Schrodinger's Cat Trilogy (52 page)

Williams had no mercy. He next wanted them to explain the difference between any or all of the above and an
exact duplicate
of any or all of them painted by Roy Lichtenstein and exhibited as Pop Art.

After a half hour more he pointed out that they were arguing among themselves even more than they were attempting to explain these mysteries to him. He also mentioned, not too cruelly, that many of them had arrived at the state where they seemed to believe their definitions would become more convincing if they just repeated them at a louder decibel level.

Williams then gave up the extraterrestrial game and tried to restore order. He became droll and told them the old story of how Picasso, asked to identify the real Picassos in a group of possible fakes, had put one of his own canvases among the fraudulent group. “But,” an art dealer among those present protested, “I saw you paint that one myself, Pablo.”

“No matter,” said the Great Man imperturbably, “I can fake a Picasso as well as anybody.”

He reminded them that Andy Warhol kept a closet full of Campbell’s soup cans, and gave autographed cans to people he liked so they could own “a genuine Warhol.” He pointed out, after the laugh subsided, that neither extraterrestrials nor terrestrials could agree on the difference in value between a Treasury dollar signed by Warhol and thereby becoming “a genuine Warhol,” a counterfeit dollar signed by Warhol for the purpose—giving “a genuine Warhol” to a friend, a Treasury dollar with Warhol’s signature forged by El Mir, a Treasury dollar with Warhol’s signature forged by an unknown criminal, and a counterfeit dollar with Warhol’s signature forged by William S. Burroughs, the founder of Neo-Cubist painting.

He said that Ethnomethodologists knew that the border between the Real and the Unreal was not fixed, but just marked the last place where rival gangs of shamans had fought each other to a stalemate. He said the border had shifted after each major conceptual struggle, as national borders shift after military struggles. He defined everybody who attempted to define Reality, including himself, as a conscious or unconscious co-conspirator with some gang of shamans who are trying to impose their game on the rest of us.

He said that both the economics of art and the art of economics were determined by shamans, whether they knew themselves as shamans or not.

“Crazy
as a
bedbug,”
said the last man to quit the room.

The remainder were staring at Williams with devout awe. They felt that he had removed great murky shadows from their minds and brought them forward into the light.

Williams had made some Converts.

He settled back in an easy chair—he had been standing
in his Full Professor lecture-room style through most of this—and got chatty and informal. He told them the little-known story of Pope Stephen’s parable to the Spanish Cardinal who had told him that “seeking for the Real” was pointless since the Real is palpably right in front of our noses.

“Everybody knows,” Pope Stephen had said, “that I studied singing and medicine before I decided to make the priesthood my life’s work. What few know is that I also considered becoming a novelist. I often wonder, myself, if I ever abandoned that last ambition. Sometimes I feel like a novelist pretending to be a Pope, to see what it’s like. And sometimes I even think the whole Church is a very old novel which I’ve revised and modernized. And, my reverend brother in Christ, sometimes I even think that I’m not alone in this novel-writing business; I think that every man, woman, and child on this planet is writing a novel inside their heads, all day long, every day—editing, rewriting, touching things up, improving a page here and throwing a page out somewhere else. The only difference is that when I write a novel, it becomes an Encyclical, and is therefore Reality for millions of believers.”

Williams now had five True Believers out of the thirty persons he had called together. The five, together with Williams, founded the W. F. Bach Society that night, and set out to impose their definition of Art on the rest of the world.

They began by finding and financing Orson Welles, an obese genius who might have been the world’s greatest film director if he had only been allowed to direct films.

Welles was not allowed to direct films because he had made the mistake, his first time out, of making a movie about Charles Foster Hearst, the richest and most powerful of the Communist clique who ruled Unistat. Welles changed the name, of course, and called his movie character
William Randolph Kane, but few were deceived by this, and Hearst certainly wasn’t.

The movie had a scene, at the beginning, in which a conservative banker said bluntly that “Kane” (Hearst) was a Communist. It went on to make a big mystery about the word “Rosebud,” which referred to General Crowley’s system of “Rosy Cross” Cabalistic magick which the Communists were using to make money out of nothing. It exposed, almost blatantly, how Unistat was actually governed.

