Read Players at the Game of People Online
Authors: John Brunner
Players at the Game of People (8 page)
However . . .
"You're exquisite!" caroled Hugo & Diana, expertly paddling toward Gorse.
"You're a designer, is that right?"
Lost for a cue, Gorse glanced at Godwin, but he was lying back to enjoy
the sunshine. She had to find her own way through this one.
"Yes," she said boastfully, and gulped down the contents of her glass.
"And so are you! Everybody knows the Peasmarsh label now. Those things
I just took off -- " She gestured as the liquor began to affect her.
"What do you want?" Companionably, Hugo & Diana linked her inflatabed to
hers. "Start with basics. Underwear? Tights? Shoes? Slippers? Shirts
and blouses? Skirts and trousers? Short dresses and long ones? Coats
and capes and cloaks? Hats, handbags, bracelets, necklaces, watches,
rings, handkerchiefs, scarves, combs and hairbrushes and toothbrushes,
soap and toothpaste, cologne and deodorant, face powder and lipsticks,
eye shadow and mascara, assorted perfumes, nail files and scissors,
emery boards, nail varnish and cuticle removers, shampoo and conditioner,
bath salts and bath oil, sponges and loofahs, soap and cleansing cream
and depilatory and tweezers and shavers and hair driers and sun-ray
lamps and sun-screen lotions and swimsuits and bikinis and trikinis and
bathing caps and sandals and toweling robes and glasses and sunglasses
and boots and breeches and gloves and your choice of sanitary towels or
the means to render them permanently unnecessary and that ought to do for
the present. Will it?" He smiled dazzlingly. "We aim to offer a complete
service, but you may have thought of something I left out. Naturally
everything will bear the Peasmarsh label unless you'd rather it was
marked Quant or Dior or whatever. Up to you."
By this time she had insinuated himself on to the same inflatabed as
Gorse and cast the other into the void.
In a softer tone he added, "Don't worry about offending me if you say
you'd rather it was Dior. I think you're gorgeous anyhow, and I'm so
glad God thought of bringing you to us. But then, of course, he does
have
taste
, doesn't he? And anybody with taste can get on in the
world. It's just about the rarest thing on earth, and if you have it,
it's like a magic touchstone -- Did you know we're into magic? Oh, you
must have realized! Of course it does require a terrific investment of
psychical energy, but we are exceptionally well endowed. Now and then
it leads to a period of inescapable replenishment, but even computers
have to have their downtime, don't they?"
By this time she was fondling Gorse's clitoris and his prick was standing
to attention. Godwin, trying hard not to yawn, helped himself to more
of the bloody mary. It was made with wodka Zubrowskar, and deliciously
aromatic. It sufficed to pass the time until Hugo & Diana had finished and
Gorse was cast away again on another of the countless floating couches.
"So" -- with sudden businesslike briskness -- "that lot would suit you?
We'll arrange for it to be delivered. God, where are you stashing her?
Bill's, as usual?"
Godwin risked shrugging, even though it made his own couch bob around
violently in midair.
"Where else?"
"Fine! And I promise you" -- this to Gorse, across the intervening void --
"you not only won't but you can't regret deciding to have the Peasmarsh
label on everything. There are certain principles transcending science
which led us to design our trademark, and they resonate from anything
it's printed on or even attached to. If you have even a trace of doubt
concerning what we're saying, look around you.
Si evidentiam requiris,
circumspice!
"
"You mean," she responded in a voice full of excitement, "I could have a
place like this?" She gazed about her; there were marble statues, floating
flags of every conceivable color, water sculptures which maintained their
unnervingly accurate course against all odds. Godwin had seen it so often,
he was bored, though he did wish he could share her impressionability.
"No, no!" exclaimed Hugo & Diana in dismay. "Not at all like this! This
is mine! But you can certainly have what
you
want. Think it over. Make
up your mind in due time. When you do, we promise I'll come and see it."
In a lower, more confidential tone, she added, "But you must be sure to
incorporate the power signs which act as channels for the magic. We've
been telling God that for -- oh, ages and ages! And do you think we
can get him to pay attention? Not on your what's-it! But never mind" --
with a sudden renewal of brilliant charm. "You do it the way you want,
and have your kind of fun."
