Alpha 4, p.1
Alpha 4, page 1
ALPHA 4
by
ROBERT SILVERBERG
Produced by ReAnimus Press
Other books by Robert Silverberg:
The Gate of Worlds
Conquerors from the Darkness
Time of the Great Freeze
Enter a Soldier. Later: Another
The Longest Way Home
The Alien Years
Tower of Glass
Hot Sky at Midnight
The New Springtime
Shadrach in the Furnace
The Stochastic Man
Thorns
Kingdoms of the Wall
Challenge for a Throne
Scientists and Scoundrels
1066
The Crusades
The Pueblo Revolt
The New Atlantis
The Day the Sun Stood Still
Triax
Three for Tomorrow
Three Trips in Time and Space
Alpha 1
Alpha 2
Alpha 3
© 2022, 1973 by Robert Silverberg. All rights reserved.
https://ReAnimus.com/store?author=Robert+Silverberg
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Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
CASABLANCA
DIO
EASTWARD HO!
JUDAS DANCED
ANGEL'S EGG
IN HIS IMAGE
ALL PIECES OF A RIVER SHORE
WE ALL DIE NAKED
CARCINOMA ANGELS
MOTHER
5,271,009
ABOUT THE EDITOR
INTRODUCTION
This is the fourth annual Alpha collection. The years since the first volume of the series was compiled have seen a steady increase in public recognition of science fiction as a stimulating and rewarding subspecies of literature; indeed, with the science-fiction novels of Kurt Vonnegut and Michael Crichton on the best-seller lists, with such films as A Clockwork Orange, Planet of the Apes, and THX 1138 drawing large audiences, with science-fictional themes infiltrating the world of rock music, with courses in science fiction sprouting in hundreds of high schools and colleges, it sometimes seems as if science fiction is Taking Over.
Whether such a takeover is a desirable end is something that even the most devout science-fictionist might wish to question: s-f is not the whole of literature, and I for one would regret such a universalization of science fiction that all writers felt obliged to turn their gaze to Betelgeuse and Proxima Centauri, and the new novels of Messrs. Updike, Bellow, Mailer, Roth, Malamud, and Beckett dealt exclusively with the events of the thirtieth century and beyond. But it is comforting to have emerged from obscurity and disrepute, at any rate, and to enjoy some of the rewards, financial and otherwise, that writers in less specialized fields enjoy.
One odd aspect of the current science-fiction boom, however, is its neglect of the science-fiction professional, the writer who, laboring for years or decades at cent-a-word rates, helped to forge the body of ideas and images that constitutes the s-f achievement. Few of those professionals have shared in the recent bonanzas. Arthur Clarke is one, thanks largely to the success of the Kubrick-Clarke movie, 2001; Frank Herbert is another, and Robert Heinlein a third, as a result of the adoption of their novels Dune and Stranger in a Strange Land as totems of the youth culture. Isaac Asimov’s television appearances and ubiquitous non-fiction output have helped to keep his s-f popular; Ray Bradbury’s acceptance by literary critics as a major short-story writer swells the sales figures of his early Martian fantasies. For most others, though, the only impact of the science-fictionalizing of America has been a barely perceptible increase in standard paperback royalties. The Alpha series is intended, in part, to draw attention to some of these neglected writers, whose work is often the equal in vision and artistry of those who have become household names. The Vonneguts, the Crichtons, the Bradburys, and others whose national reputations have already been made will not often appear in these pages; we prefer to concentrate on the no less gifted but rather more obscure writers who toil patiently in the same vineyard. May the jackpot of public fancy one day be theirs; meanwhile, the good fortune of experiencing their work is yours.
—Robert Silverberg
CASABLANCA
Thomas M. Disch
Here is a story of the very near future—comic and terrifying both at once, like most true nightmares, and brilliantly executed. Thomas Disch, Iowa-born, Minnesota-reared, more recently a cosmopolitan sort who turns up now in Istanbul, now in New York, now in Rome, now in London, is the author of several novels, including The Genocides and the much-acclaimed Camp Concentration. His best short stories, elliptical and disturbing, have been brought together in a collection entitled Fun With Your New Head.
In the morning the man with the red fez always brought them coffee and toast on a tray. He would ask them how it goes, and Mrs. Richmond, who had some French, would say it goes well. The hotel always served the same kind of jam, plum jam. That eventually became so tiresome that Mrs. Richmond went out and bought their own jar of strawberry jam, but in a little while that was just as tiresome as the plum jam. Then they alternated, having plum jam one day, and strawberry jam the next. They wouldn’t have taken their breakfasts in the hotel at all, except for the money it saved.
When, on the morning of their second Wednesday at the Belmonte, they came down to the lobby, there was no mail for them at the desk. “You can’t really expect them to think of us here,” Mrs. Richmond said in a piqued tone, for it had been her expectation.
“I suppose not.” Fred agreed.
“I think I’m sick again. It was that funny stew we had last night. Didn’t I tell you? Why don’t you go out and get the newspaper this morning?”
