Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Telenizer by Don Thompson (best finance books of all time TXT) 📖
- Author: Don Thompson
Book online «The Telenizer by Don Thompson (best finance books of all time TXT) 📖». Author Don Thompson
And maybe that tells you a little more of the sort of person he is.
"It's a complete fraud," I told him. "They worship a glorified sunlamp and take regular treatments. Same time, they follow a strict diet and system of exercises—have their own little spot on one of the beaches. Guaranteed to cure what ails you."
"Who's the head?" Newell asked. "How many are there?"
"About twenty-five or thirty members, I'd say. That's not counting the few curiosity-seekers, like me. And nobody in particular seems to be in charge right now. I guess the big boss died, and they're holding this confab to elect a new one. Supposed to have the elections today, come to think of it. There's a great big scoop I missed."
"Any real news value in it?"
I shook my head. "Feature story, maybe, but it's pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, even at that."
"Well, stay with it," Newell said. "Just in case nothing pops on this telenosis deal. And get that defense mech as soon as possible."
"Do I get a real vacation after this is all over?" I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
"Scram," Newell replied. "I'm a busy man. Get going!"
Late afternoon of the next day, my defense mechanism was ready. They had taken a reading of my brain wave with a makeshift electroencaphalograph, and then a couple of electronics boys had tinkered around until they had a gadget that would throw out vibrations on exactly my wave-band.
Of course, not having any telenosis equipment, we weren't able to make a real check of the contraption's effectiveness. I had to take the technologists' word that it would work.
Frankly, I didn't feel any too well defended as I hopped the five o'clock stratoliner back to Palm Beach.
The defense mech was enclosed in a black case that looked like a portable radio or a portable typewriter or a small suitcase. When you opened the lid, there was a flat surface having only one dial—for volume. The vibrations had a radius of about three-quarters of a mile.
It was after six when I got back to my hotel. I had Grogan's address, and he wasn't too far from where I was staying—but Grogan is not the sort of person on whom you make a business call after business hours.
My confidence in the defense mech hadn't grown, but I knew of another sure-fire defense, so after dinner I went to the bar to start setting it up.
But I lugged the thirty-pound portable along, anyway, wishing that it looked a little more like a briefcase instead of a typewriter or a radio.
Not that it really mattered, though. I could have carried an open bird cage with a live and screaming Calypsian grimp, odor and all, and still not have attracted any attention—because it wouldn't have been any more unusual than some of the guests at the hotel.
For a student of interplanetary biology, this would be a perfect observation post. There aren't many forms of extraterrestrial life that can accommodate themselves to Earth's conditions, but there are spots that go out of their way to provide suitable conditions for anything that comes along, and this was one of them.
In the two weeks I had been here, I had seen only one Calypsian dominant, and he didn't happen to have a grimp with him. But there were a pair of Uranian galgaque—squat, gray, midget honeymooners—who smelled just as bad. They left a few days after I got here.
Then there had been at least half a dozen flimsy, ethereal little Venusians at one time or another, dragging themselves around and looking unhappy as hell. None of them stayed more than a few days, and they spent most of their time in the water.
I noticed one or two hairy, apelike dominants from Jupiter's third moon, and a few of the snaky, scaly, six-limbed creatures from the second. In addition, there was a group of Vega VI dominants who were hard to distinguish from humans if you didn't look closely enough to notice their complete hairlessness and the absence of neck.
And of course there were the inevitable Martians—giant, big-chested, spindly-limbed, red-hued parodies of humanity; friendly, good-natured and alert. But I don't really suppose they should be classed among the oddities of the place.
As one of my colleagues commented in a national publication not long ago: "The only place a Martian is a novelty any more is on Mars."
I fully expect the 2080 census to show a Martian population on Earth more than double that of the home planet. So far, the Martians seem to be the only extraterrestrials who've really taken root here. And that's a problem, too.
But how the hell did I get off on that?
I was finishing my second martini, sitting in a booth with my feet propped on the seat opposite me and catching snatches of a conversation between an Earth girl and a Vega VI Romeo at a nearby table. It was pretty unsavory conversation, and I guess I was shaking my head sternly when a shadow fell over me.
"Another of the same," I said, looking up—but it wasn't the waiter.
It was an enormous, red-skinned, balloon-chested, white-togaed Martian, and his little wrinkled face was smiling like I was long-lost Uncle Eddie whom he hadn't seen for forty years. When he threw open his long, spindly arms and screeched a loud, "Ahh!" I was beginning to think maybe I was.
"Mr. Langston!" he shrilled. "How gladly to see you! Where been? We missing you colossal!" Then he slapped one fragile hand against his protruding chest, looked up at the ceiling and squeaked: "Clean living and Suns-Rays Incorporated!" He looked at me again, smiling.
"Huh?" I said. "Oh, yeah. Sure as hell. Clean living and Suns-Rays etcetera. Damn right. Pull up a chair, Blek, old boy."
As far as I'm concerned, one Martian looks pretty much like another; but now I recognized this one. There was only one extraterrestrial in the little screwball health-cult with which I had become rather loosely acquainted in the past two weeks, and this was him.
I moved my feet and Zan Matl Blekeke sat down, exuding sunshine and clean living all over the place. We ordered drinks. He was elated as blazes about something, and I decided I might as well let him tell me about it—and knowing the typical Martian's haphazard use of the English language, I regarded the prospect as something of a challenge.
