Alfred Bester - Galatea Galante

  Alfred Bester - Galatea Galante

  He was wearing a prefaded jump suit, beautifully tailored, the dernier cri in the nostalgic 2100s, but really too youthful for his thirty-odd years. Set square on his head was a vintage (circa 1950) English motoring cap with the peak leveled on a line with his brows, masking the light of lunacy in his eyes.

  Dead on a slab, he might be called distinguished, even handsome, but alive and active? That would depend on how much demented dedication one could stomach. He was shouldering his way through the crowded aisles of

  THE SATURN CIRCUS

  50 PHANTASTIK PHREAKS 50

  !!!ALL ALIENS!!!

  He was carrying a mini sound-camera that looked like a chrome-and-ebony pepper mill, and he was filming the liv-ing, crawling, spasming, gibbering monstrosities exhibited in the large showcases and small vitrines, with a murmured running commentary. His voice was pleasant; his remarks were not.

  "Ah, yes, the Bellatrix basilisk, so the sign assures us. Black-and-yellow bod of a serpent. Looks like a Gila-mon-ster head attached. Work of that Tejas tailor who's so nitzy with surgical needle and thread. Peacock coronet on head. Good theater to blindfold its eyes. Conveys the conviction that its glance will kill. Hmmm. Ought to gag the mouth, too. According to myth the basilisk's breath also kills....

  "And the Hyades hydra. Like wow. Nine heads, as per re-vered tradition. Looks like a converted iguana. The Mexi-can again. That seamstress has access to every damn snake and lizard in Central America. She's done a nice join of necks to trunk-got to admit that-but her stitching shows to my eye....

  "Canopus cerberus. Three dog heads. Look like oversized Chihuahuas. Mastiff bod. Rattlesnake tail. Ring of rattlers around the waist. Authentic but clumsy. That Tejas woman ought to know you can't graft snake scales onto hound hide. They look like crud; but at least all three heads are barking.

  .."Well, well, well, here's the maladroit who claims he's my rival; the Berlin butcher with his zoo castoffs. His latest spectacular, the Rigel griffin. 'Pa-daaa! Do him justice, it's classic. Eagle head and wings, but it's molting. Lion bod im-planted with feathers. And he's used ostrich claws for the feet. I would have generated authentic dragon's feet....

  "Now Martian monoceros; horse bod, elephant legs, stag's tail. Yes, convincing, but why isn't it howling as it should, according to legend? Mizar manticora. Kosher. Ko-sher. Three rows of teeth. Look like implanted shark's. Lion bod. Scorpion tail. Wonder how they produced that red -eyed effect. The Ares assida. Dull. Dull. Dullsville. Just an ostrich with camel feet, and stumbling all over them, too.

  No creative imagination!

  "Ah, but I call that poster over the Sirius sphinx brilliant theater. My compliments to the management. It's got to be recorded for posterity: THE PUBLIC IS RESPECTFULLY RE-QUESTED NOT TO GIVE THE CORRECT ANSWER TO THE ENIGMA POSED BY THE SPHINX.

  "Because if you do give the correct answer, as Oedipus found out, she'll destroy herself out of chagrin. A sore loser. I ought to answer the riddle, just to see how they stage it, but no. Theater isn't my shtick; my business is strictly crea-tive genesis....

  "The Berlin butcher again, Castor chimera. Lion head. Goat's bod. Looks like an anaconda tail. How the hell did he surgify to get it to vomit those flames? Some sort of cata-lytic gimmick in the throat, I suppose. It's only a cold corpo-sant fire, quite harmless but very dramatic-and those fire extinguishers around the showcase are a lovely touch. Damn good theater. Again, my compliments to the management.

  .."Aha! Beefcake on the hoof. Zosma centaur. Good-look-ing Greek joined to that Shetland pony. Blood must have been a problem. They probably drained both and substi-tuted a neutral surrogate. The Greek looks happy enough; in fact, damn smug. Anyone wondering why has only to see how the pony's hung....

  "What have we here? Antares unicorn, complete with grafted narwhal tusk but not with the virgin who captured it, virgin girls being the only types that can subdue unicorns, legend saith. I thought narwhals were extinct. They may have bought the tusk from a walking-stick maker. I know virgins are not extinct. Imake'em every month; purity guar-anteed or your money back....

  "And a Spica siren. Lovely girl. Beautiful. She-But damn my eyes, she's no manufactured freak! That's Sandra, my Siren! I can recognize my genesis anywhere. What the hell is Sandy doing in this damn disgusting circus? Naked in a showcase! This is an outrage!"

  He charged the showcase in his rage. He was given to flashes of fury that punctuated his habitual exasperated calm. (His deep conviction was that it was a damned intran-sigent world because it wasn't run his way, which was the right way.)

  He beat and clawed at the supple walls, which gave but did not break. He cast around wildly for anything destruc-tive, then darted to the chimera exhibit, grabbed a fire extin-guisher, and dashed back to the Siren. Three demoniac blows cracked the plastic, and three more shattered an es-cape hatch. His fury outdrew the freaks, and a fascinated crowd gathered.

  He reached in and seized the smiling Siren. "Sandy, get the hell out. What were you doing there in the first place?"

  ®. ¯

  "Where's your husband?"

  44 4 99

  "For God's sake!" He pulled off his cap, revealing pale, streaky hair. "Here, cover yourself with this. No, no, girl, downstairs. Use an arm for upstairs, and hide your rear ele-vation against my back."