Godwin, relieved at the chance to leave, signaled Gorse to rejoin him.
She came slowly, relishing the weird sensation of floating, and as she
arrived within range of his hand, which she caught at, she said,
"Is it magic that pays for . . . ? Well, for all of this?"
"Well, we don't," Hugo & Diana said, turning her back and pushing off into
the empyrean and beginning to caress his clitoris with sighs and moans
of pleasure. "Who could? Nobody could! It isn't to be bought, is it?"
"But if -- " Gorse ventured obstinately. Godwin cut her short with a
gesture and handed her the clothes she had been wearing when they got
here. He noticed that as she donned each separate garment she looked at
the Peasmarsh label in search of the magical symbols she had just been
told about.
Well, one couldn't expect everybody to grow up at once.
"Let's go," he said finally, and led the way to the street. This being
Sunday, and in Chelsea, poor weather had not prevented crowds of people
from assembling in order to surge back and forth in aimless droves.
As they walked toward where GodwIn knew a taxi would -- of course --
be cruising empty, Gorse's face grew paler and paler.
"I never did anything so awful in my life!" she burst out at last.
"What do you mean?"
"You know damned well!" She bit her lip as though to keep tears away.
"I don't know what came over me!"
"Not to worry," Godwin sighed. "Hugo & Diana has that effect on people.
It's part of the package. Done with what they call pheromones, I gather."
"But what sort of a creature is -- is it?"
"Hermaphrodite, of course. Maybe one of these days you'll meet the surgeon
who performed the transplants. Brilliant man."
"Are you taking me to meet another monster now?"
There was the taxi; Godwin hailed it, and resumed when they were inside.
"We're going to see Ambrose Farr."
"And what's he going to make me do that I don't want to?"
"If you hadn't wanted to do what you did, you wouldn't have done it."
"But I didn't!"
Typical. Typical! Godwin sighed, doing his best to repress an outbreak
of bad temper.
"You want a name to go with Gorse. Ambrose is good at choosing
names. He'll pick one for you."
"And if T don't like it?"
"You will."
The mechanics went on, like cogwheels inexorably turning.
"He will also do a great deal more than pick a name."
"Such as what?"
"Tell you who you are, and who you would be better off being."
"But I know who I am!"
"You may think you do. Ambrose will tell you if you're right."
"And if he thinks I'm wrong?" -- resentfully.
"He'll tell you that, too. Make for Putney, driver! I'll direct you when
we get close."
Improbably interpolated among tall modern buildings: a cottage with
its garden running down to a towpath alongside the Thames. There was an
iron gate, waist-high, set in the fence which bordered tidy twin strips
of bright green lawn converging on the white façade under the red-tiled
roof. Small round flower beds isolated clumps of tulips, hollyhocks and
poppies. Creepers disposed with flawless symmetry ornamented the front
wall's edges to left and right.
Someone lived here who cared about minutiae.
But at a second glance there were reasons why the prospect should be as
it was.
There were adequately few people who understood what kind of a glance
they should give it the second time.
Accordingly there was nobody who paid attention when Godwin marched Gorse
up the path to the bright yellow front door.
Except, naturally, the occupier.
The door opened as usual to Godwin's touch and revealed a narrow hallway
with a flagged floor. The flags, each a meter square, numbered twelve,
and each bore a zodiacal sign, inlaid yellow on a deep red ground. The
walls were divided into panels with dark brown wooden moldings; each panel
displayed a card from the Bembo version of the tarot pack, including
the otherwise lost
The Devil and The Tower
. Heady and intoxicating
incense loaded the air with dense masses of perfume. Solemn organ music
resounded at the edge of hearing.
At the far end of the hallway a doorway flickered open and shut, and
a fraction later another to the left: the former uttered, the latter
received, a tall fair graceful boy clad only in a white shirt.
Godwin halted on the flag displaying Libra. Following him, nervous,
Gorse found herself on the one signing Virgo, just as there came a
subtle increase in volume of the background music; also there was a
change of register, so that a series of bright and lively phrases,
mostly in triplets, overran the ground chords with a sparkling rivulet
of treble tones.
