. The unsavory Ned Strunk continued making inarticulate overtures, vaguely sexual, but Alan resolutely fended him off. The man was, in principle, reasonably good-looking. But his odd demeanor made him as unappetizing as a hamper of dirty laundry. Alan almost wondered if the fellow were mentally ill.

He took to spending most of each day in his room, implementing a new radio circuit design. Sparks, who was short of funds, had sold Alan the radio shack’s stock of spare parts in an under-the-counter deal.

Alan wanted to continue improving his symbiosis with his skug. He created another feedback transmitter, tuning its input to the faint electromagnetic signals from his brain, and beaming its output into his solar plexus. Using the device was, if you will, an advanced form of meditation. Or, looked at differently, a method of tuning the parameters of an intelligent network.

It was well to be working alone in his room as much as possible. This way he could avoid not only Strunk, but Vassar as well. After his night of love as Abby, Alan was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up appearances with Vassar. And he was concerned that Strunk might be some kind of agent.