Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester (46 page)

Und so weiter
.
Und
good luck to the computer software for creative biogenesis, which couldn’t possibly interest anyone.

“Anyway, there’s no point in reading the program, Charles. Numbers can’t paint the picture. I’ll just describe the sources I’ve used for the generation of our Popsy. You may not recognize some of the names, but I assure you that most of them were very real and famous celebrities in their time.”

“What was your lecture to Igor the other day, Reg? ‘A chef is no better than his materials.’”

“Right on. And I’m using the best. Beauty—Botticelli’s Venus of course, but with Egyptian breasts. I thought of using Pauline Borghese, but there’s a queen in a limestone relief from the Ptolemaic period who’s the ideal model. Callipygian rear elevation. Maidenhair frontispiece, delicate and fritillary. Did you say something, Charles?”

“Not I, Reg.”

“I’ve decided not to use Aspasia for the virtues.”

“But you said that was what Valera wanted.”

“So I did, but I was wrong. The real Aspasia was a damned premature Women’s Rights activist. Too strong for the chairman’s taste.”

“And yours?”

“Any man’s. So I’m using Egeria instead.”

“Egeria? I haven’t had an education in the classics, Reg.”

“Egeria, the legendary fountain nymph who was the devoted adviser to King Numa of ancient Rome. She also possessed the gift of prophecy, which might come in handy for Valera. Let’s see. Fashion and chic—a famous couturière named Coco Chanel. Subtle perceptions—the one and only Jane Austen. Voice and theater sense—Sarah Bernhardt. And she’ll add a soupçon of lovely Jew.”

“What on earth for?”

“It’s obvious you haven’t met many on the outer planets or you wouldn’t ask. Remarkable race, Jews: freethinking, original, creative, obstinate, impossible to live with or without.”

“That’s how you described the ideal mistress, wasn’t it?”

“I did.”

“But if your Popsy is obstinate, how can she respond to Valera’s desires?”

“Oh, I’m using Lola Montez for that. Apparently, she was a tigress in the sex department. Hmmm. Next? Victoria Woodhull for business acumen. La Pasionaria for courage. Hester Baterman—she was the first woman silversmith—for skills. Dorothy Parker for wit. Florence Nightingale for sacrifice. Mata Hari for mystery. What else?”

“Conversation.”

“Quite right. Oscar Wilde.”

“Oscar Wilde!”

“Why not? He was a brilliant talker; held dinner parties spellbound. I’m giving her dancer’s hands, neck, and legs. Dolley Madison hostessing, and—I’ve omitted something… .”

“Your deliberate mistake.”

“Of course. The mystery kink which will catch us all by surprise.” Manwright flipped through the software. “It’s programmed somewhere around here. No, that’s Valera’s Persona Profile. Charles, you won’t believe the damned intransigent, stubborn, know-it-all, conceited egomania concealed beneath that polished veneer. It’s going to be hell imprinting our girl with an attraction engram for such an impossible man. Oh, here’s the unexpected in black and white.”

Manwright pointed to:

“Wait a minute,” Corque said slowly. That equation looks familiar.”

“Aha.”

“I think I remember it from one of my boyhood texts.”

“Oh-ho.”

“The … the most probable distance …” Corque was dredging up the words “… from the lamppost after a certain number of … of irregular turns is equal to the average length of each track that is—”

“Straight track, Charles.”

“Right. Each straight track that is walked, times the square root of their number.” Corque looked at Manwright with a mixture of wonder and amusement. “Confound you, Reg! That’s the solution to the famous ‘Drunkard’s Walk’ problem from
The Law of Disorder
. And this is the deliberate uncertainty that you’re programming? You’re either a madman or a genius.”

“A little of both, Charles. A little of both. Our Popsy will walk straight lines within my parameters, but we’ll never know when or how she’ll hang a right or a left.”

“Surely she’ll be aiming for Valera?”

“Of course. He’s the lamppost. But she’ll do some unexpected staggering on the way.” Manwright chuckled and sang in an odd, husky voice. “There’s a lamp on a post, There’s a lamp on a post, And it sets the night aglowin’. Boy girl boy girl, Boy boy girl girl, But best when flakes is snowin’.”

Regis Manwright’s laboratory notes provide a less-than-dramatic description (to put it politely) of the genesis and embryological development of Galatea Galante, the Perfect Popsy.

(E & A charging
too damn much
for flasks!!!)

(Baby nominal. Charles enchanted with her. Too red for my taste. Poured out of the amnion blowing bubbles and talking. Couldn’t shut her up. Just another fresh kid with a damn big mouth.)

“Reg. Gaily must have a nurse.”

“For heaven’s sake, Charles! She’ll be a year old next week.”

“She must have someone to look after her.”

“All right. All right. Igor. She can sleep in his room.”

“No, no, no. He’s a dear creature, but hardly my idea of a nursemaid.”

“I can convince him he made her. He’ll be devoted.”

“No good, Reg; he isn’t child oriented.”

