Текст книги "Options"

Автор книги: Robert Sheckley

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18

Mishkin was strolling along contemplating the nature of reality when a voice said to him, "Hi."

Mishkin started uncontrollably and looked all around. He saw no one. He was on a flat, level plain, and there was no object more than one foot high for at least five miles in any direction for anyone to hide behind.

Mishkin did not lose his cool. He answered, "How do you do?"

"Fine, thank you. And yourself?"

"Quite well, all things considered. Have we met before?"

"I don't think so," the voice said. "Still, you can never tell, can you?"

"No, you can't," Mishkin said. "What are you doing around here?"

"I live around here."

"It seems like a nice place."

"It's all right," the voice said. "But the winters are impossibly cold and damp."

"Really?"

"Yes. I suppose you're a tourist?"

"More or less," Mishkin said. "It's the first time I've been here."

"How do you like it?"

"It's very nice. I haven't seen much yet, but what I've seen seems very nice."

"I'm used to it all," the voice said. "But I suppose that's because I live here."

"Probably," Mishkin said. "That's how I usually feel at home."

"Where isyour home, by the way?"

"Earth," Mishkin said.

"Big red planet."

"Small green planet."

"I think I've heard of it. Yellowstone National Park?"

"That's the place."

"You're a long, long way from home."

"I suppose I am," Mishkin said, "But, of course, I enjoy travelling."

"Did you come by spaceship?"

"Yes, I did."

"I'll bet that was interesting."

"Yes, it was."

There was a silence. Mishkin didn't know how to bring up the fact that he couldn't see whom he was talking to. He realized that he should have mentioned it earlier. Now he would appear foolish if he brought it up.

"Well," the voice said, "I suppose I'd better be getting along."

"It's been nice talking to you," Mishkin said.

"I've enjoyed it, too. I wonder if you've noticed that I'm invisible?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. I suppose that you can see me?"

"Yes, I can. We invisibles can see visible things such as yourself very well. Except for the unfortunate few among us who are blind, of course."

"Can you see each other?"

"No, of course not. We wouldn't be really invisible if we could."

"I hadn't thought of that," Mishkin said. "I suppose it's a bother?"

"Definitely," the invisible said. "We pass each other in the streets without noticing each other. That hurts people's feelings, even though they know it can't be helped. And invisibility makes falling in love difficult, too. For example, if I meet a nice young lady at the Saturday night YMCA dance I don't know if she's cute or a complete dog. And one hates to ask. I know that that sort of thing shouldn't matter, but it always seems to, doesn't it?"

"It does on Earth," Mishkin said. "But I suppose there are advantages to being invisible."

"Oh, yes. We used to get a lot of pleasure out of springing out at people and saying boo. But now, everyone around here knows about us and no one is frightened anymore, they just tell us to go fuck off."

"I suppose that being invisible is an advantage when you go hunting?"

"Not really. We invisibles tend to be pretty heavy-footed, so we make a lot of noise when we hunt, unless we stand perfectly still. Because of this we tend to hunt only a single species of animal. We call them the Unhearables, since they are all totally deaf.

Against them our invisibility is a great advantage. But the Unhearables make rather mediocre eating, even potted and served with bechamel sauce."

"I always thought that an invisible creature would have an edge over everything else," Mishkin said.

"That's what everybody thinks," the invisible said. "But really, invisibility is just a kind of handicap."

"That's too bad," Mishkin said politely.

There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

"What do you look like?" Mishkin asked.

"Can't say, old man. Invisible, you know. Makes shaving difficult. Watch out!"

Mishkin had blundered into an invisible object and had given himself a severe rap on the forehead. He walked more slowly now, with one hand stretched out in front of him.

"How did you see that invisible object?" he asked.

"Didn't see it, old man," the invisible told him. "Saw the identification marker."

Looking around him, Mishkin could see various metal plaques set into the ground.

These were engraved with self-translating characters (required by interstellar law), which made them as easy to read as English is to the average literate Englishman.

Ahead of him were plaques marked, "Rock", "Clump of Cactus", "Abandoned Volkswagen Microbus", "Unconscious Person", "Withered Fig Tree", "Lost Dutchman Mine", and the like.

"That's very considerate," Mishkin said, threading his way between "Trash Heap" and "Tourist Office".

"It's purely selfish," the invisible said. "We got tired of bumping into those things ourselves."

"How did those things become invisible?" Mishkin asked.

