Shiva and Other Stories Read online

  Hawkins, thoroughly humiliated, clawed at the restored circulation in his ankle.

  Meanwhile, the asteroid exploded.

  I’m Going Through the Door

  DEAR MR. BAEN:

  While making sentimental pilgrimage to apartment-25 in premises 102 West 75th Street (now located above a solemn and mysterious establishment called THE MONASTERY RESTAURANT whose dungeon-like exterior belies some of the happier moments of memory in which time was spent feverishly ordering antibiotics in the Bailey’s drugstore which used to be there) I found the enclosed strange document addressed to me in psychotic hand and wedged between the top and bottom panels of the flush mechanism in the bathroom of said premises. I cannot imagine how long its length of stay nor how the author of this correspondence expected it to reach my hands. Perhaps he was an optimist. Perhaps he had anticipated my nostalgie de bue. Perhaps I dreamed all of this and wrote the letter to myself in amnesiac fugue, then cunningly secreted it in buried pockets until at this proper moment of opportunity. I am simply unprepared to make judgments of this sort.

  Since the letter itself (as opposed to the envelope in which it was wedged which was incidentally quite filthy) is addressed to you I hasten to forward, although with a great sense of bemusement. I do not know what the author, one W. Coyne, is talking about. Do you know what he is talking about? As always this is sent with every best wish: I have always been a great admirer of the science-fiction market even though I am incapable of writing for it.

  Helpfully,

  BARRY N. MALZBERG

  * * *

  Dear Barry,

  This is such an interesting letter that I have decided to publish it in the form of a short story! As you have long been aware the ingenuity of editors knows no bounds. . . . You don’t suppose Mr. Coyne will mind, do you?

  Best regards,

  Jim Baen

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Baen:

  Perhaps you have heard of me. My name is William Coyne. Eight years ago or perhaps it was nine (it is increasingly difficult to keep events straight in this disordered tangle which I call my mind) I wrote a letter to Frederik Pohl, who was the editor of your magazine for many years. In this letter I described to Mr. Pohl (whom I have always respected) the true and terrible plight in which I had been placed because of an endlessly-multiplying time machine and asked him to write up my story in such a way that a large sum of money could be made from narrating my experiences and this sum of money could be used to keep me and my various selves afloat.

  Well sir now, Mr. Pohl never answered my letter. Instead he published it in Galaxy with some kind of a house name on it. He published it as a short story. I came to understand, finally, that he was not trying to be nasty and that when a science-fiction editor received a rather bizarre narration in the mail he is not to be blamed for thinking of it as yet another work of fiction and publishing it. Besides, it is no small honor to think that one writes well enough to impress a top professional editor and so, after I got over my hurt and shame, I came to think very well of Mr. Pohl, who I understand is no longer editing. The thirty-six dollars, although not a highly significant sum, came in handy at a difficult and terrible time of my life and although it has all long since been spent, I remember it with affection. You see, my situation straightened itself out.

  As you recall, the time-machine I invented, the machine of William Coyne, did not synchronize exactly on the present, so that every time I or one of my various selves attempted to use the machine we would by not coming back to the exact and proper time from which we left create yet another identity. The three hundred and eight of us who were all in occupancy of my very cramped quarters at the time I wrote the letter did not get along very well and it was, all in all, only an unusual stroke of fortune that one of them, in a fit of despair, twisted all the dials on his portable machine to zero and vanished. Shortly after this, one by one, all the other selves began to vanish as well until there was only me, the original William Coyne left, who did not vanish. I have never been able to figure out exactly what the nature of this solution was but concluded after a while that what one self did eventually would happen to all since we were co-existent. This excluded the fact that I, the original William Coyne, did not vanish as well but since I know in my heart that I am indeed the one and only person of this name and gender it is only reasonable that I should remain. In any event, it has been a quiet four years since then.

  It has been a quiet eight or nine years: I have abandoned my experimentation for a more social existence and have, indeed, even been working at various menial jobs within the “military-industrial complex” over these times, finding that my minor engineering or mechanical skills are applicable at the fringes of this very interesting, if dangerous, bureaucracy. I have grown a beard, added something of a wardrobe, even begun to casually date now and then, mostly girls in this very building, dislocated West Side types such as I, who find my nervous twitches sympathetic and who understand that science-fiction, as the only true literature dealing with the effects of technology on man, must be the wave of the future. In normal circumstances, to be sure, my life would be so unremarkable as to deny this very letter: the fact is that for the most part I have been getting along very well over these recent years and indeed seem close to that centrality of the simple life simply lived whose lack drove me to such madness at a different stage of life. But I have one problem which indeed spurs this letter. Otherwise, you understand, I would never bother a professional science-fiction editor again, having learned in one way or the other that they tend to misinterpret.

