Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester (51 page)

“Dreams. Say …” Granville straightened up. “I’d almost forgotten. Listen, Jinny …”

“Which reminds me, Charles. I’ve been thinking.”

“When you say ‘Charles’ it means you’ve been planning.”

“I have. For the snapshot album. We’re going to be poor after we’re married.”

“All doctors are. It’s traditional.” Granville nodded complacently. “You set up practice and starve and everybody mocks you while you search for the cure for hangnails. ‘Mad Granville!’ they mock. ‘Thinks he can do the impossible. Cure hangnails! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—’”

“So I decided to get a job to help us … and I tried … and I did.” Jinny looked apologetic. “I got a job today.”

“Hey.”

“I bet you get that Hickenlooper award for hangnails.”

“Don’t duck like that. What’s all this about a job?”

“It’s wonderful,” Jinny said with conviction. “Afternoons only. From one to six. It pays thirty-five dollars. I do research.”

“What kind of research?”

“Statistical … on floods and fires and wrecks and so on.”

“For what person or persons?”

“An awfully nice man. Very respectable, Chuck. A Mr. Coven.”

“Mr. What?”

“Coven. He—” Jinny stared at him. “What’s happened to your face, honey? It’s all lopsided.”

“Never mind my face.” Granville took a breath and composed himself. “What’s Coven’s full name?”

“Sidney Albert.”

“Address?”

“Nine-ten South Street.” Jinny looked interested and curious. “Do you know anything about—”

“What time today did you get the job?”

“If this is a new game, Charles—”

“Please, Jinny. Just answer the question.”

“I got the job this morning.”

“What time?”

“Around eleven o’clock.”

“From Coven himself? Personally? You spoke to him?”

“Why yes.” She smiled perplexedly. “But he isn’t the one with the broken shoelaces, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Drive back to town, Jinny.”

“What is it, Chuck? What’s the matter?”

He said slowly and seriously: “Sidney Coven of 910 South Street was crushed to death under a truck five hours before you spoke to him.”

Nine-ten South Street was a half block of two-story taxpayers. Three of the stores were joined to a single entrance. Their windows were painted jet black halfway up. A tall man could peer over the black border and see a thousand square feet of open floor cluttered with desks, files, and typists. It looked like an insurance office. Bold gold letters on the black windows read:
NATIONAL STATISTICS
.

Jinny parked the car and said: “I still think you’re crazy.”

“Don’t try to argue,” Granville answered. “We haven’t come to an issue yet. That’s why we’re here.”

Jinny shrugged. “There isn’t any issue.”

“It says here. Let’s button it up before I go in and make a fool of myself. What’d your Coven look like?”

“Well …” Jinny was being patient. “A big man … large head … grizzled hair … kind of dissipated face.”

“Like a Roman?”

“Could be.”

“Could also be my Coven.”

“Nonsense. It’s a relative.”

“You keep telling yourself, and a mite too hard, Virginia.” Granville looked at her keenly. “You’re lying about something. I can tell. What is it?”

“Don’t be silly, Charles.”

“Yes you are. Any other time you’re a sucker for a mystery. Wild horses couldn’t tear you away from the scent. Now you’re trying to brush it off. Why? What’s got you scared?”

“I’m not, Charles.”

“You are.” He gripped her arm and looked at her intensely. “I’m not fooling with this, Virginia. You’ve got to go along with me. Understand?”

“But it’s so silly …”

“Not to me. I like answers. I want one from you now. What are you holding out? What are you afraid to tell me?”

“It isn’t anything; but …” Jinny’s assurance began to waver. “As a matter of fact my Coven was sick. He … well, he was lying on a couch in his office when I saw him … covered with a robe. I thought he was an invalid. He talked … He talked sickly …” She tried to laugh. “But it can’t mean anything, Chuck. It’s too ridiculous.”

“Invalid! That’s a hot one.” Granville pushed open the door. “All right. Maybe I’m crazy. At least let me find out. You wait for me, Jinny. Either they’ll throw me out … or lead me out.”

He slammed the door of the roadster, walked across the sidewalk and opened the half-black glass door numbered 910. He stepped in and looked around uncertainly. There was a crisp background of typewriters and telephones that was subtly reassuring. Close to the entrance, a switchboard girl was languidly plugging phone jacks. She spoke in a nasal whine:

“National, good afternoon,” A pause. “I’m sorry Mr. Sunderland is in Belgium. Will there be any message?”