"Some sort of contamination. For a while everything is all right, we go about our business, get our work done. Then the objects we associate with begin to grow dim, and then they vanish entirely. For example, one fine morning a bank president finds that he can't find his own bank. No one knows if the street lights are on or off. Invisible milkmen try to deliver invisible milk in invisible bottles to the invisible occupants of invisible houses. The results are comico-pathetic. Everything gets a bit mixed up."

"So you put out the plaques," Mishkin said.

"No, we use the plaques only for outlying areas. Inside the city limits, we paint everything with visible paint."

"Does that solve the problem?"

"It's a big help, but the system has certain flaws. Repainted paintings suffer an inevitable aesthetic loss. Painted people often have skin reactions. But the major flaw is that the visible paint itself tends to become invisible after varying lengths of contact with invisible objects. We try to handle this by a continual repainting programme based upon statistical, positional, and temporal charts of all objects in the city. But even given the efficiency of our programme, many things still get lost. There are incalculable variables, you see: despite stringent quality controls, no two batches of visible paint are completely identical in their characteristics. Each batch is affected uniquely by the different combinations, intensities, and durations of temperature-humidity interactions. The changing planetary and lunar relationships may also be a factor. And there are other factors still under investigation."

The invisible sighed. "We try not to give way to despair. Our scientists work continually on the project of making ourselves permanently visible. Some call it a visionary and unrealistic hope; but we know that others, such as yourself, have achieved the bliss of visibility. So why not us?"

"I never thought it would be like this," Mishkin said. "I had always thought that it would be fun to be invisible."

"Don't you believe it," the invisible said. "Invisibility is just about the same as being blind."

19

Desert gave way to semi-desert. Mishkin and the robot walked through a flat, arid wasteland, past lost dirt roads, stunted shrubs, and an occasional deserted frame house.

They crossed a little rise and saw a man in a tuxedo with a tall black hat on his head sitting on a black metal suitcase. In front of him were rusty railroad tracks that stretched for fifty feet on either side.

"Christ," the robot said, "another creep."

"Don't be rude," Mishkin told him. He walked up and greeted the stranger.

"About time someone came along," the stranger said. "I've been sitting here for two days, and I don't mind telling you it's getting pretty boring."

"What are you waiting for?" Mishkin asked.

"The 12:10 from Yuma," the stranger said, turning to the left and looking down the fifty feet of track. "But they don't run the trains on time any more."

"I don't think this particular train runs at all any more," Mishkin said.

"I wouldn't be surprised," the stranger said. "It does seem unlikely, taking everything into consideration. But I sure as hell can't walk any more. And maybe something'll happen and the train willcome by. I've seen stranger things happen. Strange things do happen for me. I suppose you know who I am."

"I'm afraid that I don't," Mishkin said.

"You must be pretty ignorant because I'm pretty famous. In this manifestation I am Ronsard the Magnificent, and I am probably the greatest magician the universe has ever seen."

"Lotta crap," the robot mumbled.

"Don't let appearances deceive you," Ronsard said. "There is a reason why I am currently playing whistle-stops and waiting for nonexistent trains in freaky places. Karma catches up with us all, eh? But something always turns up. Would you like to witness some magic?"

"I would like that very much," Mishkin said.

"It's a lotta bullshit," the robot said.

Ronsard ignored the sullen mechanical. "For my first number I will do the rabbit trick."

"I've seen it," the robot said.

"I haven't," Mishkin said. "So kindly shut up."

The robot leaned back and crossed his arms. A mean, sceptical smile was upon his metallic face, and the very angles of his body spelled disbelief. Mishkin leaned forward eagerly, his hands clasped around his knees. The very attitude of his body spelled willingness to be astonished.

Ronsard opened up his suitcase and took out a complicated control board, two automobile batteries, a jumble of wires, three circuit boards, a flask filled with a murky-looking fluid, and a small accelerometer. He hooked up wires between these objects and connected them to a red and black lead that he attached to the brim of his hat. He took out a circuit tester and tested. Then he turned to Mishkin.

"You will observe, my dear sir, that the hat is empty," He showed his hat to Mishkin and the robot, who yawned.

"Now, then," the magician said. He took a white satin cloth from his suitcase and laid it over the hat. Then he made passes with his right hand and said, "Rje-Sgampo Rinpoche-hi Lam Mchog Rinpoche Hi Hrheng-wa Zhes Bya-wa Bzhugs-so." At last he kicked the control board with his right heel.

