In Weston, at the entrance to Marbopolis, their car eased into a line of cars, wheels crunching on the long gravel drive. As they moved slowly behind the automobile in front of them, they saw a greenhouse with its vaulted roof, the colored targets of an archery range, outdoor sculptures and statuary. Shouts and laughter came from a tennis court, burning bright like a baseball stadium at night.
Ahead, at the end of the winding drive, the main house shimmered high on a hill, its marble façade and columns brilliantly illuminated by floodlights. “No one will speak to us,” whispered Melissa as they slipped out of their car, then mounted the marble steps to the house. A dozen different perfumes trailed the other guests up the stairs: jasmine, sandalwood, musk. Now Bill could hear music and see, through the open front portals, hundreds of people in the colonnaded reception hall, the women in exquisite gowns with bare arms and shoulders.
For an instant, as Bill and his wife first stepped onto the mosaic tiled floor, everyone’s eyes turned toward them, and he felt a sensation he had not experienced for a long time, that of being the center of interest. The sensation, both pleasant and unpleasant, was flooded with the smell of grilled salmon cakes and shrimp. Then it was past. The crowd, having satisfied itself that no one of importance had arrived, returned to its chatter. Into the vacuum, music and light crashed from every direction.
Immediately, Bill began searching faces. Somewhere within this brilliant, jabbering mass must be Diane Rossbane, thinner than the thinnest of supermodels, and Nate Linden, who almost certainly had purchased a new tuxedo for the night. Bill would take an ironic pleasure in greeting them, but they were nothing to him, no more than the bits of rare tuna on toast that glided by on silver trays. It was Mitrakis and Stumm whom he wished to confront. A camera flashed, making him squint. Then another wave of nausea swept over him. In the bright, vibrating air, individual faces lost their features and merged with the white marble and stone. Colored gowns and tuxedos dissolved into tapestries strung from the walls. Some of the men huddled behind marble statues, undoubtedly discussing their latest financial transactions, while their wives, with spectacular cleavages, paraded nearby. Other guests reclined on cushioned benches, drinking cocktails or gaping at the digital paintings, which seemed to change every halfminute. In the middle of the hall, encircled by an onyx colonnade, couples danced in a sunken courtyard. Squinting through the distance and bright light, Bill thought he recognized the actress Catherine Butler, posing prominently in the courtyard and wearing a headdress like fireworks in feathers. How ridiculous were the people who circled her, pretending indifference. And wasn’t that Senator Derek Edmundson beneath a bronze chandelier, his face flushed from alcohol and heat? Bill recalled that the senator had recently introduced a bill favorable to many of those present. Now Senator Edmundson stood expansively in full view, well aware that he was attracting attention. Around him flocked Boston and New York’s most ambitious men and women, whom he allowed brief handshakes.
What pretensions, Bill thought to himself. Surely, he would find Mitrakis and Stumm in the vicinity of the senator. Peering into the crowd, he began to feel unsteady on his feet. “You don’t look well,” said Melissa. “We shouldn’t have come.” She held her cool wineglass to his cheek, then turned to stare at a woman bound in antique crème lace with a large diamond bracelet on her wrist.
“Bill,” someone shouted. Suddenly their friends David and Christine Jamison were upon them, gay and perspiring and breathless, as if they had just come from the dance floor. Both of them looked so handsome and at ease. Bill wished that he could just disappear. David talked into his phone while looking at Bill and extending his free hand.
“No, you could never do that,” panted David.
“Do what?” asked Bill.
“Sorry, Harry, just a minute.”
“What? Are you talking to me?”
“It’s your insurance. Call me on Monday.” David slapped his phone shut. “This your first time here?” he asked, implying in his tone that he had been a guest at Marbopolis many times before. Bill had always been intimidated by David Jamison’s manner and said nothing. “You look under the weather,” remarked David. He waited for some reply, then turned to Melissa and smiled and asked her how she was enjoying the party.