And there was their host: a tail man wearing a dark brown velvet suit
which somehow contrived to give the impression of robes, even though it
was splendidly cut to fit. At his throat was a lace jabot, and a white
silk handkerchief cascaded from his breast pocket. He bore himself with
the commanding air of full maturity, but it was impossible to judge his
age, for his skin -- which was smoothly tanned -- was wrinkle-free except
around the eyes, where one might detect laughter lines, and contrasting
with his tan he had a leonine mane of swept-back hair which might, or
might not, have been white rather than ash-blond. His voice was of a
thrilling deepness, yet every now and then it turned up at the corners,
so to say, as though a sternly engraved face on a statue were occasionally
unable to resist hinting at a smile, and nearly but never completely
implied a giggle.
"My dear fellow!" he boomed as he advanced, both hands outstretched to clasp
Godwin's right hand and his elbow in a single gesture. "It's been too long
-- it always is too long! And who's your . . charming young friend?"
There was a significance about the pause. But that was to be expected.
Godwin gave a bald answer.
"This is Ambrose Farr," he said, turning. "Ambrose, this is Gorse.
Just Gorse, at the moment."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance!" Ambrose declared warmly, extending
his right arm at full stretch and abbreviating contact with Gorse's hand
to a minimum. For the obviousness of this be was at once apologetic.
"You'll forgive me! But I carry a certain astral charge which is at risk
of diminishment -- not, of course, that one would suspect such a risk
in the case of someone brought here by an old and good friend like him!"
The not-quite-giggle added a string of extra exclamation marks to his
statement. A heartbeat later, though, he was intensely businesslike in
both tone and manner.
"How wise of you, at all events, to consult an expert in nomenclature
before settling on your permanent appellation. The careers, the entire
lives, which I've seen ruined by an inappropriate choice . . . Perhaps
you've never considered the point, though merely by looking at you
I would deduce that you have, but I can state with conviction that
the vibrations which resonate from names affect even such fundamental
aspects of the personality as the way in which one regards oneself. How
much wiser are those cultures which employ different names at different
ages! How unfortunate is, let us say, a Helen who turns out to be fat
and pimply rather than a queen for beauty, or a Dorothy whose parents
resent her because they hoped she'd be a boy! Your selection, though, is
Gorse: a prickly plant, with certain medicinal virtues, which in summer
is capable of transforming mile upon square mile of landscape into a
wonderland of brilliant yellow -- already an inspiration. With overtones,
regrettably, of deception and entrapment . . . Hmm! God, you have brought
me a problem worthy of my steel. We shall devote entire attention to it,
never fear. Come down into my sanctum that we may perform analyses."
He was standing, so it seemed, stock-still in the middle of the passageway.
Nonetheless, as though responsive to his mere intention, two of the
tarot-painted panels folded back: The Juggler and The Fool. Between them
appeared the head of a stairway leading down to a dim-lit basement. A few
wreaths of smoke wafted forth.
"I must precede you," he murmured, doing so. "There are certain barriers
and rituals . . ."
Producing -- from his sleeve, or somewhere -- an ebony wand capped at one
end with silver, at the other with ivory, he descended the stairs, making
signs at intervals. Gorse, biting her thumb, hung back, her eyes immensely
wide. There seemed to be no limit to the depth the staircase reached.
Losing patience, Godwin took her by the left arm and urged her ahead of
him, and a few seconds later they were in what Ambrose referred to as
his sanctum.
It gave the appearance, once they were within it, of having neither roof
nor walls: only a floor of cold irregular stone. At one place glowed
a brazier on which reposed an alembic distilling a luminous fluid; at
another, two human skeletons, male and female, were mounted to suggest
that they were about to grapple, wrestler-fashion; elsewhere, floating in
midair, hung a stuffed crocodile and a dried bat; beyond that, at first,
there appeared to be no more than banks of fog.
Then Ambrose turned on a light, and the illusion vanished. Instead of
misty obstacles to vision, it was plain that the boundaries of the place
were formed by ranks and layers of charts drawn on two-meter-square sheets
of some transparent substance, which rustled at the slightest draft like
dead leaves. Each consisted in a series of circles, sometimes concentric,
sometimes overlapping, sometimes of alarming complexity and number,
crossed with straight lines and marked with symbols in contrasting colors,
mostly letters of the Greek and Hebrew alphabets but in some cases
quite unfamiliar.