There was a crackle of sparks and a loud hissing sound. Gauges spun then returned to normal.

The magician removed the cloth. From the hat he pulled a live rabbit. He put it down on the ground and bowed.

Mishkin applauded. "He does it with mirrors," sneered the robot.

The rabbit tried to climb back into the hat. The magician pushed it away.

"All magicians pull rabbits out of hats," the robot said.

"It's part of the warm-up," said the magician.

"There's nothing supernatural about what I do," said the magician. "I deal in illusions, which are appearances created by careful preparation, skill, and the right equipment. That's all there is to it."

"What exactly is an illusion?" Mishkin asked.

"Everything phenomenal can be considered an illusion," the magician said. "Next, I am going to do a card trick. Don't groan, sir. (This was directed to the robot.) I know that it doesn't seem like much. But my stage effects are carefully planned as to intensity and cumulative effect. Card tricks are amusing, though not fantastical or astonishing, and they allow a heightening of receptivity before the major events of the evening (the afternoon, actually). Accordingly…"

The magician took a deck of cards from his suitcase.

"Here we have a deck of ordinary playing cards. I will now pass these cards among you. You may examine them to your heart's content. You will find them factory sealed, unmarked in any way."

He gave the deck to Mishkin, who broke open the package and looked them over. The robot also examined them. While they were doing this, the magician had opened his suitcase again and had taken from it three parabolic mirrors on tripods, a battery-operated computer complete with batteries, and a small radarscope. He set up the mirrors to face in various directions, and connected them to the radar-scope and the computer. He took the cards and fanned them in front of one of the mirrors. He punched information into the computer. Then he waited until the radarscope gave off a high-pitched beep.

The magician took a rickety wooden folding table from the suitcase and set it up in front of them. He put the deck of cards face down on the table.

"Note that I do not at any time retain any physical hold on the cards, so I cannot be accused of forcing a choice on you. Now I would like you to shuffle the cards thoroughly and select one. Do not let me see the card you select. Remember the card."

Mishkin and the robot did as they were told. Mishkin shuffled three times, and the robot shuffled twenty-seven times, randomizing the cards past any possibility of inherent or adherent patterns. Then they picked a card.

"Look at the card carefully, fix it in your memories. Now return the card to the deck and shuffle again."

Again Mishkin shuffled three times and the robot shuffled twenty-seven times. (The robot would have made an excellent Canasta shuffler and had in fact been offered that lucrative position at the North Miami Beach Community Centre.)

"Now," the magician said, "take the number of your card – counting eleven for all court cards – and multiply by seventeen. If the resultant is even, add seven, if odd, subtract two. Determine the square root of the new number to three places. Take the last digit, add nine, and factor it according to suit – black suits are imaginary numbers, red suits are real numbers. Add to this any real number you please between one and ninety-nine.

Have you followed all that?"

"Easily," said the robot.

"What is the number?"

"Eighty-seven."

The magician fed information into the computer, which began to spew paper. The magician studied the readout.

"Your card is the Jack of Diamonds."

"Correct," said the robot, and Mishkin hastily nodded.

"Still… Everybody does card tricks," the robot said.

"I never claimed not to be everybody," the magician said.

"I suppose he'll saw a woman in half next," the robot whispered to Mishkin.

"For my next illusion," the magician said, "I will saw a woman in half."

"This ought to be something," Mishkin said.

"He does it with mirrors," the robot said.

Years afterward, Mishkin remembered the magician's face: a long American face, putty and rose over hard white bone. His blue eyes were mirrors of the unredeemed landscape; and when the mirrors became windows, they showed an interior landscape identical to the exterior. It was a face turned hopefully towards dreams but shaped irrevocably by nightmares. The face was finally more memorable than the deeds that its owner performed.

The magician reached into his suitcase and took out a black-haired woman with violet eyes, wearing a Piaget dress and carrying a Vuitton handbag. She winked at Mishkin and said, "I'll try anything once."

"She always says that," the magician said. "She doesn't realize that to try something once is to try it always."

Years later the young woman said to a girlfriend, "I was kinda freaky in those days. Man, I even let myself be sawed in half by a crazy magician. What do you think about that?"

The magician took a high-speed portable rotary saw from his suitcase, tried to start it, couldn't. He took an electric outlet from his suitcase, plugged in the saw, and started it.

"Was it one of those fakey sideshow numbers?" the friend asked.