The two women were eyeing each other and exchanging compliments. Christine was much exposed, with the front of her pink chiffon gown plunging nearly down to her waist. Her dark hair pressed against the sides of her face in small, lacquered curls. “Hello,” she said to Bill, leaning over and kissing him on the lips. “I’ve never seen so much money,” she said. “Isn’t it amazing.” She paused to readjust the scant fabric of her dress. “And we can’t even afford to redo our kitchen,” she said and pouted at her husband. “Whoever said money doesn’t buy happiness.”
“We’re very happy,” snapped Melissa.
Bill looked at Christine and found his eyes drifting involuntarily to her bare chest. Abruptly, he began to feel incensed, incensed at her and her husband. The idea then occurred to him that he might be angry at everyone in this great house, the entire assemblage of pompousness and wealth and pretension.
“Oh, come off it, Melissa,” said Christine. “Let’s be honest here. We’re in the same little boat.”
“What Christine meant,” said David, “was—”
“Don’t tell me what I meant, dear,” said Christine. “I said that we could do better. That’s all. You said so yourself, just five minutes ago.” She took a sip from her wine and asked if Bill and Melissa had spotted anyone and if they had come alone. There was a pause in the conversation as a waiter offered a silver platter of summer figs and honey.
“Have you seen Gates of Air?” asked David, licking the honey off his fingers. “A Hollywood film, like they used to make them.”
“The last film we saw was … what was it, Bill?”
“We saw it last weekend,” said Christine. “It’s really a woman’s movie. David was ashamed to go into the theater. Now he’s talking it up.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” David said to his wife. “Gates of Air. Go see it. It reminded me of Witness for the Prosecution, or On the Waterfront. A black-and-white kind of feel. Like Mutiny on the Bounty.”
Christine glanced with annoyance at her husband. “Bill, what kinds of movies do you like? I used to enjoy your e-mail reviews. Quite good.”
Bill shrugged his shoulders and sighed. Now, he was forced to speak. “Some interesting films have been coming out of Australia,” he said, unable to remember the last time he’d seen a movie of any kind.
“Australia?” David exclaimed and gave Bill a queer look. “Australia? I can never tell when you’re joking.” He licked his fingers. “The problem with foreign films is that either you have to strain to read the subtitles or you have to strain to work out what they’re saying. And they’re all copying us, anyway. All the foreign films just copy Hollywood. They’ve learned it all from us. Australia!” He frowned at Bill.
The orchestra started up with a popular tune, and more couples began dancing. David and Christine joined them, disappearing in an ocean of moving bodies.
“Weren’t they dreadful?” whispered Melissa. “Why do we keep seeing them? Let’s not see them anymore.” She took another sip of her wine and held her hand against Bill’s forehead. “Introduce me to someone. There, that’s somebody over there. A big editor. I’ve seen her picture. I can’t remember her name.”
Slowly, they made their way across the tiled floor, moving elbow to elbow through the glittering crowd. “I heard there’s going to be a movie,” said a young woman, staring straight at Bill with bloodshot eyes. Her thin dress was stained brown with sweat and stuck to her skin. “Do you know when it starts?” Bill shrugged his shoulders. “I hope it’s happy,” she said. “I need something to make me happy. Do you know when it starts?” She glanced again at him and hurried into a large room on the right, a theater with tiered rows of seats. A number of people sat before the dark
screen.
“She needs a date,” said Melissa. “Do you see anyone you know?” Bill squinted into the light. Rooms opened off both sides of the main hall. A library, its floor covered with oriental rugs, followed by an entertainment room with pool tables and electronic games, then a formal banquet hall with a dining table twenty feet long. Hundreds of people milled about in each of these other rooms, their faces flitting across television monitors, and Bill realized with dismay that it would take hours to search all the guests.
Just then, he caught a glimpse in a monitor of someone who looked very much like George Mitrakis. Within seconds, the man slid off the screen. Bill stiffened. What room was that? He peered into the television monitor, looking for telltale furniture or colors or angles. Possibly the banquet hall, or the far end of the reception beneath the balcony, where an orchestra pounded overhead. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he began walking rapidly, attempting to pull his wife along. The hall churned around him.
