Alice's World Page 7

Monteyiller kept his face serious with an effort. “Any city,” he said. “It’s all up to you.”

  “Anycity,” she repeated. “Oh, I see.” She looked out over the lush, rolling landscape, frowning thoughtfully.

  “And please make it a little bit more lively than this bloody place,” Monteyiller said, grinning.

  Alice had disappeared among the trees. Clouds descended from the sky, hiding the hills of Arcadia from view.

  The landscape shifted, transformed into new shapes, rising and falling like waves on a turbulent sea. Before the eyes of the bewildered men in the ships that circled the planet, green plains changed into seas, seas into open plains and hills; mountains appeared, their peaks covered with blinding white snow. Castles blossomed like great flowers, towers and spires reaching up toward the sides. Gates opened for gaily dressed bands of hunters and white-clad ladies with pointed headgear; the sound of horns resounded in the new forests where dew glittered like diamonds in the grass. Dark cities appeared in valleys and by winding rivers, spewing out smoke and fire, great machines tearing through the silence, only to disappear again without a trace, leaving the lush grass undisturbed. Silver ships rose from the ground, trailing fire and white smoke, whirling up and around and disappearing; sailing ships plowed the waves of the wind, casting anchor among clouds. Dark shapes walked the earth, and from unfathomable abysses under the ground, strange music issued.

  In the mists, shadows grew, forming enormous structures, building roads, houses, vehicles. It sent tendrils into the silent grove, hiding trees and ground from view and changing them into new shapes. It swallowed the shepherdess; it surrounded Monteyiller, Cat and Heracles, whirling madly as dark shadows grew up behind veils of dancing light Gradually, the movements slowed down.

  The mists retreated, soared up and formed layers of gray smoke that blocked out the light of the sun. The city spread out over the landscape, stretching toward the mountains of steel and glass that encircled the horizon.

  Anycity.

  13

  Anycity: It was the city of Victor Hugo, of Upton Sinclair, of Sinclair Lewis. It was London, A.F. 632 and A.D. 1984; it was Chicago of The Jungle; it was New York of The Millennium. It was Stockholm of 1432 and 1971: Kristian the Tyrant watches Stockholm’s Bloodbath from the arched windows of the royal castle; Mr. George F. Babbitt might be watching it from a humbler place. And Mr. Leopold Bloom, the advertisement-touter, his ears filled with the sounds of Dublin, bells ringing and the honking of black cars.

  Anycity. It was all cities, superimposed over each other, sprawling over the countryside like a disease, filling the air with smoke and banners, its thousand furnaces working, its million cars driving, its billion citizens working, dreaming, loving, starving, dying. The ground spewed out its memories, solidifying them into buildings, streets, gardens, people. The war had just started: People crowded the sidewalks, cheering. The war had just ended: People crowded the sidewalks, cheering. The cripples were more noticeable, though. The first spaceship left for Mars, for Venus, for Alpha Centauri, for the Moon. The sky blazed with atomic light. William the Conqueror was preparing for war; in the harbor, the Spanish Armada set sails. Anycity spread out and contracted under the blue, diseased sky.

  It was born on an islet: it was called Stadsholmen, Ile de la Cité, the City. The shores of the island were its first walls, the river its first moat There were two bridges, one south, one north. The first line of walls and towers began to encroach upon the countryside on both sides of the river. Gradually, the houses crowded each other, rose higher, wore away and erased their enclosures. Story was piled upon story; streets became deeper and narrower, deep chasms in a rapidly growing body of bricks and mortar. There were new city walls, which the houses overflowed. Wider streets appeared, radiating from the palaces in the center. Chimneys replaced the old towers: there was smoke spewing out over the preamble of one-story houses that surrounded the growing city.

  Anycity grew like a cancerous growth, spreading its poison its life, its death. It was Tokyo, New York, Paris. Its people were the people of stories and dreams. Kings were crowned, beggars died: the palace of frozen fire stood shoulder to shoulder with the yeoman’s hut. It was the Forbidden City, Valhalla, Shangri-La, Atlantis. It was all cities, every city, any city. Everything and nothing.

  Anycity.

