"It must be coincidence," the Chairman shouted. "This brilliant, charming young man. Murder? Impossible!"
"Do you want the factual data I've drawn up?"
"No, I don't. I want the truth. Proof-positive without any inferences from dots, dashes and dates."
"Very well, Mr. Chairman. You'll get it."
She rented the professional beggar's pitch alongside the entrance to Skiaki's Oasis for a week. No success. She hired a Revival Band and sang hymns with it before the Oasis. No success. She finally made the contact after she promoted a job with the Organic Nursery. The first three dinners she delivered to the penthouse she came and went unnoticed; Skiaki was entertaining a series of girls, all scrubbed and sparkling with gratitude. When she made the fourth delivery, he was alone and noticed her for the first time.
"Hey," he grinned. "How long has this been going on?"
"Sir?"
"Since when has Organic been using girls for delivery boys?"
"I am a delivery person, sir," Miss Nunn answered with dignity. "I have been working for the Organic Nursery since the first of the month."
"Knock off the sir bit."
"Thank you, s—Dr. Skiaki."
"How the devil do you know that I've got a doctorate?"
She'd slipped. He was listed at the Oasis and the Nursery merely as B. Skiaki, and she should have remembered. As usual, she turned her mistake into an advantage. "I know all about you, sir. Dr. Blaise Skiaki, Princeton, MIT, Dow Chemical. Chief Scent Chemist at CCC."
"You sound like Who's Who."
"That's where I read it, Dr. Skiaki."
"You read me up in Who's Who? Why on Earth?"
"You're the first famous man I've ever met."
"Whatever gave you the idea that I'm famous, which I'm not."
She gestured around. "I knew you had to be famous to live like this."
"Very flattering. What's your name, love?"
"Gretchen, sir."
"What's your last name?"
"People from my class don't have last names, sir."
"Will you be the delivery b-person tomorrow, Gretchen?"
"Tomorrow is my day off, doctor."
"Perfect. Bring dinner for two."
So the affair began and Gretchen discovered, much to her astonishment, that she was enjoying it very much. Blaise was indeed a brilliant, charming young man, always considerate, always generous. In gratitude he gave her (remember he believed she came from the lowest Corridor class) one of his most prized possessions, a five-carat diamond he had synthesized at Dow. She responded with equal style; she wore it in her navel and promised that it was for his eyes only.
Of course he always insisted on her scrubbing up each time she visited, which was a bit of a bore; in her income bracket she probably had more fresh water than he did. However, one convenience was that she could quit her job at the Organic Nursery and attend to other contracts while she was attending to Skiaki.
She always left his penthouse around eleven-thirty but stayed outside until one. She finally picked him up one night just as he was leaving the Oasis. She'd memorized the Salem Burne report and knew what to expect. She overtook him quickly and spoke in an agitated voice, "Mistuh. Mistuh."
He stopped and looked at her kindly without recognition. "Yes, my dear?"
"If yuh gone this way kin I come too. I scared."
"Certainly, my dear."
"Thanks, mistuh. I gone home. You gone home?"
"Well, not exactly."
"Where you gone? Y'ain't up to nothin' bad, is you? I don't want no part."
"Nothing bad, my dear. Don't worry."
"Then what you up to?"
He smiled secretly. "I'm following something."
"Somebody?"
"No, something."
"What kine something?"
"My, you're curious aren't you. What's your name?"
"Gretchen. How 'bout you?"
"Me?"
"What's your name?"
"Wish. Call me Mr. Wish." He hesitated for a moment and then said, "I have to turn left here."
"Thas okay, Mistuh Wish. I go left, too."
She could see that all his senses were prickling, and reduced her prattle to a background of unobtrusive sound. She stayed with him as he twisted, turned, sometimes doubling back, through streets, alleys, lanes and lots, always assuring him that this was her way home too. At a rather dangerous looking refuse dump he gave her a fatherly pat and cautioned her to wait while he explored its safety. He explored, disappeared, and never reappeared.