“I’m going to freshen up,” said Melissa. “Sit over there and
I’ll be right back.”
Bill did not feel like sitting. Dizzily, he navigated around the dancers and others and continued into the banquet hall, which was thick with smells from the adjacent kitchens. The proximity to the kitchens seemed to have increased appetites because everyone was eating heavily, soft-shell crabs, stuffed mushrooms, filet mignon with potatoes au gratin, asparagus tips, other food that Bill couldn’t even identify. Lemon meringue pie, cherries jubilee, chocolate cheesecake. Two middle-aged men sat on the floor with a dozen half-eaten desserts between them, sleeves rolled up and gorging themselves like college frat boys. “Waiter!” one of them shouted, his face red and puffy. “You can’t order more,” said the other man, “you’ll be sick, I guarantee it.” “Speak for yourself, John. Waiter. Waiter!”
Across the room, Bill spotted someone he thought to be George Mitrakis, in conversation with a pretty young woman. His heart pounding, Bill crept along the wall and stared at the couple from the corner of his eye. They were arguing about something. The woman had taken everything out of her purse—lipsticks, wallet, cell phone, keys, and cards—all of which she was tossing in her companion’s lap one item at a time. On closer examination, Bill saw that the man was not George, he had only George’s loose face. The stranger, clearly annoyed at being surveyed, turned and frowned balefully at Bill.
Bill hurried back into the reception hall, taking deep breaths of air to keep from retching. In front of him, a small crowd of people stood around a performer who was balancing a ladder on his nose. He wore tight leotards and white paste on his face. With each twist and turn, the clown guffawed and a bit of paste cracked and dropped to the floor. Then a second ladder went up, balanced on top of the first.
Staring stupidly at the crowd, Bill saw no one he knew, although he recognized more celebrities. Everyone clapped and exchanged satisfied glances and sipped from their cocktails, the men at ease in their tuxedos and the women in their gowns. What was he doing at this party? He was not one of these people. He would accomplish his business and leave. Where was Melissa?
In the entertainment room, men leaned over the pool tables, calling for the waiters to bring them more whiskey and beer. A woman sat by herself in a corner, laughing and talking into her phone. “I’m at Marbopolis!” she shouted. “And where are you?” Above her voice, Bill heard a voice so much like Harvey Stumm’s that he could hardly be mistaken. “Harv!” he shouted. A fellow of Stumm’s proportions darted out, into the reception hall, and was instantly swallowed in the crowd. Bill followed. Waiters swarmed like bees. No thank you, no thank you. Cherries jubilee. No thank you. Now his nausea was making him dizzy. He swooned and slumped against a marble pedestal, staring at the digital painting on its crown. A title scrolled by in glowing letters: Vermeer’s The Milkmaid. Then, a few moments later, a new painting: Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. Bill closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep. Stumm’s voice was so offensive, he thought to himself, offensive in its maddening politeness. It was not a human voice at all but the voice of a machine. Stumm was a robot of ruthless efficiency. Where was the robot now? Bill slowly opened his eyes and peered through the ferns in the courtyard and caught sight of the robot at the other end of the hall.
Shortly, Bill found himself inside a vast, empty conference room. Where had Stumm gotten to? Breathing heavily, closing his eyes again, Bill began rehearsing his speech. He would let Stumm have the first word. But of course Stumm would say nothing. I have been employed by this establishment for nine years, Bill would start, and for nine years I have dedicated myself to … That seemed an appropriate beginning. Stumm would respond with something polite and elusive, amused by Bill’s sincerity. What is it? Stumm would say softly and curl the lips of his small white face. What is it? As if Bill were a child who had dirtied himself playing ball and needed help washing. He wanted to vomit, the Prozac was making him vomit, but he would hold down his bile until he found Stumm. I’ll tell you what it is, he would say to Stumm. This establishment has diarrhea. The building has diarrhea, so does the subway. Stumm would not understand anything.