So Fred went, by himself, to the news-stand on the corner. It had neither the Times nor the Tribune. There weren’t even the usual papers from London. Fred went to the magazine store nearby the Marhaba, the big luxury hotel. On the way someone tried to sell him a gold watch. It seemed to Fred that everyone in Morocco was trying to sell gold watches.
The magazine store still had copies of the Times from last week. Fred had read those papers already. “Where is today’s Times?” he asked loudly, in English.
The middle-aged man behind the counter shook his head sadly, either because he didn’t understand Fred’s question or because he didn’t know the answer. He asked Fred how it goes.
“Byen,” said Fred, without conviction, “byen.”
The local French newspaper, La Vigie Marocaine, had black, portentous headlines, which Fred could not decipher. Fred spoke “four languages: English, Irish, Scottish, and American.” With only those languages, he insisted, one could be understood anywhere in the free world.
At ten o’clock, Bulova watch time, Fred found himself, as though by chance, outside his favourite ice cream parlour. Usually when he was with his wife, he wasn’t able to indulge his sweet tooth, because Mrs. Richmond, who had a delicate stomach, distrusted Moroccan dairy products, unless boiled.
The waiter smiled and said, “Good morning, Mister Richmon.” Foreigners were never able to pronounce his name right for some reason.
Fred said, “Good morning.”
“How are you?”
“I’m just fine, thank you.”
“Good, good,” the waiter said. Nevertheless, he looked saddened. He seemed to want to say something to Fred, but his English was very limited.
It was amazing, to Fred, that he had to come halfway around the world to discover the best damned ice cream sundaes he’d ever tasted. Instead of going to bars, the young men of the town went to ice cream parlours, like this, just as they had in Fred’s youth, in Iowa, during Prohibition. It had something to do, here in Casablanca, with the Moslem religion.
A ragged shoe-shine boy came in and asked to shine Fred’s shoes, which were very well shined already. Fred looked out the plate glass window to the travel agency across the street. The boy hissed monsieur, monsieur, until Fred would have been happy to kick him. The wisest policy was to ignore the beggars. They went away quicker if you just didn’t look at them. The travel agency displayed a poster showing a pretty young blonde, rather like Doris Day, in a cowboy costume. It was a poster for Pan-American airlines.
At last the shoe-shine boy went away. Fred’s face was flushed with stifled anger. His sparse white hair made the redness of the flesh seem all the brighter, like a winter sunset.
A grown man came into the ice cream parlour with a bundle of newspapers, French newspapers. Despite his lack of French, Fred could understand the headlines. He bought a copy for twenty francs and went back to the hotel, leaving half the sundae uneaten.
The minute he was in the door, Mrs. Richmond cried out, “Isn’t it terrible?” She had a copy of the paper already spread out on the bed. “It doesn’t say anything about Cleveland.” Cleveland was where Nan, the Richmonds’ married daughter, lived. There was no point in wondering about their own home. It was in Florida, within fifty miles of the Cape, and they’d always known that if there were a war it would be one of the first places to go.
“The dirty reds!” Fred said, flushing.
“Do you suppose,” Mrs. Richmond asked, “that Billy and Midge could be at Grandma Holt’s farm?”
Fred paged through La Vigie Marocaine helplessly, looking for pictures. Except for the big cutout of a mushroom cloud on the front page and a stock picture on the second of the president in a cowboy hat, there were no photos. He tried to read the lead story but it made no sense.
Mrs. Richmond rushed out of the room, crying aloud.
Fred wanted to tear the paper into ribbons. To calm himself he poured a shot from the pint of bourbon he kept in the dresser. Then he went out into the hall and called through the locked door to the W.C.: “Well, I’ll bet we knocked hell out of them at least.”
This was of no comfort to Mrs. Richmond.
Only the day before Mrs. Richmond had written two letters—one to her granddaughter Midge, the other to Midge’s mother, Nan. The letter to Midge read:
December 2
Dear Mademoiselle Holt,
Well, here we are in romantic Casablanca, where the old and the new come together. There are palm trees growing on the boulevard outside our hotel window, and sometimes it seems that we never left Florida at all. In Marrakesh we bought presents for you and Billy, which you should get in time for Christmas if the mails are good. Wouldn’t you like to know what’s in those packages! But you’ll just have to wait till Christmas!
You should thank God every day, darling, that you live in America. If you could only see the poor Moroccan children, begging on the streets. They aren’t able to go to school, and many of them don’t even have shoes or warm clothes. And don’t think it doesn’t get cold here, even if it is Africa! You and Billy don’t know how lucky you are!
On the train ride to Marrakesh we saw the farmers plowing their fields in December. Each plow has one donkey and one camel. That would probably be an interesting fact for you to tell your geography teacher in school.
Casablanca is wonderfully exciting, and I often wish that you and Billy were here to enjoy it with us. Someday, perhaps! Be good—remember it will be Christmas soon.
Your loving Grandmother,
“Grams”
The second letter, to Midge’s mother, read as follows:
Dec. 2, Mond. afternoon
Dear Nan,
There’s no use my pretending any more with you! You saw it in my first letter—before I even knew my own feelings. Yes, Morocco has been a terrible disappointment. You wouldn’t believe some of the things that have happened. For instance, it is almost impossible to mail a package out of this country! I will have to wait till we get to Spain, therefore, to send Billy and Midge their Xmas presents. Better not tell B & M that however!
