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Publication History:
-- First published in Asterisks (then
Notes) Volume 1, No. 4, 1976, David Vereschagin,
ed.
-- Reprinted in A-1 No. 4, Atomeka Press,
1990, with illustrations by Steve Whitaker, Dave Elliott & Garry Leach, eds. |
A-1 No. 4
(cover by Simon Bisley)
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To Roger Zelazny.
Said the Merchant: "Did you call me last night?"
I: "No."
A silence.
I stand, a pale and silent wraith at the ochre feet of the Great Sphinx of Gizeh. A terrible choice for a party,
really. Joe -- who is not human -- comes to us. He is a tall, sun-glassed creature who fancies the idiotic dress
of the ancient Hell's Angels.
"Want to score, Man?" he asks us. More of his anachronistic pitter-patter. What a bore.
"No, thank you very much." The Merchant.
"Why, no, thanks." Me. Properly contemplative.
"Nevermore." The Raven.
Joe starts smoking. Big, blue puffs float up towards the stars and down again. He sits on one. "What are you
talking about, Man?" Joe calls everybody "Man". But then, we are and he is not. What he is is something
else. Come to think of it, I don't think they even have use for names on his planet.
Diogenes, who until now had been busy romancing Estrella, answers, "The Merchant asked Shroud whether or not
he called him last night."
"Which I did not," I add. "Besides, I try to keep my contacts with Imperium agents as minimal as
possible."
Asks the Merchant, definitely upset, "Who are you calling an Imperium agent?"
Answers Joe, "Who else, fatso?"
Remarks Diogenes, "They used to be less ...obvious. I remember a time when you couldn't spot one for days."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".
The Great Sphinx smiles his same, irritating, bird-swallowing smirk. The Merchant looks worried. One wonders why
the Galactic Imperium keeps sending agents to Earth. And second-rate ones at that. This party is fast turning out
to be a bore. I also don't like the way they fixed up its nose. I mean, the Sphinx's.
"Maybe Glocom made a mistake," I say, trying bravely to rescue this conversation from utter banality.
More silence. Courageously, I persevere.
"After all, it has been operating for a fairly long time..."
"Nevermore".
The Raven again. Who invited that awful bird anyway? I hate these DNAberrations. Call me old fashioned, but what
is wrong with the traditional human shape? Estrella calls it another of my atavistic hang-ups. She also points
out that my kind of satin skin wasn't developed until the Third Interregnum. So what? Consistency is the hobgoblin
of micro-minds, as I always say.
I don't know. This is all so boring.
"Bugger off, birdie", Joe says. "Your Glocom machine is screwing up all over the place, Man. Running
things better? Ha! Better, schmetter! What about your Japan?"
Diogenes: "A small loss. Nothing compared to..."
Joe: "So, now you can chat and dance, and drink and party, all day and all night. Get whatever you want and
create it if it doesn't exist. Tap the energies of your own star and reshape man and beast alike. Mold things into
the forms you fancy. But to what end? There's no longer a Ulysses or a Homer..."
"You didn't phone me, did you?" The Merchant to Diogenes.
"...An Einstein or a Gudarsky..."
"But we're happy," I say, meekly.
"It couldn't have been you, could it?" The Merchant to the Raven, who shrugs.
"Happy? Those who aren't happy are ill. Those who are ill are cured. But what happens to those who can't be
cured?"
I think of the Farm and keep my eyes on the Sphinx, silent, contemplative, floating fifteen feet off its crystal
pedestal. How can I answer Joe? He has followed Mankind since we were trying to reach the edge of the world. We're
his pet subject. Lying would be pointless. Instead, I erase the Sphinx's nose and restore it to the way it used
to be. Imperfect.
"I wonder who could have called me in the middle of the night?" the Merchant mutters.
"I did."
We all look around.
"Here," the omnitor says.
The Merchant looks at the small, silvery ball. "Yes? Who is this?"
"This is Glocom. I'd very much like to speak to you. In private."
The Merchant apologizes and blinks out. I wonder what Glocom wants to discuss with him. Then, I remember that the
Merchant is an Imperium agent. Joe lifts his glasses and opens an eye. Definitely not human.
"I wonder what'll come out of that," he says. The tone is that of one who already knows.
Diogenes materializes some nova drinks. "Why are you both so melancholy? This is a lovely night. The stars
are shining and..."
"Glocom. The Merchant. Do you think it'll sell us?" I ask.
"... the ladies are beautiful..."
"No glorious defeat shall come to give you hope," answers Joe.
"...and we shall dance 'til morning rises."
"Nevermore," quoth the Raven.
Story (c) 2001 Jean-Marc Lofficier
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