  Nevertheless, I have this problem. The problem has to do with sleep or perhaps it is only energy of which I am thinking: in any event, when I take to my bed recently, over the past two months say, I find myself being assaulted by the impression of other selves, multiplied identities, hidden doppelgangers, all of them aspects of myself and all of them coming on in waves of impulse and repudiation in those strange sliding moments just before or after true sleep. The selves, who all bear a physical and rhetorical resemblance to the undersigned W. Coyne, address me, first reproachfully and then in fullest accusation; what they seem to be saying—I am not quite sure yet that I understand their language—but what they seem to be saying is that I am somehow to blame for the fact that they are entrapped and able only to address me in moments of the subconscious. Their point seems to be that all of them would be living and flourishing on the Earth still had it not been for my original foolishment of broadcasting our predicament to the whole world.

  Time and again, I have tried to point out to them that this is unreasonable and insane, that it was their own stupidity (well, a singular stupidity of one of them) which resulted in their cancellation and it was not I but one of the others who by fumbling with the devices of the machine (did I tell you that I destroyed my original model of the machine last year, finally?) resulted in his repudiation. But if I do not quite understand their language they most definitely do not understand mine; our dialogues are invariably unsatisfactory and they do not seem to comprehend or enjoy what I have to say. They seem to feel that I am personally responsible for the repudiation of the multiplicity of W. Coyne, that were it not for me, my impulse, my letter-writing, my haste, a million or two W. Coynes might be on the planet at this very moment and they of course would have long since put an end to war, famine, strife, etc., by a mutuality of understanding.

  It is impossible for me to make them understand that my writing of the letter had nothing to do with the cancellation. All that they can suggest, time and again, in their raving, inarticulate way, is that if I had kept my mouth and typewriter keys inert, things on the globe would have taken a far different turn during the last three, disastrous years. And finally, I am willing to admit this, finally they have gotten past easy repudiation, easy mockery, easy rationalization and have begun to afflict me with this horrid kind of guilt, guilt because more and more I feel myself, the modest and unassuming W. Coyne, sitting on more suppressed energy,
more possibility, more sheer grace than ever you or for that matter I could ever conceive.

  And all because of my letter to Mr. Pohl. I meant that to be a start you see but it has just about been my finish.

  My question, Mr. Baen, is this. You are a modern power in science-fiction and can be assumed to deal with moral questions as well as the other kinds and what I want to know is this: would I have been better off returning the check to Galaxy Publishing Corporation and refusing first World Serial Rights or would it have been all the same, this annihilation of my brothers that is, and I at least thirty-six dollars ahead?

  That is my basic question, Mr. Baen, and I would appreciate hearing from you. My other question, not so basic, not really important, just nagging me is this: whatever happened to K. M. O’Donnell?

  Who was K. M. O’Donnell?

  In equivocation and doubt,

  WILLIAM COYNE

  Reparations

  BROWN TELLS ME THAT HE IS SICK OF IT: sick of it, sick of it, do you understand? “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” he points out. “Here is a distinct admonition mistaken as a threat. The task of recense, He is saying, is His, not ours. You cannot repair the sin by slaying the sinner.” Nonetheless the famous Gerald P__ sighs. He does his work sadly but well. Here a dead racketeer, over there, beneath the riverbed, a drowned chieftain; in the Secaucus flatland the dismembered torso of he who had been chief procurer of the east—it is said. Do not ask what lies in Manwah, near the state line. At a rally in Pennsylvania just the other day, friends, M- had the top of his head rise from his skull like the lid of a hot pot; his brains subsequently appeared; in due course he toppled over. Gerald P__’s signature to be sure. The assailant has not been found. Warnings have been issued. Massive funeral services were held for M- in which the assassin was mentioned in hushed and respectful tones. Although Brown will not admit to this, or anything else—he is sly on the specifics as befits a man of circumstance—he must take a certain pride in his work.

  Gerald P__, Gerald P__, an honorable working name. “You should be proud,” I say to him. I am, after all, not only his confidant but his oldest and closest friend. “If you did not assume the dreadful burden of these reparations, who would? Truly it can be said that you order and adjust the world; without your acts of fiery balance it would be overcome by evil. Take pleasure in your work; all of us find parts of our duty distasteful but in the end your job offers more satisfactions than are found by many of us. You should be happy: such beautiful work on M-. One hundred thousand at an outdoor rally and you did it so cleanly, faded away so abruptly that if he hadn’t died on the spot no one would have even noticed.”

  Gerald shakes his head, blushes, looks away. Small dimples of embarrassment appear in his cheeks. It may be true that he despises his work but on the other hand, without praise where would he be? How can he not take pride in what they call a job well done? He has struggled too richly to walk away from this easily.

  * * *

  Disguised as Gerald P__ once more, Brown considers his next move. He receives assignments in code in a post office box on the far side of town; as far as he knows he has never had contact with the ultimate employer. Cash arrives once a month rain or shine. As P__, in full assassin’s gear, Brown sits in the passenger seat of his old Skylark parked outside a warehouse waiting for the target to emerge. Rain comes down heavily, obscuring his view; the subject is already two hours overdue. Gerald should stow his gear and wait for another day but seizures of reluctance have already cost him two good possibilities: today is the terminal date of his assignment. He knows that there will be angry chatter in that post office box if he does not take care of this. Cowardice, no less than a sense of honor, will, however, drive him. His employer is obviously an angry man; he does not want to plumb the depths of unspoken rage. Never has Brown—or at least has Gerald—failed to carry through an assignment even though there have been recent close calls. Years of sad and dedicated work could go up in smoke if he does not take care of this baby smuggler and he does not want to fail on assignment. A dignified resignation is one thing, all right, but to quit in the field would definitely be another. Gerald P__ shrugs and strokes the carbine. Unnoticed by all, I whisper encouragement; the words penetrating his heart, penetrate mine.