"I replicated this experience with Skiaki six times," Miss Nunn reported to CCC. "They were all significant. Each time he revealed a little more without realizing it and without recognizing me. Burne was right. It is fugue."
"And the cause, Miss Nunn?"
"Pheromone trails."
"What?"
"I thought you gentlemen would know the term, being in the chemistry business. I see I'll have to explain. It will take some time so I insist that you do not require me to describe the induction and deduction that led me to my conclusion. Understood?"
"Agreed, Miss Nunn."
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Surely you all know hormones, from the Greek hormaein, meaning 'to excite.' They're internal secretions which excite other parts of the body into action. Pheromones are external secretions which excite other creatures into action. It's a mute chemical language.
"The best example of the pheromone language is the ant. Put a lump of sugar somewhere outside an anthill. A forager will come across it, feed and return to the nest. Within an hour the entire commune will be single-filing to and from the sugar, following the pheromone trail first laid down quite undeliberately by the first discoverer. It's an unconscious but compelling stimulant."
"Fascinating. And Dr. Skiaki?"
"He follows human pheromone trails. They compel him, he goes into fugue and follows them."
"Ah! An outre aspect of The Nose. It makes sense, Miss Nunn. It really does. But what trails is he compelled to follow?"
"The death-wish."
"Miss Nunn!"
"Surely you're aware of this aspect of the human psyche. Many people suffer from an unconscious but powerful death-wish, especially in these despairing times. Apparently this leaves a pheromone trail which Dr. Skiaki senses, and he is compelled to follow it."
"And then?"
"Apparently he grants the wish."
"Apparently! Apparently!" the Chairman shouted. "I ask you for proof-positive of this monstrous accusation."
"You'll get it, sir. I'm not finished with Blaise Skiaki yet. There are one or two things I have to wrap up with him, and in the course of that I'm afraid he's in for a shock. You'll have your proof-pos."
That was a half-lie from a woman half in love. She knew she had to see Blaise again, but her motives were confused. To find out whether she really loved him, despite what she knew? To find out whether he loved her? To tell him the truth about herself? To warn him or save him or run away with him? To fulfill her contract in a cool, professional style? She didn't know. Certainly she didn't know that she was in for a shock from Skiaki.
"Were you born blind?" he murmured that night.
She sat bolt upright in the bed. "What? Blind? What?"
"You heard me."
"I've had perfect sight all my life."
"Ah. Then you don't know, darling. I rather suspected that might be it."
"I certainly don't know what you're talking about, Blaise."
"Oh, you're blind all right," he said calmly. "But you've never known because you're blessed with a fantastic freak facility. You have extrasensory perception of other people's senses. You see through other people's eyes. For all I know you may be deaf and hear through their ears. You may feel with their skin. We must explore it sometime."
"I never heard of anything more absurd in all my life," she said angrily.
"I can prove it to you, if you like, Gretchen."
"Go ahead, Blaise. Prove
the impossible."
"Come into the lounge."
In the living room he pointed to a vase. "What color is that?"
"Brown, of course."
"What color is that?" A tapestry.
"Gray."
"And that lamp?"
"Black."
"Q.E.D.," Skiaki said. "It has been demonstrated."
"What's been demonstrated?"
"That you're seeing through my eyes."
"How can you say that?"
"Because I'm color-blind. That's what gave me the clue in the first place."
"What?"
He took her in his arms to quiet her trembling. "Darling Gretchen, the vase is green. The tapestry is amber and gold. The lamp is crimson. I can't see the colors, but the decorator told me and I remember. Now why the terror? You're blind, yes, but you're blessed with something far more miraculous than mere sight; you see through the eyes of the world. I'd change places with you any time."
"It can't be true," she cried.
"It's true, love."
"But when I'm alone?"
"When are you alone? When is anybody in the Corridor ever alone?"
She snatched up a shift and ran out of the penthouse, sobbing hysterically. She ran back to her own Oasis nearly crazed with terror. And yet she kept looking around and there were all the colors: red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, blue, violet. But there were also people swarming through the labyrinths of the Corridor as they always were, twenty-four hours a day.
