Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 1

Van Brant pulled Pelazi’s review out of the communication, read it quickly, and then sat back to enjoy a quiet chuckle. He held the review out at arm’s length, read it over again, and nearly choked laughing. It was getting so that Brant could predict just what Pelazi was going to say even before the latest paperback hit the stands. He pulled his chair closer to the desk and punched Lizbeth’s buzzer.

“Yes, sir?” Her voice was soft, well-modulated.

“Honey,” he said, “see if you can get Clark for me, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” She clicked off, and he leaned back, still smiling. He thought of something else and buzzed her again. “Sir?”

“And see if you can get me copies of all the papers carrying reviews of Stolen Desire, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sat back again, and shook his head in wonder at Dino Pelazi and all the other Realists. They’d never learn; they’d sit in their high porcelain bathtubs until the Vicarion tide reached up past their nostrils and drowned them. Clark Talbot’s book had been a masterpiece of Vicarion literature. So Pelazi had dipped his pen deep in Realist blood and tom it to pieces with archaic language. Typical. Typical, and doomed, because the Vikes were...

The buzzer sounded and he clicked on. “Yes?”

“I have Mr. Talbot for you, sir. On five.”

“Thanks, Liz.”

He swung his chair around and snapped on five, focusing the picture that blotted the screen. Clark was still in his pajamas, and there was the flabby look of sleep on his rough-hewn features.

He blinked his eyes, and then passed his hand over his face. “Oh, good morning, Van,” he said dully.

Van grinned and Clark winced, licked his lips with a thick tongue, and stared into the screen.

“You see what Pelazi brewed on Stolen?” Van asked.

“No. Is it out yet?” Clark’s face became interested, and the sleep began to flee from his eyes.

“Hit the stands this morning; got it right here.”

“Let me see it,” Clark said. Then he shook his head and put one hand over his eyes. “No, read it to me instead.”

“Big night?”

“Herro-coke. You ever try it?”

“I never mix, Clark.”

“I was blind, Van. It’s really destruction. You should try...” He stopped short, blinked his eyes and asked, “You mean you never mix? Never?”

“My habit is short and straight, and needs no mate.”

Clark shook his head. “Mister, you’re a Ree in disguise. What’d Pelazi chop about?”

“The usual. Pull up a chair.”

“Will I need one?”

“Hell, no. Every sad review Pelazi gives is another million in the bank. You should pray he doesn’t honeymoon you.”

“Fat chance of that. The day Pelazi gives one of my pabacks a favorable review, I’ll eat the book — glue and all.”

“You want to hear this?”

“Chop away, father.”

“There’s the usual heading: title, scribe, pub, and price. You don’t want to hear that.”

“No, go on.”

“Here’s what he says. Quote: ‘Clark Talbot, chief purveyor of vicarious filth in the paperbacks, is represented on the pocket-size stands this morning with a lewd, lascivious, obscene, and pornographic document titled...’ ”

“How was that again?”

“Lewd, lascivious, obscene, and pornographic. Shall I go on?”

“Fire away.”

“Still quoting: ‘...pornographic document titled Stolen Desire. As with all Vicarian literature, and with the entire Vicarian Movement in general, this alleged novel seeks to arouse and to excitate...’ ”

“Excitate?”

“So the man said.”

Clark shrugged. “Excitate,” he said dully. “More, Van.”

“ ‘...to excitate the body, to stimulate the diseased mind, to fabricate an existence completely alien to that surrounding us. Realistically...’ ”

“Oops, here comes the Ree pitch again.”

“ ‘...Realistically, it serves no purpose. It is a symposium of smut, as narcotic as the more tangible drugs the Vicarion Movement has...’ ”

“Stop! Enough. I gather he didn’t care much for it. Wouldn’t you say so, Van?”

“Well, I think he was mildly goofed by it, yes.”

“Yeah,” Clark mumbled.

Brant clicked off before he could say more, and the picture faded. He thought about Pelazi’s review for a few moments, and then he buzzed Lizbeth again. When she came on, he said, “Did you round up those papers, honey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring them in, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

He waited for a few seconds until the door slid open and Lizbeth stepped through. She was a small blonde, and the dailies she carried fairly hid her head. She staggered over to the desk, dropped the pile onto its polished top, and then backed away.

She was wearing one of the new see-thru skirts, but in the light she stood in, it was opaque. The skirt was belted around her waist with a narrow red sash. Above the skirt, her flesh was firm and taut, her breasts high. Van stared at them for a moment and asked, “That’s new, isn’t it?”

She looked down at her bare breasts. “Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s a new shade. It changes with the light, too, the way the skirt does.”