“You want someone child oriented? Hmmm. Ah, yes. Got just the right number for you. I generated The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe for the Positively Peerless Imitation Plastic company to use in their genuine plastics sales promotion.”

‘“She had so many children she didn’t know what to do’?”

“The same.” Manwright punched the CB keyboard. “Seanbhean? This is Regis.”

The screen sparkled and cleared. A gypsy crone appeared with begging hand outstretched for alms.

“How’s everything going, Seanbhean?”

“
Scanruil aduafar
, Regis.”

“Why?”

“Briseadh ina ghno e.”

“What! PPIP gone bankrupt? That’s shocking. So you’re out of a job?”

“Deanfaidh sin!”

“Well perhaps I have something for you, Seanbhean. I’ve just generated—”

“Cut off, Reg,” Corque broke in sharply.

Manwright was so startled by Corque’s tone that he obeyed and looked up perplexedly. “Don’t think she’ll do, Charles?”

“That old hag? Out of the question.”

“She isn’t old,” Manwright protested. “She’s under thirty. I made her look like that according to specs: Seventy-year-old Irish gypsy. They call ’em ‘tinkers’ in Ireland. Speaks Irish and can handle kid actors who are a pain in the ass. And I delivered, by God.”

“As you always do, but still out of the question. Please try someone else.”

“Charles, has that damn infant got you enthralled?”

“No.”

“Her first conquest, and she’s just out of the flask! Can you imagine what she’ll do to men in another twenty weeks? Be at each other’s throats. Fighting duels. Ha! I
am
a genius, and I don’t deny it.”

“We need a nurse for Gaily, Reg.”

“Nag, nag, nag.”

“Someone warm and comforting after the child has endured a session with you.”

“I can’t think what the man is implying. All right, cradle-snatcher, all right. I’ll call Claudia.” Manwright punched the CB. “She’s warm and maternal and protective. Wish she’d been
my
nanny. Hello? Claudia? It’s Regis. Switch on, darling.” The screen sparkled and cleared. The magnificent head and face of a black mountain gorilla appeared.

“!!” she grunted.

“I’m sorry, love. Been too busy to call. You’re looking well. How’s that no-good husband of yours?”

“!”

“And the kids?”

“!!!”

“Splendid. Now don’t forget. You promised to send them to me so I can surgify them into understanding our kind of speech. Same like you, love, and no charge. And speaking of kids, I’ve got a new one, a girl, that I’d like you to—”

At this point the stunned Corque collected himself enough to press the cutoff stud. Claudia faded.

“Are you mad?” he demanded.

Manwright was bewildered. “What’s wrong, Charles?”

“You suggest that terrifying beast for the child’s nurse?”

“Beast! She’s an angel of mother love. She’ll have the kid climbing all over her, hugging and kissing her. It’s interesting,” he reflected, “I can manipulate the cognition centers, but I can’t overcome muscular limitations. I gave Claudia college-level comprehension of spoken and written communications, but I couldn’t give her human speech. She’s still forced to use Mountain, which is hardly a language of ideas. Damn frustrating. For both of us.”

“And you actually want her to mother Gaily?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Your Claudia will frighten the daylights out of the infant.”

“Ridiculous.”

“She’s hideous.”

“Are
you
mad? She’s beautiful. Pure. Majestic. And a hell of a lot brighter than your Remedial Table Tennis bums at Syrtus University.”

“But she can’t talk. She only grunts.”

“Talk? Talk? For God’s sake, Charles! That damn red Popsy was poured out talking sixteen to the dozen. We can’t shut her up. She’s filling the house with enough of her jabber as it is. Be grateful for some silence.”

So Claudia, the black mountain gorilla, moved into the Manwright ménage, and Igor was furiously jealous.

The first morning that Claudia joined Manwright and Corque at breakfast (while Igor glowered at his massive rival), she printed a message on a pad and handed it to the Dominie:
R DD YU GV G TLT TRG IN YR PRGRM
?

“Let’s see if I remember your abbreviations, darling. Did you … that’s me … give Galatea … yes, toilet training in your program? My God, Claudia! I gave her the best of 47 women. Surely at least one of them must have been toilet trained.”

BY DPRS

“By what, Claudia?”

“Buy diapers, Reg.”

“Oh, Ah. Of course. Thank you, Charles. Thank you, Claudia. More coffee, love? It’s frustrating, Charles. Muscular dyspraxia again. Claudia can manage caps in her writing but she can’t hack lower case. How many diapers, Claudia?”

1
DZ
.

“Right. One doz.
Zu Befehl
. Did you bring your kids to play with the baby?”

TO OD

“Too old for what?”

TOO OLD

“Your kids?”

G

“What? Galatea? Too old for your boys? And still in diapers? I’d best see for myself.”

One of the top-floor bedrooms had been converted into a nursery. The usual biodroid cellar accommodations weren’t good enough for Manwright’s magnum opus. When the Dominie entered with Claudia, the red infant was on the floor, flat on her belly, propped on a pillow, and deep in a book. She looked up and crawled enthusiastically to Claudia.