Zan Blekeke started right in telling me about it in his shrill, piping tones:
"Ah, Mr. Langston, wrong time go. Where been? Should have been meeting. I derelicted resident. Ha! Expected, yups?"
I replied, "Nups. Let's start over again. Something pretty damn important?"
He nodded.
"SRI meeting? Yesterday?"
He nodded again, smiling to beat hell.
I thought for a moment, then tried a shot in the dark, illogical as it was. "You lost your home? Derelicted resident?"
He looked like I'd stepped on his sore corn.
I tried again. "You don't mean you were kicked out of the group?"
He winced. "Oohhh, nooo! Opposition. Opposition."
"You mean there was too much opposition to your being kicked out, so you weren't?"
He slumped in his seat and regarded me balefully. With the pathos of a squeaky hinge, he said:
"Head man. Top dog. Derelicted resident. Boss. Wheel. Me. Zan Blekeke."
And if I didn't get it now, I just didn't deserve to know. But I got it.
"You were elected president?" I said.
Zan Blekeke nodded gratefully. "Yus and so. Undeserving awful, but...." He heaved his chest in resignation.
"No. Not at all," I protested. "Why, I think that's wonderful. You're just the man for the job! Have another drink."
We ordered more drinks, and the Martian continued: "Membership obviousless that whatsoever I closest intimute of Dear Late Doctor—" here he raised his eyes again and clapped a hand to his chest before he finished—"I should wallow in step-tracks."
"Why, absolutely," I agreed emphatically. "No question about it."
From talking to some of the SRI members after meetings or at beach sessions, I had gained the definite impression that Zan Blekeke had been a sort of a servant to "Dear Late Doctor," and would continue to be a servant to whoever was elected in his place.
But instead, they had elected the Martian himself. Logical, in a cockeyed way.
This was the first time I'd ever really talked to him. I'd seen him at the few meetings of SRI I had attended, but he had seemed pretty quiet there, letting others do most of the talking. He was in charge of administering the daily Sun-Ray treatments, which I had taken once or twice myself just for the experience; but on those occasions, he had been very cold and professional.
Closest intimute of Dear Late Doctor....
I had never been able to find out much about the Doctor. He was too sacred a subject for any of the members to even talk about. Of course, I hadn't tried very hard, because I wasn't especially interested in this assignment—I was supposed to be on vacation.
Now that a successor had been chosen, I wondered if the show was over and everyone could go home. I asked Blekeke about it.
"Not while yet," he replied. "Colonial could be. All live one. Dear Late Doctor—" hand to heart, face to Heaven, Amen—"often told wanted colossal."
It wasn't too clear, but I nodded anyway. Frankly, my interest in the whole thing was at a very low ebb. With the drinks and the effort of untangling Blekeke's twisted English, I was becoming listless and sleepy.
But he insisted on knowing where I had been when the meeting was held. I told him I'd had to hurry back to New York for a conference with my publisher.
He said, "Ah, yes. Writer." He pointed to the defense mech on the seat beside me. "That typer?"
"Huh? Oh, no ... that's a portable radio. Carry it around with me, in case the conversation gets dull." I was at the point where I didn't care much what I said.
He must have taken it as a gentle hint, because in a little while he got up and left, shrilling: "So gladly seeing you. Wanted know."
I nodded and waved a limp hand at him.
As I was passing the desk on the way up to my room, the clerk called, "Mr. Langston, Mr. Langston. Long distance call for you, sir. I was just ringing your room. You can take it in a booth there, if you wish, sir."
I nodded and walked to the row of vp booths. Closing the door, I sat down in front of the screen and picked up the mike. The visiphone screen lighted and the speaker crackled. The chubby face and shoulders of Carson Newell took form and floated on the plate.
"Wanted to be sure you got the latest dope on Grogan before you see him," Newell said. "Just now got the report."
"Go ahead," I said.
"Well, then—" The boss looked up from his note pad. "About how long had the telenosis been on you? How many days?"
"H'm. Don't know. It's hard to tell, if it's handled right. Weird nightmares, daydreams, absent-mindedness, sudden impulses, optical illusions—it can be telenosis, and it can be just you. I'd say three or four days, but—"
"Wouldn't necessarily prove anything, anyway," Newell broke in. "Here's the report on Grogan. Been out of Corrective for a little more than a month now. Went directly to Memphis. Cleared up business affairs there, then went to Palm Beach for vacation. Arrived late Tuesday afternoon—four days ago. Took a suite in Space Verge hotel with four quote secretaries unquote, and has refused to see anyone. No unusually large baggage. No unusual activities reported. So much for that."
He turned a page of the note pad and went on: "Corrective Institute record: responded favorably to treatment. Occupational training in administrative accounting. Special courses in business and political ethics. Now get this—it's the one thing that gives your hunch any credibility at all. Three months intermittent telenosis therapy for slight paranoiac tendencies. Response favorable. Dismissed from C.I. after five years, three weeks and six days. Classification: Apparent cure, but possibility of relapse."
We were both quiet for a while, looking at each other.
Then I said, "Well, I'll see him tomorrow. Remember, it's nothing but a hunch—not even that."
"Be careful, dammit," Newell cautioned.
... I woke up sometime in the early morning, before it was light, with a clicking noise in my ears. I lay there in bed, gazing into the darkness, wondering, yet knowing, what would happen if the defense mech should break down—if a tube should give out, or if some little coil should prove defective.
The clicking stopped after a while, but it was a long time before I got back to sleep.
I had no trouble getting an interview with Grogan. I'd known I wouldn't. It was a simple matter of calling his suite and
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