The Fantasy Writer’s Assistant (32 page)

The only member of the sales force who had had an opportunity to sell one of these new models with a personality as well as the usual unconscious computing power was Merk, and he had warned Slackwell and the others, “One thing to remember: you can demonstrate the floater's sentience for the customer but, whatever you do, don't engage it in conversation on your own. It'll give you the yips.” They had asked Merk if he was speaking from experience or just relating what the researchers at Thinktank had told him. The veteran salesman gave no reply.

2

Although the concept of home was now no more than some vague memory, Slackwell never got used to waking in a strange hotel room. One second he would be dreaming of the old days back in the house on the bay, a spring breeze passing through the willows just outside the screened window. He would roll over in bed to put an arm around his wife, Ella, and then, like a light suddenly switched on, the nausea of his hangover would lodge featherlike at the base of his throat. His mouth would go instantly dry, and the pain would begin behind his eyes. That peaceful dream of the past would vanish and he would wake alone and disoriented.

Of late, his hands had begun to shake in the mornings, and it was all he could do to steady the bottle in order to pour the first of three shots that would get him through the hellish shower, the donning of his Thinktank uniform and to his first cup of coffee. Sometimes aspirin would be called for; sometimes, when he had it, a joint. Whatever it took, he would be on the street sharply at 8:15, staggering along, case in hand.

On this, the morning of his second day in Lindrethool, he met Merk at a diner around the corner from his hotel. They sat at a booth by the window, facing each other, but neither spoke until the first cup of coffee had been drained and the waitress had come with refills.

“How many units did you fob off on the witless citizenry yesterday?” asked Slackwell.

Merk shook his head. “This place is drier than my ex-wife.”

“I had a guy who wanted to buy my hat,” said Slackwell.

“There you go,” said Merk. “I walked in on the middle of a domestic dispute. The woman had a shiner and the old man was seething, but still he made me demonstrate the Tank for them. I had one hand on that revolver I keep in my jacket pocket and used the other to flip the switches and turn the knobs. I got the floater to sing them a song, ‘No Business like Show Business.' You know, it's a sentient model, and whoever the unlucky sap is who wound up under the glass can really belt out a tune. No sale, though. No sale.”

“I'm packing a 256–B myself,” said Slackwell, trying to impress his senior colleague with the fact that the company had entrusted one of its top-of-the-line models to him. “But I still haven't let the thing talk for itself yet. I had a near miss on a sale yesterday. A woman with a kid. She had me do the fucking kid's homework on it and print it out—a report on mummies. The whole time the little monster kept smearing his greasy fingers all over the globe, trying to get at the meat inside. Finally, I told his old lady she should teach him some manners. That iced it.”

“You gotta watch that anger. The customer's always right,” said Merk.

“The customer's hardly
ever
right,” said Slackwell.

They had a few more cups of coffee and Merk had a plate of runny eggs. There was a brief discussion of the new guy Johnny, who Merk said hung himself in the shower stall of his hotel room.

“Did the company get there in time?” asked Slackwell.

“You kidding me?” said Merk. “The implant tipped them off that he was going south before he even put the belt around his neck. I was called over there last night at around nine to witness the operation. They always call me for that shit. I get a bonus. They opened his head like a can of peaches and whipped his sponge out faster than you can say ‘a limited time only.'”

“Won't his brain be screwed up?”

“They have ways to revive them,” said Merk. “Besides, when they cut him down, I'm not sure he was all dead, if you know what I mean.”

“He seemed a little too sensitive for the work,” said Slack-well.

“That poor bastard was born to be a floater,” said Merk. “Some of us drift in the liquid and some on the sidewalk.” He gave a rare smile, almost a wince, and shook his head. “Last I saw the kid alive, he had a stunned look on his face like he didn't know whether to shit or go blind. You know, I've seen that look before.”

“Where?”

“Every morning in the bathroom mirror since the old lady left me.”