In the next pause Granville began: “Excuse me, I’d like to—”

“Just a minute, please.” The girl turned and called over her shoulder: “Gertrude, wire Mr. Sunderland the death reports are not acceptable.”

Granville was startled. Gertrude, very dark and heavily stacked, nodded, finished typing a line, then leaned back interestingly to the desk behind her and made a note.

The telephone girl gave Granville her attention. “Can I be of assistance, sir?”

“Well, I …” Granville tried to be businesslike. “I’m from County Hospital and I’m checking on an accident. Is this office run by a Sidney Coven?”

“There is a Mr. Coven associated with National Statistics, sir.”

“I see. Well, the fact is …” Granville took the plunge. “My name is Granville and I’d like to—”

The dark Gertrude shot up from her chair like a scalded cat. “Oh yes, Dr. Granville.” She stepped forward brightly. “This way, please. Mr. Coven is expecting you.”

Granville stared at her. “Expecting me?”

“Yes, Dr. Granville.” Gertrude gave his arm the friendliest pressure. “Right this way.”

“Don’t you know he died this morning?”

She smiled blankly. “This way, please.”

Granville permitted himself to be led across the open floor, arguing feebly. “There must be some mistake. Coven can’t expect me. I never made an appoint—” He dropped it and re-sorted his confusion. “He can’t expect anyone. Not my Sidney Albert. Who’s yours? A son or a nephew or something?”

“Through this aisle, Dr. Granville.”

“Now wait. Let’s make sense. You don’t expect me to—”

With relief Gertrude interrupted: “Here’s Mr. Sharpe, our office manager.” A short, abrupt man with a woodpecker face jumped up from his desk and shot a hand toward Granville. Gertrude said: “Mr. Sharpe, this is Dr. Granville. The four o’clock appointment with Mr. Coven.”

Sharpe clutched Granville’s hand. “Yes, yes, yes, of course. So glad to meet you, Doctor. Truly a pleasure. I’ve heard about you. One of the coming young physicians, eh? Ah-ah!” Mr. Sharpe twinkled roguishly. “No modesty, now. This way, sir. Right this way.”

He pulled Granville toward a walnut door set flush in the rear wall. “Let me thank you and congratulate you for your promptness, Doctor. The keeping of appointments seems to be a lost art today. People are shockingly careless.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Sharpe …”

“The whole theory of efficient office management,” Mr. Sharpe peeked brightly, “is based on …”

“Will you listen to me? I am not prompt. I do not have an appointment. I cannot see Sidney Coven.”

“… is founded on promptness, accuracy, and a thorough respect for time.” Sharpe rapped once on the walnut door and thrust it open. He called: “Dr. Granville is here, Mr. Coven,” and stepped back.

From the interior a sick voice called: “Good afternoon, Dr. Granville. Do come in. That will be all, Sharpe.”

It was a crushed voice … a mutilated voice. Granville stiffened and slowly stepped into the office. Sharpe closed the door smartly behind him.

In a small, square room with grey pickled walls, grey carpet and wine-colored drapes blacking out the window, were two pools of light. One shone on a small desk behind which sat a sallow man with brutal features, his eyes concealed by black glasses. The other flooded an Empire couch in the corner. Sidney Coven lay on the couch.

His body was straight and rigid, concealed by a grey corduroy coverlet. He lay quite motionless, his heavy head rolled a little to one side so that his jet eyes could command the room. He looked like a corpse, imperfectly arranged, and his saturnine face was misshapen and bruised, as though it had been kicked.

With the frightening mutilated voice Coven said: “Thank you for keeping your appointment. Please do not be alarmed at my crushed condition; but I forgot … as a physician you wouldn’t be. This gentleman is Mr. Arno. We were just—”

“You’re dead, Coven.” Granville advanced a step. He repeated: “You’re dead.”

“Quite so. Quite so.”

“You were DOA this morning. Your back is broken. Your arms are smashed … ribs shattered … Your heart is burst open. You’re dead, Coven.”

“To be sure, Dr. Granville. Now—”

“And the pieces of you lay there on that couch and look at me and talk to me. For God’s sake what—”

“Will you be quiet, Granville?” The agonizing voice stunned Granville again. Coven continued quietly: “Mr. Arno is an extremely busy person. We can’t take up too much of his time. Please sit in that chair … alongside the desk. For your own sake you’d best sit before you collapse.”

