Schrodinger's Cat Trilogy (21 page)

Hassan contemplated.

“We can
fucking try,”
he said.

“There are many mind-states and universes,” Ped Xing added serenely. “If we don’t succeed here, we will continue elsewhere.”

The majority of Terrans were six-legged, but we are not concerned with them. We are concerned with a tiny minority of domesticated primates who built pyramids and wrote books and eventually achieved Space Migration and entered into the galactic drama.

They were very clever primates—excellent at mimicry and even capable of creative thinking at times.

They never would have escaped from their planet and the boom-and-bust cycles of all life-forms adapted to planetside living if it hadn’t been for the H.E.A.D. Revolution.

HEAD means
Hedonic
Engineering and Development. It consists of learning to use the primate brain for fun and profit.

At the time of our story the HEAD Revolution, after an underground existence of many centuries, included only about 2 percent of the domesticated primates on Terra. The rest of the domesticated primates were still using their brains for misery and failure.

They did not know they were misusing their brains. They thought there was something wrong with the universe.

They called it the Problem of Evil.

Experts on the Problem of Evil were known as theologians. These were very erudite primates, skilled in primate logic, who wrote long books trying to answer the question “Why did God create an imperfect universe?”

“God” was their name for the hypothetical biggest-alpha-male-of-all. Being primates, they could not comprehend how anything could run if there weren’t an alpha male in charge of it.

They assumed the universe was imperfect because it was obviously not set up for the convenience of domesticated primates.

The universe was not even designed for the convenience and comfort of the six-legged majority on Terra. The convenience and comfort of planetside species has very little to do with the cosmic drama.

A few of the primates had realized this. They were known as
cynics.

Cynics were primates who realized the monotonous life-death cycle of terrestrial life, but were not imaginative enough to conceive of future evolution after longevity and escape velocity had been attained.

Planetary life is cyclical because planets themselves follow cyclical orbits about their mother stars. (See
Galactic Encyclopedia
, “Larvel Stages of Species Development.”)

The six-legged majority on Terra, for instance, followed a life script of four or more stages. In general, the pattern was: (1) the embryonic or egg form; (2) the larval period; (3) the pupal or chrysalis stage; (4) the adult insect. During each stage the
biot
or biological unit—the so-called individual—passed through a metamorphosis during which it was totally or partially transformed.

The same was true of the domesticated primates. Most of them passed through, and kept neurological circuits characteristic of, the following four stages: (1) imprinting and using the self-nourishing networks of the primate brain—the neonate or infant stage (oral biosurvival consciousness); (2) imprinting and using the emotional-territorial networks of the primate brain—the “toddler” stage (anal status consciousness); (3) imprinting and using the semantic
circuits—the verbal or conceptual stage (symbolic rational consciousness); (4) imprinting and using the socio-sexual circuits—the mating or parenting stage (tribal taboo consciousness).

It was all very mechanical—but that’s the way planetside life is.

December 1, 1983:

Benny “Eggs” Benedict, plump, smallish, and balding, a popular columnist for the New York
*
News-Times
, sat down to compose his daily essay. According to his usual procedure, he breathed deeply, relaxed every muscle, and gradually forced all verbalization in his brain to stop. When he had reached the Void he waited to see what would float up to fill the vacuum. What surfaced was:

Benny felt a rush of nostalgia. The jingle had been popular in Brooklyn when he was a schoolboy in the antediluvian era of the 1930s. Back then, in the Dark Ages of Roosevelt II, many Brooklyn peddlers still had horse-drawn carts, and the horses, as is common with their species, left piles of horse shit in the streets as they went about their itineraries. Sparrows would peck in these steaming piles of dung for undigested oats, and a Brooklyn child would exclaim, on seeing this:

To which another child would usually reply:

Benny reflected that this little bit of kidlore had stuck in his memory for nearly half a century and that it must therefore contain some profound Meaning. He began pounding the Mac Plus, offering the birdie-turdie poemlet as a perfect example of an American
haiku
—the juxtaposition of two images, without comment by the author, in a way that suggested far more than it actually said.