  "No, I am not prudish. I simply will not have my beauti-ful creation on public display. D'you think I-" He turned fiercely on three security guards closing in on him and bran-dished the heavy brass cylinder. "One more step, and I let you have it with this. In the eyes. Ever had frozen eyeballs?"

  They halted. "Now look, mister, you got no-"

  "I am not called `mister.' My degree is Dominie, which means master professor. I am addressed as Dominie, Domi-nie Manwright, and I want to see the owner at once. Immediately. Here and now. Sofort! Immediatamente! Mr. Sat-urn or Mr. Phreak or whatever!

  "Tell him that Dominie Regis Manwright wants him here now. He'll know my name, or he'd. better, by God! Now be off with you. Split. Cut." Manwright glared around at the enthralled spectators. "You turkeys get lost, too. All of you. Go eyeball the other sights. The Siren show is kaput."

  As the crowd shuffled back from Manwright's fury, an amused gentleman in highly unlikely twentieth-century evening dress stepped forward. "I see you understand Siren, sir. Most impressive." He slung the opera cape off his shoul-ders and offered it to Sandra. "You must be cold, madame. May I?"

  "Thank you," Manwright growled. "Put it on, Sandy. Cover yourself. And thank the man."

  64 ~ 19

  "I don't give a damn whether you're cold or not. Cover yourself. I won't have you parading that beautiful body I created. And give me back my cap."

  "Women!" Manwright grumbled. "This is the last time I ever generate one. You slave over them. You use all your ex-pertise to create beauty and implant sense and sensibility, and they all turn out the same. Irrational! Women! A race apart! And where the hell's 50 Phantastik Phreaks 50?"

  "At your service, Dominie,"the gentleman smiled.

  "What? You? The management?"

  "Indeed yes."

  "In that ridiculous white tie and tails?"

  "So sorry, Dominie. The costume is traditional for the role. And by day I'm required to wear hunting dress. It is grotesque, but the public expects it of the ringmaster."

  "Hmph! What's your name? I'd like to know the name of the man I skin alive."

  "Corque?"

  "Cork? As in Ireland?"

  "But with a Q U E."

  "Corque?" Cor-kew-ee?" Manwright's eyes kindled. "Would you by any chance be related to Charles Russell Corque, Syrtus professor of ETM biology?
I'll hold that in your favor."

  "Thank you, Dominie. I am Charles Russell Corque, pro-fessor of extraterrestrial and mutation biology at Syrtus University."

  "What!"

  "Yes."

  "In that preposterous costume?"

  "Alas, yes."

  "Here? On Terra?"

  "In person."

  "What a crazy coincidence. D'you know, I was going to make that damned tedious trip to Mars just to rap with you."

  "And I brought my circus to 7Rrra hoping to meet and consult with you."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "øIivo days."

  "Then why haven't you called?"

  "Setting up a circus show takes time, Dominie. I haven't had a moment to spare."

  "This monstrous fakery is really yours?"

  "It is."

  "You? The celebrated Corque? The greatest researcher into alien life forms that science has ever known? Revered by all your colleagues, including myself, and swindling the turkeys with a phony freak show? Incredible. Corque! Un-believable!"

  "But understandable, Manwright. Have you any idea of the cost of ETM research? And the reluctance of the grants committees to allocate an adequate amount of funds? No, I suppose not. You're in private practice and can charge gigan-tic fees to support your research, but I'm forced to moon-light and operate this circus to raise the money I need."

  "Nonsense, Corque. You could have patented one of your brilliant discoveries-that fantastic Jupiter III methophyte, for instance. Gourmets call it `The Ganymede Truffle.' D'you know what an ounce sells for?"

  "I know, and there are discovery rights and royalties. Enormous. But you don't know university contracts, my dear Dominie. By contract, the royalties go to Syrtus, where"-Professor Corque's smile soured-"where they are spent on such studies as Remedial Table Tennis, Demonia Orientation, and The Light Verse of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch."

  Manwright shook his head in exasperation. "Those damned faculty clowns! I've turned down a dozen university offers, and no wonder. It's an outrage that you should be forced to humiliate yourself and- Listen, Corque, I've been dying to get the details on how you discovered that Gany-mede methophyte. When will you have some time? I thought-Where are you staying on Terra?"

  "The Borealis."

  "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 house-keeper 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 Domi-nie."

  "Don't argue! Just pack up, get the hell out of the Bo-realis, and-"

  "What, Sandy?"

  (Musical Note)

  "Where?

  (Musical Note)

  "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 grop-ing 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.

  "Ali, Manwright."

  "Jessamy!" Manwright turned the name into a denuncia-tion.

  "Sandra."

  "

  11 11

  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 Cor-que. "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 a 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 authen-ticity, guaranteed or your money back?"

  "Yes, you did."

  "And one week after delivery I discover my Pearl of Per-fection sold to the distinguished Charles Russell Corque's obscene freak show and displayed naked in a bizarre show-case. 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?" w

  "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 tear-ing my monogrammed silk sheets, woven at incredible cost by brain damaged 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 Si-ren. 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 ge-nius. My biodroid genius for creative genesis, and my deep understanding of the sexual appetites."

  11 ; 11

  "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 do-ing 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."

  "Ali! The RNA messenger service, eh?"

  "Exactly. Now we all know tha
t DNA is the life reser-voir-".

  "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 deliver-ing 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 em-bryo? And how do you select the commands?"