Granville sank into the chair, not glancing at Arno. He continued to stare at Coven.

“All right, Arno,” Coven murmured painfully. “Examine him. This is the man I told you about.”

“Ah?” said Arno, his voice as icy and disinterested as a phonograph. “The Granville.”

“Yes.”

“My name,” Granville muttered desperately, “is Charles Granville. I’m an intern at County Hospital. I’m twenty-five years old, engaged to be married, in sound health. I do not hear voices, see visions or experience—”

The jet eyes caught him, held him and cut off his words. “This young man is extremely dangerous, Arno,” Coven said. “He has forced me to take unusual and costly measures. Listen carefully, Granville. I’m going to praise you to Mr. Arno. You should be flattered.”

“I’ve got nothing to listen to. Nothing.”

Coven chuckled and went on: “The average man lives his little life and dies his little death. He has the odd sensation every now and then that the life he is living is make-believe … sham … that there could be more to it than appears.”

“Indeed he does,” said Arno, moving quietly behind Granville.

“He has been taught to shrug his shoulders and believe that the odd clues he picks up are dreams … visions … hallucinations. But not Dr. Granville.” The crushed voice sounded amused and bitter. “This young man will not be duped. He is a poetic scientist. Social pressure … moral pressure … terror … threats … none of these influences can lobby against the growing certainty in his mind. He is beginning to listen to Starr. In a short time he will hear him. Presently he will understand.”

“Starr!” Granville started to his feet. “That name. Then I was right! Then I did—”

Arno’s hand on his shoulder drew him back into the chair. He attempted to turn around but Coven said quickly: “Don’t, Dr. Granville. Arno is not wearing his glasses. It would be most unpleasant.”

Arno said: “You’re an inconsiderate young man, Doctor. You’ve made a lot of trouble for Mr. Coven.”

“I blocked Starr this morning,” Coven went on, “at the cost of hurling myself under a truck. It was the only way to guarantee Granville’s instant awakening. Starr was on the verge of final contact with our friend. He may get through at any moment.”

“We can’t let that happen, can we, Doctor?” Arno inquired in impersonally pleasant tones.

“Listen,” Granville said. “This … None of this makes sense. Any of it. Outside, this place looks like an office … just an ordinary business office.”

“Naturally,” Coven replied. He laughed without laughter, his mouth and throat and voice making the sounds and motions. It was the laughter of a parrot. “Naturally.”

“But inside it isn’t ordinary any more. Crazy talk and crazy people. Appointments I never made …”

“I made it, Doctor,” said Coven. He laughed the parrot laugh again. “I made it for you this morning.”

“With Miss Gardner’s assistance,” Arno laughed. It was the duplicate of Coven’s mechanical imitation.

“You’re dead and you’re a liar,” Granville cried.

The hand on his shoulder restrained him. Granville did not dare turn around. To Arno, Coven said: “Finished?”

“All finished.”

“Will it be difficult?”

“Interesting, but not difficult.” Arno sauntered around the chair and stood before Granville, staring down at him through the opaque black glasses he had put on again.

“L-Listen,” Granville began.

“Please listen to me, Dr. Granville,” Coven interrupted. “I have two statements to make. The first is a proposal. Will you join us? Volunteer? Will you become one of us?”

“Join who? Join what?”

“I could answer that in many ways, Doctor. Let us say …” Coven chose his words carefully. “Let us say that this is an asylum and we are the keepers. A stranger outside the gates wants to teach the inmates how to escape.”

“And you want me to be a keeper?”

“Just one way of putting it, Doctor.” Coven selected other words. “Let us say there is a treasure and we are guarding it. Someone wants to teach the world the combination of the strongroom lock.”

“And you want me to be a guard?”

“Just another way of putting it, Doctor. Have you heard of the balance of nature? Of course you have. There is more to nature than this earth. Far more. At present it is in delicate balance. Mr. Starr would like to upset that balance by awakening you and your friends. We want you to go on sleeping.”

“Sleeping!”

“Sleeping,” repeated Arno. “Let us say that.”

“But you are on the verge of waking, Doctor,” Coven said. “And we should like you to arise from the right side of the bed, so to speak. You could be a genuine asset. We should like to have you with us rather than Starr. Will you join?”

There was a pause. Granville glanced up at Arno who stood over him, icy and intent, the black glasses reflecting twisted light; then looked at Coven’s dead body and living eyes.