Back in her apartment she was determined to put the disaster to the test. She dismissed her entire staff with stern orders to get the hell out and spend the night somewhere else. She stood at the door and counted them out, all amazed and unhappy. She slammed the door and looked around. She could still see.
"The lying sonofabitch," she muttered and began to pace furiously. She raged through the apartment, swearing venomously. It proved one thing: never get into personal relationships. They'll betray you, they'll try to destroy you, and she'd made a fool of herself. But why, in God's name, did Blaise use this sort of dirty trick to destroy her? Then she smashed into something and was thrown back. She recovered her balance and looked to see what she had blundered into. It was a harpsichord.
"But. . . but I don't own a harpsichord," she whispered in bewilderment. She started forward to touch it and assure herself of its reality. She smashed into the something again, grabbed it and felt it. It was the back of a couch. She looked around frantically. This was not one of her rooms. The harpsichord. Vivid Brueghels hanging on the walls. Jacobean furniture. Linefold paneled doors. Crewel drapes.
"But. . . this is the . . . the Raxon apartment downstairs. I must be seeing through their eyes. I must. . . he was right. I. . ." She closed her eyes and looked. She saw a melange of apartments, streets, crowds, people, events. She had always seen this sort of montage on occasion but had always thought it was merely the total visual recall which was a major factor in her extraordinary abilities and success. Now she knew the truth.
She began to sob again. She felt her way around the couch and sat down, despairing. When at last the convulsion spent itself, she wiped her eyes courageously, determined to face reality. She was no coward. But when she opened her eyes she was shocked by another bombshell. She saw her familiar room in tones of gray. She saw Blaise Skiaki standing in the open door, smiling at her.
"Blaise?" she whispered.
"The name is Wish, my dear. Mr. Wish. What's yours?"
"Blaise, for God's sake, not me! Not me. I left no death-wish trail."
"What's your name, my dear? We've met before?"
"Gretchen," she screamed. "I'm Gretchen Nunn and I have no death-wish."
"Nice meeting you again, Gretchen," he said in glassy tones, smiling the glassy smile of Mr. Wish. He took two steps toward her. She jumped up and ran behind the couch.
"Blaise, listen to me. You are not Mr. Wish. There is no Mr. Wish. You are Dr. Blaise Skiaki, a famous scientist. You are chief chemist at CCC and have created many wonderful perfumes."
He took another step toward her, unwinding the scarf he wore around his neck.
"Blaise, I'm Gretchen. We've been lovers for two months. You must remember. Try to remember. You told me about my eyes tonight. . . being blind. You must remember that."
He smiled and whirled the scarf into a cord.
"Blaise, you're suffering from fugue. A blackout. A change of psyche. This isn't the real you. It's another creature driven by a pheromone. But I left no pheromone trail. I couldn't. I've never wanted to die."
"Yes, you do, my dear. Only happy to grant your wish. That's why I'm called Mr. Wish."
She squealed like a trapped rat and began darting and dodging while he closed in on her. She feinted him to one side, twisted to the other with a clear chance of getting out the door ahead of him, only to crash into three grinning goons standing shoulder to shoulder. They grabbed and held her.
Mr. Wish did not know that he also left a pheromone trail. It was a pheromone trail of murder.
"Oh, it's you again," Mr. Wish sniffed.
"Hey, old buddy-boy, got a looker this time, huh?"
"And loaded. Dig this layout."
"Great. Makes up for the last three, which was nothin'. Thanks, buddy-boy. You can go home now."
"Why don't I ever get to kill one?" Mr. Wish exclaimed petulantly.
"Now, now. No sulks. We got to protect our bird dog. You lead. We follow and do the rest."
"And if anything goes wrong, you're the setup," one of the goons giggled.
"Go home, buddy-boy. The rest is ours. No arguments. We already explained the standoff to you. We know who you are, but you don't know who we are."
"I know who I am," Mr. Wish said with dignity. "I am Mr. Wish, and I still think I have the right to kill at least one."