“So make another face,” said Slackwell. “What would it take?”

“Courage or insanity, and I haven't got the juice to muster either. When the bell rings, I drool, but I'm good at it.”

“Yeah,” said Slackwell, “my chin's damp more often than not.”

They each had a cigarette and then stood, lifted their cases and exited the diner. Out on the windy street corner, they tipped their respective hats to each other, gave the parting Thinktank sales force salutation, “Lose a brain, brother,” and set out on their separate paths.

By noon, Slackwell was no longer staggering. Instead, he was limping. On the last call before lunch, after covering two entire apartment buildings, a woman took a hammer she had apparently just happened to be holding and smashed the foot he had artfully wedged between door and doorjamb. “Scat,” she had yelled as if he had been some kind of bothersome vermin.

As he moved slowly along the street, he could feel his foot swelling in the shoe. The pain was moderate—worse than the time an old woman had brought him a cup of steaming hot coffee after an hour and a half of hard sell and accidentally spilled it in his lap, but not quite as bad as the time a madman had taken his pen on the pretense of signing an agreement and jabbed him in the wrist with it. At times like this, he considered it a good thing that he did not carry a revolver like Merk.

He spotted the next address on his list, and its newness, its cleanliness, and name—Thornwood Arms—made him decide to skip lunch. Everything about this place suggested affluence. These were the apartments of those who had wound up on the right side of the perpetually widening divide between the haves and have-nots.

He entered the front of the building and made for the elevator, but before he could so much as press the button, a security guard had a hand on his shoulder.

“Whom are you here to see?” asked the tall young man dressed in what appeared to be a ship captain's uniform.

Slackwell retrieved a business card from his coat pocket and handed it to the guard. “I am here to bring the future to your residents.”

“Sorry, sir, but there is no solicitation allowed here.”

“This is not solicitation. This is demonstration,” said Slackwell.

“Either way,” said the young man, “you'll have to leave.”

“Luddite,” Slackwell yelled, as he exited through the revolving door.

Once out on the street, he immediately ducked down an alleyway next to the building.
There's no way this fool is going to deny me contact with a public in need of innovation
, he thought,
especially a public with plenty of cash
.

At the back of the huge building, Slackwell found an empty loading platform. Lifting the case onto it, he then scrabbled up himself. The tall, sliding aluminum gate directly in front of him was shut tight, but off to the far left and far right of the platform were doors that gave access to the building. He chose the left, walked over to try the knob and found he had chosen correctly. The door swung open, and he felt something in his solar plexus, either a muffled gasp of excitement or a jab of indigestion.

He entered, and following a short hallway, soon came in view of a freight elevator. Glancing around to make sure that he was alone, he pressed the button on the elevator and waited for the door to open. He knew better than to gloat in his victory, but he could not help a brief smile. The door slid back and he stepped into the wide, shiny box. “Which floor?” he wondered aloud, staring at the row of buttons. Out of the thirty possibilities, he chose number eleven. The door closed. He leaned back against the metal wall as the car lurched into its ascent. Sweat rolled down across his face from under his hat brim, his heart pounded, his hands shook from need of a drink, and his foot throbbed.

It was a quick decision, but he felt as if he might keel over if he didn't soothe his nerves. When the elevator reached somewhere between the fifth and sixth floors, Slackwell hit the STOP button. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a joint. His hands shook violently and he had a difficult time working the lighter. Eventually, he got the thing lit and took five short tokes on it. The car quickly filled with smoke. Before he stubbed out the weed and started the elevator again, he could already feel his tension level beginning to drop.

Slackwell's mind swirled like the clouds that exited the elevator with him on the eleventh floor. For a few brief moments, as he made his way through a series of doors to find the hallway that held the residents' apartments, he entertained the possibility of filling at least twenty orders.