"You're exquisite!" caroled Hugo & Diana, expertly paddling toward Gorse.
"You're a designer, is that right?"
Lost for a cue, Gorse glanced at Godwin, but he was lying back to enjoy
the sunshine. She had to find her own way through this one.
"Yes," she said boastfully, and gulped down the contents of her glass.
"And so are you! Everybody knows the Peasmarsh label now. Those things
I just took off -- " She gestured as the liquor began to affect her.
"What do you want?" Companionably, Hugo & Diana linked her inflatabed to
hers. "Start with basics. Underwear? Tights? Shoes? Slippers? Shirts
and blouses? Skirts and trousers? Short dresses and long ones? Coats
and capes and cloaks? Hats, handbags, bracelets, necklaces, watches,
rings, handkerchiefs, scarves, combs and hairbrushes and toothbrushes,
soap and toothpaste, cologne and deodorant, face powder and lipsticks,
eye shadow and mascara, assorted perfumes, nail files and scissors,
emery boards, nail varnish and cuticle removers, shampoo and conditioner,
bath salts and bath oil, sponges and loofahs, soap and cleansing cream
and depilatory and tweezers and shavers and hair driers and sun-ray
lamps and sun-screen lotions and swimsuits and bikinis and trikinis and
bathing caps and sandals and toweling robes and glasses and sunglasses
and boots and breeches and gloves and your choice of sanitary towels or
the means to render them permanently unnecessary and that ought to do for
the present. Will it?" He smiled dazzlingly. "We aim to offer a complete
service, but you may have thought of something I left out. Naturally
everything will bear the Peasmarsh label unless you'd rather it was
marked Quant or Dior or whatever. Up to you."
By this time she had insinuated himself on to the same inflatabed as
Gorse and cast the other into the void.
In a softer tone he added, "Don't worry about offending me if you say
you'd rather it was Dior. I think you're gorgeous anyhow, and I'm so
glad God thought of bringing you to us. But then, of course, he does
have
taste
, doesn't he? And anybody with taste can get on in the
world. It's just about the rarest thing on earth, and if you have it,
it's like a magic touchstone -- Did you know we're into magic? Oh, you
must have realized! Of course it does require a terrific investment of
psychical energy, but we are exceptionally well endowed. Now and then
it leads to a period of inescapable replenishment, but even computers
have to have their downtime, don't they?"
By this time she was fondling Gorse's clitoris and his prick was standing
to attention. Godwin, trying hard not to yawn, helped himself to more
of the bloody mary. It was made with wodka Zubrowskar, and deliciously
aromatic. It sufficed to pass the time until Hugo & Diana had finished and
Gorse was cast away again on another of the countless floating couches.
"So" -- with sudden businesslike briskness -- "that lot would suit you?
We'll arrange for it to be delivered. God, where are you stashing her?
Bill's, as usual?"
Godwin risked shrugging, even though it made his own couch bob around
violently in midair.
"Where else?"
"Fine! And I promise you" -- this to Gorse, across the intervening void --
"you not only won't but you can't regret deciding to have the Peasmarsh
label on everything. There are certain principles transcending science
which led us to design our trademark, and they resonate from anything
it's printed on or even attached to. If you have even a trace of doubt
concerning what we're saying, look around you.
Si evidentiam requiris,
circumspice!
"
"You mean," she responded in a voice full of excitement, "I could have a
place like this?" She gazed about her; there were marble statues, floating
flags of every conceivable color, water sculptures which maintained their
unnervingly accurate course against all odds. Godwin had seen it so often,
he was bored, though he did wish he could share her impressionability.
"No, no!" exclaimed Hugo & Diana in dismay. "Not at all like this! This
is mine! But you can certainly have what
you
want. Think it over. Make
up your mind in due time. When you do, we promise I'll come and see it."
In a lower, more confidential tone, she added, "But you must be sure to
incorporate the power signs which act as channels for the magic. We've
been telling God that for -- oh, ages and ages! And do you think we
can get him to pay attention? Not on your what's-it! But never mind" --
with a sudden renewal of brilliant charm. "You do it the way you want,
and have your kind of fun."
Godwin, relieved at the chance to leave, signaled Gorse to rejoin him.