“Birds,” Benny wrote, “are traditional symbols of beauty, from Bacon’s nightingales to Keats’s skylark, throughout our whole poetic tradition. Horse manure, on the other hand, is regarded with revulsion and loathing. Yet the sparrows, indifferent to human standards, blithely pick in the manure, seeking the food they know is there. The poem is telling us that human likes and dislikes are arbitrary, squinty-eyed, chauvinistic, and irrelevant to nature’s own grand design strategy.”

Benny went on to assert that he had only been able to
see this profundity in the jingle now, after he had spent six months meditating at the Manhattan Zen Center. “This rhyme is the Essence of Zen,” he concluded.

It was probably the least successful column Benny ever wrote. Virtually nobody understood it and everybody was bored by it. Some readers even wrote protesting letters complaining that the column had been in questionable taste.

Benny was depressed by this reaction. He felt it had been a stroke of genius on his part to rescue from oblivion a genuine American
haiku;
but even more than that, writing the column had triggered a vast stream of recollections about 1930s Brooklyn which gave him a renewed sense of Roots he had hoped to share. Why, how many still alive could remember the procedure when the meter man from Monopolated Edison appeared in a Brooklyn neighborhood in those days? The kids were dispatched as runners, racing from house to house, shouting “Mon Ed! Mon Ed!” Everybody would then remove the bags of salt which they kept over the electric meters to deflect the readings downward and thereby lower the electric bill.

It seemed like only yesterday that Benny himself had raced from house to house shouting, “Mon Ed! Mon Ed!” And people had rushed to move the bags of salt to closets where the meter man wouldn’t see them. Benny hadn’t thought of those days in more than four decades, yet they lived on in Memory Storage and could be activated again by something as simple as the jingle about the pretty little birdies. And Benny’s whole attitude toward Mon Edison had been shaped by those experiences; he still regarded the “public” utility with a mixture of fear and loathing.

As a student of Zen, Benny knew that such negative emotions were bad for the nervous system and he often tried to regard Mon Ed without bias. It was impossible. He had learned to forgive Hitler, Stalin, even Nixon, but
Mon Edison was still so charged with emotion that he could not think of it without his blood pressure rising. Besides, they had just raised their rates again in October. At the memory of that, Benny’s Zen crumbled entirely.

“Public utilities are a monopolist’s heaven and a consumer’s hell,” he growled, knowing he was not yet a Buddha.

But then he cheered up as another bit of 1930s kidlore came back to him. It was a silly ritual, really, but it used to keep them amused, even hilarious, back in sixth grade. It would begin with somebody asking, “Who shit in the sink?”

“You shit!” another would reply.

“Bullshit,” the first would riposte.

“Who shit?” a third would then ask.

“Frank shit,” somebody would answer.

“Bullshit,” Frank would object.

“Who shit?”

“Joe shit,” Frank would say, getting Joe into the game.

“Bullshit,” Joe would pay promptly.

And so it would go: “Who shit?” “Pete shit.” “Bullshit!” “Who shit?” “Jerry shit.” “Bullshit!” … And on, and on, until everybody was bored—which among schoolboys might take quite a long time.

Benny was so overwhelmed with nostalgia that he decided to go visit his mother at the Brooklyn Senior Citizens’ Home, even though the old lady had been a bit neurotic ever since she was knocked on her ass by a pursesnatcher three years ago on July 23, 1981.

The only one in New York who really grokked Benny Benedict’s column about the pretty little birdies was Justin Case, a mild, fortyish man who looked Gay but wasn’t. Case wrote excruciatingly intelligent music criticism. Since he read about this example of American folk
haiku
while very, very,
very
stoned on Columbian Gold, he immediately conceived that it would be even more
folkish
and beautiful if recited with an old, Dark Age Brooklyn accent,
viz:

He was so enamored of this that he quoted it, whenever he was drunk or stoned, for several months. The whole winter-spring season of 1983-84, if you mingled with the intelligentsia in Manhattan, you were likely to hear Case declaiming, in a style based partly on Orson Welles and partly on Charles Laughton, “Pretty little boidies/Picking in the toidies!” This finally found its way into Case’s NBI file—“Subject is inclined to quoting obscene poetry in mixed company”—and was even fed to the Beast.