At the very first door he knocked on, a pleasant-looking older man answered. Slackwell took a deep breath in order to launch into his spiel, but found the dope he'd smoked had robbed him of words. Instead, he started laughing.

The man at the door smiled, and said, “Can I help you?”

“I'm selling something,” said Slackwell.

“Shall I guess what it is?”

“Organic computing.”

The customer's look changed slightly but he continued to smile. “I see,” said the man. “Brains in a jar? I've heard of it.”

“More than that,” said Slackwell. “Much more.”

“Let's see it do its thing,” said the man. He stepped aside and let the salesman in.

The apartment was spacious and perfectly clean. A large window offered a view of the city. The man was obviously learned, because there were two huge bookcases filled with weighty volumes. Beautiful old paintings depicting religious scenes hung on the walls. It was clear to Slackwell from his training that this would be the type of customer who might balk at the usual bullying tactics. A smooth and reasoned delivery was called for in this situation, and he was high enough at the moment to believe he was the man for the job.

They sat, each in a comfortable armchair, at a small marble coffee table on which Slackwell rested his case. As he went through the operation of removing the unit, he laid down a spiel as smooth as a frozen lake. Having read the scene and taken in the surroundings—the customer's cardigan, loafers, and designer button-down shirt the same color as his socks—he tried to punctuate his message with as many erudite words as he was capable of.

“You see, sir … what is your name again?” he asked.

“Catterly,” said the man.

“You see Mr. Catterly, there is no need for a man of your obvious intelligence to forbear the rigitudes of laboring under the present inadequate computing systems that now run the devices of your apartment and give you access to the Internet. There are bothersome buttons to be pushed, dials to be set, and the response time of all of this outdated equipment is regrettable, to say the least. Here is a system that will actually think for you. It will swiftly learn what it is you want, and one simple voice command from you is all it takes to make any changes.”

Slackwell opened the hinged panel and took out the 256–B. “Feast your eyes on this unit,” he said.

“A human brain,” said the man. He peered in at it through the glass and his smile disappeared.

“Awe inspiring, isn't it?” asked Slackwell. “And best of all, it can be brought to consciousness if you require company as well as computing acumen.”

Mr. Catterly shook his head and softly whistled.

“Granted, it takes a little getting used to.”

Slackwell watched as his customer slowly stood. For a moment, he thought he was about to be shown the door.

“I'll be right back,” said Catterly. “Make yourself comfortable.” He left the living room by way of a hall leading off to the left.

“Going to find the old checkbook,” Slackwell whispered, and for the first time that day his foot stopped hurting. He quickly got the unit up and running, using the battery setting that made it portable.

“You aren't from Lindrethool, are you?” Catterly called from down the hall.

“No,” Slackwell replied.

A few minutes passed and then he heard the man's voice from just the other side of the living room. “Then you wouldn't know who I am.”

Slackwell looked up from his task, and saw the old man transformed, wearing green and white robes laced with gold. He had on a tall pointed hat the shape of a closed tulip and carried in his hand a pole with a curved end.

“Oh, Christ,” said Slackwell at the sight of him, knowing instantly he was in trouble.

“Not quite. I'm Bishop Catterly of Lindrethool,” said the man and his once calm smile turned ugly as his face reddened and trembled. “Blasphemy,” he yelled, and lunged across the room, bringing the shepherd's crook up over his head.

Slackwell roused himself from paralysis at the last moment and stood arched over so that his body covered the unit. That pole came down across his spine with a
whack
, and it was all he could do to support himself with his knuckles on the tabletop. He staggered into a standing position, the pain bringing tears to his eyes and radiating down to his heels.

The bishop was raising his weapon for another strike. “Release this soul,” he said. But Slackwell had been sorely abused enough for one day. As he reached out and grabbed the crook with his left hand, he brought his right fist around and punched Catterly square in the jaw. The old man's high hat fell off. He took two steps backward and then just stood there, dazed. His bottom lip was split and blood trickled down across his chin.