She came slowly, relishing the weird sensation of floating, and as she
arrived within range of his hand, which she caught at, she said,
"Is it magic that pays for . . . ? Well, for all of this?"
"Well, we don't," Hugo & Diana said, turning her back and pushing off into
the empyrean and beginning to caress his clitoris with sighs and moans
of pleasure. "Who could? Nobody could! It isn't to be bought, is it?"
"But if -- " Gorse ventured obstinately. Godwin cut her short with a
gesture and handed her the clothes she had been wearing when they got
here. He noticed that as she donned each separate garment she looked at
the Peasmarsh label in search of the magical symbols she had just been
told about.
Well, one couldn't expect everybody to grow up at once.
"Let's go," he said finally, and led the way to the street. This being
Sunday, and in Chelsea, poor weather had not prevented crowds of people
from assembling in order to surge back and forth in aimless droves.
As they walked toward where GodwIn knew a taxi would -- of course --
be cruising empty, Gorse's face grew paler and paler.
"I never did anything so awful in my life!" she burst out at last.
"What do you mean?"
"You know damned well!" She bit her lip as though to keep tears away.
"I don't know what came over me!"
"Not to worry," Godwin sighed. "Hugo & Diana has that effect on people.
It's part of the package. Done with what they call pheromones, I gather."
"But what sort of a creature is -- is it?"
"Hermaphrodite, of course. Maybe one of these days you'll meet the surgeon
who performed the transplants. Brilliant man."
"Are you taking me to meet another monster now?"
There was the taxi; Godwin hailed it, and resumed when they were inside.
"We're going to see Ambrose Farr."
"And what's he going to make me do that I don't want to?"
"If you hadn't wanted to do what you did, you wouldn't have done it."
"But I didn't!"
Typical. Typical! Godwin sighed, doing his best to repress an outbreak
of bad temper.
"You want a name to go with Gorse. Ambrose is good at choosing
names. He'll pick one for you."
"And if T don't like it?"
"You will."
The mechanics went on, like cogwheels inexorably turning.
"He will also do a great deal more than pick a name."
"Such as what?"
"Tell you who you are, and who you would be better off being."
"But I know who I am!"
"You may think you do. Ambrose will tell you if you're right."
"And if he thinks I'm wrong?" -- resentfully.
"He'll tell you that, too. Make for Putney, driver! I'll direct you when
we get close."
Improbably interpolated among tall modern buildings: a cottage with
its garden running down to a towpath alongside the Thames. There was an
iron gate, waist-high, set in the fence which bordered tidy twin strips
of bright green lawn converging on the white façade under the red-tiled
roof. Small round flower beds isolated clumps of tulips, hollyhocks and
poppies. Creepers disposed with flawless symmetry ornamented the front
wall's edges to left and right.
Someone lived here who cared about minutiae.
But at a second glance there were reasons why the prospect should be as
it was.
There were adequately few people who understood what kind of a glance
they should give it the second time.
Accordingly there was nobody who paid attention when Godwin marched Gorse
up the path to the bright yellow front door.
Except, naturally, the occupier.
The door opened as usual to Godwin's touch and revealed a narrow hallway
with a flagged floor. The flags, each a meter square, numbered twelve,
and each bore a zodiacal sign, inlaid yellow on a deep red ground. The
walls were divided into panels with dark brown wooden moldings; each panel
displayed a card from the Bembo version of the tarot pack, including
the otherwise lost
The Devil and The Tower
. Heady and intoxicating
incense loaded the air with dense masses of perfume. Solemn organ music
resounded at the edge of hearing.
At the far end of the hallway a doorway flickered open and shut, and
a fraction later another to the left: the former uttered, the latter
received, a tall fair graceful boy clad only in a white shirt.
Godwin halted on the flag displaying Libra. Following him, nervous,
Gorse found herself on the one signing Virgo, just as there came a
subtle increase in volume of the background music; also there was a
change of register, so that a series of bright and lively phrases,
mostly in triplets, overran the ground chords with a sparkling rivulet
of treble tones.