Van walked to the window and pressed the button in the wide sill. The blinds slanted downward quickly, spilling, sunlight into the room, bathing Lizbeth in a warm glow. It caught the skirt in its molten web, turning the material to a thin transparent stuff through which he saw the outline of her legs, the tops of her stockings taut against her thighs. Her breasts had suddenly shifted shades, their undersides shimmering in dazzling silver, their sloping tops a pale fuchsia.

“Do you like it?” she asked again.

“Yes, I think so. It’s effective.” Van turned away and began thumbing through the dailies. As he’d suspected, the Ree columnists had all blasted Clark’s book. That was good; that was fine.

“Honey, I want you to have bigs made out of Pelazi’s Com review, and a few stereos, too. We’ll use the bigs in our regular ad space; and try to get us some time for the stereoshows. The sooner the better. Call Sterling at Triple Press and tell him what we plan. Hint that I’d like him to split the cost. If he sounds goofed, forget it. But try to convince him, Liz; hell, he’ll be sharing in the profits.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You might give him a full view of yourself when you call. Stand in the light.” He looked at the skirt again. “That’s a very effective gizmo.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Has Walt called in yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Put him through as soon as he does, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had your morning fix?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither have I. What’s your pleasure?”

“Opaine.”

“Another mixer.” Van shook his head. “You’re trading your womb for a tomb, Liz.”

Lizbeth shrugged, and the sudden shift of light turned her breasts a deep blue. “It’s no fix without the tricks, father.”

“Well spoke, but a big joke. Want to join me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring your kit in.”

“There’s someone waiting to see you, sir.”

“Bring your kit in. He can wait.”

“It’s a she, sir.”

“So, she can wait, too.”

“I’m honored, father,” Liz said, smiling.

“Come on, mother, it’s later than you think.”

She turned and walked toward the door, and her skirt turned opaque again, hiding the long curve of her legs. The door slid open as she reached it; Van looked through to the reception room and saw a tall redhead sitting on the couch, her legs crossed. The door slid closed, hiding her from view, and Van walked to the bar and took out his kit. He unsnapped the leather case, opened it, and selected one of the silver vials inside. The chronometer set in the case’s lid told him it was nine twenty-five — and nine-thirty was happy time.

He brought the vial to his desk, checked the gauge to be sure the fix was adequate, and waited for Lizbeth. The door slid open, and she came in carrying a small, red leather woman’s kit.

She laid the kit on the desk, her breasts shading to a pale chartreuse as she stepped into the shadow of the drapes. She snapped open the lid, selected a silver vial, and asked, “Sure you won’t try a mixed fix? Grand kicks, father.”

“I’m straight,” he told her.

“On what?”

“Morph.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s your snort, but why make life short?”

The hands of the chronometer nudged nine-thirty. “Time to kick,” Van said. He placed the silver vial on the desk, swabbed his arm with alcohol, and then picked up the hypo again. He traced it along the vein, waiting until the indicator told him he’d score. He glanced at Lizbeth, who had lifted her short skirt and was running the vial along the inside of her thigh, using her legs as most women did, preferring not to mark her arms, which were constantly exposed.

“Well,” Van said, “happy.”

“Here’s to you.”

They pressed the buttons on their vials simultaneously, and Van felt the sharp, slender needle puncture his vein, felt the drug ooze from the vial into his blood stream, felt the vial draw back the drug mixed with blood, pump it into his body, again, in, out, in.

“Destruction,” he murmured, his eyes closed.

“Doom,” Lizbeth answered, her eyes beginning to glaze, her mouth partly open as the drug took hold.

Van released the button, twisted the cap of the vial so that it would clean the needle, and then put it back into the kit, alongside the other empties. Lizbeth snapped shut the lid on her case.

“This is good stuff,” he told her. “Where’d you order it?”

“Swift’s Drugs; we’ve always got it from them.”

“Mm? Well, this is unusually good. You might order more at once. We may get some of the same lot. Incidentally, is everyone in the office supplied?”

She nodded briefly. “Just ordered a new shipment of benzejuana yesterday.”

“Benzejuana? Who’s the square?”

“One of the stock clerks. A Ree convert; he’s breaking in slow.”

“Mother, how slow can you get? Give him a pop of herro tomorrow. That or two weeks’ notice. Groove?”

“I understand,” she said. Her speech was slow, her lids half-covering her natural blue eyes.

“What brews this eve, Liz?”

“With me?”

“Uhm.”

“Nothing.”

“Time we changed that, don’t you think?”

Lizbeth smiled. She made a small movement with her hand. “Whatever you say.”

“Fine. I’ll be by at twenty. Leave your number, yes?”

“Formal?”

Van shrugged. “Lips and breasts,” he said. “Skin tint optional.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Father, I’m dead,” she said gaily.