  A big black ground-car of an unfamiliar design roared by, missing Monteyiller’s toes by a hairbreadth. A hail of blazing monosyllables streamed out from the rear window, hitting him with full force in the face. He discovered that he was standing in a heavily frequented street and jumped back just in time to avoid being run over by another vehicle that thundered past, trailing a billowing cloud of evil-smelling exhaust. He took another step backward, and bumped into Cat, who stood on the sidewalk, squinting against the sun. Heracles stood beside her, holding onto his truncheon, a bewildered look on his heavy face.

  “So this is the much-talked-about city,” he muttered. “Funny we didn’t see it from the orbit. It certainly looks big enough to be visible out to the Moon.” He turned to Heracles. “Do you know this place?”

  Heracles shook his head. “My cities are different. Not like this at all.”

  Yow mean your village, Monteyiller thought. Aloud, he said,‘“There should be a government center somewhere…a city of this size should have a computer central as well. You don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  Heracles shook his head again.

  Cat said, “Why a computer central?”

  “Because everyone on this planet is stark, raving mad, and we need an honest-to-God sane computer to clear out this mess. I hardly know what’s up or down any longer; a couple of straight answers, that’s what I need.” He paused, frowning. “I don’t understand this world. It keeps everything to itself, only permitting us to catch a glimpse of it now and then. I have a hunch—” He looked up over the roaring mass of ground-cars and drew in his breath sharply. “Hey—look!” He pointed.

  There, in a small circle of sickly-looking grass in the middle of the busy intersection, a black scoutship hovered, barrels gleaming threateningly in the sun. A humanoid robot sat by the airlock, staring out over an ocean of roaring ground-cars—a lonely shipwrecked survivor on a small island surrounded by murderous sharks.

  Monteyiller, staring at the inaccessible, inexplicable ship, said, “At least we know where it is.”

  “But it’s our ship!” Cat said. “How in all—”

  “I don’t ask any longer,” Monteyiller muttered, “I just go along with it. So it’s our ship. Nothing can ever surprise me anymore. Nothing.”

  Give me a fifteen-foot dragon, he thought, anything at all just as long as it’s real and uncomplicated. Anything but this!

  “The ship could have tracked us down,” Cat said hesitatingly. “It’s quite intelligent; it could have.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

  “Sure,” Monteyiller said. “Tracked us down, it did. Sure.”

  It would be the first time that ever happened, but why not? It’s bound to happen some time, so why not now?

  Really, why not?

  Because it’s goddamn impossible, that’s why not.

  “If I ever get inside that ship,” Cat said, “I promise you I’ll never set my foot outside it again. But how can we get over this street to it?” She was looking at a young bearded man who in a fit of misguided idealism had ventured out in the busy street, staggering under the weight of a sign listing some of the most obvious effects of air pollution. The sign swayed and fell under the rush of oncoming ground-cars. An arm flayed briefly beyond a car, then disappeared. The mass of cars did not slow down. She said, “Well?”

  “It’s beginning to feel like old times again,” Monteyiller said. “Let’s try somewhere else.” He started down the sidewalk.

  The grizzled old man sat on a bench on the sidewalk, staring out over the flood of roaring ground-cars that thundered by two feet from his knees, talking to his equally grizzled companion, an ancient-looking ma
n with a broken nose and a black walking stick.

  “God, it’s noisy!” he said.

  His companion said, “What did you say?”

  “I said it’s damn noisy. One can’t hear a thing except those damned cars nowadays. I can’t think.”

  “Sorry, I can’t hear you. It’s so bloody noisy here.”

  The grizzled old man stared out over the street with unbridled hostility. “Why do we sit here every damned day?” he asked. “Can anyone tell me that? This places makes me mad.”

  “We’ve always sat here,” his companion said. “Yes, always.”

  “It was better in the old days. Clear air and things. Remember the horse carriages?”

  “Horse carriages, sure. They used to whip the bloody horses like mad. Never understood why, but they did. Could see the blood sometimes.”

  “Those were great times,” his companion said, a faraway look in his eyes.

  “And the beggars. Sometimes they whipped them, too.”