And there was their host: a tail man wearing a dark brown velvet suit
which somehow contrived to give the impression of robes, even though it
was splendidly cut to fit. At his throat was a lace jabot, and a white
silk handkerchief cascaded from his breast pocket. He bore himself with
the commanding air of full maturity, but it was impossible to judge his
age, for his skin -- which was smoothly tanned -- was wrinkle-free except
around the eyes, where one might detect laughter lines, and contrasting
with his tan he had a leonine mane of swept-back hair which might, or
might not, have been white rather than ash-blond. His voice was of a
thrilling deepness, yet every now and then it turned up at the corners,
so to say, as though a sternly engraved face on a statue were occasionally
unable to resist hinting at a smile, and nearly but never completely
implied a giggle.
"My dear fellow!" he boomed as he advanced, both hands outstretched to clasp
Godwin's right hand and his elbow in a single gesture. "It's been too long
-- it always is too long! And who's your . . charming young friend?"
There was a significance about the pause. But that was to be expected.
Godwin gave a bald answer.
"This is Ambrose Farr," he said, turning. "Ambrose, this is Gorse.
Just Gorse, at the moment."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance!" Ambrose declared warmly, extending
his right arm at full stretch and abbreviating contact with Gorse's hand
to a minimum. For the obviousness of this be was at once apologetic.
"You'll forgive me! But I carry a certain astral charge which is at risk
of diminishment -- not, of course, that one would suspect such a risk
in the case of someone brought here by an old and good friend like him!"
The not-quite-giggle added a string of extra exclamation marks to his
statement. A heartbeat later, though, he was intensely businesslike in
both tone and manner.
"How wise of you, at all events, to consult an expert in nomenclature
before settling on your permanent appellation. The careers, the entire
lives, which I've seen ruined by an inappropriate choice . . . Perhaps
you've never considered the point, though merely by looking at you
I would deduce that you have, but I can state with conviction that
the vibrations which resonate from names affect even such fundamental
aspects of the personality as the way in which one regards oneself. How
much wiser are those cultures which employ different names at different
ages! How unfortunate is, let us say, a Helen who turns out to be fat
and pimply rather than a queen for beauty, or a Dorothy whose parents
resent her because they hoped she'd be a boy! Your selection, though, is
Gorse: a prickly plant, with certain medicinal virtues, which in summer
is capable of transforming mile upon square mile of landscape into a
wonderland of brilliant yellow -- already an inspiration. With overtones,
regrettably, of deception and entrapment . . . Hmm! God, you have brought
me a problem worthy of my steel. We shall devote entire attention to it,
never fear. Come down into my sanctum that we may perform analyses."
He was standing, so it seemed, stock-still in the middle of the passageway.
Nonetheless, as though responsive to his mere intention, two of the
tarot-painted panels folded back: The Juggler and The Fool. Between them
appeared the head of a stairway leading down to a dim-lit basement. A few
wreaths of smoke wafted forth.
"I must precede you," he murmured, doing so. "There are certain barriers
and rituals . . ."
Producing -- from his sleeve, or somewhere -- an ebony wand capped at one
end with silver, at the other with ivory, he descended the stairs, making
signs at intervals. Gorse, biting her thumb, hung back, her eyes immensely
wide. There seemed to be no limit to the depth the staircase reached.
Losing patience, Godwin took her by the left arm and urged her ahead of
him, and a few seconds later they were in what Ambrose referred to as
his sanctum.
It gave the appearance, once they were within it, of having neither roof
nor walls: only a floor of cold irregular stone. At one place glowed
a brazier on which reposed an alembic distilling a luminous fluid; at
another, two human skeletons, male and female, were mounted to suggest
that they were about to grapple, wrestler-fashion; elsewhere, floating in
midair, hung a stuffed crocodile and a dried bat; beyond that, at first,
there appeared to be no more than banks of fog.
Then Ambrose turned on a light, and the illusion vanished. Instead of
misty obstacles to vision, it was plain that the boundaries of the place
were formed by ranks and layers of charts drawn on two-meter-square sheets
of some transparent substance, which rustled at the slightest draft like
dead leaves. Each consisted in a series of circles, sometimes concentric,
sometimes overlapping, sometimes of alarming complexity and number,
crossed with straight lines and marked with symbols in contrasting colors,
mostly letters of the Greek and Hebrew alphabets but in some cases
quite unfamiliar.
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