"All right, all right. Next time. That's a promise. Now blow."
As Mr. Wish exited resentfully, they ripped Gretchen naked and let out a huge wow when they saw the five-carat diamond in her navel. Mr. Wish turned and saw its scintillation too.
"But that's mine," he said in a confused voice. "That's only for my eyes. I—Gretchen said she would never—" Abruptly Dr. Blaise Skiaki spoke in a tone accustomed to command: "Gretchen, what the hell are you doing here? What's this place? Who are these creatures? What's going on?"
When the police arrived they found three dead bodies and a composed Gretchen Nunn sitting with a laser pistol in her lap. She told a perfectly coherent story of forcible entry, an attempt at armed rape and robbery, and how she was constrained to meet force with force. There were a few loopholes in her account. The bodies were not armed, but if the men had said they were armed, Miss Nunn, of course, would have believed them. The three were somewhat battered, but goons were always fighting. Miss Nunn was commended for her courage and cooperation.
After her final report to the Chairman (which was not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth) Miss Nunn received her check and went directly to the perfume laboratory, which she entered without warning. Dr. Skiaki was doing strange and mysterious things with pipettes, flasks, and reagent bottles. Without turning, he ordered, "Out. Out. Out."
"Good morning, Dr. Skiaki."
He turned, displaying a mauled face and black eyes, and smiled. "Well, well, well. The famous Gretchen Nunn, I presume. Voted Person of the Year three times in succession."
"No, sir. People from my class don't have last names."
"Knock off the sir bit."
"Yes-Mr. Wish."
"Oil", he winced. "Don't remind me of that incredible insanity. How did everything go with the Chairman?"
"I snowed him. You're off the hook."
"Maybe I'm off his hook, but not my own. I was seriously thinking of having myself committed this morning."
"What stopped you?"
"Well, I got involved in this patchouli synthesis and sort of forgot."
She laughed. "You don't have to worry. You're saved."
&
nbsp; "You mean cured?"
"No, Blaise. Not any more than I'm cured of my blindness. But we're both saved because we're aware. We can cope now."
He nodded slowly but not happily.
"So what are you going to do today?" she asked cheerfully. "Struggle with patchouli?"
"No," he said gloomily. "I'm still in one hell of a shock. I think I'll take the day off."
"Perfect. Bring two dinners."
Analog, June 1974
Introduction to the Articles
When Bester left the science fiction field in the late 1950s, he couldn't keep his restless mind from using the same kinds of dazzling methods he put into his fiction into articles for Holiday magazine. Here are a number of examples, from the 1960 article "Gourmet Cooking in Outer Space," to popular science pieces on the Sun and the Moon.
Gourmet Dining in Outer Space
In the stone age of science fiction, back in the twenties, nobody thought much about cooking in space. Those were the early days of vitamins, and writers who imagined what the future would be like thought in terms of pills. They loaded their spaceships with scientists, laboratories and death rays; and then, as an afterthought, threw in a handful of pills which would feed the crew for a year.
In the thirties, science fiction dropped the pills and went in for extraterrestrial menus. What this amounted to was a meal in Joe's Diner with an exotic name. The intrepid spacemen would knock off work in the fourth dimension for a dinner consisting of Venusian (grapefruit), Martian schlumphh (meat and potatoes), Jupiter pandowdy and Andromeda coffee. Authors never specified how these goodies were prepared, or how you cleaned up afterward. You simply lit a Neptunian Wmphz (the cigarette with the spaceman's filter) and chucked the garbage into the rocket engines. Presumably you not only ate off paper plates but cooked in paper pots as well.
By the forties, science fiction was making a valiant attempt at realism, and every spaceship was equipped with giant hydroponic tanks in which vegetables were grown. This meant that spaceships had to be imagined bigger. Some authors made their spaceships a couple of miles long and fitted them out with dirt farms under sun lamps. They also took over the newfangled freezer, and any spaceship could boast of lockers stocked with thousands of prime steaks.