  “You don’t see many beggars nowadays, do you?”

  “They died,” the grizzled man said. “From air poisoning. And the bloody noise. And from trying to cross the streets.”

  “They never were much good anyway,” his companion said, gripping his walking stick with bony hands as if to give one of the beggars a well-deserved beating.

  “But picturesque,” the grizzled man said. “On Sundays I used to throw a couple of coins at them. God, how they fought, the bastards! Father against son, son against mother, mother against husband. No sense of decency at all. And then the constabulary came and whipped them up. Served them right, the bastards; why didn’t they take a real honest job? I did, and it didn’t hurt me any.” He swore gloomily, glaring at the ground-cars that thundered by.

  “They were just plain lazy, that’s what they were,” his companion said. “Anyway, they’re dead.”

  “Couldn’t take the exhausts,” the grizzled man agreed. “Died like flies, they did.”

  “And the pollution from the factories.”

  “And the traffic. They never could understand that it was plain and simple death to step out in the street”

  “And the fallout.”

  “And the artificial additions to the food.”

  “When they could afford any food, the lazy bastards.”

  “Poverty,” the grizzled man said sternly, “is a crime punished by death. God, I’m happy we got rid of them!”

  “And the Chinese,” his companion said, “and the Puerto Ricans, and the Indians, and the South Americans, and the Africans, and the Irish, and the—”

  “God, I haven’t seen a clear blue sky in twenty years!” The grizzled old man sighed. “I hardly remember what it looked like.”

  “I remember,” his companion said proudly. “It was blue. That blue.” He made a gesture signifying unbearable blue-ness.

  “Now there’s nothing but this damned smog.”

  “And fallout.”

  “And pollution.”

  “And one doesn’t dare to cross the damned street anymore.”

  “God, I’ll go and drown myself!” cried the grizzled old man.

  “Don’t,” his companion muttered, “the water is polluted too.”

  The grizzled old man began to cry, large tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. Monteyiller, who had been listening from a distance, walked up and sat down on the bench.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “This is our bench,” said the man with the broken nose. “Scram!”

  “I just wanted to ask you a question,” Monteyiller said.

  “I can’t hear you,” said the grizzled man, wiping away tears with a veined hand. “Too much bloody noise around here.”

  “Hoity-toity,” said his companion. He had produced a small flask from his pocket and was regarding it with happy eyes. “One cubic centimeter cures ten gloomy sentiments,” he said. “Anyone for a soma?”

  Monteyiller pointed at the silently hovering scoutship. “Can you tell me how I can cross the street to that ship?”

  “You can’t,” the grizzled man said triumphantly. “The cars will run you down in a second.”

  “Smash you to pulp,” agreed his companion. “Why do you want to cross the street?”

  “My ship is there,” Monteyiller said.

  “If you got it there,” the grizzled man said, “you can get it away too. What do I care?” He snorted insultingly. “Foreigners!”

  “I thought you were happy to have us back,” Monteyiller said. “Don’t you understand what this ship means?”

  “Happy as hell,” the grizzled man said. “But this is a city, and city folks don’t give a damn about anything. Read any book, city folks just don’t care.” He glared at Monteyiller, showing yellowed teeth in a leering grin. “You wanted a city, and you got one, so why aren’t you happy? You wanted it to be funny; I’m so bloody funny it almost kills me. And those cars should be lively enough for anyone. If you wanted a song-and-dance routine, you should’ve specified it when you ordered this bloody city.”

  “I don’t think this is funny,” Monteyiller said.

  “Only a bloody pervert would think this is funny,” the grizzled man muttered. “A pervert or a city councillor. There’s no city in the whole damned world as cityish as this one, I tell you. Overpopulation, pollution, fallout, cars, everything you could think of.” He sank back, exhausted by the long speech.

  Monteyiller exchanged a glance with Cat, who stood at a distance, silently looking on. He decided to change tactics. He said, “You look remarkably fit for your years. I’m sure you know a lot about this city.” He smiled.

  “I’m forty-six years old,” the grizzled man said, “and I’m due for the fertilizer plants any day now. Besides, I’ve never been outside this block in my whole life. I’ve done nothing but sit on this damned bench and babble with that nitwit over there.” He grimaced.