Slowly Bill stood up and cracked open a door. The adjoining room, a half level down, was evidently a communications center of some kind. Rows of people sat like mannequins in front of their computer screens. In a glance, Bill could see that Stumm was not here, but he continued peering into the room, mesmerized. Then he detected it, the sound he had heard in his office, the low steady hum, except now it was louder, far louder. Slapping his hands over his ears, he ducked away before he could be spotted.
He heard Stumm’s voice again, this time near a doorway beneath the balcony. Every few seconds, the door opened and closed, releasing a small cloud of smoke. Bill ascended a winding staircase and emerged in an exercise room and sauna, where he discovered many more guests draped about the treadmills and weight benches, drinking and smoking. Some had donned bathing suits and floated limply in an oval-shaped hot tub. Above swirled a cloud of steam, merging with the thick haze of smoke. “Harv,” Bill called out and began coughing. He moved slowly about the room and squinted at each drunken cluster of people, although it was hard to see anything through the smoke. Ice cubes crunched under his foot. A tiny explosion of orange as a man lit a match. “Harv,” Bill said again. With new anger, he began to consider the possibility that neither Mitrakis nor Stumm had ever been in the house.
The orchestra stopped. “There’s Marbleworth,” a man shouted, pointing at one of the ubiquitous television monitors on the wall. Abruptly, the room fell silent. Everyone looked up at the flickering screen. There, moving easily across the floor of the reception hall, was Edward Marbleworth, lanky and balding, fifty years old. The orchestra began playing “God Bless America.” Even seeing him only in the monitor, Bill felt a surge of excitement. The crowds parted as Marbleworth radiated down the middle of the hall. When he passed Derek Edmundson, the senator eagerly reached out and shook his hand.
“Welcome, welcome,” said Marbleworth after he reached a podium, his voice broadcast to every monitor in the thirty-thousand-square-foot house. “Welcome to Marbopolis. Thank you for coming. I’m pleased to see all of you.” There was a round of applause. In the exercise room, the crowd clapped. Marbleworth paused. “You probably know I’m not the easiest person on earth,” he said, grinning. “I like to win.” People laughed and clapped again. Marbleworth’s wife, standing beside him with precious stones glittering in her hair, also laughed and gave him a kiss. “I want to make an announcement tonight.” Cameras flashed. There was a commotion, one woman was knocked down, and attendants had to escort a handful of people out of the hall. After the assemblage had quieted down, the billionaire continued. “I wish to announce tonight the formation of a new company. It will be called LifeImages.” A pause. “As our first acquisition, we have just purchased the rights to all images of every American’s birth certificate, including the handwritten signature of the attending physician.” It took a few m
oments for the words to register. The crowd gasped. Bill could feel the long-held-in bile screaming to escape from his gut. We have just purchased the rights to all images of every American’s birth certificate, including the handwritten signature of the attending physician. The words repeated themselves in his spinning mind. What arrogance and depravity and disregard for … for what? What was it?
Clutching his stomach, Bill stared into the faces around him, expecting to see the same revulsion he felt. Instead, he saw admiration mixed with fear. All of these thoughts and sensations passed through his reeling mind in a microsecond. Incredibly, Marbleworth was still talking. “From now on,” the billionaire said in the monitor, “there will no longer be delays in obtaining government copies of birth certificates. Through LifeImages, copies can be downloaded instantly. Birth records can be corollated with whatever other personal information the user wants.… This is America. I love it.” Reporters, caught off guard by the announcement, began shouting questions, but the billionaire smiled and held up his hands. “At this time, I will say only one more thing. We hope to make this global.” A man beside him shook his hand. Then Marbleworth disappeared, cushioned by his personal attendants and guards. After a few seconds, the orchestra started up on “New York, New York.”
At that moment, it seemed to Bill that George Mitrakis and Harvey Stumm were nothing. They were the creatures of Marbleworth. Marbleworth was the super robot, the super machine who controlled the other machines. How brilliantly he had amassed his power. How brilliantly, with one rational step after the other, inevitably, inevitably. And Bill had followed mindlessly, even adoringly. For that, he hated himself as much as he hated Edward Marbleworth. He was Marbleworth’s accomplice.