Welles was blacklisted, and spent the rest of his life wandering around the world playing bit parts in films by other directors.

The W. F. Bach Society financed Welles in the making of his second film,
Art Is What You Can Get Away With
, which was a bold glorification of El Mir.

Next, the W. F. Bach cabal financed a new literary journal,
Passaic Review
, which they advertised so widely that everybody with any pretense to being an intellectual had to read it.

The
Passaic Review
heaped scorn and invective on the established literary idols of the time—Simon Moon, the neo-surrealist novelist; Gerald Ford, the “country-and-western” poet; Norman Mailer; Robert Heinlein; Tim Hildebrand; and so on. They also denounced all the alleged “greats” of the first part of the century, like H. P. Lovecraft, Henry James, T. S. Eliot, and Robert Putney Drake.

They established their own pantheon of “great” writers, which included William Butler Yeats (an obscure Irish schoolteacher nobody had ever heard of), Olaf Stapledon, Arthur Flegenheimer, and Jonathan Latimer.

After only two years of bombardment by the erudite and authoritative-sounding articles in
Passaic Review
, most self-declared intellectuals were seriously comparing Yeats
with Eliot and granting that some of Stapledon’s novels were as good as anything by James or Drake.

All of this was an experiment, actually. Blake Williams had not believed
everything
he told the founders of the W. F. Bach Society. He was convinced that a
great deal
of what passes for Value was created, not by labor as the Marxists thought, nor by supply-and-demand as the Free Market economists claimed, but by what he as an anthropologist recognized as shamanism.

He was trying to find out how much Value, and hence how much Reality, was so created.

He believed that large hunks of experience could be altered by people who regarded themselves as shamans and considered anyone who opposed them to be rival shamans trying to sell an alternative Reality.

It was his plan to move the Bach group, slowly, from experimenting upon the economics of art to experimenting upon the art of economics.

He knew that Value was the Schrödinger’s Cat in every equation.

“Gentlemen,” Clem Cotex said smugly, “I believe I have identified the Mad Fishmonger.”

The entire membership of the Warren Belch Society—all eight of them—were assembled in the tiny office and a gasp of astonishment went up.

“Yes,” Clem said emphatically, standing at the head of the table, under the portrait of Wigner’s Friend, “I believe I have a positive
‘make’
on the
‘suspect,’
as Jack Webb would say.”

Anthropologist Blake Williams, he of the monumental obsession upon Schrödinger’s occasionally dead cat, spoke first. “Who?” he cried, almost in the tone of one who hears that the circle has, at last, been squared.

“Let me present the evidence,” Cotex said with a solemnity that fit the occasion. He doused the lights and stepped to his slide-projector machine.

On the screen at the other end of the office appeared a well-known face.

“That’s General Crowley, the discoverer of the North Pole!” exclaimed Professor Percy “Prime” Time.

“Yes,” said Clem Cotex with deliberation. “General Edward A. Crowley, the best-known explorer and adventurer of the early decades of our century. The model of the English nobleman. The idol of young boys everywhere. General Crowley, indeed.” He paused dramatically.

“Look at those eyes.”
Clem’s voice suddenly had the tone of Perry Mason addressing the court. “How would you describe those dark and brooding orbs, my friends?”

“Well,” Dr. Williams said, “he has what I believe is called um a
piercing gaze.”

“Exactly,” Cotex said. “A piercing gaze.”

Another picture of General Crowley came on the screen. And another. And another.

“The same piercing gaze,” Clem said pointedly, “year after year. No matter where he is when a photographer pops up—Africa, Mexico, the North Pole; it doesn’t matter—always the same piercing gaze.”

“Well ah aren’t heroes
supposed
to have a piercing gaze?” Old Prime Time protested, wondering if this was just another of Clem’s wild-goose chases.

“In a certain class of sensational fiction,” Clem said tightly, “heroes have a piercing gaze. Sometimes the villains do too—Fu Manchu for instance. But we are not living in that kind of novel,” he went on, not bothering to tell them his opinion of what kind of novel they were living in. “In our reality, a piercing gaze means only one thing, and you all know what it is, gentlemen.”