  “Ending is better than mending,” said his companion reverentially. “Praised be Ford.”

  “You make me sick,” said the grizzled man. He looked up at Monteyiller. “I am Mr. Joyboy. Does that tell you anything?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think it would. I worked at a cemetery once, real high-class, with marble temples and statues that were kept at body-temperature, and classical music piped into the burial vaults and everything. It was called “Whispering Glades.” I arranged the stiffs, massaged them so they looked presentable. Good job, real good.”

  “Thorein!” Monteyiller said.

  “No,” Mr. Joyboy said. “The Loved One, by Evelyn Waugh. I had a girl, too, but she poisoned herself. My little Aimée…” He sighed, a faraway look in his eyes.

  “Ending is better than mending,” his companion said dreamily.

  “Shut up,” said Mr. Joyboy. He turned back to Monteyiller. “A real nitwit, that one. Winston Smith. Revolted against the System, in a book called Nineteen Eighty-Four. But I see you haven’t read it. You’re probably illiterate. You sure look it.”

  Monteyiller blinked uncomprehendingly. “Book?”

  “Everything on this damned planet is out of some damn book or another. Don’t you know that?”

  Monteyiller grinned tightly. “Is there someone in authority here?”

  “You need authority,” Winston Smith said, “you go get a cop. But take it easy. They’re trigger-happy.”

  “And they don’t like pedestrians,” interjected Mr. Joyboy. “A story by Ray Bradbury, I think. They do you in the moment they see you.”

  “War is peace,” murmured Winston Smith; “God save the Queen. Amen.”

  “The old goat is off his rocker,” Mr. Joyboy said mirthfully. “He’s been a complete ass ever since the Ministry of Truth took care of him. I remember, young man, how he—”

  Monteyiller was saved from the grizzled reminiscences by an earthshaking crash from the street. When he looked up, six or seven ground-cars had rammed into each other, piling up in a smoking heap of twisted metal. Gasoline sp
urted out from various holes, mingled with blood. There were cries and howls of agony and a staccato crash as more cars joined the heap. The sound of roaring motors died out and was replaced by thousands of enthusiastically working horns.

  “Everything cometh to the one who waits,” Mr. Joyboy said after a disinterested glance at the mounting chaos. Fires had started, and were spreading rapidly. The screams swelled in volume, but were soon drowned out by the roaring fire. He spat at the,side of the nearest burning car. The spit fizzled and evaporated. “Why don’t you run over to your ship before they start the bloody traffic moving again? With the traffic crawling on like this, it will be hours before you get another chance.”

  Monteyiller was already on his way toward Cat and the wildly staring Heracles. He stopped and turned.

  “Do you mean this happens every day?”

  “Every damned hour,” the grizzled man said. “Except for the rush hour. Then it happens at least two times every hour. That’s why there aren’t any pedestrian crossings. We don’t need any.”

  “Ending is better than mending,” Smith said, thoughtfully contemplating a burning ground-car filled with a family of four. They screamed in perfect harmony, their voices tuned to the same pitch.

  “But why don’t you do anything?” shouted Monteyiller over the increasing roar of fire.

  “Us city folks never care about anything,” Joyboy said.

  Something snapped in Monteyiller’s mind. He whirled around, staring up at the buildings whose upper stories were still in the process of being shaped out of the pale, whirling mist. His eyes widened.

  “Lies,” he whispered. “Lies—it doesn’t exist, it isn’t here, it never was, it’s nothing but a—” He stared up at the blue sky where creatures silently hovered, watching him. “Lies!” he shouted. “Lies!”

  Over him, the sky split with a horrible drawn-out scream that filled the world, shaking it, tearing it to pieces. Darkness poured down, then light. The buildings disappeared, swallowed by the screaming ground. The ground heaved and shook, twisting itself into new forms. Monteyiller caught a glimpse of Cat, standing amid the collapsing buildings, staring at him with large, disbelieving eyes, her face frozen into immobility. He started to run. The sky crashed down over Anycity, obliterating it.