Marrakesh was terrible. Fred and I got lost in the native quarter, and we thought we’d never escape! The filth is unbelievable, but if I talk about that it will only make me ill. After our experience on “the wrong side of the tracks” I wouldn’t leave our hotel. Fred got very angry, and we took the train back to Casablanca the same night. At least there are decent restaurants in Casablanca. You can get a very satisfactory French-type dinner for about $1.00.
After all this you won’t believe me when I tell you that we’re going to stay here two more weeks. That’s when the next boat leaves for Spain. Two more weeks!!! Fred says take an airplane, but you know me. And I’ll be d——ed if I’ll take a trip on the local railroad with all our luggage, which is the only other way.
I’ve finished the one book I brought along, and now I have nothing to read but newspapers. They are printed up in Paris and have mostly the news from India and Angola, which I find too depressing, and the political news from Europe, which I can’t ever keep up with. Who is Chancellor Zucker and what does he have to do with the war in India? I say if people would just sit down and try to understand each other, most of the world’s so-called problems would disappear. Well, that’s my opinion, but I have to keep it to myself, or Fred gets an apoplexy. You know Fred! He says, drop a bomb on Red China and to H—— with it! Good old Fred!
I hope you and Dan are both fine and dan-dy, and I hope B & M are coming along in school. We were both excited to hear about Billy’s A in geography. Fred says it’s due to all the stories he’s told Billy about our travels. Maybe he’s right for once!
Love & kisses,
“Grams”
Fred had forgotten to mail these two letters yesterday afternoon, and now, after the news in the paper, it didn’t seem worthwhile. The Holts, Nan and Dan and Billy and Midge, were all very probably dead.
“It’s so strange,” Mrs. Richmond observed at lunch at their restaurant. “I can’t believe it really happened. Nothing has changed here. You’d think it would make more of a difference.”
“God damned reds.”
“Will you drink the rest of my wine? I’m too upset.”
“What do you suppose we should do? Should we try and telephone to Nan?”
“Trans-Atlantic? Wouldn’t a telegram do just as well?”
So, after lunch, they went to the telegraph office, which was in the main post office, and filled out a form. The message they finally agreed on was: IS EVERYONE WELL QUESTION WAS CLEVELAND HIT QUESTION RETURN REPLY REQUESTED. It cost eleven dollars to send off, one dollar a word. The post office wouldn’t accept a travellers’ cheque, so while Mrs. Richmond waited at the desk, Fred went across the street to the Bank of Morocco to cash it there.
The teller behind the grill looked at Fred’s cheque doubtfully and asked to see his passport. He brought cheque and passport into an office at the back of the bank. Fred grew more and more peeved, as the time wore on and nothing was done. He was accustomed to being treated with respect, at least. The teller returned with a portly gentleman not much younger than Fred himself. He wore a striped suit with a flower in his buttonhole.
“Are you Mr. Richmon?” the older gentleman asked.
“Of course I am. Look at the picture in my passport.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Richmon, but we are not able to cash this cheque.”
“What do you mean? I’ve cashed cheques here before. Look, I’ve noted it down: on November 28, forty dollars; on December 1, twenty dollars.”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Richmon, but we are not able to cash these cheques.”
“I’d like to see the manager.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Richmon, it is not possible for us to cash your cheque. Thank you very much.” He turned to go.
“I want to see the manager!” Everybody in the bank, the tellers and the other clients, were staring at Fred, who had turned quite red.
“I am the manager,” said the man in the striped suit. “Good-bye, Mr. Richmon.”
“These are American Express travellers’ cheques. They’re good anywhere in the world!”
The manager returned to his office, and the teller began to wait on another customer. Fred returned to the post office.
“We’ll have to return here later, darling,” he explained to his wife. She didn’t ask why, and he didn’t want to tell her.
They bought food to bring back to the hotel, since Mrs. Richmond didn’t feel up to dressing for dinner.
The manager of the hotel, a thin, nervous man who wore wire-framed spectacles, was waiting at the desk to see them. Wordlessly he presented them a bill for the room.
Fred protested angrily. “We’re paid up. We’re paid until the twelfth of this month. What are you trying to pull?”
The manager smiled. He had gold teeth. He explained, in imperfect English, that this was the bill.
“Nous sommes payée,” Mrs. Richmond explained pleasantly. Then in a diplomatic whisper to her husband, “Show him the receipt.”
The manager examined the receipt. “Non, non, non,” he said, shaking his head. He handed Fred, instead of his receipt, the new bill.
“I’ll take that receipt back, thank you very much.” The manager smiled and backed away from Fred. Fred acted without thinking. He grabbed the manager’s wrist and prised the receipt out of his fingers. The manager shouted words at him in Arabic. Fred took the key for their room, 216, off its hook behind the desk. Then he took his wife by the elbow and led her up the stairs. The man with the red fez came running down the stairs to do the manager’s bidding.