“Fine. Send the girl in, Liz. Tell her I’ve an appointment at...” He lifted his arm, glanced at his wrist chronometer. “...nine forty-five. Tell her we’ll have to make this short.”

“Grooved,” Liz said, and then she was gone.

Van pulled up his breeches, adjusting them higher on his waist. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror set next to the bar. The breeches were skin-tight, and the new stuff he’d used on his chest had given him a wild crop of hair there. He nodded in satisfaction and sat down behind his desk. In a few moments, the door opened, and the girl entered.

He didn’t need a second look to know she was a Realist. She was wearing a skirt that reached some six inches below her knees, and the blouse she wore had long sleeves and a neckline that hugged the throat. She wore no makeup, her lips a pale pink against the whiteness of her face. The only vivid color about her was in her hair, a lustrous red, and that was gathered at the nape of her neck in a tight bun. She wore flat shoes, of course, de-emphasizing the curve of her legs, and she was constrictingly brassiered and girdled.

“Mr. Brant?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“My name is Lydia Silverstein.”

“Have a seat, won’t you, Miss Silverstein?” He indicated a chair, and thought of what his own name had been before he’d joined the Vikes. John Branoski. Van Brant was a definite improvement.

The girl sat in the chair he offered, crossing her legs, and demurely pulling her skirt down.

“What can I do for you, Miss Silverstein?”

“I’m a writer,” she said.

“I gathered. Most people who come to literary agents are.”

Her green eyes widened slightly, and her lips parted. “Yes. Yes, I suppose they are.” She sucked in a deep breath, the bra harnessing her effectively. “I’ve written some stereoshows.”

“Have you?” Van said solicitously.

“Yes. But I’ve been having trouble getting them aired.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m a Ree.”

Van smiled and looked at the girl’s blouse. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I suppose you’re wondering why I came to you.”

“Well...”

The buzzer sounded on his desk, and he clicked down the toggle. “Excuse me,” he said. Then, “Yes?”

“I’ve got Mr. Alloway on seven.”

“Thanks, Liz.” Van turned, snapped on seven, and focused. “Hello, Walt.”

“Hello, Van. What brews?” Alloway was a darkly handsome lad who’d recently had a nose bob. He was wearing crimson breeches, his chest curling with blond hair that was striking against the bronze of his skin. The hair on his head had been tinted blond, too, leaving his eyebrows their original black for a really unusual effect.

“I was wondering how you’re getting along on the new Senso,” Van said.

“All right, I suppose.”

“Ails? Ills?”

“Small smells, that’s all. I need a chick with a frontage. These damn Senso things demand too much.”

“Would you rather be back scribing for the pabacks?”

“Don’t make glip, father.”

“I’m the original glib lip,” Brant told him. “Since when is the scribe casting the show?”

“How do you mean?”

“You said you needed a chick with frontage.”

“Oh. Yeah. You ever work with Lana Davis?”

“Only to take her checks. Why?”

“She’s got Ree tendencies, I swear.”

Van glanced quickly at Miss Silverstein, and then turned back to Walt. “How so?”

“You know how these Sensory shows work. I swear, father, the step below is a better one. I’d rather do tri-dims any day of the week.”

“Less slop and more chop, Walt. I’ve got someone with me.”

“All right, I’ll straight-point it. I’ve got a busty bazoo in one scene, nice bit of biz with it. Davis doesn’t want falsies; she says the viewers can spot them and feel them. She wants the real thing. Is that Realist, or is it?”

“She’s right,” Van said. “She’s been producing these Sensos for a long time now. She knows what the suckers want.”

“But the real thing? There ain’t no such chick, Van, not the way I’ve written it.”

“So change the script.”

“That’s the crux, Van. She likes it the way it is!” He spread his hands helplessly, shaking his head. “She’s crazy Van, I swear.”

“Then do it her way. Pop over to Deborah Dean’s tonight. You’ll see plenty of frontage. You might be able to get something.”

Alloway looked doubtful. “Did you read the script?”

“No.”

“I thought so. If you had, you’d know there is no chick with a natural frontage like that. Oh, the hell with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can always get back into tri-dims — and if worse comes to worst, there’s the pabacks. At least the money is clean.”

“Who cares if it’s clean, as long as it’s much?”

“There’s no such,” Walt said. “You can talk. You don’t have to take it from a chick with a complex as long as my arm.”

“She been psyched, or are you just guessing?”

“I’m guessing, but it’s a sure thing. In the last sequence I did for her, she insisted my baddie was destroying the father image. Father image! Dig that for the falcs!”

“Stick with it, Walt; it’s cool cash. So you put up with a cashew, so what?”