The NBI had a file on Case because one of their informants had stated that he was a frequent associate of Blake Williams. In fact, Case detested Williams and only was
seen in his presence because it was impossible to go to the best parties on the Isle of Manhattan without encountering him. Oddly enough, the informant knew that quite well—but she also knew that her fees depended on the number of new suspects she reported each month.

Case’s NBI dossier remained always small. As a Congressional Medal of Honor winner in Vietnam, he was not the sort of man the Bureau cared to spy on too closely, since it would be embarrassing if they were caught. Besides, they couldn’t make head or tails out of his phone conversations, which were all about such inscrutable matters as whether Beethoven’s obsession with his nephew represented repressed paternal impulses, latent homosexuality, or the desire to be a mother, and whether all three elements were expressed in the tonic chord of the bassoon under the dominant chord of the
tutti
in the opening of the
Ninth.

Justin Case’s god was a dead Irishman named James Augustine Aloysius Joyce, who had been the greatest tenor of the twentieth century. Case owned every record of every Joyce concert preserved on wax, and regarded the man as having the most subtle musical sensibility since the great Ludwig himself. If only he had been a composer instead of a singer, Case sometimes thought, with that ear …

Actually, Joyce had considered the priesthood, writing, and even medicine before settling on a musical career. His voice thrilled audiences in Europe and America for nearly a decade before the famous Joyce Scandal, which destroyed him. Case always fumed with anger when he read of the great singer’s last days—how concerts were disrupted and ruined by moralistic hecklers howling “Garters garters garters!” till the shamed man left the stage, humiliated. It was known that he died of drink, often
comparing himself to Oscar Wilde and Charles Stewart Parnell, and cursing the Christian churches bitterly.

Case once had an affair with the anthropologist and sexologist Marilyn Chambers, just because she shared his passion for Joyce’s music. Due to the receptivity of the postcoital male, he had even allowed her to explain the parallel universe theory to him once—something he always dismissed as rubbish when Blake Williams talked about it.

“You mean,” he asked, “that in another universe Joyce’s thing about girls’ undergarments might never have been discovered and his career wouldn’t have been ruined?”

“Even more,” Dr. Chambers said. “If Wheeler’s interpretation of the state vector is true, there must be such a universe. Also, a universe where Joyce did become a priest instead of a singer.”

“Far fucking out,” Case said. “I wonder what
you’d
be in the universe next door …”

Justin Case heard about the man with no wife, no horse, and no mustache at one of Mary Margaret Wildeblood’s
wild, wild parties. Joe Malik, the editor of
Confrontation
, told the story. It was rather hard for Case to follow because the party was huge and noisy—a typical Wildeblood
soirée. Everybody
was there—Blake Williams, bearded, beamish, bland, the inventor of interstellar pharmaco-anthropology, Gestalt neurobiology, and a dozen other sciences that nobody understood; Juan Tootreego, the Olympic runner who had broken the three-and-a-half-minute mile; Carol Christmas, blond, bubbly, and possessed of the greatest bod in Manhattan; Natalie Drest, chairperson of the Index Expurgatorius in God’s Lightning; Marvin Gardens, who had two best-selling novels and seemingly owned 90 percent of the cocaine in the Western world; Bertha Van Ation, the astronomer from Griffith Observatory who had discovered the two new planets beyond Pluto. Hordes of other Names—maxi-, midi-, and mini-celebrities—swarmed through Mary Margaret’s posh Sutton Place pad as the evening wore on. There was a lot of booze, a lot of weed, and—due to Marvin Gardens—altogether too much coke.