"Like hell, fake! This magician creep, the Great Dermos or Thermos, or something, was strictly on a reality trip. He was about as fake as the Mayo Brothers. He never even thoughtof faking anything. That's why I dug him. But he was also a creep."

From his suitcase the magician removed a four-man team of surgeons and one anaesthesiologist, all of them scrubbed, gowned, and masked. He then took out trays of surgical instruments, bottles of anaesthetics, and an operating table complete with overhead lights and drains.

The dark-haired young lady stretched out on the operating table. She was very lovely and brave. A moment like that was worth being sawed in half for.

The magician turned on the saw and approached the young lady.

At that moment a man stepped out of the suitcase. He was fiftyish, balding, fat, in no way prepossessing except for his sudden appearance. In a loud, trembling voice he said, "I speak out against this marriage in the name of humanity and common sense!"

"Not yet!" the magician hissed.

The man apologized and crept back into the suitcase.

Orpheus with his lyre made songs; Ronsard with his saw made cuts. Slowly (sadistically?) he lowered the whirling saw until it was poised just above the bare, brave midriff of the girl who would try anything once. The girl said, "Man, I've really gotten myself into it this time." The anaesthesiologist injected Num-Zit into her stomach. The surgeons made squeaky sounds with their rubber gloves.

Cut! The magician lowered his saw and made a tentative cut across the transverse brisket, gritted his teeth audibly and went to work.

The saw bit deep. Blood spurted like water from a garden hose gone berserk. Gouts of gore were thrown into the air in steep parabolas of terror. The surgeons moved in quickly, repairing the rent flesh with bought clamps and sponges and sutures.

"It's a pretty good stunt," said the robot.

"I don't think I like it," Mishkin said.

The saw cut through major veins and arteries. The surgeons, working with the precision of a really good ballet troop, stitched and patched. The lady said, "Ouch," and the anaesthesiologist administered another five ccs of Num-Zit, and a dollop of Payne-Eeze for good measure.

The stomach was cut through and patched with Scotch Brand Body Tape.

"Have I time to fuse this disc?" one of the surgeons asked.

"Stick to essentials," said Dr Zorba.

The spine was cut through and repaired with two plastic shirt stays and half a pint of Elmer's Glue. The magician continued sawing right through the table. The anaesthesiologist pulled a carpenter from the trunk, who repaired the damage on the spot. The young lady smiled bravely. The magician turned off his saw and bowed to Mishkin and the robot.

"For my next illusion," the magician said, "in front of your very eyes, I will…"

He stopped. They all heard the wail of a train whistle. Soon the train itself appeared, steam-operated, three cars long, laying track as it went.

"Sorry I can't complete the act," the magician said, stepping aboard the first car. "But that's how it goes. Something always turns up."

"Ticket," said the conductor.

The magician produced a ticket from his hat. Slowly, the train got under way. Ronsard called out, "How did you like the act?"

"It was great!" Mishkin said.

"That was nothing," said the magician. "Wait until you see the finale."

"When will that be?"

"It is happening now!"

"What's happening?" Mishkin called. "Who are you?"

But the train was too far away for him to hear Ronsard's reply if, indeed, he made any.

Mishkin and the robot watched until the train was out of sight. Then Mishkin said, "I've got a funny feeling about all this."

"Mirrors," the robot sneered. "Big talk and cheap stage effects."

They stood under a sky that reflected the earth that reflected the sky and discussed mirrors and stage effects.

20. Robot Follies

The robot had not always been of a suchness. Once he had known the splendour of youth. He, too, had drifted beneath laurel, under a willow-eyed sky. He, too, had wept at shadows, fought love, and conquered feeling. A child of Hephaestus, of the earth truly, he was the unwilling respondent of those programmatic outlooks which find identity only in similarity.

A robot may be defined as the sum of his relationships plus eighty-eight pounds of metal and plastics.

Robots desire soft things, the better to appreciate their own hardness. Robots of the Schenectady area worship a being they call White Leather Man. No Freud of the robots has come forth to explain this output.

When robots come they spurt hot grease, just like automobiles.

Robots mimic eating. There is a black robot who lives on 125th Street and drives a pink Cadillac. There are Jewish robots skilled in exegesis, whose parts drip chicken fat.

There are homosexual robots who dance and lust.

Once upon a time a young robot wandered far from his factory. Lost and alone, he moved through a deep forest…

How well our robot remembered! A sort of madness came over him. Opacity of desire seemed a response that one could live by. He saw Mishkin as imperfect yet lovable. This was programming; he knew he did not know how to escape it.