  * * *

  The baby smuggler is no fool. Working on the fringes of legality for years makes paranoia as much a part of the working equipment as unmarked bills. Furthermore, certain informants, who cannot be named, so confidential are they, have alerted him to the fact. Gerald P__ is on the stalk. The baby smuggler has heard of him. Many people have heard of Gerald; an assassin of such efficacy acquires, whether necessarily or not, a subterranean reputation. On a night of such inclemency, with light and shadows prowling ominously in the glitter, our victim would be a fool to go to his car. He has decided to stay until dawn in his offices, drinking black coffee from a thermos and making big plans for the future. As a treat he will browse through photo albums containing pictures of women he has wronged, men he has cheated, children whose lives he has destroyed. The baby smuggler is one of those who obtains physical pleasure and release from the contemplation and performance of evil. He is not to be condemned for that: Brown once achieved similar pleasure and release from the practice of good until he came to understand that flesh was all; motive, circumstance, and that all dialectic was rationalization. This insight, Brown later concluded, destroyed his life. Similar affliction has not beset the baby smuggler who is not so highly internalized. He sits eating a sandwich and glancing through the photo album balanced on his knee. Even though P__ may be outside he is at relative peace. This is more than can be said for Brown, even though he performs good and the baby smuggler evil.

  Peace for the peaceful is always there.

  * * *

  Brown got into the business of reparations on a fluke. Originally he had been a philosophy major only half a thesis short of his doctorate when he had quit suddenly to become a trumpeter in a local band. A series of strange and unintimated coincidences had led him to Hollywood and New York, a profitable career as a studio musician until, in his mid thirties, intonation fled and he was left with awesome techniques that could produce music of only the foulest kind. Despairing, Brown sought counseling, psychiatry, the love of many others but, although he had interesting experiences, none of them returned his ear and soon enough the money ran out. At about this time the Network was seeking a replacement in northeastern sector for Michael B•, whose trigger finger had become spavined with age, and because Brown seemed to be the kind of man who might make a worthy successor—high intelligence, broken spirit, generalized rage, angst and the like—he had been scouted carefully for months before the approach was made in a cafeteria. At the time Brown had been reduced to life in a furnished room and evenings out alone in cafeterias, his latest (and penultimate) mistress having thrown him to the winds. Brown was amenable to recruitment which was carried through with all of the Network’s characteristic finesse. Soon enough he was given his post office box and a statement of principles. He had been in the business for almost four years before he felt the first faint whisper of scruple.

  * * *

  That scruple had joined him when Brown had been obliged to kill a concrete manufacturer who loved his family warmly and well but who had adultered his products deliberately and had caused a pedestrian bridge to collapse, bearing several innocents to their death. This, however, is not part of our narrative and cannot be further discussed. The origin of scruple, Brown has come to understand, is as irrelevant as is philosophy to motive: when it is time it is time is his aphorism and for Brown and Gerald P__ it has been time for a while now. It is merely an issue of whether he can be propped up through a few last assignments until a suitable replacement is found. (The Network is still scouting; needless to say possibilities are screened very carefully. A mistake would be fatal.) In this dull and dangerous period it has become my duty as his oldest and closest friend to jolly him through the depressions, kee
p his carbine up, keep him on the stalk and, although I am well paid for this, I like to think that I would work for free, not only because I love Brown but because I have come to love Gerald, the assumed identity, the specter of revenge of my dreams and western civilization, who has done—let us face this squarely—a brutal and splendid job of righting wrongs. “Come now,” I say to him therefore in the Skylark, “be of good cheer. This rain will not last forever. Soon enough he will come ricky-racketing down those splendidly dangerous stairs and a single shot will do the trick. If you miss the shock would topple him.”

  “I don’t know,” Brown says. He is Brown at this moment; more and more he lapses into the shabby persona of a tone-deaf trumpeter. They will have to replace him; I can no longer deny his collapse. “What right do I have to make that judgment? Who am I to say that this deserves death, that that is permitted to live? Vengeance is mine, saith—”

  “Ah, yes,” I say hurriedly. I do not want to go through that once more. “But you were never religious and besides these decisions have been made for you. They are out of your hands, having been given by excellent superiors who are surely in a position to know this as they know everything, Gerald.”

  “My name is Brown, not Gerald,” he says, looking indifferently at the carbine. “I wish that you at least would call me by my name. I can’t deal with this double-life nonsense anymore. It’s childish.”

  I sigh. And sigh again. “Whatever you say, Brown. At least admit that this new religiosity is mere cover, cheap posturing. The truth is that you’ve lost your nerve.”