Another picture of General Crowley came on the screen, one in which he was much older than in the previous four photos; but he still had the same dark and deep—yes, piercing—gaze.

“These are the eyes,” Clem said, “of a
hopeless slave of the hashish habit.
Now, as you all know, many English military men acquired a taste for the resin of the
Cannabis Indica
plant while in India, and were none the worse for it. Certainly, an occasional smoke of the hash is an enjoyable, even a mind-expanding, experience. I daresay most of you here have tried it, and I gladly admit that I have. But a sensible man keeps such diversions within certain bounds. Such a sane, sound man does not
‘do a number’
(as our younger people call it) until evening, or at least until twilight. Well, maybe late afternoon, occasionally. Perhaps in the morning
once in a while.
But not one stick of hash after another, day after day, year after year, for twenty, thirty, forty years! No: one who fits that description is a
slave
of the habit, a hashish robot, a man whose mind has lost contact with Reality (whatever that is) and wanders amid the phantasms of his own poisoned brain. A man, as the Irish say, whose mind had been taken away by the Wee People.”

All gazed up at the photo of General Crowley, “the last of the Kipling heroes,” as a journalist had called him, and Crowley gazed back at them, stony-eyed, impassive, enigmatic.

“Now, I have been studying all of General Crowley’s
wanderings,” Clem went on. “He was, in fact, back in England during November of 1881. The crab and periwinkle prank would have been easy for a man of his wealth, if his mind had already acquired that strange quirk, that twist in the sensibility, which cannabis abusers refer to in their own argot as ‘a spaced-out sense of humor.’

“In 1893, what do we find?” Clem continued. “General Crowley was visiting the Jersey shore, right here in Unistat, ‘fishing and relaxing,’ he says in his autobiography. And that very summer we see the first record of ‘the Jersey Devil,’ that fabulous monster that looked like a gorilla, jumped like a kangaroo, and glowed in the dark.

“I think we can discount later appearances of
the Jersey Devil,”
Clem said argumentatively, “as the work of lesser pranksters, inspired by General Crowley’s initial success.

“In 1904,” Clem went on, “there was the famous werewolf scare in Northumberland. General Crowley was back in England that year. In 1905 we have the first major UFO flap in Spain. General Crowley was vacationing there. In 1908 gnomes and other Little Green Men were reported in Switzerland. General Crowley was there, allegedly only to climb mountains.

“And so it goes,” Clem said bluntly, flicking the lights back on. “Over fifty-six percent of all the weird data collected by the conservative Forteans, by our own more imaginative group, and by all the UFO buffs, for the years of 1860 to 1930—the years of General Crowley’s life—correlate with the General’s own movements. Even the Loch Ness Monster first began to appear after he bought Boleskine House, on the shore on Loch Ness.

“I think, gentlemen, that the conclusion is inescapable. General Edward A. Crowley, the mountaineer, the adventurer, the explorer, was a man unhinged by hashish abuse. He had become a compulsive, obsessive, sometimes sadistic practical joker. After all, I think the psychology
of it is easy to understand, especially to those of us who, while not enslaved by the habit as he was, have had our own little adventures with the cannabis molecule. The world was becoming increasingly materialistic, bureaucratic, and—to a man like Crowley—
dull.
He set out to restore the Mysterious, the Magical, even the Frightening, to us. He was the last Romantic.

“I have no doubt of it,” Clem concluded. “General Crowley was the Mad Fishmonger of Worcester.”

“By George,” Blake Williams said, “I think you’ve really got it.”

There were murmurs of agreement. But then Professor Fred “Fidgets” Digits spoke up suddenly: “This opens a whole new can of worms,” he said. “If General Crowley was—well, what he now appears to be, a common hoaxter—well, gentlemen, can we trust his reports on the North Pole expedition?”

“I fear not,” Clem Cotex said. “That question came to me as soon as I began to realize Crowley’s true character. We can’t believe the North Pole story at all. It may just be another of his jokes. We may have been wrong for years, gentlemen.

“The earth may not be hollow, after all.”