“Yeah,” Alloway said disgustedly.

“I’ll see you tonight?”

“Deborah’s?”

“Yeah, at about twenty or twenty-one.”

“I’m with you.”

“Grooved.”

Brant clicked off and turned back to Miss Silverstein, who had politely stared out the window during the conversation.

“Now then,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“Was that Walter Alloway?” she asked.

“The same.”

“He... he makes a lot of money, doesn’t he? Writing, I mean.”

“One of our best scribes.”

She nodded, thinking of the money, he knew, and not the quality of Walt’s writing. “I want to make a lot of money,” she said suddenly.

“An admirable desire. Everyone does.”

“I... I’ve never tried any Vicarion material.”

“What have you written?”

She turned her head; a flush suffused her neck, and spread over her face. “Stuff,” she said. “You know.”

“Stark realism? Slices of life? Turning the cruel, cold spotlight on suffering humanity? Exposing the...”

“You needn’t make fun,” she snapped.

“I wasn’t,” Van said honestly. “I used to handle that kind of stuff until I hopped aboard. If you want to make money, you’d best turn in your pen for a later model. You can sell slice-of-life to some of the small Ree journals for five skins a throw. I won’t handle it.”

“Why not?”

“Because an agent’s commission on a five dollar sale is fifty cents. I run a business, not a benevolent society.”

“But... but do you really believe in this Vike stuff you sell? I mean, do you honestly believe it’s literature?”

“What’s literature?” Brant asked. “I define it as the profession of a writer or author.”

“That’s a rather narrow definition.”

“Maybe.” Van shrugged. “Literature is also what people read. If they no longer read Beowulf, it’s no longer literature. Vike literature serves a definite need in our society; if you insist on giving it a raison d’etre, that’s it.”

“And... you’d recommend that I write that kind of... of stuff?”

“Me?” Van grinned crookedly. “Honey, I’m not recommending anything. You can write just what you want to write.”

“If I wanted to write Vike stuff, where would I begin?” she asked earnestly.

Van sighed deeply, and his eyes roamed her body frankly. “First, shorten your skirt by about three feet. Throw your blouse away and bare your breasts. Get some tints and cosmetics, and find a drug habit. If you’ve got the man habit, it’s a bad one. Kick your mate out and solo it. Live with Vikes, and stay with Vikes, and play with Vikes. Don’t speak with a full mouth, and eat alone. As they used to say, get with it. That’s the only way you can write it, and the only way you can sell it.”

“I... I see.”

“Toss over all your realistic beliefs, because they’ve no place in the Vicarion world. And it is a Vike world, honey; don’t forget that for a moment. Then when you’ve done all that, come back in a year or two and let me see what you’ve got.”

“Such a long time? Couldn’t it be done faster?”

Van smiled. “I see you’ve read Pygmalion — one of the prime examples of early Vike literature. I thought that was on the Realist spit list.”

“It is.”

“And you read it anyway, huh? Well, that’s promising.” He thought about this for a moment. “Maybe you can do it faster, who knows? What’s your name again?”

“Lydia Silverstein.”

“Mmm. Change that, and fast. Come back in a week or so, and I’ll talk to you then.”

She smiled ingratiatingly. “All right. Thanks a lot. I really...”

“No slop, mother. Come back in a week with a new name. We can use some good women scribes if you work out.”

“Thank you. Thank you very...”

“So long, Miss Silverstein.”

She rose abruptly, walking swiftly to the door. He watched her stiff-hipped walk and called, “Miss Silverstein?”

She turned anxiously. “Yes?”

“Get rid of that girdle.”

“Oh, I will,” she said. She backed a pace, whirling in surprise when the door slid open behind her. She smiled, nodded, and then walked out. The door slid shut.

Van walked to the desk and looked at his chronometer. It was already nine forty-six, and Hayden Thorpe didn’t like to be kept waiting.

He walked to the closet, took a bottle of alcojel from the shelf on the door, and rubbed it over his chest, arms, and back. It dried almost instantly, leaving a high sheen on his muscles. He looked into the mirror appreciatively, winked at his reflection, and then closed the closet door. He walked back to his desk and buzzed Lizbeth.

“Sir?”

“I’m leaving, Liz. I may be back this afternoon. If not, I’ll see you at twenty tonight. Send your address on the Pri-Com, will you?”

“Fine, Van.”

“You know where I’m going now, don’t you?”

“Mr. Thorpe’s?”

“Right. You can reach me there if it’s urgent. Otherwise, I’m in Outer Mongolia.”

“Grooved, Van.”

“Keep thee close, Liz,” he said. He heard her throaty chuckle as he clicked off. He took one last look in the mirror, and then headed for the lift and the sixteenth level.