Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester (44 page)

“What? That fleabag?”

“I have to economize for my research.”

“Well, you can economize by moving in with me. It won’t cost you a cent. I’ve got plenty of room, and I’ll put you up for the duration, with pleasure. I’ve generated a housekeeper who’ll take good care of you—and rather startle you, I think. Now do say yes, Corque. We’ve got a hell of a lot of discussing to do and I’ve got a lot to learn from you.”

“I think it will be the other way around, my dear Dominie.”

“Don’t argue! Just pack up, get the hell out of the Borealis, and—”

“What, Sandy?”

“Where?”

“Oh, yes. I see the rat-fink.”

“What now, Manwright?”

“Her husband. I’ll trouble you to use restraint on me, or he’ll become her
late
husband.”

An epicene hove into view—tall, slender, elegant, in flesh-colored SkinAll—with chest, arms, and legs artfully padded to macho dimensions, as was the ornamented codpiece. Manwright juggled the extinguisher angrily, as though groping for the firing pin of a grenade. He was so intent on the encounter that Corque was able to slip the cylinder out of his hands as the epicene approached, surveyed them, and at last spoke.

“Ah, Manwright.”

“Jessamy!” Manwright turned the name into a denunciation.

“Sandra.”

“And our impresario.”

“Good evening, Mr. Jessamy.”

“Manwright, I have a bone to pick with you.”

“You? Pick? A bone? With me? Why, you damned pimp, putting your own wife, my magnificent creation, into a damned freak show!” He turned angrily on Professor Corque. “And you bought her, eh?”

“Not guilty, Dominie. I can’t supervise everything. The Freak Foreman made the purchase.”

“He did, did he?” Manwright returned to Jessamy. “And how much did you get for her?”

“That is not germane.”

“That little? Why, you padded procurer? Why? God knows, you don’t need the money.”

“Dr. Manwright—”

“Don’t you ‘Doctor’ me. It’s Dominie.”

“Dominie—”

“Speak.”

“You sold me a lemon.”

“What!”

“You heard me. You sold me a lemon.”

“How dare you!”

“I admit I’m a jillionaire.”

“Admit it? You broadcast it.”

“But nevertheless I resent a rip-off.”

“Rip! I’ll kill the man. Don’t restrain me. I’ll kill! Look, you damned minty macho, you came to me and contracted for the perfect wife. A Siren, you said. The kind that a man would have to lash himself to the mast to resist, à la Ulysses. Well? Didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Yes, you did. And did I or did I not generate a biodroid miracle of beauty, enchantment, and mythological authenticity, guaranteed or your money back?”

“Yes, you did.”

“And one week after delivery I discover my Pearl of Perfection sold to the distinguished Charles Russell Corque’s obscene freak show and displayed naked in a bizarre showcase. My beautiful face and neck! My beautiful back and buttocks! My beautiful breasts! My beautiful mons veneris! My—”

“That’s what she wanted.”

“Did you, Sandy?”

“Shame on you, girl. I know you’re vain—that was a glitch in my programming—but you don’t have to flaunt it. You’re a damned exhibitionist.” Back to Jessamy: “But that doesn’t excuse your selling her. Why did you do it, dammit? Why?”

“She was tearing my sheets.”

“What?”

“Your beautiful, enchanting Pearl of Perfection was tearing my monogrammed silk sheets, woven at incredible cost by braindamaged nuns. She was tearing them with her mythologically authentic feet. Look at them.”

There was no need to look. It was undeniable that the beautiful, enchanting Siren was feathered from the knees down and had delicate pheasant feet.

“So?” Manwright demanded impatiently.

“She was also scratching my ankles.”

“Damn you!” Manwright burst out. “You asked for a Siren. You paid for a Siren. You received a Siren.”

“With bird feet?”

“Of course with bird feet. Sirens are part bird. Haven’t you read your Bulfinch? Aristotle? Sir Thomas Browne? Matter of fact, you’re lucky Sandy didn’t turn out bird from the waist down. Ha!”

“Very funny,” Jessamy muttered.

“But it wasn’t luck,” Manwright went on. “No, it was genius. My biodroid genius for creative genesis, and my deep understanding of the sexual appetites.”

“Don’t be impudent, girl. I have sexual appetites, too, but when I guarantee a virgin, I— No matter. Take her home, Jessamy. Don’t argue, or I’ll kill you, if I can find that damned brass thing I thought I had. Take Sandra home. I’ll refund Professor Corque in full. Got to support his brilliant research. Sandy, trim your talons, for God’s sake! Sense and sensibility, girl! Corque, go pack up and move in with me. Here’s my card with the address. What the devil are you doing with that silly-looking fire extinguisher?”

“And that’s the full shmeer, Charles. I’m sorry I haven’t any work in progress to show you, but you can see I’m no tailor or seamstress, cutting up mature animals, human or otherwise, and piecing parts together like you see with those show-biz monsters in your circus. No, I macrogenerate ’em, pure and whole, out of the basic DNA broth. Mine are all test-tube babies. Florence-flask babies, as a matter of fact, which is where I start ’em. Biodroids need womb space like any other animal.”

“Fascinating, my dear Reg, and quite overwhelming. But what I can’t fathom is your RNA process.”

“Ah! The RNA messenger service, eh?”

“Exactly. Now we all know that DNA is the life reservoir—”

“All? We all know? Ha! Not bloody likely. Some time I’ll show you the abuse I get from the Scripture freaks.”

“And we know that RNA is the messenger service delivering commands to the developing tissues.”

“Right on, Charles. That’s where the control lies.”

“But how do you control the controls? How do you direct the RNA to deliver specific commands from DNA to embryo? And how do you select the commands?”

“Penthouse.”

“Wh-what?”

“Come up to the penthouse. I’ll show you.”

Manwright led Corque out of the enormous crimson-lit cellar laboratory which was softly glowing with ruby-colored glassware and liquids (“My babies
must
be insulated from light and noise”) and up to the main floor of the house. It was decorated in the Dominie’s demented style: a hodgepodge of Regency, classic Greek, African, and Renaissance. There was even a marble pool inhabited by iridescent manic fish, which gazed up at the two men eagerly.

“Hoping we’ll fall in,” Manwright laughed. “A cross between piranha and golden carp. One of my follies.”

Thence to the second floor, twenty-five by a hundred, Man-wright’s library and study: four walls shelved and crammed with tapes, publications, and software; a rolling ladder leaning against each wall; a gigantic carpenter’s workbench center, used as a desk and piled with clutter.

Third floor divided between dining room (front), kitchen and pantry (center), and servants’ quarters (rear, overlooking garden).

Fourth floor, enjoying maximum sky and air, bedrooms. There were four, each with its own dressing room and bath, all rather severe and monastic. Manwright regarded sleep as a damned necessity which had to be endured but which should never be turned into a luxury.